Trusted Like The Fox

by James Hadley Chase

  Crane smiled. It was a lop-sided smile and gave his face a strange, frightening expression. “It’s intriguing, isn’t it? The death of women. I mean exactly what I say. My principal interest is to take a woman’s life. I’m what the newspapers call a monster. Interesting, isn’t it?”

  Ellis, startled by the expression on Crane’s face and by what he had said, blurted out, “You mean you kill women?”

  “Oh, come,” Crane said, lighting another cigarette. “Use your intelligence. I don’t go in for it in a wholesale way, you know. I don’t get the opportunity. You have no idea how difficult it is to find a girl who has no parents or relations who’ll ask awkward questions. And besides there’s always the police . . . No, not in numbers — yet. But when the opportunity arises I take it.” He blew smoke towards Ellis, waved his hand airly. “To date I have only killed one woman; not much to boast about, I know, but in a day or so, I hope to kill another.”

  “You mean — Grace?” Ellis asked, aware that his heart was thumping against his ribs.

  Crane regarded him for several moments before he replied. His face was now set, pale, mask-like. His eyes were dark and seemed to have receded deep into their sockets.

  “Yes — Grace,” he said, and smiled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Ever since I can remember,” Crane said as he poured a liberal amount of whisky into a cut-glass tumbler, “I have been fascinated by death.” He held up the bottle, looked inquiringly at Ellis. “Won’t you have a spot? It won’t hurt you, you know.”

  “No,” Ellis said shortly. His head felt hot, and his leg ached. There was a sick, cold feeling in his stomach. He kept asking himself, “Is he pulling my leg or is he serious? If he’s serious (and I believe he is) then he must be mental. Does he really mean to kill Grace or is this a method of torturing me?” The calm, matter-of-fact way the fellow talked made it difficult to believe he was serious.

  Crane had left the room for a moment or so to fetch the bottle of whisky, a siphon and two glasses. While he was gone Ellis had made a desperate attempt to get out of bed. He felt he must reach the window to see if Safki was still out in the garden — to beg him not to go away, but the effort was too much for him. He had hoped to have been able to drag himself across the room to the window, but he found he couldn’t even get his leg out of bed.

  On his return, Crane had looked at him, seen the sweat and the lines of pain on his face, and the disturbed blankets and had smiled jeeringly, but had said nothing.

  Now he was sitting by the open window, the glass of whisky in his hand, a cigarette between his thick fingers, his legs crossed. He appeared quite at ease, and he spoke quietly and fluently, not hesitating for a word as if he had rehearsed the story over and over again as an actor learns his part.

  “When I was a kid — I suppose I was six years old — my father took me out shooting with him,” he began, settling himself further back in the chair. “I remember how interested I was to see a fine pheasant start from cover, fly swiftly towards a wood, and then drop like a stone when my father shot it. I handled the bird, felt its warmth and limpness, and was delighted that at last I was able to touch it. I had seen so many pheasants in the fields and had always wanted to touch them, but I could never get near them, and now, death had brought the bird within my reach. Can you wonder that death interested me?”

  Ellis said nothing. He stared at the big, fleshy face, puzzled and suspicious, hoping that if he were patient, some unmistakable and definite sign of the fellow’s insanity would reveal itself.

  “You think I’m cracked, don’t you?” Crane asked, reading his thoughts. “Well, perhaps I am, but I’m not all that cracked. I have a kink. Safki says I’m a psychopathic case. God knows what that means, but I’m not ready to be put away — not yet, anyway.”

  Ellis made an impatient movement.

  “Oh, get on with it,” he said irritably. “Do you think I want to listen to you talk about yourself all night?”

  “I can’t hurry over it,” Crane said almost apologetically. “It wouldn’t be fair. Safki said the events in my childhood have an important bearing on my present behaviour. He should know, I believe he’s made a study of such cases.”

  Ellis ran his fingers through his thin, sandy hair. It felt damp. His neck and chest felt damp, too. He realised that for the past minutes he had been sweating violently.

