Believed Violent

by James Hadley Chase

  Terrell was standing in the doorway of his office as Nona reached the head of the stairs. He looked her over, recognized her description and then came forward.

  “Miss Jacey?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come in.”

  He stood aside and she walked into the small office. Sergeant Beigler, just back and slightly bug-eyed, was standing by the window. Seeing how white she looked, he hurriedly moved a chair towards her.

  “Sit down, miss,” he said.

  “This is Sergeant Beigler,” Terrell said, going around his desk and sitting down.

  Nona nodded and sat down.

  “What’s been happening to you, Miss Jacey?” Terrell asked as Beigler took a chair and opened his notebook. “We’ve been looking for you.”

  Beigler thought this was the understatement of the year considering thousands of men had been combing the district and beyond for her for the past three days.

  “I am not important,” Nona said. “I have been told by Dr. Forrester to come here and to say he wants to talk to Mr. Mervin Warren.”

  “Where is Dr. Forrester?” Terrell asked, leaning forward.

  “I know where he is,” Nona said, “but before giving you the address, I have to tell you the situation.”

  “Sure . . . go ahead.”

  “Dr. Forrester will see no one except Mr. Warren.” Both men caught the tremor in Nona’s voice. They looked sharply at her and both could see she was very tense and making a great effort to control herself. “He has a capsule of ― of cyanogen. He carries it in his mouth. If there is any attempt to arrest him, he will kill himself.” Tears began to gather in Nona’s eyes. Her voice began to shake. “Please understand this: he really will do it. He ― he just doesn’t seem to care . . .” Her face became waxy. She half started out of her chair, then before Beigler could reach her, she folded up on the floor.

  “Get Maria!” Terrell snapped as he started around his desk. Beigler ran from the room. Terrell knelt beside the girl. He cursed the smallness of his office. Lifting her, he carried her along the corridor to the reception-room that smelt of stale sweat and disinfectant. He laid her on the old, battered couch.

  Policewoman Maria Pinola, a heavily built blonde, came in. Beigler stood in the doorway, watching with interest.

  Terrell said, Take care of her, Maria. Let me know when I can question her.” Then he returned to his office. He asked to be connected with Hamilton of the C.I.A. There was a long delay. While waiting, Terrell said, “Check there are no press men downstairs, Joe, and tell Charlie to keep his trap shut.”

  Beigler nodded and took the stairs two at the time.

  Jesse Hamilton came on the line.

  “Nona Jacey has just walked in,” Terrell told him. “She knows where Forrester is. She says Forrester wants to talk to Warren.”

  “You’re sure she is Jacey?” Hamilton’s voice shot up a note.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Let’s have it from the beginning.”

  Terrell reported the conversation he had had with Nona, omitting nothing. He concluded: “She passed out, but I guess she’ll be ready to talk by the time you get here.”

  “Okay, I’ll call Warren,” Hamilton said, “then I’ll be right over. Watch the press, Captain.”

  I’m watching them,” Terrell said and hung up.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, Nona was once again sitting in Terrell’s office, facing Terrell and Hamilton with Beigler in the background, ready to take notes.

  “Dr. Forrester is at 145, Lennox Avenue,” Nona was saying. The apartment belongs to a friend of his who is in Europe.” She paused and looked at Terrell. “Please don’t go there. Dr. Forrester will only talk to Mr. Warren. He will kill himself if anyone but Mr. Warren goes to the apartment. He . . . he . . .” She broke off, her face working and she hunted for a handkerchief.

  Terrell and Hamilton exchanged glances.

  “Take it easy, Miss Jacey,” Hamilton said gently. “You’ve had a rough time. Tell me, do you think Dr. Forrester would take his life?”

  Nona dabbed her eyes and nodded.

  “Yes . . . I know he will . . . I’m sure he will. He ― he just doesn’t seem to care.” She shivered, then went on, “It’s horrible. He has this capsule in his mouth . . .”

  “Did Dr. Forrester mention his formula?” Hamilton asked.

