1956 - There's Always a Price Tag

by James Hadley Chase

  I pushed my door to without shutting it and groped my way back to the bed and stretched out on it.

  I lay in the darkness and waited, and for the first time since I was a kid, I prayed.

  chapter thirteen

  The clock in the hall chimed the quarter after one o'clock. For the past two hours I had been lying on the bed, sweating it out and listening to the violent rain storm that lashed against the bedroom windows: a storm that had blanketed every other sound in the house. It had lasted half an hour and as quickly had died out. I swung my legs off the bed and sat up. I remained motionless, listening. Only the busy ticking of the bedside clock and the violent thumping of my heart came to me as I sat in the darkness.

  I reached out and turned on the bedside lamp. Then I stood up, slid my feet into slippers and moved to my bedroom door to look out into the darkness of the passage. No light showed from Lewis's door. I listened for another long minute, then, satisfied he was asleep, I went over to the chest of drawers and picked up my flashlight. I turned it on and then put out the bedside light.

  Moving silently I reached the hall and moved down the passage and into Dester's study. I closed the door, turned on the light and picked up the gloves that were lying on the desk. I put them on. My hands were shaking so badly that I had trouble in getting the confession note from under the pile of typing paper. I nearly stripped off the gloves as I fiddled to pick up the sheet, but stopped myself in time. I fed the sheet of paper into the machine, being careful to line up the last word with the guide line of the machine.

  I went over to the window, unlatched it and opened it a few inches.

  Turning off the light, I opened the door and stood listening. There was no sound to alarm me, and bracing myself I went silently along the passage, lighting my way with my flashlight, into the kitchen. I shut and locked the door, then I turned on the light and looked across at the deep-freeze cabinet.

  I was in a pretty bad state of nerves by then. My heart was beating so violently that I felt suffocated and my gloved hands were shaking. I started to remove the three dozen bottles of whisky that were piled on top of the cabinet. I was careful not to let the bottles clash together and I stood them in neat rows to one side of the cabinet. It was when I was taking the last of the bottles off that I very nearly ran into disaster. As I picked up two of the bottles, the remaining bottle toppled over and began to roll towards the edge of the cabinet top. I hurriedly set down the two bottles as the third bottle reached the edge, toppled over and fell. Somehow I got my hand under it when it was inches from the floor and held it. I stood for a long moment, sweat on my face and my body trembling, then I set down the bottle and straightened up. It had been a close call.

  I crossed over to the door, turned the key and opened the door a few inches and listened.

  This was the moment. Once I got him out of the cabinet I would have to hurry. If Lewis came down before I could get Dester into the study and before I could fire the shot, all this agony of nerves, my careful planning, the risk I was taking would be for nothing.

  I went back into the kitchen, closed and locked the door again, and then walked over to the cabinet. As I put my hands on the lid to lift it, my nerve failed. I stepped back, wiping the sweat off my face with the sleeve of my dressing gown. I crossed to a cupboard, opened it and took out a drinking glass. I just couldn't open the cabinet without a shot of whisky. I opened one of the bottles, fumbling at it with my gloved fingers, but I got it open, splashed three inches of whisky into the glass and shot it down my throat. I felt the whisky hit my stomach and felt my nerves tighten under the impact. It did the trick.

  Although I was tempted to repeat the dose, I resisted the temptation. I put the glass down and, leaving the opened bottle of whisky on the table, I turned back to the cabinet. As I was lifting the lid, I suddenly stiffened. My heart jumped, then raced. Had I heard something? Had the stairs creaked as if stealthy feet were moving down them? I lowered the lid hurriedly, walked swiftly to the door, turned off the light, unlocked the door and opened it an inch or so. I listened, holding my breath, trying to hear any sound above the thudding of my heartbeats. I stood there for what must have been five agonizing minutes, but I heard nothing, and finally, convinced my imagination had been playing me tricks, I closed and locked the door again, turned on the light and leaned against the door, trying to control my shaking limbs.

