Cade

  CADE

  James Hadley Chase was the pseudonym of successful British crime writer René Brabazon Raymond. Born in 1906 to a British colonel in the Indian Army, he was educated at King’s School, Rochester in Kent and later studied in Calcutta. Leaving home at eighteen, he forewent an intended scientific career to work as an encyclopaedia salesman and book wholesaler. Inspired by the works of hardboiled American crime writers, Chase wrote his first novel, No Orchids for Miss Blandish, in 1938. It achieved remarkable popularity, and Chase dedicated himself to writing full time. He developed a number of dynamic series characters that featured in fast moving tales of murder, blackmail and espionage. At the time, his novels were controversial for their use of violence and sex, full of deadly villains and treacherous beautiful women. Although Chase set many of his books in America, he never lived there, instead deriving his knowledge from encyclopaedias, detailed maps, and a slang dictionary. During WWII, he served in the Royal Air Force, eventually achieving the rank of Squadron Leader (and simultaneously editing the RAF Journal). As an author he wrote more than eighty thrillers and enjoyed an enormous worldwide following. Translated into dozens of languages, his books have been widely adapted for film and television. Living a secluded life, Chase moved to France in 1956, and then to Switzerland in 1961. He died in 1985.

  CADE

  JAMES HADLEY CHASE

  THE LANGTAIL PRESS

  LONDON

  This edition published 2011 by

  The Langtail Press

  www.langtailpress.com

  Cade © 1966 Hervey Raymond

  ISBN 978-1-78002-033-4

  CADE

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  Readers may find language contained in this book offensive. There are many views about how to deal with racist language and thoughts that might have been prevalent at the time of original writing, but would not be countenanced now. The publisher has taken the view, in editing this book, that anything in direct speech should be left, but other instances removed. As such, the publisher is aware that this leaves some unpleasant language that grates with a modern sensibility, but to delete it would be to lose some of the force of the book. The only alternative is not to publish, and that would be a shame.

  FOR SYLVIA

  My wife, my secretary, my cook, my interpreter, my chauffeur and my right hand – plus thirty-three years of kindness and understanding.

  ONE

  As the aircraft circled Eastonville, Cade could see the pall of smoke covering the north end of the town. He had guessed it would be bad, but he hadn’t imagined it was going to be this bad. The fear that had been gnawing at him during the three-hours flight sharply increased, turning his hands clammy and slowing his heartbeats to painful thuds. He had an overpowering need for yet another drink.

  The lighted sign above his head told him to fasten his seat belt and put out his cigarette. He knew without asking that the air hostess wouldn’t bring him another drink now: he had left it too late. He knew too that she was pretty bored with him. She had already brought him eight double whiskies during the flight, and she had made the journey to the top end of the aircraft where he was sitting with increasing reluctance. Although his tense, frightened nerves screamed for more alcohol, he knew he would now have to force himself to wait until they landed.

  There were only two other passengers travelling on this flight. With things the way they were in Eastonville no one unless he had to was visiting this day.

  The twenty-odd passengers travelling with Cade from New York had left the aircraft at Atlanta, and these two men had got on: tall, beefy, red-faced men, wearing wide-brimmed panama hats and dusty city suits. They had sat a couple of rows behind him. He had been uneasily aware of their muttered comments as the air hostess kept bringing him drinks. Now, as the aircraft was circling to land, one of them said, ‘Look, Jack, see that smoke? Looks like we’re back in time for the fun.’

  ‘Black bastards,’ the other man growled. ‘I hope they’re roasting in there.’

  Cade flinched. He glanced furtively at the well-worn Pan-Am overnight bag on the seat beside him. It contained his camera and equipment. He had thought it wiser not to bring with him his fitted camera case. He would be crazy, he had told himself, to walk into a town as explosive as Eastonville advertising that he intended to take photographs.

  ‘Think the Militia’s arrived?’ the man called Jack asked.

  His companion laughed.

  ‘Not if I know Fred. He won’t let those schoolboys mess up our fun until he has to.’