  “Yes . . . he says he can decode it, but only on his terms.” Nona clenched her fists in an effort to control herself. “He told me to tell Mr. Warren that.”

  Hamilton leaned forward.

  “What are the terms, Miss Jacey?”

  “He didn’t tell me.”

  “Okay.” Hamilton got to his feet. “You have a lot to tell us. Suppose you come with me? There are details we must know. You’ll be more comfortable at an hotel where you can be looked after.”

  She shook her head.

  “I can’t tell you anything until Dr. Forrester has talked to Mr. Warren. I gave Dr. Forrester my word,” and then she began to cry again.

  Hamilton looked at Terrell who got up, went to the door and beckoned to Policewoman Pinola who came in and put a protecting arm around Nona’s shoulders.

  “You come with me, honey,” she said. “I’ll take care of you.”

  When they had gone, Hamilton said, “Get that apartment block surrounded, pronto! Tell your men to keep out of sight. If Forrester shows, they are to tail him, but leave him alone.”

  At Terrell’s nod, Beigler left the room.

  “When will Warren get here?” Terrell asked.

  Hamilton looked at his watch.

  “Not before ten o’clock.”

  “Do you think she was making sense?”

  “Yes . . . I guess.” Hamilton rubbed the back of his neck. He looked worried. “We’re dealing with a nut . . . but a hell of a V.I.P. nut.”

  The two men stared at each other while they thought, then Terrell said, “Do you think we should alert Dr. Hertz to stand by?”

  Hamilton hesitated, then shook his head.

  “We do nothing until Warren gets here.”

  The telephone bell rang. Impatiently, Terrell answered the call.

  Federal Agent Walsh told him that Chet Keegan had been shot to death and he had a drug-crazed girl in his hair. What the hell should he do with her?

  Detectives Andy Shields and Frank Brock shared the day guard outside Thea Forrester’s bungalow. They had been on duty now for the past three days and Brock was sick of the sun, sick of sitting on the sand and sick of the assignment.

  He was twenty-five, powerfully built with a bull neck, bulging muscles, a deeply tanned boxer’s face, and was not only proud of his beef and strength, but delighted with the impact he always made on various girl-friends he attracted to him the way a magnet attracts steel filings.

  Detective Shields was cast in a different mould. He was lean, tough and ambitious. He had a knife scar along the side of his face and a broken nose, badly set. He was five years older than Brock and four times as experienced. He regarded all criminals as scum and women as the cause of most crime.

  The two men were sitting in the shade of a palm tree, staring out to sea where they could see people swimming and enjoying themselves on the beach.

  “This is a great life,” Brock said sarcastically, shifting his heavy weight and trying to make himself more comfortable. “We sit all day long here doing nothing when there is a piece in there longing for a man like me to give her the works . . . it’s against nature!”

  Shields had been listening to this moan for the past two days. Brock bored him.

  “Give it a rest,” he said. This is a job.” He got to his feet. “I’m taking a walk around.”

  It was while he was walking in a slow circle around the bungalow that Thea Forrester opened the front door of the bungalow and surveyed the beach.

  Brock caught his breath sharply. What a woman! he thought.

  Thea was wearing a cotton wrap that just covered her knees. Her sable tint
ed hair, her emerald green eyes and her smouldering sex made Brock sweat.

  Slowly, she turned her head and looked in his direction. Brock got hurriedly to his feet. There was a pause as they regarded each other, then she smiled. Brock looked to right and left. There was no sign of Shields. He walked quickly across the stretch of sand, up the path to where Thea stood, waiting.

  “Hello,” she said. Her eyes moved lazily and suggestively over his powerful body. “Are you one of my bodyguards?”

  That’s right.” Brock expanded his chest. “Some guard . . .” He looked her over with admiration. “Some body.”

  Thea lifted an eyebrow.

  “I’m learning fast.” She leaned a rounded hip against the doorway. “I always thought policemen were rough, tough and horrible.”

