He Won't Need It Now

by James Hadley Chase

  “You takin’ the bus out tonight?” he asked, wiping his oily hands on a bit of waste.

  She managed to look fairly bright, and to say, “Yes, please,” nicely, but it cost her a lot.

  Duffy stood just inside the elevator, watching. The little runt bounced off into the darkness, and they heard him start up an engine. Duffy told himself that the engine was powerful all right. A minute later, the attendant brought round a big Cadillac, just with the parkers on. He brought the car round in a sweep, nailing it just where Annabel was standing. Duffy thought it was a nice piece of driving. It was.

  The attendant dusted off the seat and held the door open for Annabel. Duffy might not have been there. He polished the wind-screen.

  Annabel got in and slammed the door to. Duffy took hold of the trunk and looked at the attendant.

  “Lend me some of your muscle,” he said.

  The little runt was willing enough, but he was not much help. Duffy was sweating by the time they had fixed the trunk to the grid.

  “She goin’ away?” the attendant asked.

  “Naw,” Duffy returned, testing the straps. “Just getting rid of some books.”

  “It’s mighty late.”

  Duffy looked at him sharply. Perhaps he wasn’t so dumb as he looked. “You mind?” he asked curtly.

  The attendant blinked. He hastily said, “I didn’t mean anythin’.”

  Duffy gave him a couple of bucks, then he went round the car and got in beside Annabel. She engaged the gear and the Cadillac rolled up the slipway.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  Duffy had already thought that one out. “There’s a little burial ground on the East side, beyond Greenwich Village,” he said, “we’re going there.”

  She shot a quick glance at him. “That’s cute,” she said.

  Duffy leant back against the leather. “You’re a swell kid,” he said quietly, “this is my unlucky day.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll never bring this up again,” he said, “but I can’t leave it like that. I want you to know that I appreciate what you offered me, but that guy would have stiffened up by the time we were through, so I had to pass it up. You got plenty of reason to be sore at me.”

  She said nothing for a few moments. “I’m not sore at you,” she said at last. “I think you’re cute to throw me back at myself.”

  Just like that. Duffy sighed and groped for a cigarette. “Let’s not fight,” he said, “we’ve got enough on our hands.”

  “I’m not fighting,” was all she said.

  They rode the next three blocks in silence, then Duffy said, “You turn right here.”

  She swung the wheel. Duffy thought she handled the big Cadillac as if she were part of it. She judged distance to the closeness of the paint on her fender and the car threaded its way through the traffic without losing speed at any time. By uncanny anticipation she beat the lights most times. The Cadillac had plenty under the hood, and a touch on the pedal was enough to make it sweep forward like an arrow.

  They came upon the burial ground as the clocks were striking two. Duffy leant forward. “Take it easy,” he said, “this is a lonely burg, but someone may be here.”

  She stopped the car by the iron gates. Duffy opened the off door and got out. There were no lights to be seen in the burial ground; it was a pretty dark night.

  Duffy was glad he wasn’t Irish. The place was creepy. He turned to the car. “You wait here,” he said. “I’m just going to take a look round.”

  She opened the door and stepped into the road. “I’m not staying here alone,” she said.

  Duffy wasn’t surprised. He walked to the iron gates and pushed, they yielded, and swung open.

  “Suppose you back the bus in,” he suggested, “then we’ll be off the road.”

  She got in the Cadillac again and started the engine. Duffy let her run the car well down the centre lane of the graveyard and then signalled her to stop. He closed the iron gates again.

  When she got out of the car, she was holding a small flashlight. The night air was close, and Duffy hooked a finger in his collar and jerked at it. He looked round the dim place. He didn’t like it at all. She stood quite close to him, and he felt her shivering when he touched her.

  Up above, the moon hung like a dead face, just visible through the mist. Duffy thought it was likely to rain any time.

  “I want to find an old mausoleum,” he said. “If we can park Cattley in one of them, he ain’t likely to be turned up for some time, if ever.”

