You Never Know With Women

by James Hadley Chase

  She studied me thoughtfully.

  “If it hadn’t been for me you’d be filling a hole in the ground,” she said. “Can’t you show a little gratitude?”

  “Some other time.” I picked up my hat. “We’ll get together before long. Just take it easy. If you want anything use the telephone. Joe’s looking after you. Don’t try any tricks with him. He’s got a heart of stone.”

  She beat me to the door, grabbed the key and tried to twist out of my clutch.

  “Take it easy,” I said and scooped her up, ran her to the bed. On the way she pounded the top of my hat with clenched fists.

  “Let me go!” she stormed. “How I hate you, you heel!”

  I tossed her on the bed, knelt on her while I squeezed her fingers and took the key.

  “Can’t you quit fighting?” I asked, scowling at her. Now lay off and act like a lady.”

  I made a rush for the door. A clock and a vase helped me on my way. I got outside and turned the key as she began to pound on the panels. The names she called me would have made a taxi-driver blush.

  Joe came along the passage, paused to listen.

  “Snapping her garters, huh?” he said. “The jobs I get. If she calls me names like that I’ll sock her in the jaw.”

  “Not a bad idea,” I said and handed him the key. “Give her anything she wants except a gun and poison. Okay?”

  He put the key in his vest pocket and sighed.

  “I guess so. See you before long I hope.”

  I went down to Casy’s office. The long, fragile-looking guy with the profile like Byron and the cornflower in his buttonhole was draped up against the wall, his hands in his pockets. He was watching Casy reading his mail.

  “This is Lu Farrel, Floyd,” Casy said. “He’ll take care of any trouble you might run into. Take him along with you. He can drive the car.”

  Lu fluttered his Bambi eyes at me. I tried not to show my horror.

  “Thanks all the same,” I said hastily, “but I can handle my own trouble. All I want is the car.”

  “Better take him along,” Casy advised. “He’s a good guy with a rod.”

  “He’d be better with a powder-puff,” I thought, but didn’t say so. I didn’t want to hint Casy’s feelings or make Lu cry.

  “That’s okay, but I’d rather go along on my own. No hard feelings,” I went on to Lu.

  “Not at all, dear,” he said and sniffed at his cornflower.

  Casy grinned.

  “Don’t let Lu kid you. His appearance is against him.”

  “Something is,” I agreed darkly and went out.

  A big black-and-chromium Cadillac was parked outside. The doorman guarding it smirked when he saw my expression.

  “The boss says for you to use her,” he said and held the door open for me.

  In that beauty it took me a little over half an hour to reach my rooms. I had a small apartment in a three-storey house in the less prosperous quarter of San Luis Beach. It was comfortable enough: a little shabby, but clean, and Mrs. Baxter who looked after me was no more dishonest than the other landladies in the street.

  A closed car was parked on the opposite side of the street to the house. I parked the Cad outside the front door, looked the closed car over and grinned to myself. The guy sitting at the wheel, reading a sporting sheet, had ‘cop’ written all over him.

  I got out slow, allowed him to take a good look at me, then went on up the stairs to my rooms.

  I unlocked the door and went in. They had taken some trouble not to leave signs of a search, but it wasn’t hard to see they’d been over the joint with a fine comb and a small earthquake to help them.

  I made sure my last bottle of whisky hadn’t been tampered with, then I started to pack my bags. I was through in half an hour. As I was closing the last bag heavy footsteps creaked up the stairs and knuckles with plenty of authority rapped on the door.

  I called, “Come in,” and went on strapping my bag.

  Lieutenant of the Police Redfern and a plain-clothes dick named Summers stalked in, closed the door and regarded me the way tigers regard their dinner.

  Redfern was a nice-looking guy as far as cops go. He was middle-aged, middle-height, square-shouldered, and clean shaven. He had eyes like the points of gimlets. Two thick wings of chalk-white hair showed below his grey slouch hat. His brown suit had a pin stripe of red and plenty of good tailoring in it, and his shoes looked like they were varnished. He was a good steady cop, wise to all the rackets, a little tired of being honest, but keeping that way in spite of a lot of pressure from the political group that ran the town: a hard, mean, dangerous character to run up against if he disliked you. He hated me worse than an abscess in the ear.

