Believed Violent

by James Hadley Chase

  The Harrison Wentworth Sanatorium was in darkness. The gate-man was in bed, blissfully snoring. The time was twenty minutes after two a.m.

  Silk and Keegan left the Thunderbird parked against the high wall of the Sanatorium within twenty yards of the gate. Together they walked to the gate, paused and looked through the iron railings up the long dark drive that led to the mansion.

  “Go ahead,” Silk said. “Show me how clever you are.”

  Keegan produced a flashlight and examined the heavy lock of the gate.

  “Like stealing dimes from a baby,” he said. He leaned against the gate, inserted a bent piece of steel into the lock, fiddled, then pressed and the gate swung open. “See. No hands . . . as simple as that.”

  “Get yourself a decoration, little boy,” Silk said and started up the drive. Keegan followed him. Finally, they arrived at the imposing entrance to the mansion.

  “Go ahead . . . have yourself a ball,” Silk said, waving to the door.

  Keegan examined the lock, then shook his head in wonderment.

  “A kid could handle this one . . . a kid with one arm.”

  “Just open it and stop flapping with your mouth,” Silk said.

  Keegan opened the door and they moved silently into the dimly lit lobby. Lewis had given them a sketch plan of the place. They knew exactly where to go. Moving like ghosts, they climbed the broad stairs to the first floor.

  Lewis was waiting for them. He came forward, his face white, sweat beads on his forehead, his eyes restless.

  “Hi,” Silk said softly. “Okay?”

  Lewis nodded.

  “You gave him the pill?”

  Again Lewis nodded. His mouth was so dry he was unable to speak.

  “It worked?”

  Lewis tried to moisten his lips.

  “Yes . . . I’ve just looked at him. He’s right out,” he said hoarsely.

  “Okay, let’s go get him.”

  As Lewis led the way down the corridor, Keegan drew from his hip pocket a leather covered cosh. He held it in his hand, behind his back, out of sight.

  Lewis paused before the door. With a shaking hand, he inserted a key, opened the door and stood aside.

  Silk moved into a small room containing a bed, fitted cupboards and a toilet in an annexe. On the bed was a man.

  That him?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Lewis said.

  Silk regarded the sleeping man. He looked at Keegan who had come forward.

  “Can you handle him?”

  “Sure,” Keegan said. “Nothing to it.”

  Silk turned to Lewis.

  “Where are his clothes?”

  Lewis opened one of the closets.

  They are all here.”

  Silk took a blue tropical suit off a hanger. He tossed a shirt, underwear, socks and shoes on to the bed. Rolling these into a bundle, he nodded to Lewis. “Okay, we’re set.”

  It was at this moment that Keegan stole up behind Lewis and hit him with the cosh on the top of his head. He hit him with terrible violence. Lewis’s head seemed to crack apart. Blood splashed against the wall as he fell forward.

  Watching, Silk said, “You’re sure?”

  Keegan wiped the cosh on Lewis’s white coat.

  “You ask him . . . he’ll tell you.”

  He walked over to an upright chair, picked it up and examined it. Then with brute strength, he broke off one of the legs. Carrying the leg, he went over to Lewis’s dead body, lifted the dead head and rubbed the end of the leg in the blood and brains of the smashed skull. He dropped the chair leg, then walked to the bed, stripped off the sheet. With Silk’s help he got the sleeping man across his shoulders.

  The two men moved silently down the stairs and into the hot, star studded night.

  The Go-Go Club closed at 4 a.m. Most of the girls had already gone home with sailor clients, but Drena French still sat on a stool at the bar, a little drunk, but happy. This would be her last night in the club. In a way, she had regrets. She liked O’Brien and she got along well with most of the girls and the barman, a big Jamaican, named Tin-Tin Washington. He was a special favourite of hers.

  He was polishing the last of the glasses. Most of the lights had been turned off. O’Brien was in the office checking over the cash. Only three half drunk sailors were still hanging on to the bar. Three of the girls were putting on their coats.

