You Never Know With Women

by James Hadley Chase

  She looked up and smiled. The hardness went away.

  “I was cold. Want some coffee?”

  “You bet.”

  While she poured the coffee into mugs, she said: “I’ve been listening to the radio. They think we’re heading for the Mexican border.”

  “Do they? Well, that’s smart of them.”

  She was smiling as she handed me a mug, but her eyes were alert and uneasy.

  “They have barricades on all the main roads. They say we can’t get away.”

  “Maybe we’d better give up the idea of Tijuana.”

  “Yes.”

  I drank the coffee slowly. I didn’t know where we could go.

  “We’ll have to head north,” she said as if reading my thoughts. “We can’t have another night in the open.”

  “Maybe that’s what they expect us to do. They may be bluffing about Mexico. Redfern’s no fool.” I stood up. “Let me bend my brains on this. I’m going to have a shave and wash. Give me a little time to work it out.”

  I collected my shaving kit and wandered away to the stream by which we had camped. The water was very cold and hard, and I had the worst shave in years. When I got back, she was cooking bacon on the primus stove.

  “It might be an idea to stick right where we are,” I said, squatting by her side. “In the old days, moonshiners used these hills. We might find a cabin or a shed or something if we look around. They may get tired of hunting us if we hole-up here. Give them a week and they’ll get careless. We could pick our time and make a break for it when things have cooled off. Besides, I want a little time to raise a moustache. I think we should stick here if we can.”

  She nodded.

  “Yes.”

  Now we had some kind of plan, she relaxed and the uneasy expression went out of her eyes. While we breakfasted I told her about the moonshiners and how they used to hide their stills out in these hills, and bring their rot-gut down to the towns in horse-drawn carts.

  “There are dozens of stills hidden around here. We’re certain to find a place where we can hide up.”

  While we were washing the dishes in the stream I said: woke in the night and got thinking. It was the first chance I had of thinking about this business. I was too rattled to use my head before: I’ve never been so rattled in my life.”

  “What did you think?”

  “I got to wondering who shot Brett.”

  “Why you did, didn’t you?” The words seemed to jump out of her before she could stop them. The moment she said them she put her hand to her mouth and went white.

  “What do you mean?” I demanded, staring at her. “You don’t think I shot him, do you? I told you what happened.”

  “Yes. I know. I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, Floyd.”

  “What is this? What are you getting at?”

  “Nothing. I said I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, Floyd. Please forget it.”

  She wouldn’t look at me; and I suddenly went cold.

  “So you do think I killed him! Out with it! That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

  She caught my arms and clung to me.

  “I don’t care if you did!” she cried. “I don’t care. I only want to be with you. Nothing else matters!”

  “This is crazy, Veda. So you thought all along I shot him?”

  “I don’t care.” She drew away. “All right then, you didn’t shoot him. I tell you I don’t care.”

  I held her at arm’s length. She was crying.

  “Now look, kid, you’ve got to believe me. He was shot as I was looking for the compact. I was on the pedestal when I heard the shot. I went up there. He was sitting at his desk. The gun was right there in front of him. That’s how it happened. You’ve got to believe it!”

  “Of course, darling.” She bit back her tears. “Of course.” It was as if she were speaking to a child who had said he’d seen a spook.

  “This is madness. If you don’t believe me — that shows the kind of jam I’m in.”

  “But I do believe you. Don’t look like that, darling. Please . . . it’s getting light. We must be moving.”

  “If you think I killed Brett, why the hell have you come with me?” I shouted at her.

  “Nothing you do or have done will make any difference to me. I can’t help it. I don’t care. You’re everything to me.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair.

  “Okay, so I’m everything to you. That’s fine. But I didn’t kill Brett.”

  “All right, darling.”

  I watched her take the dishes to the car and begin to pack. The crazy thing was I knew she still didn’t believe me. She thought I had gone up there and shot Brett, and that I lied to her when I told her how it happened. Maybe Mick thought I had lied too.