  “Hello there,” I said cheerfully. “You’ve just caught me. I’m leaving this burg. How do you like that?”

  There were no frills on Redfern. He came to the point with his usual bluntness.

  “Did you go to Lindsay Brett’s house yesterday morning?” He had a quiet voice. He never shouted, but he managed to get a chill in his voice that could unsettle a guilty conscience faster than anything I know.

  “Sure,” I said, and dumped the bag with the other two. “So what?”

  Summers cleared his throat menacingly. He was big and fleshy and tough. On the middle finger of his right hand he wore a flat cameo ring. It came in handy when he punched a suspect in the teeth. A ring like that could do plenty of damage and he could always plead the excitement of the moment made him forget to take it off.

  “Why did you go up there?” Redfern asked curtly.

  “I was on my way to see my friend Casy – you know Casy?”

  “I know him. Casy doesn’t live anywhere near Ocean Rise.”

  “That’s right. I was waiting for a bus and a guy came along and gave me a lift. I told him how to get to Santa Medina but he was too smart to listen. He said he knew his way around and promptly took the wrong turning. I was in no hurry so I let him sort himself out of the mess. We landed up outside Brett’s place and a guard got sarcastic. Then I told this guy where he’d gone wrong and he went right. That’s all there’s to it.”

  “Listen you cheap—” Summers began, but Redfern waved impatiently at him.

  “I’ll handle this,” he said and stared at me woodenly. “Who was this fellow who gave you a ride?”

  “No idea. He looked like a drummer to me, but I may be wrong. I didn’t ask his name. He dropped me off at Santa Medina and I lost sight of him.”

  Redfern wandered around the room.

  “Where were you last night?” he demanded and jerked round to look at me.

  “With Casy.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that, Jackson. I think you were up at Brett’s place last night.”

  “Well, there’s no harm in you thinking so, so long as you don’t believe it,” I said, slipped the bottle of Scotch in my pocket and glanced around to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. “I was playing poker with Casy. You ask him. There was a pal of yours there too. Chief of Police O’Readen. I took fifty dollars off him.”

  Redfern stood very still while he looked at me, then he glanced down at his nicely manicured nails.

  “O’Readen?” he repeated.

  “That’s the fella. Good cop too by the look of him. Nice cheerful guy; always smiling.”

  Summer flexed his muscles. I could see he was having to make an awful effort not to sock me with his ring.

  “And O’Readen was playing poker with you last night? How long did the game last?”

  “From seven-thirty till two,” I said cheerfully.

  Again there was a long pause, then Redfern shrugged. He looked suddenly tired and a little sad.

  “Okay, Jackson, that let’s you out.” He stuck his hands into his trouser pockets. Only his eyes showed how mean he was feeling. “Where are you going now?”

  “Got myself a frail and I’m using Casy’s penthouse for an unofficial honeymoon. Look in some time, pally. Casy would li
ke to have you over.”

  “Let’s go,” Redfern said to Summers and moved to the door.

  “Can’t I give this heel a tap, Chief?” Summers pleaded.

  “I said let’s go,” Redfern snapped and went out.

  Summers paused at the door. He looked like a tiger that’s had its dinner snatched away.

  “One of these days I’ll have you where I want you, you smart punk: then watch out.”

  “Don’t put off till tomorrow what you can do today,” I said, grinning at him. “Start something now, and see where it gets you.”

  “Come on!” Redfern called from the bottom of the stairs. Summers gave me a bleak look and went out, his face slack with rage. The door slammed violently behind him.

  I gave them a few minutes to get out of my way, went down to the basement and paid up my rent, told Mrs. B. I was pulling out and scuttled from the house before she could kiss me or maybe slug me with a bottle.

