I'll Get You for This

by James Hadley Chase

  I smiled at him. “Come on,” I said. “You and I are going on a little trip. First we’ll go to Macklin Avenue and then Bradshaw. You got a car?”

  He nodded.

  “Fine. I’ll be tucked up in the back under a rug. That way the cops won’t worry us and we’ll get places.”

  “I can always say I didn’t know you were there,” he said, his face brightening. “Okay, let’s go.”

  3

  I lay under the rug on the floor of Davis’s battered Ford and sweated. Davis sweated too, at least, he said he was sweating. “Gawd!” he exclaimed, “the place is lousy with cops. Any second now they’ll start shooting.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “They’re not likely to hit me. I’m too well protected down here.”

  “But I’m not,” Davis grunted. He braked sharply. “That’s torn it. They’re signalling to me.”

  “Keep your shirt on,” I said, feeling for my gun. “Maybe they want to ask the time. You know what coppers are.”

  “Quiet!” he hissed dramatically

  I relaxed, waited.

  Voices came out of the night. Feet scraped on the road. What the hell are you doing out here?” a voice growled into the car.

  “Hello, Macey,” Davis said. “I’m just passing through. How’s the battle coming? You caught him yet?”

  “We will,” the voice said. “Where are you going?”

  “Home,” Davis said. “Think I’ll get through?”

  “You might, only don’t blame me if one of the boys shoots you. The streets aren’t healthy.”

  “You telling me,” Davis said. “I’ve had twenty heart attacks in so many minutes.”

  The cop laughed. “Well, don’t try any speeding. You’ll be okay at the top of the road. We’ve just been through this district. The punk’s as good as the invisible man.”

  “Thanks,” Davis said, and eased in his clutch. “Be seeing you.”

  The car moved on.

  “Phew!” Davis said after a while. “I’m shaking like a jelly.”

  “That shouldn’t be hard for you to do,” I said. “What’s it I look like?”

  “He’s signalled me through. There’re cops all along the street glaring at me, but that’s all they’re doing. If there are any of them up at Herrick’s place we’d better skip it.”

  “Have a drink and calm down,” I said, sliding the bottle we’d taken from Tim’s place over the back of the seat.

  Gurgling sounds followed.

  “Leave me some,” I said sharply.

  “You don’t need it like I do,” Davis said, but he dropped the bottle back. It hit my head.

  “Hey!” I said. “Do you want to brain me?”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” Davis replied, accelerating. “You can come out now. The cops are out of sight.”

  I threw off the rug, sat up, wiping my face. We were in a narrow street lined on each side by neat villas.

  “We’re just there,” Davis said. “Next street.”

  As I was looking, a big brown Plymouth sedan shot round the corner, and belted down the street towards us. Davis gave ft startled snort and swerved violently to the right. The Plymouth I missed us by a couple of inches, and was gone.

  “The crazy loon!” Davis exclaimed. “What’s his hurry?”

  “Maybe he remembered a heavy date,” I said. “Don’t let a little thing like that disturb you.”

  We turned the comer, pulled up outside a small villa.

  “This is Herrick’s place,” Davis said. “Want me to come in?”

  I shook my head. “You and me had better not be seen together,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said, reaching over the back of his seat. He found the bottle and patted it lovingly. “I can keep myself amused.”

  I left him and walked up the path to the house. No lights showed. I thumbed the bell, waited. Somewhere in the house the bell rang, but no one answered. I rang again, thinking the man, Giles, was asleep. But after five minutes of continuous ringing, I decided no one was home.

  Davis stuck his head out of the car window. “Bust down the door,” he said. He sounded a little tight.

  I went round to peer in a window. There was enough moonlight to see something of the room. I found myself staring at a large desk. The drawers were open, papers were scattered on the floor. I looked closer and saw an arm-chair had been ripped to pieces.

  “Hey,” I called to Davis. “Come here.”

  Muttering under his breath, he heaved his bulk out of the car and joined me.

