He Won't Need It Now

by James Hadley Chase

  “It don’t matter. Look, this is a tip off. Morgan’s got twenty-five grand in phoney notes hidden in his desk calendar. Could you make that stick?”

  English was silent for a moment, then he said, “You certainly get action, don’t you? We’ll make it stick all right.”

  Duffy said, “Morgan Navigation Trust Co.”

  “I know.” English hung up gently.

  Duffy pushed the telephone away from him and stood up. “Let’s go,” he said.

  They walked out of the office, carefully relocking the door, down the fire-escape, into the pouring rain.

  Shep was still sitting there, fondling his gun. They climbed into the Buick, and Schultz started the engine.

  Shep said, “All right?”

  “Easy,” Duffy returned, lighting a cigarette. “Morgan’s going to get a mighty big shock tomorrow.”

  Gilroy said out of the dark, “English has got to be pretty leery to pin anything on that bird.”

  Duffy forced a thin stream of smoke down his nostrils. “English can handle him all right,” he said. “You see.”

  Schultz said, “We go back, don’t we?”

  Duffy nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “the hay wants hitting.”

  As Schultz headed East, Shep said in a confidential whisper to Duffy, “I thought I’d have a woman tonight. You know, just to celebrate the five grand.”

  Duffy nodded sleepily. He began to think about Olga.

  “It’s a hell of a night to look for a woman, ain’t it?” Shep went on gloomily.

  Duffy grunted. He wished Shep would shut up.

  Schultz had been listening. He said, “For God’s sake, Fat, what you want with a woman?”

  Shep giggled self-consciously, and Gilroy joined in.

  “He’s got the dough, why shouldn’t he enjoy himself? Lay off him,” he said.

  They drove two blocks in silence, then Shep said to Duffy, “Ain’t you got a woman?”

  Duffy turned his head slightly. He could just see Shep’s pace, stuck like a turnip on his shoulders, as the street lights flashed past, lighting Shep at regular intervals.

  “Think about your own troubles,”’ his voice was cold. “I’ll think about mine.”

  “You bet,” Shep said hastily. “I didn’t mean a thing.”

  Gilroy broke in, “Did English say anything about dough, “when he talked to you?”

  Duffy shook his head, then remembering that Gilroy couldn’t see him, he said, “No.”

  The Buick ran along the kerb, slowed, and came to a stop outside the Bronx.

  Schultz said, “Hop out. I’ll take her over to the garage.”

  They climbed out and hurried down the basement steps, the rain beating down on them.

  Gilroy unlocked the door and they entered quickly. The passage was dark. Gilroy swore softly. “Where the hell’s Jock got to”?” he said, speaking of the thin man. “He ought to be still up.”

  “Maybe he’s got himself drunk,” Shep said. “I gave him ten bucks out of my split.”

  Gilroy groped around and switched on the light. “You come and have a drink?” he said to Duffy.

  Duffy said, “Sure, my feet are wet. I could do with a shot of Scotch.”

  Gilroy led the way down the passage, and walked into the bar. The first thing that caught his eye was the thin man. He was lying on his back, his hands and legs sprawling, and his face a mask of blood.

  The little guy said sharply, “Reach.”

  Gilroy and Duffy raised their hands. Shep dropped on his knee, drew his Luger and fired at the little guy all in one movement.

  Joe, stepping behind the door, tapped Shep with the butt of his gun as he fired. Shep gave a little cough and fell on his hands and knees. He looked like a stricken elephant.

  Duffy said between his teeth, “Don’t touch him again.”

  Joe looked at him in wonder, then he grinned. “My, ain’t you a pip?” he said admiringly.

  The little guy said apologetically, “Take it easy. Don’t move. I’d hate to pop this heater, but I gotta do it if you crowd me.”

  Gilroy said, hardly moving his rubbery lips: “What you want?”

  “We want the pip,” Joe said. “Ain’t he hung a rap on Clive? Well, sure we want the pip. I wanta bounce him a little, don’t I?” He looked triumphantly at the little guy. Then he walked over to Duffy, grinning from ear to ear. He feinted with his left, and hit Duffy on his ear, with a tremendous swinging punch that started from his ankles.