  “Time you hit the hay, baby,” Tin-Tin said. “It’s past four.” He looked at the two remaining bouncers and jerked his thumb at the sailors. They nodded and converged on them.

  “Well, Buddy-boy, I guess you’re right,” Drena said, sliding off the stool. “Me for the hay.” She finished her whisky and shoved the glass towards the Jamaican. “You won’t be seeing me in this dump from now on. I’ll tell you a secret . . . I’ve bought a restaurant.”

  The Jamaican smiled. His big white teeth glittered in the one remaining light over the bar.

  “Like I’ve bought the White House . . . in a pig’s ear,” he said. “You go get some sleep, honey.”

  Drena supported herself against the bar and laughed.

  “Oh, boy! Did you but know! Anyway, this time next week, take time off from this dump and come to my place. The drinks and all the food you can eat will be on the house. The Seagull. Hear me? At the far end of the waterfront. Anything you want ― for free! I know how to take care of my friends.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Tin-Tin said, still smiling. “Okay . . . see you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t believe it? Ask Hawkins. A beautiful deal. Me and my boy-friend are going to run it. We have girls, a cook and a bouncer. We’re going to knock this stinking joint sideways,” Drena said. “Oh, Man! What a set-up! You come . . . everything on the house for a pal like you.”

  She waved her way from the bar and headed to the changing-room. One of the sailors grabbed hold of her and tried to drag her on to his lap. Before the bouncer could move, Drena had grabbed up an empty beer bottle and had slammed it down on the sailor’s head.

  “What a joint!” she shrilled. “What a lousy, goddam joint!”

  Ten minutes later, she left the club. The cool night air struck her forcibly after the thick, hot atmosphere of the club. She started down the waterfront, swinging her handbag, singing softly, not quite believing that by tomorrow she would be worth ten thousand dollars.

  Silk, standing in the shadows, watched her leave the club, then he moved after her. He had left Keegan to take the sleeping Paul Forrester to the cave hideout.

  No loose ends, Lindsey had said. There was one more end to tie up. He noticed that Drena staggered a little as she walked along. That told him she was drunk. It would be easy, he thought, and quickened his pace.

  At this hour, the waterfront was dark and deserted. Drena heard quick footfalls coming up behind her. She paused and turned, expecting some sailor who had followed her from the club. She wasn’t frightened. She was confident she could handle any drunken sailor. She saw the tall thin outline of a man, coming towards her. That was the last thing she was to see.

  It happened so quickly, she had no time to protect herself. She was facing a professional killer. The man stooped and she felt her ankles gripped. Before she could release the scream in her throat, she felt herself flying into space, then her head smashed against the prow of a dinghy and her body splashed into the oily water of the harbour.

  Silk paused long enough to make sure she didn’t come to the surface, then he walked away, unseen, towards the lights of the City.

  Sergeant Joe Beigler of the City Police was on night duty. The wall clock showed twenty minutes past four a.m. He sat at his desk, the inevitable carton of coffee at his elbow, the inevitable cigarette between his lips. He was a big, powerfully built man in his late thirties. His hard, fleshy face was freckled. He was wearing a short sleeved shirt and the collar was open: the black knotted tie, dragged down.

  Across the room with its rows of empty desks, Detective 3rd Grade Max Jacoby shared the watch. He was young, ta
ll, dark and enthusiastic. He was going through a mass of reports, humming contentedly.

  “Would you lay off that buzzing noise?” Beigler said. “You’re not in Sinatra’s class although you may think you are.”

  Jacoby leaned back in his chair and grinned.

  “Sheer jealousy, Sarg,” he said. “You should hear me when I really cut loose.”

  “Get on with the work,” Beigler growled. “Have you finished with those reports?”

  “A few left.” Jacoby looked at the wall clock, shaking his head. “Man! Can I use my bed!”

  The telephone bell rang. Beigler scooped up the receiver in a powerful, hairy hand. He listened to the agitated voice. Watching him curiously, Jacoby saw that Beigler’s face had become tense and he pushed back his chair, knowing it must be an emergency.

