Never Bet Your Life

by George Harmon Coxe

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  Never Bet Your Life

  George Harmon Coxe

  A MysteriousPress.com

  Open Road Integrated Media ebook

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE MAN who was responsible for John Gannon’s two suicide attempts in the weeks immediately following the tragic death of his daughter—an only child who had been, in fact, his only living relative—came to the Sea-beach Motel late in the afternoon of a hot April day.

  The south-bound bus deposited the visitor at the side of the road, and he waited there inspecting the buildings and grounds until traffic permitted him to cross over. He looked to be about thirty, a tall man, blond and bareheaded. His clothes were expensive; so was the large bag he carried. He seemed in no hurry and took his time inspecting the landscaped oval and the neon sign that nightly proclaimed VACANCY or NO VACANCY, before continuing on to the first unit on the right.

  This housed the office and the apartment of George Stinson, the manager, who was working on his accounts and stood up as the door opened, a sandy-haired, bespectacled man clad in a slack suit and sandals. He smiled tentatively as he stepped behind the desk and examined his prospective tenant.

  “I believe you have a reservation for Frank Tyler. I wired you yesterday from Boston.”

  Stinson nodded. “Oh, yes, Mr. Tyler. I have something at ten dollars a day. Number 6.” He reached for the registration pad and pen. “If you’d care to inspect it first—”

  Tyler cut him off. He said that would not be necessary. He wrote down his name and a Los Angeles address; then glanced up, still holding the card.

  “This is the place John Gannon owns, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s staying here? … Is he around now?”

  “I think he is. He was out fishing today but I think I heard him come back.” Stinson examined the card and reached behind him for a key. When he had collected the customary one night’s rent and the state tax, he led the way outside and handed Tyler the key.

  The Seabeach Motel might have been called average for that part of the country, in that it was attractive, clean looking, and well run without having the de luxe features of some establishments that boasted swimming pools, sun decks, and plush appointments. Two long, low, coral-colored buildings, separated by eighty feet of lawn and small palms, stretched back toward the ocean, visible through the trees some two hundred yards away. There were four units in each structure, each with its own carport opening on the gravel driveway that circled the property. Beyond the driveway on the opposite side, and having its own parking lot, was a neat-looking restaurant called the Coffee Shop, and at the inner end of the rectangular lawn were three additional cottages, each with two doors. Stinson pointed at the one in the middle standing closest to the ocean.

  “That’s Mr. Gannon’s cottage.”

  “Which door?”

  “Well—the right one, though either would do. A friend shares the cottage. A Mr. Barnum.”

  Dave Barnum witnessed this scene from behind the screen door of the Gannon cottage without thinking about it or even knowing who Tyler was. He leaned against the casing with a half-consumed highball in his hand, a lanky man in his late twenties dressed in dirty white ducks, a T-shirt, and sneakers. He had a wide, easy mouth, a hint of stubbornness in the slant of his jaw, and at the moment his dark-blue eyes were morose and brooding, like his thoughts.

  In the beginning, when the senior partner of his law firm had suggested that Dave accompany John Gannon to Florida and stay with him a couple of weeks, he understood that he would have to be a sort of companion-male nurse; what he had not understood was that the job could be so wearing, both on Gannon and himself.

  At the moment Gannon did not look as if he needed a nurse. Sitting in the living room behind Dave and talking to Carl Workman, his fishing companion of the past week, he was a stocky, graying man with a florid complexion, a vigorous manner, and a hoarse, flat voice. Physically there was nothing wrong with him; what the doctors were trying to find out was how sound he was emotionally.

  So far as Dave knew, Gannon had been a gambler most of his life, a promoter of this and that, including certain black-market operations during the war and, until recently, handbooks. A tough, aggressive man who neither asked for sympathy nor gave it, he had but one chink in his armor: his daughter, Alice.

  He had managed to enter her in a good school, had given her everything she wanted as she grew up, only to have her elope the summer before with an actor who had been playing in summer stock on the Cape. For that Gannon never forgave her. As a result the remorse he suffered served only to heighten the shock of her tragic death three months earlier when her husband had driven their car into a tree at high speed. For the first time in his life Gannon found himself up against something he could not take, and his crack-up had been complete.

  An alert nurse who grabbed the back of his pajamas kept him from going out an eighth-story window a week after the funeral. Prompt action with a stomach pump saved him the second time, following an overdose of sedative. After that a month in a rest home under medical and psychiatric supervision helped to straighten him out, and finally it was decided that perhaps the best therapy would be to let him do what he wanted to, since short of confinement and round-the-clock observation there was no way a man could be kept from suicide if he insisted on carrying it out.

  “Outside interests and time will do it,” the doctors said to Dave. “Let him do what he wants to but do it with him.”