  Duffy saw it coming a split second too late. A bomb burst inside his head. A bright light blotted the room out.

  “Spill his guts,” the little guy said with a snigger. “Go on, Joe, burst him open.”

  Joe walked over to Duffy quickly with long, sliding steps. He put his hand down on Duffy’s body, seized Duffy low and swung him off the floor. He lifted him quite easily and smashed him down on the boards, as if he were dumping coal.

  The little guy said, “Let’s get him out of here.”

  Joe said, “Sure.” He dragged Duffy to his feet and began pulling him to the door.

  Gilroy stood like a waxwork, only his great eyes rolling in terror. The little guy looked at him, curling up his tight mouth.

  “Here it is, nigger,” he said, and squeezed the trigger. The gun crashed. Gilroy stood with his hands folded over his belly, gradually sinking at the knees. His curiously coffee-coloured skin glistened with sweat. He went down very slowly. First on his knees, then a little on one side. His hip-bone struck the floor hard, and his face followed, cutting the flesh on the boards.

  The little guy stood over him, looking at Joe. “Shall I finish him?” he asked.

  Joe paused in the doorway, holding Duffy by his shirt-front. “Let the punk bleed,” he said, with a snarl. “It takes longer that way, don’t it?”

  The little guy giggled and pushed his gun back in his holster. “You get ideas,” he said.

  Joe admired himself.

  “Don’t I?” he said, walking down the passage, pulling Duffy with him.

  He said over his shoulder, “I’m going to give myself a grand time with this bum.”

  The little guy followed him closely. He opened the front door, and together they stepped out into the driving rain. The sudden cold driving shower of water brought Duffy to, his senses. He placed his legs firmly against the step and arched his body. Joe was brought up short. He swore at Duffy, who swung a punch blindly into the darkness. He hit Joe on the nose. He so startled Joe that the big tough let him go and reeled back, took a false step and almost went over.

  Duffy scrambled away hastily, just as Schultz began blazing away from across the road. Schultz’s .45 roared three times. Duffy felt a slug thud into the wall above his head.

  The little guy fired twice at Schultz, his gun cracking like dry wood snapping, only much louder. Duffy fumbled at his waist, and pulled out his Colt. He crouched in the shadow, trying to see where Joe was. The rain blinded him, and the solitary street light, about fifty feet away, threw only black shadows.

  Holding the gun, Duffy began to back further into the dark. He wanted to cross the road and get over to Schultz. Further down the road, the blackness was intense. He thought, if he could get there, he could cross in safety. He felt his heart beating hard against his ribs, but he wasn’t scared. He felt a strong sense of exhilaration flooding through him.

  Schultz began firing again. Three sharp sounds. Duffy could see the flash from the gun. He crossed the road, running bent double.

  Faintly, somewhere at the far end of the street, came the faint blast of a whistle, then a low drumming of a nightstick being beaten on the pavement.

  Schultz called to him, “The cops.”

  Duffy ran forward again, keeping to the wall, hugging the dark shadows. Schultz from a doorway pulled him into the shelter.

  He said, “I’ve got to get out of here quick. The bulls know me.”

  Duffy said, “Gilroy’s dead.” He spoke as if he had been running a long way. “
The cops can’t touch you. I’ve got protection.”

  Schultz snarled in the darkness. “My rod’s hot,” he said.

  Duffy held out his hand. “Change,” he said. “They won’t look at mine.”

  Schultz passed his over, and took Duffy’s. They heard the wail of a siren, and a fast, closed car came swinging round the corner. Duffy stepped out into the street and waved. The car skidded to a standstill.

  Four beefy faces looked at him from the car, suspiciously. He felt the hidden menace of guns, unseen in the dark, threatening him. He stood quite still.

  Then one of them said, “It’s okay. I know this guy.”

  Duffy stepped up to the car. “Morgan’s gang’ve just knocked Gilroy off,” he said slowly, putting his foot on the step. “I was there. You’ve come along at the right time.”

  Hesitatingly, three of the cops got out of the car and stood undecided in the rain, then they turned and walked over to the Bronx.

  Duffy jerked his hand, signaling to Schultz, and followed them. Schultz, walking with elaborate caution, crossed the road and caught up with Duffy.