  He began to walk slowly down the lane. Annabel kept close beside him. The white stones on each side of them looked ghostly. “What a spot to be in,” Duffy thought.

  As they penetrated further into the burial ground it got darker. The trees overhead began to get more dense.

  “Nice spot this, ain’t it?” Duffy said.

  The heavy scent of graveyard flowers hung in the air. Underfoot, the cinders crunched and sounded to Duffy like firecrackers.

  “I wish we could get away from here,” Annabel said nervously, “this scares me.”

  “Me, I’m quaking,” Duffy said. “I guess we’re far enough off the road to chance having a little light.”

  He swung the beam of the flash-light. It lit up the tombstones, making them look startlingly white in the darkness.

  “I think this looks like it.” Duffy paused and pointed the beam.

  Over on the left stood a mausoleum in black marble. It was almost invisible until the beam showed it up. They went over and examined it carefully. The marble door was locked.

  “This is Cattley’s new home,” Duffy said, running his hand down the smooth cold door. “But how the hell do we get him in?”

  He put his shoulder against the door and heaved. He made his shoulder sore, but the door remained solid.

  “What’s that number there?” Annabel asked. She was holding the flash so that he could push against the door.

  Duffy followed her eye. There was a small plate let in on the side of the door with a number 7 printed on it. Duffy said he didn’t know.

  “Do you think they keep the keys of these places at the porter’s place?” she asked.

  Duffy grinned at her. “That’s a grand idea,” he said. “Let’s go an’ see.”

  The porter’s lodge, by the gates, was locked and deserted but Duffy got a window open without much difficulty and looked round. He found a rack of keys by the front door, each key had a wooden tab hanging from it, with a number burned into the wood. He looked for number 7 and found it.

  “I believe you’ve got something,” he said. “Suppose you drive the car up to the crypt while I go on and test the key.”

  She got into the Cadillac and began to back it down the lane. He had to come back and help her with the flash, as she ran off the lane once or twice. They got back to the mausoleum at last and Duffy tried the key. The lock turned all right with some heavy pressure from Duffy, and he forced the door back. The air was bad down there, and he stepped away from the open door.

  “That guy’s going to have good company,” was all he said.

  He went to the back of the car and wrestled with the straps that held the trunk. Annabel stood, holding the flash steady. He got the straps off and then levered the trunk to the ground. It was heavy, but he managed to get it down without making any noise. Then he stood up and wiped off his palms with his handkerchief.

  “I guess I could do with a drink,” he said heavily.

  “There’s a pint flask in the driving-pocket.”

  Duffy slipped round to the door pretty quick. He belted that pint hard. He thought it would be safer not to give Annabel any of it. Whisky seemed to take her in the wrong way. He didn’t like to think of turning her down again.

  “I guess I can tackle anything now,” he said, putting the flask in his hip pocket.

  He took off his coat and undid his collar, pulling his tie loose. Then he walked over to the trunk and dragged it into
the mausoleum. Annabel stood just outside the door, shining the flash. The beam jerked about. Her hand was shaking like a barman at work.

  Duffy got the trunk inside and then paused.

  “For God’s sake gimme that light,” he said.

  She seemed glad to do so. “I’m going to be sick,” she said.

  “No you ain’t,” he said sharply. “Go and sit in the car quick.”

  When she had gone he opened the trunk and turned it on its side. The mackintosh parcel was jammed tight and he had to pull at it. The sheet suddenly tore in his hand and he went over backwards. He landed against a shelf, and his hand touched a cold metal strip. He fingered it, then he snatched his hand away. It was a handle of a coffin. His face oozed water as if it had been squeezed.

  He went to the door and took a deep breath of the dank air, then he went back to the trunk. Savagely he pulled Cattley out, pulled away the cord, and jerked off the mackintosh sheet. Cattley sprawled at his feet. He didn’t look at him. Dumping the sheet into the trunk, he pulled the trunk out of the crypt.

