Believed Violent

by James Hadley Chase

  Lindsey’s face turned into a snarling, frightened mask.

  “If you leave here, you will be caught, you fool!” he rasped. They will put you back into a padded cell! Give me the formula, and I swear I will get you to Moscow where you can start a new and important career! You will be honoured . . . you will be able to continue your experiments.”

  Forrester shook his head. He beckoned to Nona.

  “Come along, Nona. We’re going,” he said.

  Silk drew his gun.

  “Make a move,” he said, “and I’ll kill her. I’m not kidding. Make just one move . . .”

  Nona felt her knees sag. She stood motionless, scarcely breathing, then Forrester said quietly, “Come along, Nona. There is nothing to be frightened about.”

  She looked at Silk and at the gun pointing at her. She looked at Lindsey, his face shiny with sweat, and then she looked at Forrester, quiet, confident and smiling at her. She went to him and he took her hand, then they started across the sandy floor of the cave, both looking directly at Silk.

  Lindsey said in a strangled voice, “Let them go!”

  Forrester kept on. His grip tightened on Nona’s hand. His eye glittering with fury, Silk lowered his gun. Forrester continued on past him and into the long tunnel. They passed the three guards who were still playing cards. The men looked up, gaped, then got to their feet. Forrester continued to walk down the tunnel, ignoring them. Nona kept by his side. She was trembling. She heard Lindsey shout: “Leave them alone!” Forrester kept on. They went past the small cave where Dr. Kuntz was sitting. He stared, got to his feet, hesitated, then stood motionless.

  The Thunderbird was parked at the exit of the tunnel.

  Forrester paused beside it.

  “Can you drive this, Nona?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said shakily.

  Well then, let’s use it.” He got into the passenger’s seat. She looked back down the tunnel. She could see Silk watching her. She closed her eyes, struggling to control her jumping nerves, then Forrester said, “Come along, Nona. There’s nothing to be frightened about.”

  She opened her eyes, took in a deep breath, then slid under the driving wheel. She turned on the ignition, started the car and drove out of the tunnel into the dazzling bright sunlight.

  Silk spun around and glared at Lindsey.

  “Do you think you played that number well?” he demanded. Lindsey wiped his sweating face.

  “What else could I do? He’s mad! We could get him again, but dead . . .”

  “Yeah?” Silk shoved his gun savagely back into its holster. They will be picked up in less than an hour. They’ll talk. We’ll have the cops here like a swarm of bees. I’m getting out!” He turned and began to walk swiftly down the tunnel.

  “Wait!” Lindsey shouted, but Silk paid no attention. There were several cars parked in the tunnel. The guards came running up as Silk got into a Buick.

  “Get lost!” he shouted to them. “Get the hell out of here! The lid’s off!” Then he sent the car hurtling down the deserted road. Far ahead of him, he could see the disappearing cloud of dust made by the Thunderbird.

  Lindsey hesitated as he heard the second car start up, then he went quickly down the tunnel to his Cadillac. Dr. Kuntz joined him. Lindsey motioned him to get in the car, then he drove fast from the tunnel.

  “What has happened?” Kuntz asked.

  “Shut up!” Lindsey snarled. “Don’t talk to me!”

  His smooth polish and charm had gone. His fear and his fury was so obvious that Kuntz’s fat face went slack. He relapsed into silence. Lindsey sent the Cadillac roaring down the toad. His mind was busy. This was the end of his association with Radnitz, he told himself. Silk was right. Forrester and the girl would be quickly picked up. He would be implicated. Even if Forrester didn’t talk, the girl would. His one chance was to get to Mexico City before a search for him could get organized. For years now, he had been siphoning off half his income from Radnitz to a bank in Mexico City. He had no fears for his financial future. His immediate problem was his safest and quickest route to Mexico City. He finally decided to take a fast motorboat to Havana, then pick up an air-taxi to Mexico City. He would have to go back to the hotel for his money. It was a risk to return to the hotel, but he had to have cash if he was to hire a fast boat.

  He reached the junction of the desert road and the State Highway and he pulled up.

  “Get out,” he said to Kuntz. “You can hitch a ride from here. Go on . . . get out!”

