1964 - The Soft Centre

  Table of Contents

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  The Soft Centre

  James Hadley Chase

  1964

  chapter one

  Valerie Burnett lay in the bath, her head against the padded headrest, her eyes closed.

  Through the half-open window came the sound of distant voices from the terrace below. It was a cheerful sound, and Valerie was glad to listen to it. She was glad too that they had come to this hotel in Spanish Bay: it was everything that had been said about it. It really was, she thought, the nicest hotel she had ever been to, and she had been to so many, she couldn't try to enumerate them.

  She opened her eyes and looked down at her long beautifully formed body. Her full breasts and a small strip of flesh across her hips were startlingly white against the rest of her golden tan.

  They had been in Spanish Bay for only a week, but the sun had been excitingly hot and she had tanned quickly and without burning.

  She lifted a wet hand and picked up the gold and platinum watch that Chris had given to her for a wedding present. She saw it was twenty minutes to twelve. She would have time to dress leisurely and then go down to the terrace for an ice-cold martini. She still hadn't quite adjusted herself to drinking martinis when Chris now only drank tomato juice. In some odd way, it made her feel guilty that he could no longer drink alcohol, but the doctor had warned her that she must continue to act and live normally as it would be bad for Chris to know that, because of him, she was altering her previous way of life.

  As she put the watch back on the table by the bath, the telephone bell rang. She dried her hand on a towel and lifted the receiver.

  'There's a call from New York,' the operator told her. 'Will you take it, Mrs. Burnett?'

  No one but her father knew they were at the Spanish Bay hotel, so it must be her father calling, Val thought.

  'Yes,' she said, and her brows moved into a small crease of worry and irritation. She had asked her father to leave them alone. Well, all right, he had done so for a week. It was her fault he should be calling. She hadn't written to him, and she should have done, knowing how anxious he always was about her.

  Her father's voice came over the line. He had a deep, impressive voice. She often thought when listening to him talk that if he hadn't become a tycoon, he would have made a magnificent Shakespearian actor.

  'Val? You there?'

  'Why, hello, Daddy. It's nice...'

  'Val! I've been waiting to hear from you!'

  'I'm sorry. You know how it is. The sun has been wonderful. I know I should ...'

  'Never mind that. How is Chris?'

  'Oh... well, he's fine. We were only talking about you last night and he...'

  'I want to know how he is. Look, Val. I have a meeting in five minutes. Don't waste time. How is he?'

  She moved her long legs in the water impatiently.

  'Darling, I've just told you. He's fine.'

  'I think it was a mistake for you to be down there alone with him. He's still a sick man, Val. Tell me: has he still got that goddamn tick around his mouth?'

  Val closed her eyes. The water seemed to be getting very cold or perhaps it was her body was turning cold.

  'It is much better,' she said. 'Really ...'

  'But he's still got it?'

  'Well, yes, but it's ...'

  'Does he sit around still like a Zombie?'

  Aware that tears were filling her eyes, Val said, 'He—he still likes to sit and do nothing but I know it will be all right. I know he is much better.'

  'What does Dr. Gustave say about him?'

  Val reached forward and twisted the knob to release the water in the bath.

  'He said Chris is improving, but it would take time.'

  'Time! Well, for God's sake, he has been acting like a Zombie now for eighteen months!'

  'I wish you wouldn't say things like that, Daddy. I know how long it has been, but it really isn't so long considering what...'

  'It's too long. Look, Valerie, you're twenty-five with all the instincts of a normal, healthy woman. You can't go on living like this. It isn't fair to you. I worry about you. You can't be tied to a man who... '

  'Daddy!' Her voice suddenly became sharp. 'I love Chris! I'm his wife! I won't listen to this kind of talk! I mean that! It's not your business! It's mine!'

  There was a pause, then her father said in a more gentle tone, 'I love you too, Val. I can't help worrying. All right. I understand. I won't make it harder for you, but I must know— what is going on. I rely on you to tell me, and remember if there is anything I can do. I want to do it... anything.'

  'Thanks. Daddy. yes, of course, but I can really and truly handle this thing.' She pulled the towel over her as she lay In the empty bath. 'I'm getting cold, darling. I'm in my bath.'

  'What's Chris doing?'

  'He's on the terrace, reading Oliver Twist,' Val said. 'He's discovered Charles Dickens. He's bought the whole set and he's reading right the way through.'

  'Well ... ' There was a pause, then Val heard a murmur of Voices over the line, then her father said, 'I have to go. Val. You are sure you can handle this?'

  'Yes.'

  'Don't forget ... if you want me, call me. I'll be back at the office around five o'clock. You can't reach me before as I'll be moving around, but ...'

  'Why should I want you, darling?'

  'Just remember. My love, Val ... bye.'

  She hung up and got out of the bath, aware she was very cold. She briskly towelled herself, and then slipping into a blue and white polka dot wrap, she walked quickly into the big bedroom and out on to the balcony that overlooked the beautiful bay with its coves, its miles of sands and its sun umbrellas. She looked down at the terrace where Chris had been sitting.