  Beigler said into the mouthpiece, “Don’t touch anything. We’ll have men with you in a few minutes. Yes, okay. Just wait.” He hung up, grabbed another telephone receiver that connected him direct to Operations room. “Jack? Get four men out to the Harrison Wentworth Sanatorium pronto. There’s an emergency up there! They are to stand guard. Tell them not to touch a thing.” He slammed down the receiver, then snatched at another telephone. “Charlie . . . call Hess. Get him up to the Harrison Wentworth Asylum. Alert Homicide. We need the full treatment up there.” He hung up, then looked across at Jacoby who was listening to all this, he said, “One of the nuts has escaped. He’s killed his male nurse. Get road blocks set up. You handle it.”

  “Description?” Jacoby asked as he reached for the telephone on his desk.

  “We haven’t one right now. Get the road blocks set up. Tell them to check all identities. The man’s name is Paul Forrester. He won’t have any means of identifying himself.”

  “Forrester!” Jacoby stiffened. “Judas! That’s . . .”

  “I know who it is! Get on with it!” Beigler again grabbed the telephone receiver. “Charlie . . . you got Hess? Fine. Get me the Chief.”

  Chief of Police Frank Terrell slept lightly. The first ring of the telephone bell by the side of the double bed brought him instantly awake. His wife, Carrie, sleeping at his side, moaned and came awake much more slowly.

  Already sitting on the side of the bed, Terrell, a big man with sandy hair that stood on end and with a jutting aggressive jaw was saying, “Yes, Joe? What is it?”

  “We have trouble at the Harrison Wentworth,” Beigler told him. “Paul Forrester has killed his nurse and has escaped.”

  “Paul Forrester?” Terrell’s voice shot up.

  “Yeah. I’m setting up road blocks. Hess is on his way out there. What else do you want me to do?”

  “Send a car for me, Joe. I’ll be right with you.”

  He hung up and began to scramble into his clothes.

  Carrie, a large, comfortable looking woman, had got into her dressing-gown and had left the bedroom. By the time Terrell was dressed, she had a cup of coffee waiting for him.

  He smiled affectionately at her.

  “Thanks, honey. I couldn’t live without you.” He gulped down the coffee.

  Then they heard a car pull up outside their modest bungalow.

  “Is it serious?” Carrie asked, following her husband to the front door.

  “Yes . . . don’t expect me back tonight. I’ll call you when I have time.” He gave her a quick kiss and then hurried down the short garden path to the waiting car.

  During the fast drive to police headquarters, Terrell considered what he had to do. He walked briskly up the steps leading to the Detectives’ room where he found Beigler still issuing orders on the telephone.

  “Okay, Joe,” he said as Beigler hung up. “You get up there. You’re sure it is Paul Forrester?”

  “Dr. Hertz said so . . . he must know.”

  “Okay, get off. I’ll be along later,” and Terrell took over Beigler’s desk. As Beigler left the room, Terrell picked up the telephone receiver. “Charlie, get me Roger Williams.” A minute later, a man’s voice said sleepily. “This is Williams . . . what the heck is it?”

  This is Captain Terrell. Paul Forrester has broken out and is on the run.”

  Terrell heard a quick intake of breath. Then Williams, who was the Federal Agent in Greater Miami, now suddenly very alert, said, “What action have you taken?”

  “Road blocks. My men are at the asylum now. We’ll need help. This only broke half an hour ago. I’m getting every man we have out of bed, but we’ll want more. The C.I.A. must be told . . . Washington too. Can I leave all that to you?”

  “I’ll handle it,” Williams said. Unless he steals a car, he can’t get far.”

  “We haven’t a description of him. Will you get one on the wire? I’m going up to the asylum now. You can contact me there.”

  “Okay,” Williams said and hung up.

  Terrell turned to Jacoby.

  “You stay here, Max. Handle all calls. Anything important get me on R/T.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jacoby said and as Terrell left, he walked over to Beigler’s desk and sat down.

  He looked at the wall clock. The time was fifteen minutes after five a.m. He had a depressing feeling that his bed was miles out of reach.