  Kuntz stared at him, his beady eyes opening wide.

  What about my fee?” he demanded. “You promised me . .

  Lindsey hit him across his face with a furious backhand blow.

  “Get out!”

  His eyes watering, his nose beginning to bleed, the fat doctor stumbled out of the car. Lindsey slammed the door shut and drove on to the highway, heading towards the hotel.

  As he drove, he talked over the car’s telephone to the hotel. He told the hall porter that he had to leave at once for Havana and would he get his clothes packed? Would he also have a fast motorboat waiting for him. The hall porter said everything would be arranged.

  As Lindsey cut the connection, he thought thankfully of the power of money. He arrived back at the hotel forty minutes later. The hall porter came from behind his desk.

  “The boat is waiting, Mr. Lindsey,” he said. “Your luggage is down here.”

  Thank you,” Lindsey said. “I have some papers to take with me.” A fifty dollar bill exchanged hands, then Lindsey took the express elevator to the penthouse suite.

  It took him only a few minutes to open the safe and take from it a thick packet of $100 bills. These he stuffed into his hip pocket. He looked around at the luxury of the suite and felt a pang of regret that he would be leaving it for good.

  He thought of Radnitz now probably in Hong Kong, probably wondering why he hadn’t heard from him. Radnitz had too many people on his payroll to fear the Law. He would always be safe.

  Well, let him wonder, Lindsey thought. He left the suite for the last time, slamming the door behind him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Chet Keegan was enjoying himself.

  He was in the apartment which he shared with Silk. Both the men believed in luxury living. They had had the apartment done over by an expert, and the result satisfied their standards. The apartment had the unreal appearance of a lush movie set with deep lounging chairs of yellow corduroy, blood red carpeting with drapes to match, a cocktail bar and a number of mirrors that enlarged the room.

  Keegan was lolling back in one of the lounging chairs, a hypodermic syringe in his hand. He was watching Sheila Latimer, standing before him, in a black, transparent shortie nightdress and gold, frilly pants. There was a sneering grin on his face.

  Sheila was shaking and twitching, her eyes watering, her nose running. Keegan had deliberately kept her fix back three hours after it was due, and Sheila was suffering as she had never known such suffering before.

  “Go on, baby,” Keegan said. “Beg for it. Down on your knees. Put your paws together, baby bitch, and beg for it.”

  Sheila went down on her knees: her eyes streaming, begging.

  Keegan regarded her, then he looked at the syringe.

  “I think you can wait. What’s the hurry? You keep begging like that, baby. You look cute.”

  Sheila moaned and snuffled. “Please, Chet . . . it’s killing me. I’ll do anything . . . please . . . please . . .”

  “You’ve done everything,” Keegan sneered. “Anyway, I’m not in the mood. Knock your head three times on the floor. I want to see you do that. Go on, baby, knock hard.”

  As she was abjectively obeying, the telephone bell rang. Keegan cursed under his breath, hesitated, then got to his feet.

  “Keep knocking, baby,” he said, “while I get this.” He put the syringe on the table and answered the telephone.

  Silk’s voice sounded tense.

  “Pack anything you want for a q
uick trip,” he said. “The lid’s blown off. I’m right now with Coogan. I’ll give you half an hour to get here, then I’m on my way. Forrester and the girl have blown. They’ll be talking any minute. Move with the feet,” and the line went dead.

  Keegan stood motionless. He knew Coogan owned a fast motorboat. Silk would never panic. If there was to be a quick trip, there would be a quick trip. His brain raced. What did he want to take with him? He turned to see Sheila reaching for the syringe. He thudded the flat of his foot against her ribs, sending her sprawling across the room. Then viciously, he snatched up the syringe and threw it out on to the terrace where it exploded like a tiny bomb. He ran into his bedroom, jerked a suitcase from the top of his closet and threw his best clothes into the case. He unlocked a drawer in his wardrobe and took from it his passport and a thick roll of money which he always kept by him for such an emergency. He stuffed the money and his passport into his pocket, remembering his gun was in the sitting-room. He had taken it from its holster when he and Sheila had returned to the apartment. He slammed the suitcase shut, then went into the sitting-room to collect the gun. He looked around, went to the cocktail bar where he thought he had left it, but couldn’t see it. He cursed, then went over to the radiogram.