  The lounging chair was empty. The blue covered copy of Oliver Twist lay open on the green paving of the terrace.

  With sudden fear gripping her heart, she looked frantically up and down the length of the terrace at the groups of people drinking and talking and the white-coated waiters who moved to the various tables, carrying drinks, to the big doorman standing in the sun in his white tropical uniform, and beyond him to the gently moving sea and the almost deserted sands, but she could see no sign of Chris.

  Spanish Bay hotel was one of the most expensive and luxurious hotels in Florida. It catered only for fifty guests, but offered them a service that more than justified the cost so high that only the extremely wealthy could afford to stay there.

  Charles Travers, Val's father, had chosen the hotel. As the doctors had said that Chris needed quiet, relaxation and pampering, Travers said this was the obvious hotel for them to stay at. He had arranged everything. The bill was to be sent to him, and he even had given them a Mercedes convertible for a run-about during their stay.

  Val would have preferred to have gone to a less luxurious hotel as she knew her father was by now irritated that Chris could no longer support his wife in the way a multi-millionaire's daughter should be supported. However the hotel was so perfect that she quickly forgot her scruples, and was glad her father had insisted on them going there.

  Their first week's stay had been without incident. She had come to accept the fact that Chris had lost all his initiative, that he appeared completely happy just to sit in the sun, to read and to talk to her in a vague way about anything that wasn't personal to themselves.
That they had separate bedrooms, and he never showed any desire to touch her, gave her a hollow feeling of frustration, but this was something she could and did cope with. When they first arrived, she kept a close watch on him. This wasn't difficult as the hotel was so situated that you could see for miles across the sands, and there was no way of reaching the nearest town unless by car. She kept the ignition key of the car always in her bag, and out of Chris' reach.

  But as the days passed, and Chris seemed content just to read and sunbathe, she realised now, she had become complacent and careless. She should never have let him sit on the terrace alone, she told herself as she slipped into a pair of beach slacks. As she pulled on a cotton sweater, she suddenly thought of the car key, and she ran across the room to where her bag was laying. With shaking hands, she opened the bag and searched for the key but couldn't find it. She dumped the contents of the bag on to the dressing table and looked again. She realised with a feeling of panic that Chris must have come to her room when she was in the bath and taken the key.

  She went out on to the balcony and looked towards the car park at the far end of the terrace.

  The white Mercedes was missing.

  She returned to the bedroom and hastily rah a comb through her hair.

  You're panicking for nothing, she told herself. He'll be back. Why shouldn't he go for a drive if he feels like it? I said I would be down at half-past twelve. It's not twelve yet. He probably got bored with his book and went for a little drive. But she knew she was thinking nonsense. Chris had refused to touch any car since the accident and she had always done the driving. Why had he waited until she was in the bath before sneaking in and taking the keys unless something... something...?

  Unable to contain her panic, she snatched up her bag and hurried down the long corridor to the elevator.

  She pressed the call button and immediately the green light appeared. A moment later the cage came to rest before her.

  The boy, immaculate in white, said, 'Good morning, madam: lounge floor?'

  'Yes, please,' Val said and leaned against the mirror that ran the length of the wall of the cage.

  They sank between floors, then the doors swung open and Val walked quickly across the vast, luxurious lounge to the revolving doors.

  As she came out on to the terrace, the doorman saluted her.

  She looked up and down, but there was still no sign of Chris. She hesitated for a moment, then trying to control the shake in her voice, she said to the doorman, 'I thought Mr. Burnett was on the terrace. Did he go somewhere?'

  She prayed silently that the doorman would say Chris was in the Men's room or in the bar or somewhere in the hotel, but the doorman said Mr. Burnett had taken the car and had driven towards Miami.

  'About ten minutes ago, madam.'

  'Thank you,' Val said and walked slowly along the terrace to where Chris had left his book.

  She sat down in the lounging chair and picked up the book. She opened her handbag and took out a pair of sunglasses which she put on.

  A waiter came up silently and placed a dry martini on the table beside her. Part of the service of this hotel was to anticipate their client's wishes. This could be a little irritating, but this time, Val needed a drink.

  'Will Mr. Burnett require tomato juice, madam?' the waiter asked.

  'I expect so,' Val said, not looking at him. 'He's out right now.'

  The waiter went away and Val picked up her drink and sipped it. She sat for some moments staring across the sands and at the sea, aware of her pounding heart and the sick feeling of fear like a hard ball inside her. She looked at her watch. It was now a quarter-past twelve. She mustn't do a thing, she told herself, until half-past twelve: that was the time she had told Chris she would be joining him. If she did start something and he arrived back to greet her and he found out she had panicked, she would do untold damage. The doctor had warned her she must show confidence in Chris. Well, all right, she would show confidence.

  She sat there, waiting. At the sound of every approaching car, she stiffened and looked anxiously towards the long drive that led down to the main gates of the hotel. People were returning now for lunch and the doorman was busy saluting and opening car doors. None of the cars that swept up the drive was a white Mercedes convertible.

  At half-past twelve, she had finished her Martini. She was now gripping the copy of Oliver Twist so tightly, her fingers were aching. I'll wait ten more minutes, she told herself, then I'll have to do something... but what?