  ‘Maybe some nigger has put up a squawk.’

  ‘Not with Fred checking all out-going calls, and that’s what he said he would do. No, this time, Brick, we are going to teach these niggers, and no sonofa-bitch from outside is stopping us.’

  Cade took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. He had known as soon as Mathison had sent for him he was in for trouble. He felt instinctively as he walked into Mathison’s small, untidy office that Mathison was going to give him the kiss of death. Not that he blamed him. There was no finer News Editor than Henry Mathison. He had leaned over backwards for three sordid weeks in Cade’s favour. He had given him chance after chance. He had accepted Ed Burdick’s assurance that Cade was still a genius and if given a chance, he was still the finest photographer in the world. He had had his chance, and what had he done with it?

  Cade’s sweating, shaking fingers dug into the over-night bag in a spasm of shame.

  Well, for five months, he had proved Burdick had been right. He had given Mathison real value for his money. There had been times when Mathison, a hard man to impress, had stared with delighted eyes as Cade had dropped his glossy prints on his desk. That phase had lasted just five months, then Cade began hitting the bottle again. He had a reason; a very good reason, but it wasn’t the kind of reason he could mention to a man like Mathison who was dedicated to his job. No excuse could ever upset this dedication. Cade knew he couldn’t explain about Juana. Women were very unimportant to Mathison.

  During the following three weeks, Cade had fallen down on four important assignments. So when Mathison had sent for him, Cade expected to get the gate. He had no idea what he would do when he left the newspaper office. He was ill. He couldn’t sleep. He had to drink a pint of whisky a day. That was the minimum. He could drink a lot more, but he had to have that amount of alcohol each day to stay alive. He was short of money. He was being pressed for payments on his car. He was behind on his rent. The only thing of value that he owned was his camera equipment and he would have rather died than part with that.

  ‘Sit down, Val,’ Mathison had said, pushing back his chair. He was a small, bird-like man, some ten years older than Cade, which made him forty-seven. ‘You’re not doing so good, are you?’

  Cade rested his shaking hands on the chair back. The effect of his last drink was dying on him. His face felt hot, his head ached, and there was a gnawing pain in his belly that frightened him.

  ‘Let’s skip the lecture,’ he said. ‘I am right with you. It’s been great knowing you, and I …’

  ‘Sit down and shut up,’ Mathison said mildly. He took out a bottle of Scotch from his desk drawer and two shot glasses. He filled the glasses and pushed one towards Cade. ‘Sit down, Val.’

  Cade looked at the drink. He resisted it for one brief moment, then he lifted the glass and drank carefully. He sat down, holding the glass with half the whisky now in it, hesitating, but he had to finish the drink, so he finished it.

  ‘Something has come up. You can handle it, Val,’ Mathison said. He examined Cade sympathetically, then pushed the bottle across the desk. ‘Go ahead. You look like you can use another.’

  Cade made a show of ignoring the bottle. He said, ‘What’s come up?’

  ‘Ace Syndicat
e has a hot tip. They want you to cover it. It’ll be good for us, for them and for you.’

  A syndicate job usually meant big money. It meant the photographer went after the pictures, the Syndicate arranged for world coverage, and there was a fifty-fifty split on the take.

  ‘What’s the job?’ Cade asked, thinking that if he could only stay sober, this could get him out of his financial hole. He refilled his glass.

  ‘There’s a Civil Rights demonstration beginning tonight at Eastonville.’ Mathison didn’t look at him. ‘The real trouble is expected to be in full swing by tomorrow afternoon. They want you to fly down there on the nine o’clock plane tomorrow morning.’

  Cade slowly replaced the cap on the bottle. A chill crawled up his spine.

  ‘Why not tonight?’ he asked, staring hopelessly at the whisky in his glass.

  ‘They don’t want you there too soon. It will be one of these quick in and quick out jobs.’

  ‘If I get out,’ Cade said.

  Mathison sipped his drink. He didn’t say anything.