  Dr. Max Hertz was endeavouring to keep calm. He sat behind his desk, a cup of black coffee close at hand, a cigarette burning a little feverishly between his lips. He was wearing a sky blue dressing-gown over white and blue piped pyjamas. His thinning hair was ruffled. He was certainly not looking his best.

  “This has never happened before,” he was saying to Terrell who sat opposite him. “This is a great shock. My sanatorium is the best there is. I don’t have to tell you that. We have only the most important people here as patients. I have been in charge now for more than fifteen years. Not one patient has ever escaped . . . or attempted to escape.”

  Terrell shifted restlessly.

  “Well, one has,” he said. “We have to find him. Just how did he escape?”

  Dr. Hertz sipped his coffee, then put down the cup.

  “I can only assume Lewis was careless. I don’t like to say this because he and all my staff have been hand-picked and more than trustworthy, but this seems to be the only possible explanation. We have strict security rules. At night, there are always two male nurses on duty on each floor. One of them sleeps, the other has a desk at the head of the stairs where he can watch every door to our patients’ rooms, If the patient rings, the rule is that the nurse on duty must alert the nurse sleeping before he goes to the patient’s room. These unfortunate people we have here are mostly dangerous. I suspect that Lewis failed to follow my rules. Forrester rang for him and instead of disturbing Mason, who works the night shift with Lewis, Lewis foolishly went to Forrester’s room alone. When I say foolishly, perhaps that is being harsh, for Forrester has shown no signs of violence. He has been the ideal patient, so, I suppose, Lewis felt justified in not disturbing Mason. I suppose when Lewis entered the room, he was attacked. Forrester then got the master key from Lewis, opened the front door and the door of the outside gate.”

  Beigler put his head around the door.

  “Excuse me, Chief . . .”

  Terrell got to his feet.

  “Okay, doctor, you can leave all this to us. There’s just one thing . . . please don’t talk to the press. Washington is coming into the picture and this could be a Top Secret thing.”

  “Yes . . . yes, of course. I understand.”

  Leaving the doctor sipping his coffee and trying to steady his shaking hands, Terrell joined Beigler in the corridor.

  “Doc is doing a Sherlock Holmes act,” Beigler said, a resigned note in his voice. “You’d better talk to him.”

  Terrell followed Beigler up the stairs. They entered Paul Forrester’s room where Detective Fred Hess of the Homicide Squad was sitting on the bed, writing in his notebook and Dr. Lowis, the M.O. was watching two ambulance attendants get Fred Lewis’s body on to a stretcher.

  Lowis, a short, fat man had Terrell’s respect.
They had worked together for a long time and Terrell valued Lowis’s work and his opinions.

  “You got something, doc?” he asked as the two men carried the stretcher out.

  “I guess so,” Lowis returned. “This is supposed to be the murder weapon.” He pointed to the leg of a chair, lying on a strip of plastic on the table. “There are blood and brains on it. At first sight, it is obviously the murder weapon, but I can’t see how it can be. The man’s skull was smashed. The weapon that inflicted such an injury must have been something like a loaded cosh . . . even a steel bar. To have hit a man that hard would have broken the chair leg.”

  Terrell looked at Hess, a thickset man with a round face and granite hard eyes.

  “You got anything, Fred?”

  “Doc’s right. I go along with his theory. And another thing . . . there are no prints on the chair leg. Whoever handled it wore gloves.”

  Terrell pulled at his thick nose while he thought.

  “Why should Forrester have worn gloves?” he asked eventually. “Did he own a pair of gloves?”

  “I asked,” Hess said. “No . . . he had no gloves.”

  “Could he have wiped the chair clean of prints?”

  “Why should he? Anyway, the chair leg hasn’t been wiped. There are blood smears right up the leg.”

  Again Terrell paused to think, then he said, “Any of his clothes missing?”

  “A blue tropical suit, a shirt, underwear, socks and shoes. I got Mason to check the closet.”

  Terrell looked at the broken chair lying on its side in the corner of the room.

  “No prints there?”

  “No.”