  Inside, the three cops stood and looked at Gilroy, then walked over and stirred Shep with a foot.

  One said, “He’ll be okay. Just a rap.”

  The Sergeant caught sight of Schultz, and his face clouded. Duffy could see the sullen hostile expression blotting out indifference. The Sergeant said, “Where were you?”

  Duffy broke in, “He’s okay. He was putting my car away.”

  The Sergeant looked at Duffy, scowled, then said, “You’re in the clear now, but watch your step.” There was an ominous threat in his voice. It puzzled Duffy.

  Shep began to move. Straightening his great limbs, and grunting. He raised his head painfully. Duffy thought he looked like a stranded turtle, lying there.

  He said, “It’s all right.”

  Shep looked at him blankly, sat up and rubbed the back of his head. He began to swear softly and vilely. When he saw Gilroy, he stopped. He turned his head and looked at Duffy. Then he got to his feet.

  The Sergeant had given instructions for an ambulance; he was wandering round the room, sniffing suspiciously at everything.

  Duffy said to Shep, “They beat it in the rain.”

  Shep put his hand across his eyes and squeezed his temples, as if trying to force his eyes back to normal. He said in his tinny voice, very low and hoarse, “I’ll square those rats, you see.”

  Schultz was watching the cops uneasily. He said out of the corner of his mouth, “These birds ain’t acting friendly.”

  Duffy went across the room and fixed drinks. He said, “You boys want something while you’re waiting?”

  The two cops looked up, their stupid faces brightening. The Sergeant said, “Skip that. You know better.”

  Duffy held the glass in his hand, astonished, but he said nothing. The ambulance came up then. They could hear the siren, and two white-coated attendants scooped Gilroy up and took him away.

  The Sergeant came over to Schultz. “You got a rod?” he said.

  Schultz pulled Duffy’s Colt from his holster and handed it over. The Sergeant examined it, his eyes narrowed, and his lips thin red. “We’ll look this over,” he said. “It might have a record.”

  Duffy moved forward and took the gun out of the Sergeant’s hand. He said in a hard voice, “Tell English I took it from you,” he said. “I want this cannon for a while.”

  Thick red veins knotted at the Sergeant’s neck. His watery blue eyes bulged. He didn’t say anything, but walked out, jerking his head at the other two.

  When they had gone, Schultz said uneasily, “Those guys seem to hate us.”

  Duffy stood frowning at the floor. Then he said, “I don’t like this. Maybe English’s loosing his grip.”

  He went to his room and dialled. When English answered, Duffy said, “We’ve had a shooting here.” His voice was tense and sharp. “Morgan’s mob knocked off Gilroy and tried to iron me out. They got away.”

  English said, “You got to be careful.”

  Duffy grinned mirthlessly at the mouthpiece. “You telling me,” he said. “What I want you to know is the cops seemed kind of unfriendly. You’re giving me protection. I don’t like to have it come back on me. These birds were only keeping their hands off me with an effort.”

  English said softly, “You’re wanted for a murder rap. You can’t expect too much.”

  Duffy stared at the opposite wall. “How long’s your protection going to last, once Morgan’s out of the way?”

  English said immediately, “You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m getting the papers to run the whole case tomorrow, clearing you. You see, you’ll be in the clear tomorrow.”

  Duffy said, “We’ve fixed Morgan. You’ll pay twenty-five grand into my bank, tomorrow?”

  English said, “Sure, tomorrow. When they got Morgan I’ll do that.”

  Duffy said, “’Bye,” and hung up. He walked across to the window and looked out, lifting the blue blind away from the window and peering round the side. The rain ran down the window. He could only see faintly the street light. He dropped the blind and went once more to the telephone. It began to ring. Its sudden violence startled him. He sat on edge of the bed and pulled the receiver towards him.

  Alice’s voice said, “Oh, Bill.”

  He said, “Why, for God’s sake! It’s nearly two o’clock. What makes you call at this time?”

  She said, her voice uneven, “Sam just heard. They say there’s been shooting at the Bronx. I was so frightened. I thought something had happened to you.”

  “Where’s Sam?”