  I went back to the cabinet, lifted the lid, and with my breath whistling between my clenched teeth, I looked down at him.

  He lay on his side, the wound in his head away from me. He looked quite natural, as if he were asleep.

  I bent down and touched the side of his neck. He was scarcely cold. There was less moisture in the cabinet than I had thought: most of it had been absorbed by his clothes which felt wet to the touch. This didn't worry me as it had rained heavily and I thought it would be a fair risk to assume the police wouldn't be suspicious since Dester had no top coat with him.

  I caught hold of him under his armpits and heaved upwards. He was much heavier than I thought. He came out slowly, and I saw then a small pool of blood on the floor of the cabinet. The wound was beginning to bleed again now that the freezing process had worn off.

  It took me three or four hellish minutes to get him from the cabinet on to the kitchen floor, and by the time I had done it, I was completely bushed. I had to lean against the cabinet while I fought for my breath.

  I didn't dare wait too long. He had to bleed in the study: that was essential, otherwise they would know he hadn't shot himself there.

  I crossed over to the kitchen door, unlocked it, opened it and listened, but I heard nothing. I went swiftly along to the study, pushed the door wide open and turned on the light. I didn't dare attempt to carry Dester along the passage in the dark. I might knock against the wall or make some sound that would alert Lewis.

  I returned to the kitchen, lifted Dester across my shoulder and set off down the passage to the study.

  My knees sagged under his dead weight, my breath came in soft, strangled gasps, my heart pounded, sweat blinded me. But I got him into the study without making any noise, and very carefully I slid him off my shoulder on to the floor by the desk chair. Blood ran from his wound on to the carpet.

  I snatched up the flashlight, and slowly retracing my steps to the kitchen, I examined the carpet carefully to make sure there were no blood stains to give me away. I found a small one halfway down the passage. I knew I was lucky there weren't more. I got a wet cloth from the kitchen and rubbed out the stain. Unless the police examined the carpet minutely they wouldn't find it. Then I returned to the kitchen and, working feverishly, I cleaned out the cabinet, making sure that I got rid of every trace of blood. Then I cleaned the kitchen floor, washed out the cloth and hid it in a saucepan. I would get rid of it in the morning, I told myself. Then I closed the lid of the cabinet and began to put the bottles back into position.

  I was feeling better now. I had more control over my nerves. Three-quarters of the job was done. I now had to fire the gun out of the window, close the window and get out of the room before Lewis came from his room. I felt I could do it. Then as I put the last bottle in place I heard a sound that turned me into a rigid, terrified statue.

  This time there was no mistake in the sound. A board had creaked loudly. The banister rail also creaked. Moving like an automaton, I stepped to the light switch and turned it off. I opened the kitchen door and peered out into the darkness: more frightened than I had ever been before in my life.

  I saw a sudden gleam of light on the stairs as if someone had turned on a flashlight for a brief second to see where he was going. I knew then that Lewis was creeping down into the hall.

  My hand closed over the gun butt and I took the gun out of my dressing gown pocket. Cold and shaking, I reached out and turned on the kitchen light.

  * * *

  I knew the light from the kitchen would be shining into the passage and Lewis must see it. What would he do? Come in and investig
ate? Or would he act cagey and go out the front door to see if he could look through the kitchen window?

  The silence outside pretty nearly cracked my nerve. My heart was hammering.

  A board creaked on the stairs.

  That told me he was coming down, and had still some distance to come before he reached me. I realized then that he wasn't likely to be caught by me standing behind the door. He would be wise to that kind of trap.

  I crept across the kitchen, picking up one of the bottles of whisky on my way to the pantry. I opened the pantry door a few inches. Near the door was a curtained recess that housed the brooms and other cleaning material. I stepped behind this curtain, holding the bottle in my left hand and the gun in my right.

  I stood motionless, listening and waiting. Then I heard a slight sound of a footfall that told me he was outside the kitchen door. Looking through a chink in the curtain I saw the kitchen door swing open. I could see him now. He was fully dressed and that shook me. In his hand was a .38 police special.