  I went over to her as she was getting into the car.

  “Look, Veda, I’ll give you one sound reason why I didn’t kill him. I went up there to collect twenty-five thousand dollars — remember? Well, I didn’t get it. Do you think I’d gyp myself out of all that dough just for the joy of shooting him?”

  “He must have had the money there for you. No one has mentioned it. Don’t you think it was stolen?”

  I took a quick step back. It was like running into a punch in the face.

  “That’s it!” I exclaimed. “That’s why he was shot! Someone knew he was going to give me the money, and laid for him!”

  “Yes,” she said, but she still didn’t look at me.

  For a moment I didn’t get it, then I grabbed and shook her.

  “So you think I took it? You think I went up there and shot Brett so I could have the dagger and the money? Is that it?”

  “Please, darling . . . you’re hurting me.”

  Then it came to me.

  “Gorman!” I exclaimed. “He knew. I told him! He knew I was going out there. He knew Brett was going to pay me twenty-five grand. I told him, like the dope I am. He could have fixed it. He could have gone out there and shot Brett, knowing I’d be around to take the rap. It was Gorman!”

  She suddenly became as excited as I, and caught hold of me.

  “Oh, darling, tell me you didn’t do it. No, don’t! I can see now you didn’t. What a fool I’ve been! I thought — but never mind what I thought. I’ve been so worried. Forgive me, darling. Please forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” I said and pulled her to me. “It was Gorman. It must have been Gorman.”

  “We’ll talk as we go. We must get on, Floyd. Look, it’s nearly light.”

  “Gorman!” I said half to myself as I drove up the road that wasn’t much better than a cart track. “He fits. What do you know about him, Veda? Was he short of money?”

  “Sometimes. He gambled. Boyd often used to help him.”

  “Let’s try and work this out. We know Boyd paid him well to keep quiet about the dagger. Look, it might have happened like this: when I told Gorman to get the dagger from Boyd, Boyd may have demanded his money back. He’s a dangerous customer, and Gorman may not have been able to return the money. He may have spent it. He asked me to split the twenty-five grand Brett was paying me, but I wouldn’t play. He may have been desperate, and seeing the chance to get the twenty-five grand and push Brett’s killing on to me, went out there, shot Brett, collected the money before I appeared on the scene.”

  “He would have had to be quick.”

  “It took me about three minutes to get down from the pedestal, run up the steps and along the terrace. He could have done it if the money was on the desk.”

  “Yes, but what’s the use?” she said bitterly. “We can’t do anything. No one would believe us.”

  “Once a dick, always a dick. This is right up my alley. If I can prove Gorman killed Brett I’m in the clear. And that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “But how can you? You can’t go back there.”

  “The heat will be off in a couple of weeks. Then I’ll go back.”

  “But you can’t ma
ke plans, Floyd. We don’t know what’s going to happen in a couple of weeks.”

  She was right, of course.

  The sun was coming over the foothills when we saw the shack. If we hadn’t been keeping a sharp lookout we should have missed it. It was hidden behind a clump of trees and was a good quarter of a mile from the road.

  “That’s it!” Veda said excitedly. “If there’s no one there, it’s perfect!”

  I stopped the car and got out.

  “You wait here. I’ll take a look around.”

  “Have the gun, Floyd.”

  “What do you think I am — a gangster?” I said, but I took it.

  The shack was empty and looked as if no one had been there for years. There was nothing the matter with it. It was weather-proof and dry, and only needed a good clean out to be habit-able. Around the back was a large shed in which were the remains of a still: a heating chamber, a hundred-gallon tank and a row of rotting tubs.

  I waved to Veda and she brought the car over.

  We examined the shack together.

  “It’s perfect,” she said excitedly. “They’ll never think of looking for us here. We’re safe, darling. I’m sure we’re safe now.”