  After a long pause, Cade said, ‘The last time photographers from New York tried to cover a caper like this three of them landed in hospital, five cameras were smashed and no one got any pictures.’

  ‘That’s why Ace wants these pictures so badly.’

  Cade finished his drink. He tried to focus Mathison as he asked, ‘You want them too?’

  ‘Yes, I want them. Ace tells me they can fix a big deal with Life if the pictures are good.’ Again a pause, then Mathison went on, ‘I had the G.M. agent on the telephone. He asked if we would carry your car payments. I had to tell him your car payments weren’t covered by your contract.’ Again there was a pause. ‘It is up to you, Val. Alice will get your ticket. There’s a hundred dollars for expenses: more if you want it. What’s it to be?’

  ‘This is a pretty rough assignment,’ Cade said, feeling the clutch of fear at his heart. ‘Who else will be going?’

  ‘No one. No one else knows about it. If you pull this one off you will be back in business.’

  Cade rubbed his hand across his face.

  ‘And if I don’t, I’m not?’

  Mathison regarded him thoughtfully, then he picked up a blue pencil and began slashing at some copy lying on his desk. It was his well-known symbol of a finished conversation.

  Cade sat thinking for a long moment. The Kiss of Death, he said to himself, but there was a small spark of self-respect still left in him and the whisky had fanned it alight.

  ‘Okay. Get the ticket,’ he said. ‘I’ll be ready to travel tomorrow,’ and moving unsteadily, he walked with drunken dignity out of the office.

  As Cade walked across the tarmac towards Eastonville’s Airport building he could see the distant column of smoke fanning out against the cloudless sky. The light over the Airport was strange and rather sinister, like that from an eclipse.

  The other two passengers who had travelled with him were ahead of him. They walked briskly, men with a purpose, in step, their thick arms swinging.

  Cade didn’t hurry. The day was hot and humid and the sling bag he carried over his shoulder was heavy. Besides, he had a fearful reluctance about leaving the airport. He knew he should go straight to the fire, but he flinched from this. He told himself that he would go to the hotel, and find out what was actually happening in the town. But first, he must have a drink.

  He walked into the cool, dimly lit lobby of the Airport building. It was deserted but for the two passengers who now stood by the entrance across the lobby, talking to a tall, powerfully-built man in a short-sleeved, open-neck sports shirt and faded khaki slacks.

  Cade briefly glanced at the three men, then walked into the bar to his left. This too was deserted. The barman, balding and middle-aged, was reading a newspaper.

  Controlling the eagerness in his voice, Cade asked for a straight Scotch. The barman stared curiously at him, then poured a shot from a bottle with a White Horse label. He pushed the drink towards Cade.

  Cade lowered his overnight bag to the floor. With an unsteady hand, he lit a cigarette. The effort he had to make not to pick up the drink brought him out in a heavy sweat. He compelled himself to smoke for a moment or so, to tap ash into the glass ashtray, then trying to be very casual, he picked up the drink and sipped it.

  ‘You just got in?’ the barman asked.

  Cade looked at him, feeling himself cringe, then he looked away. He finished his drink before saying, ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I reckon folks should have more sense than to come to this town today when they ain’t wanted,’ the barman said.

  Cade needed another drink badly, but he sensed this bald barman was itching to make trouble. Reluctantly, he put money on the bar counter, picked up his bag and started down the long room towards the exit. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the man in the sports shirt and faded khaki slacks standing in the doorway as if waiting for him.

  This man was around Cade’s age. His face was hard, red and fleshy. His eyes were steel grey, his nose chunky and his mouth thin. Clipped to the pocket of his shirt was a five-pointed, silver star.

  When Cade finally reached him, the man made no move to get out of the way. Cade stopped, his mouth turning dry.

  The man said quietly, ‘I am Deputy Sheriff Joe Schneider. Is your name Cade?’

  Cade tried to force himself to meet the steel-grey eyes, but he had immediately to look away.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said and was horrified to see he was shuffling his feet.

  ‘When a guy like you talks to me, he usually calls me Deputy,’ Schneider said. ‘That’s the way I like it.’