  Brock grinned.

  “They are . . . I’m the exception to the rule.”

  “What’s your name, Mr. Exception-to-the-rule?”

  “Frank Brock . . . my girl-friends call me Frankie.”

  “Do they? Yes . . . I like Frankie . . . Do you want a drink, Frankie?”

  Brock looked over his shoulder. This was risky. He didn’t trust Shields.

  “Well, I guess, but I can’t come in. I’m on duty. Still . . .”

  Again her eyes moved over him, sending an urgent wave of desire through him.

  “Are you ever off duty, Frankie?”

  “Sure . . . but not until six.”

  “How about your friend . . . the one with the broken nose? He looks interesting.” Thea adjusted her wrap and Brock caught a glimpse of the swell of one breast.

  “You can forget him,” he said. “He’s a square.”

  “Is he?” Thea smiled. “Oh . . . I’ll get you a drink . . . beer all right?”

  “Beer would be swell.”

  She turned and walked down the passage while Brock studied her hip movement. What a woman! he thought. Boy! Could she and me . . . He felt something hard stab into his back and a voice snarl, “Make a move and I’ll blow your goddam spine to bits!”

  Brock stood motionless. He remembered that he was supposed to be guarding this woman against a sudden attack from a maniac. Now here was a gun against his spine. Then he discovered something else. He realized he was frightened. He leaned forward, cowering, waiting, terrified of the death that might come to him.

  The pressure of the gun suddenly went away and Shields said, “Just what the hell do you think you are doing?”

  Rage and shame made Brock turn swiftly: made his right fist swing towards Shields’ scarred face. It was a good punch, delivered with all Brock’s massive weight and strength behind it, but Shields had had a lot of good punches thrown at him during his police career. He shifted his head and got his face out of Brock’s shooting range. Brock’s fist sailed harmlessly over his right shoulder. Shields smacked Brock across his jaw with his gun barrel, sending him reeling backwards.

  A glass of beer in her hand, Thea regarded the two men.

  She felt a hot rush of blood run through her. Men fighting because of her always moved her.

  “You boys enjoying yourselves?” she asked.

  Brock recovered his balance. An ugly red mark showed on his jaw. Shields backed away, watching Brock. Then seeing Brock wasn’t taking it further, he shoved his gun back into its holster.

  “Get the hell out of here!” he said to Brock.

  Brock glared at him, his eyes full of hate, but Shields was his senior. He hesitated, then walked slowly down the path and across the sand to the shade of the trees.

  Thea said, “The sheep and the goats . . . the boys and the men.”

  Shields looked woodenly at her.

  “I’m sorry you were disturbed, ma’am,” he said and turned to go.

  “You look thirsty, officer. Would you like this beer?”

  “No, thank you. I am on duty.”

  She regarded him, then she leaned forward and poured the beer into the flower bed by the front door.

  Shields started down the path.

  “Officer . . .”

  He looked around, pausing.

  “I have a blown fuse . . . can you fix it for me?”

  Shields studied her, aware Brock was watching.

  “My job is outside . . . not inside, ma’am,” he said. “You call an electrician,” then he walked away while Thea watched him. She let him reach the gate, then she took off her wrap and dropped it on the floor. Under the wrap she was wearing the skimpiest possible bikini. Her beautiful body was nut brown from hours of sun bathing. She ran down the path after Shields. Hearing the thud of her naked feet, he turned sharply. She swerved around him and went on running across the sand towards the sea.

  Shields looked to right and left. The beach was deserted. He stared after her, then moved into a quick, striding run. He caught up with her as she was about to run into the sea and he grabbed hold of her arm.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “You must go back. This is too dangerous. My orders . . .”

  She wrenched her arm free and then ran into the sea. Shields started after her, then stopped. Already the sea was washing over his shoes. He cursed under his breath as he saw her swimming away from him. He hesitated, then kicked off his shoes, tore off his trousers and shirt as Brock came running up.

  “You going for a swim?” Brock sneered.