  He peered through the window, saw what I had seen, stepped back.

  “Looks like someone’s been going over the joint,” he said, producing his little ivory comb. He combed his hair thoughtfully. “That’s good liquor of Tim’s,” he went on. “I think I’ll have another shot. My nerves are kind of unsteady.”

  I tapped, broke a small section of glass near the window catch, opened the window.

  “Hey,” Davis said, his eyes round. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m going in there to take a look,” I said.

  “I’ll stick around and toot on the horn if any buttons show,” Davis said, moving towards the car.

  “And leave that bottle alone,” I said.

  I had a look round the room. Someone had gone over it carefully. There wasn’t anything in one piece. Even the stuffing in the chairs and settee had been hauled out and sifted through.

  I went over the house. Each room had been treated in the same way.

  Upstairs in the front bedroom I came upon a man in white pyjamas. He was lying half across the bed, the back of his head had been smashed in. I touched his hand. He was still warm; but he was dead. It looked as if the killer had surprised him in bed, and had bust him before he could raise the alarm.

  I went down the stairs, opened the front door, called Davis.

  “Come upstairs,” I said.

  We went up. Davis looked at the man.

  “That’s Giles,” he said, making a little grimace. “Hell! We’d better get out of here.”

  “He hasn’t been dead more than a few minutes,” I said, staring down at the dead man. “Think that Plymouth’s anything to do with this?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Davis said, moving to the head of the stairs. “All I know is if Flaggerty finds us here, we’re dead pigeons.”

  “I guess you’re right at that.”

  We went down the stairs and out of the house.

  The night was quiet now. The searchlights had ceased to I grope in the sky. Gunfire no longer sounded. It was hot and still.

  We got in the car.

  “You’re passing up a good story,” I said, looking at Davis with a grin.

  “I’ll wait until they find him,” he said, starting the engine. “I’m not sticking my glass chin out by telling them he’s there. They might tie me to it.”

  He let in the clutch and we shot away from the kerb.

  4

  “Is this where Brodey hangs out?” I asked, as Davis stopped the car in front of a big house on

  Macklin Avenue.

  “Across the way,” Davis said, pointing. “I’m not parking before any more death houses. Jeese! That was a dumb trick. If a copper had seen us come out—”

  “Forget it,” I said, getting out of the car. “Show me the place, and don’t get so excited.”

  “Excited? For crying out loud! I don’t like running into corpses that haven’t been turned up by the cops. It’s too dangerous.”

  We crossed the road. Somewhere out of sight a car engine roared.

  Davis paused in mid-stride.

  “Hear that?” he said, clutching my arm.

  “Come on,” I said, and started forward.

  Brodey’s house was big, and it stood back from the street. . The garden was full of palms and tropical shrubs. It was difficult to see much of the house from where we were.

  As we approached the front gates, which stood open, we heard the car coming down the drive. We
ducked back into the shadows. The brown Plymouth sedan shot into the street, belted away. It was out of sight before we got over our surprise.

  I had caught a glimpse of a man who was driving, but I couldn’t see much of him. The car was fitted with curtains which happened to billow out as the car passed me. That was how I saw the man; Davis didn’t see him at all.

  “Looks bad for Brodey,” I said, and began to run up the drive.

  Davis panted along behind me. “Think he’s been knocked off ?” he groaned.

  “Looks like it, doesn’t it?” I said. “Same car. Same hurry to get away. They’re after something pretty important.”

  A turn in the drive brought us to a big Spanish house that was in darkness.

  “If they’ve killed Brodey, there’ll be a hell of a stink,” Davis gasped, following me up the steps.

  “They’re sitting pretty,” I said, “so long as they can pin it on me; and that’s what they’ll do.”

  “Then what the hell am I doing trailing around with you?” Davis demanded. “If you’re the killer, what am I?”

  “Ask the judge… he’ll tell you.”

  I touched the front door; it swung open.