  “Where are you going?” Sheila asked. She was sitting in one of the lounging chairs.

  “Drop dead!” Keegan snarled. “Where the hell’s my gun?”

  “I have it.”

  Keegan stiffened and stared at her. She had got unsteadily to her feet and moved away from him, shaking, his gun, wavering in her hand, pointed in his direction.

  Keegan had never faced a gun before. Always it was the other man who had to face the gun. Looking at the tiny hole of the barrel that could spell death, he felt a surge of panic go through him. He stood motionless.

  “Give it to me,” he said, his voice a croak.

  She snuffled and jerked. Water oozed out of her eyes. She was the most disgusting thing he had seen in spite of her transparent black shortie nightdress and her gold, frilly pants.

  “I want my fix, Chet.”

  “Put that gun down!” Keegan said. “It could go off, you little fool!”

  He tried to remember if he had left the gun at safety. He seldom did. If he had, he could jump her, but he couldn’t remember, and hadn’t the nerve to take a chance.

  “I want my fix, Chet,” she snivelled. “I’ve got to have it.”

  He looked beyond her at the terrace. The bits of glass from the smashed syringe glittered in the sunshine. He had no other. He cursed himself for smashing the syringe.

  “All right, baby,” he said, trying to control his growing panic. “I’ll get it for you. Just take it easy. Put the gun down.”

  “I want my fix, Chet,” she repeated.

  Maybe, he thought, if he walked without fuss across the lounge and into the lobby, she would imagine he was getting another syringe. If he could reach the lobby, he could slam the living-room door and lock it. His small eyes shifted to the door and saw the key was on the outside. He picked up the suitcase.

  “Just hold on baby. I’ll get it for you.”

  She wiped her streaming nose with the back of her hand. As he began to cross the lounge like a man walking on egg shells, she said, “Put the case down.”

  Keegan stopped abruptly. He put down the suticase.

  “What’s the matter with you, baby?” he said, trying to keep the whine out of his voice. “I’m going to get your fix.”

  “You’re going away . . . you are leaving me.” The gun waved dangerously at him and he cringed.

  “I’ve got business, baby,” he said, thinking that Silk wouldn’t wait for him. “Don’t worry. I’m going to give you a big fix and you can come with me . . . how’s that?”

  A violent shiver ran through her and the gun exploded with a crashing bang. Splinters of wood flew from the door.

  Keegan cowered back.

  “Baby!” His voice was shrill. “Put it down! Take your finger off the trigger!”

  She saw his terror. Suddenly she realized she had him at her mercy. The brute who had tormented her for so many months was now actually shaking and terrified. She forgot the need of a fix. She felt only the need to revenge herself on this man who had so degraded her. She steadied herself, trying to keep the gun steady, then she squeezed the trigger. The bullet ploughed a furrow along Keegan’s right cheek. He reeled back, horrified to feel blood dripping down his neck and on to his hands. He made a frantic dive for the door as Sheila fired again. The bullet smashed into his body, throwing him forward. Somehow, he got the door open and staggered into the lobby. The gun exploded again. He went down on hands and knees, blood pouring out of his mouth. Moving like a robot, jerking and shaking, Sheila followed him. He was now coughing and retching, trying to get the blood out of his mouth. She moved close to him as his blood began to make a big pool on the carpet.

  She bent over him, whispering the words he had so often whispered to her: vile, disgusting words, then as Keegan’s arms lost their strength and he began to settle face down in his blood, she put the gun barrel against the back of his head and pulled the trigger.

  The two F.B.I, agents, sitting in their car, had seen Keegan and Sheila enter the apartment block. They were two youngish men, solidly built and thoroughly experienced: Walsh, with mouse coloured hair and a square-shaped, tough face and Hammond, with black hair, small features and bat ears. They had reported back on R/T that Keegan had shown up. They had been told to stay where they were. If Keegan left the apartment they were to follow him.