  Because of a long-standing personal obligation, Dave had agreed. So had Gannon. And since their arrival a week before what Gannon wanted to do was golf, fish, and play some nightly roulette at the Club 80 down across the county line. On the face of it, it was an ideal existence, but after four or five days Gannon began to resent the constant attention. He grew sullen and edgy, then sarcastic, and finally downright cantankerous. He kidded Dave in front of others. He introduced him as his male nurse and addressed him as such to his face.

  Dave took it but now, leaning there in the doorway and reviewing the past days, he wondered how much longer he could keep it up. He had been conscientious in his attention to his job but he felt it was time to call the office in Boston and tell them that Gannon seemed to be cured of any suicidal tendencies.

  There was also a personal reason why he wanted a little freedom of his own. Her name was Betty Nelson, a slender, brown-haired girl with hazel eyes, a forth-right, friendly manner, and a complexion marred only by a small saddle of freckles on
the nose that succeeded somehow in showing through the tan. She managed the Coffee Shop and Dave was in love with her….

  “Nurse!”

  The now familiar word cut across his thoughts like a saw blade, leaving a ragged edge of resentment. He straightened slowly, watching the blond man who had recently entered number 6 come out and start toward the Gannon cottage. He turned, his smile fixed, to find Gannon sitting back in his chair, legs crossed and an empty glass in his hand.

  “Carl and I would like a refill if you can spare the time.”

  Dave took the glasses. Carl Workman, sitting on the settee, glanced up. He had been in the Coffee Shop the night of their arrival, and before dinner was over he and Gannon were talking fishing a mile a minute. Since then he had offered very little about his background except to say he was an ex-police detective on vacation and looking for a little business deal that might make him a profit. Apparently in his middle thirties, he had a bronzed, hard-jawed face topped by thinning brown hair, and quick observant eyes which now caught Dave’s to show he understood.

  “Sure,” Dave said. “And I think you’re going to have company.”

  He was in the kitchen when the knock came and he heard Gannon call, “Come in!” The door opened and there was a moment of silence and then Gannon’s voice again, hoarse, low, and incredulous.

  “Tyler!”

  Something in the cadence of that voice brought Dave to the doorway. Frank Tyler stood just inside the room watching Gannon with steady eyes. Gannon had leaned forward, his hands clenched on the chair arms, his feet under him as though he was about to spring. He stayed that way, hands ribbed with tendons, the color draining from his face as the stiffness grew there. Under his brows the eyes were hot and hateful. When he spoke his voice reflected the bitterness in his soul but the accents were quiet, the fury contained.

  “What’re you doing here, Frank?”

  “I came to see you. I flew on from the Coast. Went to Boston first and they told me you were down here.”

  “Why?”

  If Tyler was affected by the hostility of his reception he gave no sign of it. He looked poised, unruffled, handsome except for the weakness about the chin and the mouth, which was small and twisted, like a petulant woman’s. He shrugged and spoke as if some fledgling playwright had written his lines.

  “I find myself in need of funds.”

  “So?”

  “I thought I’d be on hand the first of the month to collect my share of the quarterly profits.”

  “Your share?”

  “You gave Alice a twenty-five per cent interest in this”—Tyler glanced about—“establishment. She assigned that interest to me. I thought you might want to buy me out, or perhaps a bank would take over my interest.”

  Gannon’s hands were still ridged but he continued to speak in the same terribly quiet way.

  “When did she make the assignment?”

  “About two weeks before the accident.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “I didn’t think you would.” Tyler stepped forward, taking a folded sheet from his jacket pocket. “I brought along a photostatic copy of the assignment.”

  Gannon accepted the paper without moving his gaze. “Dave!” he said, still not looking at it. “See what this says.”

  Dave glanced at the properly signed and witnessed document, noted the date. When he realized that Tyler was telling the truth he said so.

  Gannon heaved himself out of the chair and walked heavily across the room, which served as a living room by day and a bedroom by night. Compared to the other units, it was more spacious, and more richly furnished. It was paneled in pine, had a complete kitchen, and certain built-in features. Dave’s quarters, reached by a connecting door, were identical except for the kitchen. The reason for all this was that Gannon had built the cottage himself long before he had any idea of making it a motel, and he had put in things he had needed: a hidden sun lamp in the bathroom, a cabinet for his fishing rods, also hidden behind the paneling, and a wall safe, since he was a man who was accustomed to having considerable cash about. In addition it was the only unit having its private telephone.

  Now he stopped at the wall, took a coin from his pocket, and pressed it hard against a certain crack. There was a clicking sound and the panel opened to reveal a safe. He spun the combination, turned the handle, then reached for some keys, one of which unlocked the inner door. When he had pawed through the contents he withdrew a paper and handed it to Dave.

  Looking again at Tyler, he said: “I got this land on a trade a long time ago. I put up this cottage and the other two so I’d have a place of my own and space to rent if I wanted to. Three years ago I decided to cash in and make a motel out of the property and I needed a man to run it. George Stinson,” he said. “You saw him when you came in. I made a deal so he’d have some interest in the place and I gave Alice an interest too so she’d have a little income of her own. Now you think you can cash in on it, huh?” He glanced at Dave. “Tell him what the original agreement says.”