  I piled my bags in the back of the Cad, climbed in and drove over to my office. The number of girls who smiled at me as I drove along was an education. I could have had a car-load if I hadn’t been busy. I told myself I’d borrow this car when I had some time on my hands and drive along Ocean Boulevard and see what I caught. I wouldn’t need a net.

  A crowd of kids came from the vacant lot and swarmed around the car as I pulled up outside the office. I picked the biggest and toughest-looking of them and held up three nickels.

  “Listen, killer,” I said, “keep these kids off this car and you’re on my payroll.”

  The kid said he would, and I left him glaring ferociously at the other kids, his clenched fists threatening them. He looked so tough I didn’t know if I’d have the nerve to ask him for the car back.

  The telephone bell was ringing as I unlocked the office door. I kicked the door shut, reached for the receiver as the bell stopped.

  I didn’t worry. No one had called me up in weeks. It was probably a wrong number.

  I cleared out my desk drawers, stuck my .38 police special in my hip pocket, dropped the Scotch bottle from the desk cupboard into the trash basket, closed all the drawers a little regretfully. It wasn’t much of a room, but I liked having an office of my own. Casy’s penthouse was all right, but it didn’t belong to me and that makes a big difference.

  As I turned to the door, the telephone bell started up again. I was going to leave it, then changed my mind.

  A girl’s voice asked, “Is that Mr. Floyd Jackson?”

  I had to think for a moment before I told her it was. No one had called me ‘Mister’ on the telephone for months.

  “Will you hold on, please?”

  She had a nice voice; quiet, musical and a lilt in it.

  “Mr. Lindsay Brett is calling,” she added.

  I clutched the telephone.

  “Mr. — who?”

  “Mr. Lindsay Brett.” There was a click on the line, then she said: “You’re through, Mr. Brett. Mr. Jackson is on the line.”

  A crisp tense voice, demanded, “Jackson?”

  That was more like it. That’s the way it’d been for the past months. “Jackson?” Some copper looking for trouble. Redfern snarling at me. Now Brett.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I want to talk to you, Jackson. Come over to my place on Ocean Rise right away. I’ll expect you in an hour.”

  I stared at the big ad. on the wall. It showed a girl with a lot of cleavage in a swim suit that looked like it was put on with a spray gun. She had a cute smile and I winked at her. She didn’t wink back.

  “I shouldn’t, Mr. Brett,” I said.

  “What? What was that?” The bark in his voice would have scared his secretary or the guys who worked for him. But I wasn’t his secretary nor did I work for him, so it didn’t scare me.

  “You shouldn’t expect me,” I said, as polite as a receptionist booking a room, “because I won’t be there.”

  There was a pause. Icicles seemed to drip from the mouthpiece, but maybe I was just imagining it.

  “I want to talk to you.” There was a shade less bounce in his voice now. Not much, but enough for me to notice.

  “If it’s that important maybe you’d better come down here,” I said. “I’m leaving San Luis Beach in about an hour. I’m leaving for good.”

  “Don’t leave until I get down,” he said; much, much softer now: almost human.

  “I’ll be gone in an hour,” I said and hung up.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I WALKED down the six flights of stairs to the street level, paid off Little Sir Echo who was guarding the Cad, took it around to a nearby garage and crawled up the six flights again. I was fighting for my breath after the climb when I heard a rush of feet along the passage.

  To get from Ocean Rise to this dump in twenty-five minutes was fast going. I expected Brett to come into the office with congestion of the lungs and a heart murmur; but he didn’t. He looked the kind of guy who spends a lot of time being athletic, and six flights of stairs was just a warm-up to him. He could have run to the Matterhorn and still have had enough breath to whistle Dixie.

  He didn’t knock or stand on ceremony. He burst in on me like a runaway cyclone.

  He was about six foot two and all of it hard muscle. At a guess he could be thirty or so, good-looking if you like the well-fed, rich face that a millionaire usually carries around with him. I could see why women went for him. He was the dominant type, with a personality that ran away with a lot of voltage, and was slightly overpowering at close quarters. His eyes were sharp, keen and alert. You had the impression you’d have to get up very early to trap him into anything and then you’d probably fail. By the set of his shoulders, the line of his mouth and his way of talking you knew without being told that he was in the money.