  Cade didn’t say anything. He was thinking now only of himself. A year ago he could have handled a situation like this with ease. In this moment of thought, he realised how far down the scale he had sunk. He was now so frightened that he couldn’t think of anything to say. The realisation of this fact sickened him.

  ‘Val Cade, the so-called ace photographer of the New York Sun,’ Schneider said in an offensive, sneering voice. ‘That right?’

  ‘That’s my name, deputy,’ Cade said.

  ‘What’s your business in Eastonville, Cade?’

  Cade thought: Tell him to drop dead. He can’t do a thing to you. He’s an official in this town. Even if he dared to start something, you could get him thrown out of his job. He’s bluffing. He’s trying to scare the hell out of you. Tell him …

  He was horrified to hear himself say, ‘I’m here because I was told to be here, deputy. That doesn’t mean a thing. I’m not looking for trouble.’

  Schneider cocked his head on one side.

  ‘Is that right? I heard the Sun looked for trouble.’

  ‘Maybe, but you won’t have trouble from me,’ Cade said.

  Schneider regarded him, his thumbs hooked in his belt.

  ‘Tell me something, Cade. Why did they send a gutless lush like you down here? Tell me … it interests me.’

  Cade wished he had had the courage to have ordered another drink. He now really needed that other drink.

  ‘Tell me, Cade,’ Schneider said and reaching forward, he gave Cade a slight shove on his chest, sending him staggering back a couple of feet.

  Cade recovered his balance. He ran the back of his hand across his dry lips.

  ‘I guess they picked the wrong man.’ Then before he could stop himself, he went on, ‘I’m not taking any pictures, deputy, if that’s what is worrying you.’

  Schneider looked him slowly up and down.

  ‘Don’t you worry about what might worry me.

  Where are you staying?’

  ‘Central Motor Hotel.’

  ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘The next plane out … 11:00 hrs. tomorrow morning.’

  Schneider brooded for a long moment, his eyes contemptuous, then he shrugged.

  ‘What are we waiting for? Come on, Cade. I’ll see you fixed up.’

  As they walked together across the lobby, Schneider sa
id suddenly, ‘What is in the bag, Cade?’

  ‘My things.’

  ‘Got a camera in there?’

  Cade came to an abrupt standstill. A flash of madness came into his eyes as he faced Schneider who, startled, took a quick step away from him.

  ‘You touch my camera,’ Cade said in a soft, hysterical scream, ‘and you’ll have a goddamn war in your goddamn lap!’

  ‘Who said anything about touching your camera?’ Schneider said, his hand dropping on the butt of his gun. ‘I didn’t. So what are you yelling about?’

  ‘Don’t just touch it … that’s all,’ Cade said in a more controlled voice.

  Schneider recovered from his surprise.

  ‘Come on. What are we hanging around here for?’

  Cade started unsteadily again towards the entrance doors. He felt suddenly sick and faint. This outburst of his had been so spontaneous that it frightened and shocked him.

  Out in the smoky, humid air, Schneider signalled towards a dusty Chevrolet, parked across the way in the shade. The car was driven over by a young, alert looking man wearing a similar getup as Schneider’s and a similar silver star pinned to his shirt pocket. His narrow face was deeply tanned by the sun. His dark little eyes were as expressionless as wet stones.

  ‘Ron, this is Cade, one time ace photographer. Maybe you have heard of him. He isn’t looking for trouble,’ Schneider said. ‘Take him to his hotel. He’s leaving on the eleven o’clock plane tomorrow morning. Keep him company until he leaves.’ To Cade, he went on, ‘This is Ron Mitchell. He hates nigger-lovers. He hates trouble-makers. He hates lushes … particularly lushes.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t irritate him. He hates being irritated.’

  Mitchell leaned forward and peered through the open window at Cade, then he glared at Schneider.

  ‘If you think I’m going to sit with this stinking drunk until tomorrow morning, Joe,’ he said viciously, ‘you need your head examined.’