  “They called him up. He’s gone down to headquarters. You are all right?”

  “Sure, I’m all right. There’s nothing to worry about.” He paused and then went on, “Listen, honey, you’re right. This is getting me nowhere. I’m quitting. I got nineteen grand salted away, and another little packet tomorrow, then I’m through. English is taking the heat off, and it’s going to turn out swell.”

  She said, “I’m… I’m glad. It is all right, isn’t it, Bill?” He thought she was crying.

  “You see,” he said, “tomorrow we’ll have a party. You and Sam and me. It’s going to be fine. And listen, I’m coming round in the afternoon, and you and me will go shopping. You can buy yourself the world. Doll yourself up and surprise Sam. How do you like that?”

  She said, her voice still anxious, “I shan’t rest until you’re with us.”

  “Good night,” he said. “You’re worrying about nothing.”

  When he hung up, he sat on the edge of the bed thinking. A little shiver ran through him suddenly, and he got up impatiently. “Hell,” he said. “I guess my feet are damp.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  DUFFY WOKE WITH A start. Across the room, the sun leaked round the side of the blind, throwing ragged lines of light on the walls.

  The telephone was ringing, grinding shrilly.

  He said, “Goddam it,” and turned over in the bed. Pulling the blanket over his ears, he tried to ignore the jarring noise, but the bell went on ringing, insistently.

  He turned over again and climbed stiffly out of the bed. Scooping up the telephone, he shouted, “What the hell is it?”

  Sam was yelling at the other end. He was so excited that Duffy couldn’t understand a word. He said, “I can’t hear you. What is it?”

  Sam choked, then came over quieter. “For God’s sake, Bill,” he said. “Hell’s broken loose this end. English’s double-crossing you. He’s slapped every rap he can lay hold of on you.”

  Duffy stiffened. “Tell me,” he said.

  “They arrested Morgan on some counterfeit charge. Then English got on to headquarters and withdrew his protection. I was there when he did it. He’s thrown you to the wolves. They’re indicting you for Olga’s, Gleason’s and Annabel’s murder.”

  Duffy sat limply on the bed, still holding the telephone. “The lousy rat,” he said.

  Sam
said urgently, “You’ve got to go carefully. They can’t hope to make all those raps stick.”

  Duffy’s mouth twisted. “They’ll carry me to the station, that it?”

  Sam said, “English is pulling wires. They’re waiting for you to run, then they’ll come after you with gunpowder.”

  “That’ll let English right out of this, won’t it? Me stiff, he can pin all his lousy scandal to my tombstone.”

  “What the hell are you going to do?”

  Duffy said, “Skip. I guess I might make it in the Buick.”

  Sam said, “They’ll be watching your joint by now. The news came over ten minutes ago. They started right away.”

  Duffy said, “Do they know you’re in this?”

  “No. They don’t even know I know you.”

  “If I can’t make it, can I hide up at your place?”

  “Sure,” Sam spoke without hesitation. “Why not come on over and lay up, until the heat’s cooled?”

  “’I’ll try a getaway first.” Duffy said gently, “Thanks, soldier, you’ve been a swell help. My love to Alice. Don’t tell her more than you need.” He hung up and looked quickly at the clock. It was just after ten o’clock.

  He dressed with cold unhurried haste. He made sure that he had his money safely distributed in his pockets, then picking up his hat he walked to the door, shot the bolt and stepped quietly into the passage.

  As he walked into the deserted bar, he heard the faint wail of a siren, approaching rapidly. He smiled, without being amused, turned back and ran to the front door. He stepped into the street and walked across the road fast, but without any panic. He walked like a man about to start a day’s work, who knows he’s a little behind the clock.

  He could see a long closed car swinging round the bend at the far end of the road. The siren was silent. He stepped hastily into the shadow of the garage and walked over to the Buick.

  Schultz said, “Wait!” His voice had an edge to it.

  Duffy peered and saw him standing in the dim light, half hidden by a big Packard.

  “The cops are moving in,” Duffy said in a low voice. “I’m skipping. Want to come?”

  Schultz shook his head. He was standing very still. Duffy looked again, then stiffened. Schultz was holding a shotgun in his hands; he was pointing it directly at Duffy.