  It took us a couple of days to settle in. Scrubbing floors, sweeping, repairing the bunks, fixing the stove and cutting firewood took our minds off Brett. We didn’t even listen to the radio.

  On the second night at the shack, while we were sitting in the twilight watching the sun go down behind the hills, Veda said abruptly: “Get the radio, Floyd. We’ve been living in a fool’s paradise.”

  “It’s been like a vacation: But you’re right. It seems you’re always right.”

  I went to the shed where we garaged the Buick, brought back the radio and set it up on a wooden box between us. I tuned in to K.G.P.L., and we spent a tense half hour listening to a lot of activity that had nothing to do with us. I tuned in to the San Luis Beach station, and we listened to hot dance music from the Casino for another half hour and still nothing about us.

  “Well, keep it on,” Veda said and got up. “I’ll start supper.”

  I sat and listened while she moved about the shack. Every time the dance music stopped, I’d stiffen and think: “This is it. This is where they’ll interrupt their programme.” But they didn’t. They continued to play hot dance music as if Floyd Jackson had never existed.

  We had supper and still the radio ignored us.

  “You see, they’ve forgotten us,” I said. “They’ve lost interest like I said they would. I bet if we bought a newspaper it wouldn’t even mention us.”

  “I wonder,” she said, collected the plates and went into the shack again.

  It got too dark to sit outside, so I brought the radio in and shut up for the night. Veda had made up the fire. It was cold at night up at this height, and the wind nipped off the sea. She knelt before the fire and I sat behind her. It was snug in there, and watching her, the flames reflecting on her face, it suddenly crossed my mind that for the first time in my life I was at peace with myself.

  It was an odd feeling, and it startled me. I’d been around, done most things; lied, cheated, acted smart, made and lost money, played hell. It’d been the same ever since I could re-member. There were a lot of milestones over thirty years best forgotten. Milestones that marked the things I’d done, seen, loved and hated. More low spots than high spots. Faces in the past: forgotten faces that swam out of the darkness unexpectedly to remind me of a mean act, a shabby deal or a broken promise: like turning the pages of a forbidden book. Blackmail, easy money, too many drinks, punching my way out of trouble. The end justifying the means, no matter how shabby. Self first in a jungle of selfishness. Women; out of focus and only half remembered; a laugh, a trick with a cigarette, long, tapering legs, a torn dress, an elusive perfume, a crescent shaped birth-mark, nails that dug into my shoulders, white flesh above a stocking: blondes, brunettes, redheads, silver wigs. “You were always a sucker for women.” Nearer thirty than twenty, blonde, sickeningly eager. “There are things a man doesn’t do. He doesn’t take money from women.” Wondering if she’d believe me. The hidden smirk when she didn’t. Making it easier for me by putting the money in my pocket. Low spot.

  “This is the last. You’re not getting any more out of me, you stinking cheat!” The Jew running grimy hands over the fur coat. “Thirty bucks . . . I’ll be robbing myself.” Sending her the pawn ticket. Poetic justice at the time; a despicable act in retrospect. Empty pockets. The uneasy ache for a smoke and a drink. Blackmail. “This letter . . . my expenses, of course I can’t work for nothing.” And now murder. The steps go down, but never up. “Shoot him like a mad dog.” Murder. “Attention all cars . . . wanted for questioning.” The surprised look in the dead and empty eyes; the little blue hole in the centre of his forehead. “If they catch you, they’ll kill you.” And Veda. “I don’t care. You’re everything to me.” A high spot.

  It was an odd feeling all right.

  Veda said suddenly, “We’re running short of food.”

  Her voice startled me, like turning on the light in a haunted room.

  “What did you say?”

  “We’re running short of food.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. I hadn’t thought much about anything while we’d been alone together. But as soon as she spoke, I got the uneasy, hunted feeling again. Fool’s paradise was what she had said. Fool’s paradise was right.

  “I’ll go into Altadena tomorrow,” she went on, and raised her hands to the fire.