  The whisky was hitting him all ends up now, and he lurched as he walked. He went back to get the flash, but he still didn’t look at Cattley. Then he pulled the door of the mausoleum shut and shot the lock.

  His shirt was sticking to his chest, and his legs were a little wobbly. Annabel called from the car, “Are you all right?”

  Duffy said he was fine, but that was because he was drunk. He didn’t feel so good. He’d have liked to get so drunk right now that the whole of the evening could be washed out in sleep. He had had enough of it for one night.

  She came out of the car and stood near him.

  “What about the trunk?” she asked.

  “Back at the lodge, there’s a tap and hose for filling cans. I noticed it when I went in. I’ll take these things over and wash ’em up, then we can go home.”

  She sat on the running-board of the car and smoked a cigarette. She sat there the whole time with her eyes tight shut. She was so scared of being alone, that if it hadn’t been for the cigarette between her lips she would have screamed and screamed.

  On his way back, Duffy called to her when he was some distance away. He didn’t want to come on her suddenly.

  “It’s okay,” he said, hoisting the trunk on to the grid again. “There ain’t no mess now. Cattley’s planted good, so I guess that lets you out.”

  She got into the Cadillac and drove slowly down to the gates. He walked beside the car.. Opening the gates, he looked cautiously up and down the road, but it was dark and deserted. He shut the gates when she had driven into the road and climbed in beside her.

  She drove at a furious pace without a word. Her eyes were fixed on the road ahead, and Duffy leant back, breathing heavily, his eyes heavy with sleep.

  When they began to run into traffic again he raised his head. “You can drop me off here,” he said. “I’m going home.”

  “I’ll drive you there,” she said.

  “No.”

  She stopped the car.

  “I’m sorry I…”she began.

  “I’m going home,” Duffy said firmly. He had had a bellyful. “Tomorrow, perhaps. Tonight, no.”

  He opened the door and lurched on to the street. He stood there, holding the door in his hand. “I’ve got to get those pictures back,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”

  He slammed the door hard. He had a swift vision of her great eyes, wide with hate, her white teeth gleaming in the dark, then the Cadillac shot away from him.

  He looked up and down the street for a taxi.

  “I guess that honey hates my guts,” he said sadly, as a yellow taxi slid up to him.

  CHAPTER IV

  DUFFY’S PLACE WAS a three-room affair on the top storey of an old-fashioned apartment house.

  The taxi-driver drew up at the kerb, just under the street light. Duffy got out of the cab, letting the door swing on its hinges.

  “This it?” the taxi-driver asked.

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  The taxi-driver looked at him. “You been havin’ a good time?”

  Duffy shifted his head a little so that he didn’t breath over the taxi-driver.

  He said, “You don’t know the half of it.”

  The taxi-driver said, “The first half’s good enough for me.” One of those smart guys.

  Duffy paid him off and slammed the door for him. He slammed the door so hard that the cab rocked. The taxi-driver scowled, but said nothing. He was smart all right, but he wasn’t dumb. He rolled the cab away.

  Duffy walked up the steps, fumbled for his key and fumbled at the lock. “Jeeze, that Scotch was dynamite,” he said, as he poked at the lock. The key sank suddenly, and he turned it. I he hall was in darkness, but he knew his way up. He started to climb the stairs as the wall-clock struck four. The wall-clock hung in the hall. It had a little brittle chime that always irritated Duffy. Treading carefully, one hand on the rail and the other just touching the opposite wall, he went up silently. He had to go up four flights, but he was used to that. When he reached his landing he paused. A light was burning in his apartment. He could see the bright light coming from under the door.

  Two things crossed his mind. First, the cleaner had forgotten to turn the light off; and second, McGuire was waiting for him. It gave him quite a shock when he remembered McGuire. He had forgotten all about the poor guy. Too bad. He wagged his head. Maybe he’d be as sore as hell. He fumbled for his key again, and opened the door. The light quite blinded him for a second.

  Two men were sitting in his room, facing the door. Another one was standing by the window, looking into the street, peeping round the blind.