  “When I was a little older,” Crane went on, “it occurred to me that if I wanted anything that was out of my reach I had only to kill it to own it.” He paused, studied Ellis. “This is important. At least, Safki says so. This childish reasoning is the direct cause of my oddity now. Any living thing that was out of my reach had only to die to be within my reach. Do you see? It’s simple enough and it worked. For instance, there was a Persian cat that lived next door. I always wanted to stroke it, but it was an unfriendly beast — nervous, probably, and I was never able to get near it. One day, exasperated at being frustrated by the stupid beast, I took a sharp knife and waited for it to come out and sun itself — which it did regularly. When it was stretched out on the lawn I crept to within fifteen feet of it and as it was about to run away I threw the knife at it. I had no idea one could kill a cat so easily, and I enjoyed the hour I spent with it, fondling it, stroking its magnificent coat. Then it became stiff and cold and it frightened me. No one thought I had killed it, although the fuss that was made when it was found warned me I’d have to be very careful in the future.”

  Out in the darkness an owl hooted and Ellis heard a whir of wings as it flew through the trees.

  “They’re difficult birds to trap,” Crane said, glancing out of the window. “I’ve only been able to catch one since I’ve been here. Ugly brutes, but rather intriguing.” He tossed his half- smoked cigarette out of the window, thought for a moment and then went on, “It was remarkable how many animals I killed before I went to school. I learned patience, hiding in the woods, lying still for hours waiting for the right moment to spring. I became a first-class stalker. I was even able to kill birds with my knife as they hopped about the ground looking for worms. It seemed to me then that my knife was a symbol of power. I was never without it, and when I went to boarding school I took it with me.” He drank some whisky, set down the glass. “I had one or two narrow escapes at school. I found my knife not only brought animals within my reach, but it also freed me from those who annoyed me. There was one boy who took particular dislike to me and tried to make my life a misery. Well, he didn’t succeed. I warned him and then as he persisted I laid wait for him one dark night and stabbed him.” Crane smiled. “It was really the funniest thing. I wish you could have seen his face as he rushed bawling to the Matron. He had no idea who had knifed him and he bled like a pig. I had no experience of how to stab anyone in those days and I made a complete hash of it. The point of the knife slid off a rib and merely inflicted a nasty flesh wound.” His face suddenly tightened and he added viciously, “I wish I had killed him.”

  “I don’t want to listen to all this,” Ellis said. The pain in his leg nagged him and Crane’s voice worried him like drops of cold water falling regularly on his head.

  “But this will interest you,” Crane said, refilling his glass. “It has an important bearing on the present situation. I’ll skip over my childhood if it bores you. I think I’ve established the knife motive by now. You do see how it all began, don’t you? Later, girls interested me. You wouldn’t believe it to look at me now, but I was scared of them. I found them unapproachable and I was again frustrated. Can you see where this is leading to now? I began to ask myself if they’d scare me when they were dead.” He broke off, leaned forward, stared hard at Ellis. There was an uncomfortable pause, then he went on. “One night something happened that has caused all this scheming and planning I have to do now. At least, Safki says so.” He fumbled for another cigarette, lit it, threw the match out of the window. Ellis noticed his hand was shaking. “I was sixteen. My father and I had been visiting friends. We were dri
ving home; it was dark and we were late. My father was driving fast — too fast. Coming round a sharp bend in the road we collided with another car. It was a hell of a smash. My father was killed. I was thrown clear and not even scratched. The driver of the other car was thrown clear, too; but she broke her neck.” He moved restlessly, his eyes darkening. “I went over to her and made certain she was dead. I was only interested in her. My father’s death meant nothing to me. I touched her, and then I knew that a dead woman wouldn’t scare me.” He tried to smile, but the smile didn’t quite come off. Ellis thought he looked horrible; grimacing, trying to appear nonchalant, his hands shaking, and his eyes shifty. “She was a pretty little thing: I suppose about twenty, fair, well dressed, dainty. There was no blood on her; she might have been asleep.”

  “All right,” Ellis said sharply. “I don’t want to listen to details. They wouldn’t interest me.”

  “Please yourself,” Crane said. “I won’t bore you. Anyway that experience gave me ideas. Those ideas kept coming into my mind but for years I did nothing about them. I was scared of the police for one thing. Then I never seemed to have the right opportunity. There was always something that stopped me. The girl had parents; people knew she had gone out with me; she wouldn’t go where I wanted her to go. It wasn’t easy, Cushman, but I did succeed in the end. Julie Brewer was tailor-made for the job. I killed her.”