  The waiter came over to her: another dry martini looking lonely, but very cold and tempting on his tray.

  'Perhaps another, madam?' he asked cautiously. She had never had more than one dry martini before lunch, but the waiter seemed to sense she needed a second. This was proof again of the superb service the hotel offered.

  'Why, yes... thank you. I think I will,' Val said.

  The martini was placed by her side, the empty glass removed. The waiter silently walked away.

  Val looked at her watch. She reached for the glass and sipped the drink and put the glass back on the table.

  He isn't coming, she thought. Oh, God! What am I going to do? Daddy said he wouldn't be around until five o'clock. If only I knew where ... no! I mustn't tell him! He's the very, very last person I will tell. But who can help me? Dr. Gustave? Yes, perhaps I'd better call him.

  But what can he do? I can't expect him to go rushing all over the place looking for Chris. The police? They could find him, but once they know who Chris is, the newspapers will get on to his disappearance and then ... oh, not I'm not going to start that awful publicity all over again.

  Again she looked at her watch. It showed twelve forty-five. She heard an approaching car and she leaned forward to watch a Rolls-Royce glide up to the entrance of the hotel. A fat woman, carrying a fat Pekinese, descended and walked slowly and heavily up the steps to the terrace.

  He could be here any moment, Val thought. I just mustn't panic. I must have faith. I'll wait until one o'clock, then I really, really must do something.

  A few minutes to one o'clock, she saw Jean Dulac, the manager of the hotel, coming along the terrace: a tall, handsome man with impeccable manners and the polished charm that is unique to the French. He paused at each table to exchange a word with his guests.

  Val watched him come. It was a little after one o'clock before he finally reached her table.

  'Madame Burnett ... alone?' He smiled down at her. 'But this is quite wrong.' Then he paused, looking sharply at her white, strained face. 'Perhaps there is something I can do? Can I help you?'

  'I hope you can,' Val said shakily. 'Please sit down. I ...'

  'No, I won't do that. People here have nothing else to do but to observe and gossip. Please come, in a few moments, to my office.' He smiled at her. 'Your worries are naturally my worries. Come and let me see what I can do.' He gave her a little bow and moved on.

  She waited a long and painful interval. Then as people began to leave their tables and move towards the restaurant, she got up and walked with controlled slowness to Dulac's office.

  The office was behind the reception desk. A clerk, busy with an adding machine, paused to give her a bow as she came up to the counter.

  'Please go right in, Mrs. Burnett,' he said. 'Monsieur Dulac is waiting for you.'

  She went into the big room with windows overlooking the bay. It was a gracious room with flowers, comfortable furniture and a small desk at which Dulac was sitting. He rose at once as she came in and led her to a chair.

  'Sit down,' he said. 'Now we can cope with the problem between us, Madame. It's Mr. Burnett?'

  Val sat down. She had a sudden urge to cry and she had to struggle hard not to break down.

  Dulac walked to the window and paused there for a moment, then returned to his desk. He gave her enough time to control herself before going on. 'I have had quite a lot of unhappiness in my own life, but looking back, I have always found there is a solution to most problems. Mr. Burnett ha
s driven away and you are very worried about what has happened to him. That is the problem, is it not?'

  'Then you know about my husband?'

  'I know about all the people who stay with me. How else could I serve them?'

  'He's—he's gone away and I'm very frightened.'

  'He has been away over an hour.' Dulac shook his head. "That is too long. We must consult the police.'

  Val flinched, but Dulac lifted his hand.

  'I assure you you don't have to worry about unwanted publicity. If you will allow me, I will arrange everything. Captain Terrell, the Chief of Police, is a good friend of mine. He is understanding and will take immediate action in the most tactful way possible. You can be quite sure he will not only find Mr. Burnett quickly, but no one besides ourselves will be any the wiser. I can promise you that.'

  Val drew in a long, deep breath.

  'Thank you. Yes, of course ... I'll leave it to you. I'm very, very grateful.'

  'Everything that can be done will be done,' Dulac said, getting to his feet. 'Now may I suggest you go to your suite? I'll have a tray sent up to you.' He smiled as Val began to protest. 'Something very light, but you must eat, you know.'

  He led her to the door. 'In half-an-hour, Captain Terrell will be with you.'

  Captain Frank Terrell was a large man with sandy hair flecked with white. His heavy featured face ended in a jutting, square jaw and his eyes were steel grey. He was well liked by the men who served under him and feared by the criminals who infested the rich stamping ground of Greater Miami.

  He sat in an armchair that was dwarfed by his bulk and looked thoughtfully at Val as she sat opposite him, her hands gripped tightly between her knees.

  'Dulac has told me something about this problem, Mrs. Burnett,' he said. There was a gentle note in his usually stern voice. 'I have already sent out a description of your husband and his car. I have no doubt that within an hour or so one of my men will find him. I want to assure you that you have nothing to worry about.'

  Val said, 'Thank you... the newspapers ...'

  'You don't have to worry about them. I know how to deal with reporters,' Terrell said.