  Dave was already reading the document. Finally he looked over at Tyler, knowing now what the older man meant.

  “You and Stinson,” he said, “are entitled to a quarter of the profits, payable quarterly. But Mr. Gannon owns the property. Only in case of his death or liquidation would either of you be able to cash in on your interest.”

  Tyler frowned and seemed about to speak but Gannon cut him off. “I’ll have a check ready for you the first of the month, Frank,” he said. “That’ll take care of you up to date. Then I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.”

  He sat back, his grin fixed and the fury all there inside him. Tyler waited, a gleam of anticipation working in his eyes.

  “Get me Arthur Williams,” Gannon said with a nod to Dave. “The County Bank & Trust. You’ll probably have to get him at his home.”

  Dave looked up the number and put in the call. When the banker answered he identified himself and handed the telephone to Gannon. From then on the conversation was one sided but revealing.

  “I’ve decided to put a plaster on this place,” Gannon said. “That’s right … Yeah, as big as I can get. At least a hundred thousand.”

  He paused, listened, spoke again in a tone that was blunt, irritable, and, to Dave, familiar.

  “What the hell do you mean?” he demanded finally, the color coming back into his face. “This place would bring a hundred and fifty grand at a forced sale, and you know it…. Yeah…. Sure. I know that. I’ll tell Stinson and you can send a man down and go over the books tomorrow. Okay, that’s more like it.”

  He hung up and looked at Tyler, taking his time, contempt in his gaze but triumph too.

  “You want to cash in, Frank. Well, I’ll tell you how it’s going to be. When we start paying interest on that loan there’ll be damn little net income left for you to chisel. Now get out!” he said, his voice exploding. “And stay out of my way.”

  For another moment the blond man stood there, face flushed and sullen looking. Gannon turned toward the kitchen. Workman stood up and moved slowly toward Tyler, an assured, competent-looking figure with a hard, unsmiling face.

  “You heard him, buster,” he said quietly. “On your way!”

  Dave watched them and something about Workman’s casual manner impressed him strangely. It came to him then that Workman might be a bad man to cross, and apparently Tyler had the same idea. He backed up a step, shrugged the collar of his jacket in place and, turning, pushed open the door.

  Workman watched him cross the lawn. He looked back at Dave; then he grinned. “See you at the club,” he said. “I got a date with Betty. If you’re real polite I might let her dance with you once.”

  Dave gave him back his grin, annoyed with the restrictions of his job rather than with Workman. “Thanks,” he said dryly. “I’ll buy you a drink. I’ll buy you a Mickey.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE CLUB 80 was a low, white-painted structure standing well back from the high
way. The sign that advertised it was small and conservative but the drive, the parking lot, and the main entrance were thoroughly spotlighted so that the doorman and his assistant could examine each new arrival long before he reached the door.

  The food here was excellent, the seven-piece orchestra that played for dancing adequate, as was the singer currently featured, a girl named Liza Drake. This part of the establishment was designed to break even; the profit came from a room at the rear where one could try his luck at roulette or blackjack, provided he passed the inspection of the dinner-jacketed husky who policed the narrow corridor leading from the main room.

  John Gannon had been a consistent and regular patron of the roulette tables ever since he had come South. His nightly visits were as much a part of his routine as was his insistence that he be at his bungalow at six in the evening to get the news from station WTCX and at eleven fifteen to get the racing results on WCXM.

  On this particular evening Dave Barnum was very happy to get to the club. Dinner at the Coffee Shop had been unpleasant for him because Gannon’s foul mood, which had been incited by Frank Tyler, had continued throughout the meal. Dave kept his temper by putting mental cotton in his ears, absorbing the petty criticism of his past conduct, and saying nothing at all about Gannon’s dissatisfaction with the present arrangement and his threats to call the office in Boston and have Dave relieved. Now, at nine fifteen, with the help of a third after-dinner brandy, Gannon was finally relaxing in his corner booth with Dave and Liza Drake.

  Liza was a lithe, long-legged girl with raven hair and dark eyes that were expertly shadowed and wise beyond her years. Her shoulders were smooth and tanned, and she had a depth of bosom that gave a quality to her strapless dresses that men admired and most women envied. These things, plus a forthright self-reliance and a practiced adaptability, made her an asset to the club quite beyond the songs she nightly offered for sale.

  In the week that Dave had been coming here he had grown increasingly grateful for Liza’s company. Once he realized that he could keep track of Gannon simply by watching the lone entrance to the gambling room, he had talked with her when she was free and danced with her when he could. It was a nice arrangement because each was in love with someone else: Dave with Betty Nelson and Liza with Sam Resnik, who owned the club. The difference lay in the fact that Dave had made very little progress while Liza spoke openly of marriage and wore an emerald-cut diamond somewhat smaller than a cuff link to prove her claim.