  “Are you Floyd Jackson?” he barked and planked down his hat and stick on the desk.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Mr. Brett, of course.”

  He didn’t bother to answer that one, and glanced around the office, giving each stick of furniture an exclusive sneer.

  “You blew the door off my safe last night and killed two of my guards,” he went on, glaring at me.

  “Did I?” I groped for a cigarette and set fire to it. Now why did I do that?”

  He caught hold of the visitor’s chair, jerked it up to the desk and sat on it.

  “And don’t think that alibi of yours is any good. I know all about O’Readen. He’s a crook. You weren’t playing poker with him last night, you were up at my place.”

  He sounded so convincing I was inclined to believe him.

  “Redfern didn’t seem to think so,” I pointed out. I felt he might want to argue.

  He took out a cigar, cut the end, lit it and blew a stream of rich smelling smoke at me.

  “I don’t give a damn what Redfern thinks. I don’t have to be impressed by a Chief of Police even if Redfern is. I want the dagger back and I’m going to get it back. That’s why I’m here.”

  I became suddenly very attentive.

  “What dagger is that, Mr. Brett?” I asked.

  “Now look, Jackson, you’re not going to act dumb with me. You know what I’m talking about. You stole the Cellini dagger from my safe last night and you’re going to give it back. This is a business transaction. The police don’t come into it.”

  A tingle ran up my spine and I was aware of a feeling of suppressed excitement and I knew I’d have to step carefully. This could be either a ticket to the gas chamber or the means of collecting a lot of dough. It depended how I played it.

  “And why don’t the police come into it?” I asked cautiously.

  “Because they can’t do anything about it, but I can. I don’t give a damn for those guards. I don’t give a damn whether you go to jail or not. All I’m interested in is getting the dagger back, and I’m going to get it back. Make no mistake about it! Here’s my proposition: bring the dagger to me before ten o’clock tonight and I’ll pay you twenty-five thousand dollars. If you’re not
at my house by ten o’clock I’ll start something that’ll surprise you.”

  “Such as what, Mr. Brett?” I asked.

  “I’ll break O’Readen,” he said bleakly. “It’ll take a little time and it’ll cost money, but I’ll do it. When I’ve broken him we’ll see how your alibi stands up in court. I’ll have you sent to the gas chamber if I have to buy the judge and jury.” He leaned forward and tapped on the ink-stained blotter. “You’ll find it doesn’t do to monkey with me, Jackson. I have a lot of influence around here. Please yourself what you do. I want the dagger.”

  “And what dagger are you talking about?” I asked mildly.

  He studied me for a long moment. I thought he was going to fly into a rage but he didn’t, although it was a near thing.

  “The Cellini dagger,” he said in a voice you could crack a nut on. “If they didn’t tell you its history you’d better hear it now. Cellini was commissioned to make a pair of gold daggers for Cardinal Jacobacci. One of them eventually found its way to the Uffizzi, the other disappeared, believed stolen. It turned up a few months ago and I bought it. It is a collector’s piece and valuable, and I took the precaution to inform the authorities that I had bought it and its description has been widely circulated. It’s impossible for anyone to sell it. You might just as well try to sell the Mona Lisa. You were commissioned to steal it by an unscrupulous collector. I can even make a guess who it is, but I won’t. I haven’t the evidence, although I’m pretty sure who has it; only a dishonest collector would risk stealing it.

  “Collectors are funny people, Jackson. If anything is rare enough, they just have to have it, even if they have to keep it under lock and key. I’m sure of one thing: you stole the dagger and you were paid to do so by a collector. You stole it because you were in a jam. You were up at my place yesterday morning and your bank account, which has been at zero for the past months, has now a substantial balance. That’s why I know you stole it.”

  “How do you know about my bank balance ?” I asked mildly.

  He gave me a hard little smile.

  “I own the bank, Jackson, and I had your account examined.”

  “Looks as if I’ll have to change my bank, doesn’t it?”