  Duffy jumped.

  “I bet you’ve been stealing my whisky,” he said.

  The man who was looking out of the window turned his head quickly. He was big. He had Mongolian eyes and a loose mouth. He had that battered, brutal face of an unsuccessful prize-fighter.

  Duffy looked at him, then he looked at the two sitting in the chairs. The nearest one was a little guy with tight lips and cold,, hard eyes. His face was white as cold mutton fat, and he just sat, with his hands folded across his stomach.

  The other one, sitting on the little guy’s right, was young. He had down on his cheeks and his skin had that peculiar rosy tint that most girls want, but don’t have. He looked tough, because he had screwed up his eyes and drawn down the corners of his mouth. Duffy thought he was just movie-tough.

  The little guy said, “He’s here at last.”

  Duffy shut the door and leant against it. “If I’d known you were coming,” he said, “I’d been here sooner.”

  The little guy said, “Did you hear that? The bright boy said if he’d known we were coming, he’d been here sooner.”

  The other two said nothing.

  Duffy said, “Now you’re here, what’s it all about?”

  “He wants to know what’s it all about,” the little guy said again.

  Duffy slowly closed his fists. “Must you repeat everything I say?” he asked. “Can’t these two birds understand what I say?”

  The little guy eased himself back in his chair. “You understand him, don’t you, Clive?” he said to the youth.

  “Clive?” Duffy was getting annoyed. “That’s the name for a daffodil, ain’t it?”.

  The youth sat up. “Listen, you long stick of ”

  The little guy giggled. “How do you think of such things?” he said.

  “What is this?” Duffy demanded. He looked across at the tough bird by the window.

  “Come on, come on,” the little guy said, suddenly looking bleak again. “Give it up.”

  “Give what up, for God’s sake?” Duffy demanded.

  “Did you hear him, Clive, he wants to know what to give up?”

  The youth called Clive slouched out of his chair. He stood over the little guy, his face viciously angry. “You won’t get anywhere with this stuff,” he said. “Turn Joe loose on him.”

>   The big bird on the corner took a step forward. He seemed to be holding himself in with difficulty. The little guy waved his hand at him. “Not so fast,” he said, “we ain’t got to get rough with this lug.”

  Duffy thought they were all screwy, and he wished he hadn’t socked that pint away. Clive stood away from the little guy and glared at Duffy.

  The little guy looked at Duffy with stony eyes. “Get wise, bright boy,” he said. “We’ve come for the camera.”

  Duffy pushed his hat to the back of his head and blew out his cheeks. So that was it, he thought. He wandered over to the wagon and picked up a bottle of Scotch. “You gentlemen want any of this?” he asked.

  Clive had a gun in his hand. Duffy looked at it surprised, then he said to the little guy, “Tell that fairy to put his rod away, he might hurt someone.”

  The little guy said, “I should care. What’s it to me?”

  Duffy said very sharply, “Tell that punk to put his popgun down, or I’ll do it for him, and smack his ears down.”

  Clive made a high whinny sound like a horse. He looked as though he was going to have some sort of a fit. He stood there, his face white, and his eyes dark with hate. Duffy went a little cold at the sight of him.

  The little guy said, “Put it away.”

  The youth turned his head slowly and looked at the little guy. “I’m going to pop him…” he said shrilly, all his words tumbling out of his mouth in a bunch.

  “I said, put it away.” The little guy was quite shocked that he had to speak twice.

  Clive hesitated, blinked, then pushed the gun into his hip pocket. He stood undecided, his hands fluttering at his coat. Then quite suddenly, he began to cry. His face puckered up like a little indiarubber mask that someone had squeezed. He sat himself on a chair and covered his face with his thin bony hands and cried.

  The little guy sighed. He said to Duffy, “See, you’ve upset him now.”

  Duffy threw his hat on the settee and ran his fingers through his hair.

  The big tough came over from the window and patted Clive’s head. He didn’t say anything, but just patted the youth quite heavily on his head.