  I watched him. He was in no hurry to come in. He leaned forward and gave the door a hard push so it swung violently against the wall. I was glad I thought of moving. The door would have pinned me against the wall had I stayed behind it. He looked around the room, his eyes rested for a moment on the pantry door, then went to the door leading out into the yard. He moved cautiously into the kitchen and crossed over to the exit door, turned the handle and found the door still locked.

  He turned swiftly and faced the pantry door.

  'Okay, Dester,' he said in a low, snarling voice. 'Come on out with your hands in the air!'

  I didn't move, feeling sweat running down my face.

  'Come on! I know you're in there!'

  He waited for a few seconds, then suddenly, moving fast, he crossed to the pantry door and kicked it open.

  At that moment his back was turned to me. I pulled aside the curtain and tossed the whisky bottle over his head and towards the opposite wall. The bottle fell with a crash on the floor and smashed like a miniature bomb, sending a spray of splinters and whisky over the wall and floor.

  Lewis stiffened, staring at the smashed bottle. I was already moving as I threw the bottle. Holding the gun by its barrel, I hit him on the top of his head, driving him down on to his knees. His gun fell out of his hand. He gave a stifled groan, tried to push himself off his knees, but I hit him again. This time I hit him much harder. The jar as the butt slammed down on his head ran up my arm. He stretched out, face down with a sighing groan.

  I stepped back. I was shaking, and it was as much as I could do not to flop on the floor at his side.

  He hadn't seen me. I was positive of that. How long would he remain out? I caught hold of him under the armpits and dragged him into the pantry, dumped him on the floor, closed and locked the door. Then I went back into Dester's study, moving at a staggering run.

  From the bottom of a cupboard near the desk, I took out a small electric fire. I plugged it in and stood the fire near Dester's body. I knew it was vital to accelerate the final thawing-out process, and also to take some of the wet out of his clothes.

  I paused to check my dressing gown and pyjamas, and it was as well that I did. There was a long smear of blood on my pyjama trousers and a big stain on the dressing gown.

  Leaving the study I bolted upstairs, tore off my things and put on a clean pair of pyjamas. I hid the soiled articles between the mattress and the box spring.

  I went downstairs again and into the study. Bracing myself, I examined Dester's body closely. The blood from his wound had made by now an impressive little halo around his head. I touched his face. It felt warm. His muscles were relaxed. There was nothing more I could do now. He should have bled more, but with any luck the medical examiner wouldn't notice this. I picked up Dester's gun that I had put on the desk, crossed to the window, pointed the gun upwards and out of the window and pulled the trigger.

  The crash of gunfire and the blinding flash jarred me and I very nearly dropped the gun. I didn't have a great deal of time now. I laid the gun by Dester's side, shut and latched the window, then ran into the passage and along to the cloakroom. I raised the window and left it half open.

  Then I peeled off my gloves, chased upstairs and hid them with my soiled pyjamas and dressing gown.

  As I started down the stairs I heard the telephone bell ringing. That would be Marian, I thought. I went into the study and lifted the receiver.

  'Glyn! What's happened?' Her voice was high-pitched and anxious. 'Was that a shot?'

  'Yes. Stay right where you are. It's Dester. He's shot himself. Now, don't talk. I've got to call the police. Lewis has vanished.'

  'But, Glyn.'

  'Get off the line now. I want to phone,' and I hung up.

  I crossed over to the electric stove, turned it off, disconnected it and put it back in the cupboard. In only a few minutes the police would arrive. This was my last free time to make sure I hadn't left a clue nor made a mistake. I looked around the room carefully. I looked at Dester's body. I checked the confession note. I pushed the gun a little closer to his body with my foot.

  * * *

  I sat in the lounge, a cigarette burning between my fingers, listening absently to the sound of the rain against the windows. Marian was curled up on the settee, dozing. A bullneck policeman was standing in the doorway, his back to us. The time by the clock on the overmantel was twenty-eight minutes to four.