  “You’re lying,” Ellis said, catching his breath sharply. “I don’t believe a word of this. You’re trying to torture me.”

  “My dear fellow,” Crane said, frowning. “Don’t be such an egoist. Of course I’m not trying to torture you. I’m interested in your reactions now you know the truth. I killed Julie Brewer, and no one knows about it but Safki and you.”

  “Safki?” Ellis repeated.

  “It was unfortunate for Safki,” Crane said, his face a little flushed now and his eyes brighter: the whisky was having an effect on him. “He and I used to play golf together. He amused me. I knew what he was and I made inquiries. I found out enough to have a hold on him. He came to see me and blundered in a moment or so after Julie had expired in a vast pool of blood. (You have no idea how she bled. To look at her you’d have thought she was anaemic, but she made a ghastly mess on my carpet.) Poor little Safki! He was going to give me away at first; wanted to call the police until I persuaded him that it wouldn’t be wise. As soon as he knew I was on to him, he piped down very quickly and even helped me get rid of her body.”

  “And Grace?” Ellis asked, now no longer able to conceal his anxiety.

  “Grace?” Crane repeated and laughed. “My dear Cushman, isn’t she unbelievable? I’ve never met such a girl. She’s incredible. She must have been bred on twopenny magazines and the movies. It’s fantastic the way her mind (if you can call it a mind) works. She believes I fell in love with her the moment I saw her. She does really. Did you ever hear anything so funny?” He roared with laughter, nearly upsetting his glass.

  Ellis struggled up in bed, his eyes glittering with fury.

  “You swine!” he shouted. “You led her on — made her think that. I — I’d like to —”

  “Oh, dry up,” Crane said, suddenly annoyed. “Don’t threaten me, you skinny little puppy. The girl’s cracked. As if I’d even look at her twice. I admit I led her on, but I never thought she’d swallow the tripe I handed out. She wants to look after me. Me! What does she know about looking after men? Why, the little idiot can’t look after herself.”

  “So you’re not going to marry her?” Ellis said, not knowing whether to be angry or relieved.

  “Marry her?” Crane said. “A drudge like her? Good God, no! Who does she think she is, anyway? I’ll tell you something,” he leaned forward confidentially. “I’m supposed to be marrying the daughter of Major-General Sir Hugh Franklin-Steward, K.C.B., D.S.O., and the rest.” He grinned. “She’s a real society beauty, cold as ice, repressed as the devil and as dull as ditch-water. It might be fun to stick my knife into her, although it’d be the last woman I’d kill. The old boy would really exert himself to catch me and when roused he’s a regular old tiger.” He shook his head, grinned. “Still, it’s an idea that tempts me. I’d rather kill her than marry her. I told you I don’t care what happens to me in the long run, but I want some more fun first.”

  “And Grace?” Ellis said, scarcely believing Crane was serious. “Let’s talk about Grace.”

  “Well, let’s talk about her. She’s the most pathetic little fool I’ve ever met. I couldn’t resist pulling her leg. She sucked up everything I said, believed it all, and I crowned it by falling on my knees by the carnation bed and asking for her hand.” He laughed again. “Any other girl would have known I was fooling, but not her. I wish you could have seen us. I don’t know how I kept my face straight. And the cream of the joke is she — she accepted me,” and he went off into a roar of laughter, tears running down his face.

  Ellis lay still, watching him.

  “I’ll kill you for this,” he thought, cold with anger. “I’ll have no mercy on you. I don’t care what happens to me, but I’ll make you pay, and I’ll fix you before she finds out.”

  Crane mopped his eyes, put the empty glass on the windowsill, lay back in his chair.

  “I haven’t been so amused in my life,” he confessed. “It’s really beyond my wildest dreams. What tickles me is that no one can stop me. You can’t. If she came in now and you told her what I’ve been telling you she wouldn’t believe it. She thinks I’m a saint; the greatest lover in the world. She wouldn’t listen to you; you can try if you like. It’d tickle me to death to hear what she said.”