  “Looks bad,” I said.

  “I’m not coming in,” Davis said, backing away. “I’m scared, Cain. This is getting too deep for me.”

  “Take it easy,” I said. “Stick around. Don’t run out on me now.”

  “I’ll stick, but I ain’t coming in.”

  “What’s the matter with you? This may turn out to be front page news.”

  “I’d sooner find it without you being around,” Davis said, shaking his head. “If they’re going to pin it on you, they’ll book me as a material witness or something.”

  I left him arguing with himself, and entered the dark lobby. This time I’d brought a flashlight from the car. I looked into the various rooms that led off the lobby. They were undisturbed, but when I came to the last door at the end of the passage, I found what I expected to find. The room was Brodey’s study. It was big and well-furnished and equipped like an office. Here, a search had been made. Papers were strewn on the floor, desk drawers Herrick’s place. The chairs hadn’t been ripped open, nor had the pictures been taken off the walls.

  There was no one in the room, and I stood looking round, wondering what to do next. It was a big house to go over; I didn’t know how many servants were sleeping upstairs: but I had to know if Brodey was dead.

  As I turned to the door I heard or sensed something which made me feel I wasn’t alone. I snapped off the flashlight and stood motionless, listening. I heard nothing. The room was as black as tar. I eased the Luger out, and held it down by my side. Still no sound. I crept cautiously to the door, reached it. Nothing happened. I stood listening. No developments. I touched the door, peeped into the passage. It was dark out there and silent. I kept still, listened, and tried to see through the darkness. I stayed there a long minute, listening. There wasn’t a sound in the house, nor in the street outside, yet I was sure I wasn’t alone. I could sense the presence of someone, and that someone wasn’t far off.

  I waited, hoping whoever it was out there had weaker nerves than I had. It was a nasty business standing half in and half out of the room in darkness and silence, waiting for someone’s nerve to crack.

  Then I heard something. It was an almost soundless sound, and at first I couldn’t place it. After listening carefully I realized it was someone breathing near me. It gave me a spooked feeling.

  Slowly I raised my flash until it was pointing in the direction of the breathing. Then I pressed the button, ready to jump if someone opened up with a gun.

  The harsh beam of the flashlight lit up the passage. There was a choked gasp of terror which made the hair on the back of my neck bristle. I found myself staring at a girl crouched against the passage wall. She was slight, young, about eighteen, pretty in an immature way; chestnut hair, brown eyes. She was wearing a black and gold kimono and the trousers of her pyjamas were dark blue silk.

  She stayed motionless, her eyes empty with terror, her mouth formed in a soundless scream.

  I guessed she was Brodey’s daughter.

  “Miss Brodey,” I said sharply. “It’s all right. I’m sorry if I scared you. I’m looking for your father.”

  She shivered and her eyes rolled up. Before I could move she had slipped to the floor. I bent over her. She was out cold.

  I slipped the Luger back into its holster and picked her up.

  She was thin and light, and I could feel her ribs under the silk kimono. I carried her into the study and put her on the settee.

  Silence brooded over the house. I wondered if there was anyone else in the place.

  I went to the front door, but Davis wasn’t in sight. I found him by the car, his head back and

  the bottle to his mouth. I moved silently up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Got you!” I said in a gruff voice.

  Davis didn’t jump more than a couple of feet, and hollered, “Yow-ee!” He nearly swallowed the bottle. I took it away from him with one hand, thumped him on his beefy back with the other. After a while he recovered from his choking fit.

  “You loon,” he gasped. “You scared me silly.”

  “Come on,” I said. “I want you.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve dug up another corpse?” he asked, alarmed.

  “Not yet, but Brodey’s daughter has thrown an ing-bing. She’s nice, and she’s got on a kimono.”

  “Japanese style, eh?” he said, interested. “Well, maybe I’d better come at that.”

  Miss Brodey was lying where I had left her. She looked small and pathetic.