  “No,” I said, “I’ll go.”

  She looked over her shoulder to smile at me.

  “Don’t be difficult. They’re not looking for me. I’m just the woman who’s with you. On my own, they’ll never give me a thought. You can drive me as far as the dirt road and I’ll walk the rest of the way. It can’t be more than three miles to the Altadena road. I’ll get a lift from there.”

  “No,” I said.

  We argued back and forth, then she got up and said she was going to bed.

  “You’re not going to Altadena tomorrow,” I told her. “I’m going to bed.”

  The next morning I asked her to make out a list of the things we needed.

  “I’ll go as soon as I’ve cut some wood. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “When I came back with the logs she had gone. She had taken the Buick and had left a note on the table. It said she would be back as soon as she could, and not to worry, and that she loved me.

  It was then I realized how much she meant to me and I started after her. But after walking three miles down the cart track, I gave up. I knew it would only make things worse for her if we were seen together. I knew she stood a chance of getting to Altadena and back if she was alone. I returned to the shack and waited. It was the longest day I’ve ever spent, and when the sun began to dip behind the hills and there was still no sign of her I was fit to climb a tree.

  But she came back. As I was getting ready to go down and find her I saw the wing lights of the car in the distance. As she slid out of the car I grabbed and held her. I didn’t have to say anything: she understood all right.

  “I’m so sorry, Floyd. I meant to get back sooner only I had to be sure no one was following me. I have everything.”

  “Was it all right?”

  “Yes. I’ve brought cigarettes and whisky and enough food to last us a week, and the newspapers.”

  But there was something in the tone of her voice that made me nervous. She was casual — too casual — but I didn’t say anything until we had unloaded the car and I had taken it around to the shed at the back.

  I returned to the shack and closed the door. In the harsh light of the acetylene lamp she looked white and tense.

  “They think we’ve slipped through the cordon,” she said as she put the groceries away. “The papers are on the table. They think we’re in Mexico.”

  I glanced at the newspapers without much interest. There had been a big airline disaster an
d that filled the front page. Brett’s killing had been shifted on to page three. As she said, the newspapers seemed to think we were in Mexico. One paper said Brett had drawn twenty-five thousand dollars from his bank and no trace of the money could be found. They gave that as my motive for killing him.

  While I was reading I still felt there was something wrong. Veda chatted away as she prepared supper, but there was a tautness about her that scared me.

  “Did you run into trouble down there?” I asked abruptly. “What is it, Veda?”

  She smiled, but the smile did not reach her eyes.

  “No trouble, darling. It went off perfectly. No one even looked at me.”

  “Something’s on your mind. What is it?”

  “I saw Max Otis.”

  Silence hung in the room like smoke while we looked at each other.

  “Gorman’s chauffeur? In Altadena?”

  She nodded.

  “I was in a store buying the groceries. I saw him through the window. He went into a beer saloon. He didn’t see me. I’m sure of that. But it gave me a fright. What’s he doing in Altadena?”

  “If he didn’t see you, it doesn’t matter. I don’t think we need worry about Otis. If it had been Redfern . . .”

  “He hates me.”

  “What makes you say that? I got on all right with him. He hated Gorman and Boyd, but why should he hate you?”

  She made a little grimace.

  “He was always prying. I caught him going through my things. I reported him to Boyd. He hates me all right.”

  “Well, if he didn’t see you it doesn’t “natter. You’re sure he didn’t see you?”

  “Yes.”

  We were a little jumpy for the next couple of days, and although we didn’t say anything to each other, we both kept a sharp look out, and any unexpected sound — a door creaking, the wind against the shutters, a rat gnawing in the shed — brought us to our feet. But we got over it. The man-hunt that had started with such violence and enthusiasm had evaporated like fog before the wind. It seemed certain now, the radio told us, that we were in Mexico, and our escape was just one more black spot in O’Readen’s incompetent administration.