  The sound of the first shot reached them through the open window of Keegan’s apartment. They looked at each other, then they slid out of the car and started towards the apartment block. Then as the sound of a second shot came, they broke into a run. They raced into the lobby where a fat, elderly janitor was swobbing the floor.

  “Keegan?” Walsh snapped. “What floor?”

  The janitor gaped at him and began to fumble at his hearing aid. Hammond checked the list of names on the wall.

  “Top floor,” he called and opened the elevator doors.

  Again the sound of a gun shot came down the elevator shaft as both men got into the cage. Neither of them said anything as the cage took them swiftly upwards. Both drew their guns. On the 10th floor, Walsh slammed back the grille and they moved out into the lobby.

  Walsh rang the front doorbell while Hammond stood aside, covering him. They waited, listening, tense. Then the sound of another gun shot crashed through the panels of the door.

  Walsh looked at Hammond and grimaced. Hammond nodded. Walsh stepped back. He rushed the door, driving his shoulder against it. The door shuddered, but held. He drew back and rushed it again. The lock gave and the door burst open. Hammond was there to cover him. They moved cautiously into the inner lobby.

  They could hear a woman crying. They looked at Keegan’s bullet ridden body. The top of his head had been shot off; then they edged into the ornate living-room.

  Sheila was on her knees, sobbing and hammering with her clenched fists on the floor. When she saw them, she cried, “I’m a junkie . . . help me . . . I’m a junkie . . . please . . . please . . . help me!”

  The black Thunderbird pulled up outside Police Headquarters. Nona Jacey jerked back the pistol grip handbrake and got out of the car. She walked up the worn steps and entered the Charge-room.

  Sergeant Charlie Tanner, the desk sergeant sat behind his desk, prodding his teeth with a splinter of wood. He looked at the girl as she came in and his eyes lost their boredom. Nice looking frill, he thought. Probably she has lost her handbag or her dog, or some goddam thing somewhere and expects me to find it for her. Well, okay, when a frill has legs like these, I’ll find anything for her.

  “Yes, miss?” he said, leaning forward.

  “I want to speak to Captain Terrell,” Nona said quietly.

  Tanner sat back and stroked his bulbous nose. He looked a little shocked.

  “Is that righ
t?” He shook his head sadly. “Well, miss, if everyone in this city thought they could walk right in here and talk to the Chief, he wouldn’t do any work . . . now would he? Right now, miss, the Chief is busy.”

  “My name is Nona Jacey, and I want to speak to Captain Terrell.”

  “I’m Sergeant Charlie Tanner,” Tanner said, beginning to enjoy himself. “I’ve been desk sergeant here for the past ten years and even I can’t walk in on the Chief . . .” His voice trailed away. He blinked, leaned forward and asked, his voice rising, “What did you say your name was?”

  “Nona Jacey.”

  Tanner gaped at her. The Army, the Police, the F.B.I, and the C.I.A. had been and were still searching for a girl named Nona Jacey.

  “Now, look, miss . . . if this is a gag . . .” he began.

  “I am Nona Jacey,” Nona said firmly. “I want to speak to Captain Terrell.”

  “Sure . . . sure . . . just stay right where you are.” In a slight panic, Tanner looked around the deserted Charge-room, wishing there was another officer there. He grabbed hold of the telephone receiver.

  “Chief . . . Charlie. I have a young lady here . . . claims she is Nona Jacey . . . wants to speak to you.”

  Terrell’s voice was calm as he said, “Send her right up, Charlie, and send someone out for coffee.”

  “There’s no one here but me, sir.”

  He heard Terrell sigh.

  “Okay, okay, send her up, and I want coffee when someone is there.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tanner pointed to a staircase. “You go up there, miss, and it’s the door right in front of you. Okay?”

  Nona nodded and walked up the staircase. Tanner watched her climb the stairs, then sat back and wiped his forehead. He was sure he had only to telephone the Paradise City Herald and he would be better off by at least three hundred dollars. What was he thinking? He could ask anything and get it. Nona Jacey walking into Police Headquarters was the biggest scoop any newspaper could buy. He put such ignoble thoughts out of his mind and began prodding his teeth again with the splinter of wood.