  The rest of the house was swarming with activity. I caught a glimpse of detectives as they crossed the hall either going towards Dester's study or away from it. Two newspaper men were arguing with a police sergeant. They wanted to talk to me, but the police sergeant wouldn't let them into the lounge.

  It had been barely four minutes after I had telephoned that a prowl car had pulled up outside the house.

  Ten minutes later, Bromwich had arrived with a squad of homicide men. In less than five minutes, they had found Lewis.

  Bromwich had asked me what had happened. I told him I had heard a shot, come down, found Dester in the study and Lewis missing. That was all I could tell him.

  'Okay, sit in the lounge. I'll talk to you later,' he said.

  First, I went upstairs and put on a coat and a pair of trousers over my pyjamas, then I had come down into the lounge. By that time Marian had been brought over from the garage apartment After Bromwich had found out she had nothing to tell him except that she had heard the shot, he sent her into the lounge with me.

  We hadn't said much to each other. There was nothing we could say with the policeman in the doorway. She had curled up on the settee and closed her eyes.

  It was a long wait, and my nerves were crawling. I saw a tall, bony man cross the hall and heard the policeman say, 'Straight down the passage on your left, doc.'

  This bony man was the one who could shatter my plan. I longed for a drink, but I didn't dare take one.

  So I smoked and waited. Around four o'clock an ambulance arrived and I saw Lewis being carried out on a stretcher. It was then that I had a sudden terrified feeling that I might have killed him.

  'Is the sergeant all right?' I asked the policeman at the door.

  He turned and looked at me, his small, hard eyes aggressive.

  'Yeah, he's fine. He's only got a cracked skull, but there's nothing else the matter with him.'

  It was pretty obvious by the way he spoke he had no time for Lewis. I went on waiting.

  At half past four another van arrived. Four men came in carrying a long, black, coffin-like box. I guessed they would be from the morgue. Around ten past five, they recrossed the hall, carrying the box on their shoulders, their knees sagging slightly under its weight.

  After being in the freezer for nearly ten days, Dester was at last going to his grave. I turned my head away, feeling sick, and the dull thump of the coffin as it was shifted from the men's shoulders to the floor of the van, turned me cold.

  The first light of dawn was coming through the curtains when Bromwich
came in. He walked with a little swagger, and there was a cocky expression in his hard eyes.

  'You two can go to bed. I'll want you at the inquest. Should be in a couple of days. Sorry to have kept you up.'

  I had hidden my clenched fists in my trousers pockets. At his words my fists relaxed once more into shaking hands. 'Aren't there any more questions?' I said, trying to make my voice sound steady.

  He grinned. 'It's all fixed. I told that cluck Maddux how it was, but he wouldn't listen. It was as plain as the nose on my face. Dester didn't want to go into the sanatorium. On the way they quarrelled. He hit her, killed her and planted her out at the forestry station. Then he realized he hadn't the nerve to go through with the faked kidnapping. He decided to take the easy way out. Did you see his confession note?'

  I nodded.

  'There you are. He came back for his gun, shot himself and that's it.'

  I couldn't believe he meant what he said. Surely he must have had some suspicions that the setup wasn't quite on the level? Surely the doctor had cast some doubts?

  'Then we can go to bed?' I said to make sure I had heard him aright.

  'Sure, go to bed. I've got to talk to the Press. Maybe they'll want a word with you before you go. Just stick around for another five minutes.'

  'Is Sergeant Lewis all right?'

  'He's another cluck. I had an idea Dester would come back. I told Lewis to watch out, but the mug had to walk into a cracked skull. He'll be all right. He has a head like stone.'

  He went out into the hall and started to talk to the newspaper men. Marian and I looked at each other. I managed to smile at her.

  'Well, that seems to be that,' I said. 'I guess you'll want to leave tomorrow, or rather today. I'll help you find a room.'