  Ellis said nothing. He knew Crane was right. Grace wouldn’t listen to him.

  “I’ll have my fun with her for a day or so and then —” Crane got to his feet. “Then I’ll get rid of her. I suppose I’ll have to get rid of you, too, but not in the same way. I’ll send you to Safki. He’ll look after you. You two can have a nice cosy talk about me. He’ll tell you about Julie and you can tell him about Grace. Neither of you can do anything unless you betray yourselves. And I can’t see you doing that.” He stretched his great frame, grinned at Ellis. “You must admit I’ve been rather bright. I made up my mind I’d experiment with Grace as soon as I knew she was in trouble. But I didn’t think she had a police record. That nearly ruined my plans. I could have, of course, handed you both over to James, but then I’d have missed my fun. Well, I fooled poor old James properly. Daphne — she’s his daughter — was one of Safki’s patients once and she knows I know, so she does what I tell her. The way I substituted her fingerprints for Grace’s was rather masterly, wasn’t it? Old James will never guess in a hundred years that the prints have been changed. It’s easy to fool the police if you have a good nerve and use your brains.” He looked out of the window, stood for a moment staring into the darkness, then turned. “There was a policeman snooping about the grounds tonight. Rogers — I used to play cricket with him — a harmless, thick-headed fool, and he saw you. I caught him looking through your window.” He shot his cuff, looked at the red smear. “There was nothing else for it. I had to get rid of him. You should be grateful, Cushman. I saved your skinny neck.”

  Ellis, white-faced, tense, said nothing. He watched Crane walk to the door.

  “I mustn’t keep her waiting any longer,” Crane went on. “She’s changing. I bet you it’ll be a seductive néglige. I’ve let her have the run of Julie’s wardrobe. The little fathead put on the dress Julie wore the night I killed her. It gave me a bit of a shock. I didn’t realise I was so sensitive. But she took it off when I told her I didn’t like it, and she’s getting ready now for the big love scene. I bet her heart is going pit-a-pat and she’s imagining she’s Joan Bennett or some equally glamorous creature, preparing to throw her love at my feet.” He opened the door, smiled humorously at Ellis. “Well, now you know something about me. Think over what I’ve told you. We’ll have another little chat tomorrow.” He loitered in the doorway, watching Ellis, wh
o stared back at him with frozen eyes. “Sleep well, Cushman. Don’t disturb us for an hour or so. I mustn’t keep her waiting. It wouldn’t Be chivalrous, would it?” He laughed again. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.” He paused as he was turning away, looked back, added, “So long as she can’t see my face I can call her every name under the sun. I find that frightfully amusing. She likes to put her head on my shoulder and then I talk to her, only she doesn’t know. You ought to be there to hear me.”

  Ellis listened to his light tread as he walked down the passage. He heard him open a door, shut it, then the bungalow became strangely still and silent.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Grace’s bedroom was lit only by two small shaded lamps which created an intimate, if not slightly sensual atmosphere, accentuated by a heavy and overwhelming perfume that Grace (without realising the insidious power of the perfume) had sprayed about the room.

  Grace lay on a quilted chaise-longue that stood in the middle of the room. She had on a black, semi-transparent negligé which was entirely unsuited to her youthful innocence, although it set off her figure crudely enough. Her bare feet were thrust into scarlet mules, and her hair was caught up by a narrow scarlet ribbon.

  At first glance she looked as if she had stepped out of the pages of Esquire, but closer scrutiny revealed she was but a poor imitation of those seductive pages; in truth, she was pathetically aping a sophisticated siren with little or no success.

  She had made up her face with an inexperienced hand; rouge formed two hard circles on her cheeks, her lips, under a heavy smear of lipstick, were grotesque, and her eyelashes were clogged with mascara that made little black marks on her eyelids.

  Although she was vaguely aware that something had gone wrong with her efforts to be the sophisticated young woman, worthy of someone as wonderful and as thrilling as Richard Crane, she felt she could do no more, hoping that he would not be critical and would, at least, appreciate her effort to please him. She was nervous, too, and her heart fluttered against her ribs, her mouth was dry and her hands unpleasantly clammy.