  “The idea is to put her head between her knees and a key on the back of her neck,” Davis said, combing his hair.

  “That’s for nose bleed, you dope,” I said. “At least, the key part of it is.”

  “Well, give her some Scotch,” he advised. “I bet Brodey’s got a bottle somewhere around.”

  He found it after a short, intensive search, took a long swig himself.

  “Not bad,” he said, shaking his head at the bottle. “Lawyers always do themselves well.”

  I sampled the Scotch too. He was right.

  “Well, come on,” Davis said. “This is no time for boozing. Let’s get this kid on her feet. Scraggy little thing, ain’t she?”

  “She’ll ripen,” I said, and lifted the girl’s head. I forced whisky between her clenched teeth. It brought her round after a while, and her eyes fluttered at me.

  “Bet she asks where she is,” Davis muttered. “They always do.”

  But she didn’t. She took one look at me and dived off the settee to the wall. She gave us the fright of our lives. “Now take it easy,” I said.

  “Let me handle this,” Davis said, “She knows me.” He advanced towards the girl with a kindly leer on his fat face. “Hi, Miss Brodey, remember me? Jed Davis of the Morning Star? We heard there was trouble up here and blew in. What’s wrong, baby?”

  She stared at him, tried to speak.

  “Now don’t get upset,” he went on gently. “Come and sit down and tell me all about it.”

  “He’s taken him away,” she blurted out in a thin, hysterical voice. “He made him go with him.”

  Davis led her back to the settee. “All right, kid,” he said. “We’ll fix it. Just sit down and tell us about it.”

  She gave me a scared look. I stood behind her so she couldn’t see me. Davis was patting her hand, clucking over her. I was surprised at his technique.

  He got the story out of her inch by inch. She told us she’d been asleep, and voices coming from her father’s study had woken her. She’d gone down. The study door was ajar and she peeped in. Brodey was up against the wall with his hands in the air. A man in a brown suit was threatening him with a gun. She heard the brown man say: “Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it. Come on, we’ll go for a ride.” She wanted to get help, but she was too scared to
move. The brown man hustled Brodey out of the room. It was dark in the passage and neither of them saw her. They went out the front door, and a moment or so later she heard a car drive away. Then I showed up.

  Davis and I exchanged glances.

  “Seen this guy before?” Davis asked.

  She shook her head. She was shivering with shock and looked as if she’d pass out any moment.

  Davis tried to make her take another drink, but she wouldn’t; she kept saying: “You must get him back. Please. Don’t sit there. Get him back.”

  “We’ll get him back,” Davis assured her, “but we must know who took him. What was this guy like?”

  “Short and thickset,” she said, putting her hands over her eyes. “He was horrible—like an ape.”

  “Did he have a scar down the side of his face?” Davis asked, stiffening.

  She nodded.

  “Know him?” I asked.

  “I guess so,” Davis said, his eyes popping. “Sounds like Bat Thompson, Killeano’s strong man. He’s one of the tough boys from Detroit, and make no mistake, brother, he’s tough.”

  “Know where we can find him?”

  “I know where he hangs out,” Davis said. “But we don’t want to find him. He’s a guy best left alone.”

  “Where does he hang out?”

  “Sam Sansotta’s gambling joint.”

  “Okay. Let’s see how tough he is.”

  Davis sighed. “I knew you were going to say that. You’re a nice reckless sort of a punk for me to fall in with.”

  “Get the police,” Miss Brodey said, crying.

  “We’ll get everybody,” Davis said, patting her shoulder. “Now go to bed and wait. We’ll get your poppa back for you.”

  We left her sitting on the settee, her eyes like great holes in a sheet.

  “Listen, Cain,” Davis said, when we reached the car. “You ain’t really going to call on Bat, are you?”

  “Why not? We want Brodey, don’t we?”

  “Listen, Bat’ll tear your ears off. He’s a bad hombre. You’re not going to scare him.”

  “I can try,” I said, getting into the car.