  Shields dumped his gun holster on the sand.

  “Shut up, you jerk,” he said savagely. “This whore could get herself killed.”

  Wearing only his underpants, he took a racing dive into the sea and went after Thea while Brock stood watching.

  Thea swam well, but she wasn’t in Shields’ class. She looked around and saw him coming after her at a speed that startled her. She stopped swimming and trod water. She untied the cord of her bikini and let it float away from her. Another swift movement got rid of her bra. Then she threw up her arms and let herself sink. As she came up gasping, Shields reached her. She made a grab at him, but Shields swept her hands away. She was startled by his expertise. He dived under her, came up behind her, caught her under her armpits and held her so tightly she was unable to struggle. This wasn’t the way she had planned it. She decided her best move was to fake a faint. She shut her eyes and let herself go limp. Shields towed her back to the beach, then dragged her up on to the beach.

  Brock stood gaping down at her while she lay still, her eyes closed, her breasts heaving as she appeared to be fighting for breath.

  “Haven’t you ever seen a naked whore before?” Shields asked, snatching up his shirt and throwing it over Thea’s nakedness. “For God’s sake! Grow up! They are all made the same way. Get my clothes!”

  He grabbed hold of Thea, heaved her over his shoulder and started back towards the bungalow.

  Brock stood rigid, staring at the long naked back, the solid buttocks and the long legs.

  As Shields kept moving, Thea said, “You are a sonofabitch . . . but you are a man. You can have me any time.”

  Shields said nothing.

  He carried her into the bungalow and dumped her on the settee.

  “You stay here,” he said, not looking at her. “If there’s any more trouble from you, ma’am, I’ll take you down to headquarters.”

  As he started for the door, she said, “Wait! What is your name?”

  He turned and looked woodenly at her. She was sitting up, her legs crossed, her arms folded across her breasts.

  “Detective 3rd Grade Andrew Shields,” he said.

  Then he walked out of the bungalow, slamming the front door.

  Brock waited until Shields came to where his clothes were lying, then he said with a sneering grin, “That was quick . . . how did you like it?”

  Shields put on his shirt and slid into his trousers. He gave Brock a hard stare, but Brock couldn’t leave it alone.

  “How was she, Andy? How was she, you mother-raper?”

  “Get ready to pound a beat again,” Shields said quietly. “I’m turning you in.”

 
; He moved around Brock and headed for the police car.

  Brock hesitated, then jumped forward, grabbing Shields’ arm.

  “Now, wait a minute . . .” he began.

  Shields threw him off.

  “Take your goddam hands off me,” he said and continued to the car.

  Brock put his hand on his gun, then took his hand away. He watched Shields get into the car and start talking on the telephone to police headquarters.

  Kneeling on the settee, leaning forward, her breasts like two ripe pears swinging from her body, Thea stared through the window at this minor drama and smiled complacently.

  The five men seated around the table watched Mervin Warren pace the carpet of his luxury sitting-room at the Belevedere Hotel.

  Reading from right to left at the table was Chief of Police Terrell, Jesse Hamilton of the Central Intelligence Agency, Roger Williams of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Dr. Max Hertz of the Harrison Wentworth Sanatorium and Warren’s secretary, Alec Horn.

  Warren paused in his prowl and said, “Can we accept this girl’s statement?” He was looking at Terrell.

  “Yes, I think so,” Terrell said. “I think it is unlikely she is lying.”

  “She says Forrester has a capsule of cyanogen,” Warren said. “She claims he will kill himself if any attempt is made to capture him.” He turned to Dr. Hertz. “You have had this man as a patient for twenty-eight months. How is it you never discovered this capsule? He must have had it with him when he was put under your care.”

  Dr. Hertz lifted his shoulders.

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “After all, even with the best security in the world, Herman Goering kept his death pill with him until he was ready to kill himself.”

  Warren considered this, then he nodded.

  “Yes . . . I suppose so. Do you think Dr. Forrester would kill himself under pressure?”