Knock Knock Whos There

  Copyright note:

  Please note that the full copyright for this work is

  owned by Mr. James Hadley Chase and his estate.

  You are free to use my e-books free of charge for

  your personal use only, provided you do not use it

  for commercial gain, and acknowledge original

  authorship and full rights to Mr. James Hadley

  Chase and his successors. This book is for Ozlem Cokker. I hereby dedicate theenergy I wasted in creating this e-book to her, who unknowingly tipped my scales of sanity . . .

  I hope I can have the chance to see her . . . just once . . .

  This e–book was created by Mohamed Watfa. Send

  your comments to medwatt@hotmail.com.

  I am ready to exchange any Chase book for:

  The Mirror in Room 22

  There’s no reason to be mean

  Massino’s words echoed in Johnny’s ears—

  “If anyone busts into that safe, I go after him . . . He wouldn’t

  get far. Anyone who takes anything from me had better talk

  to a grave-digger . . .

  but they won’t. There’s no one dumb enough to try to take

  anything from me.”

  No one, that is, except for Johnny Bianda.

  a man prepared to risk his neck for a dream—a dream that

  nagged at him like an aching tooth.

  It was attempting the impossible but the urge to get his

  hands on such a sum added up to a lot more than guts and

  with so much at stake it would be worth it . . .

  JAMES HADLEY

  CHASE

  Knock, Knock! Who’s There?

  WATFA BOOKS

  ONE

  The drizzling rain fell on Sammy the Black’s sweating face as he

  shuffled along carrying the bag of money. He was a tall, gangling

  negro of around thirty years of age. With the muscular shoulders of a

  boxer and huge hands and feet, few would guess he had the spirit of

  a mouse. His large black eyes rolled fearfully as he walked, aware

  that he was carrying some sixty thousand dollars in the shabby holdall

  and what was worse that everyone in the district knew it.

  Every Friday, at exactly the same time, he did this long walk

  which took four hours. During those hours, he collected money from

  bars, news-stands and from the Numbers men. During this stop-start

  walk, Sammy sweated with fear, expecting at any moment some nut

  would shoot him down and grab the money.

  For five hundred and twenty Fridays, he had done this walk and

  even after so many Fridays when nothing had happened, he couldn’t

  shake the fear out of his system. He kept telling himself that if it

  wasn’t this Friday, it could be the next.

  Sammy couldn’t believe, even after ten years, in the power of his

  boss, Joe Massino. He couldn’t believe that any one man could have

  this sprawling town of close on half a million inhabitants in such a

  relentless grip that no one—not even a nutter—would dare attempt

  to steal the bag of money that Sammy was carrying.

  Sammy had told himself often enough that he was crazy to be so

  scared since Johnny Bianda was always with him and Johnny was

  considered the best gunman of Massino’s mob.

  “If anything happens, Sammy,” Johnny had said, time and again,

  “fall on the bag and leave the rest to me.”

  These should be comforting words, but they didn’t comfort

  Sammy. The fact that even Johnny thought something could happen

  turned Sammy sick to his stomach.

  All the same, he told himself, it was a lot better than nothing to

  have Johnny’s protection. He and Johnny had been Massino’s

  collectors now for the past ten years. Sammy, at the age of twenty,

  had taken the job because the money was good and his nerves were

  7

  in much better shape than now. Also, in spite of his fear, he was

  proud to have been picked as Massino’s collector for that meant the

  boss trusted him. Well, maybe not quite trusted him for Johnny

  always went along and there was a fool-proof system against a

  fiddle. Sammy was given a sealed envelope containing the money

  and Johnny a sealed envelope containing a signed chit stating the

  amount of the money. It was only when they got back to Massino’s

  office and stood around while the money was being counted that

  they learned the amount they had collected and the amounts, during

  the ten years they had been collectors, increased every year until the

  take on the previous Friday had been the alarming ( to Sammy) sum

  of sixty-three thousand dollars!

  Sure, in spite of Massino’s ruthless reputation and Johnny’s

  ability to shoot fast, some nutter would be tempted to snatch the

  money, Sammy thought as he trudged along. He looked uneasily

  around him. The busy, shabby street teemed with people who made

  room for him, grinning at him and calling out to him.

  A big, black buck, nearly as big as Sammy bawled from the steps

  of a tenement, “Don’t lose it, Sammy ol’ boy, ol’ boy. That little ol’

  bag’s got my winnings!”

  The crowd laughed and Sammy, sweating more heavily,

  lengthened his stride. They had one more call to make before they

  could get into Johnny’s beat-up Ford and Sammy could relax.

  Watched by the crowd, they walked into Solly Jacob’s betting

  office.

  Solly, vast, with a tremendous paunch and a face that looked as if

  it had been fashioned out of dough, had the envelopes ready.

  “Not bad this week,” he said to Sammy, “but tell Mr. Joe, next

  week is going to be a bonanza. February 29th! Every sucker in town

  will be trying his luck. Tell Mr. Joe you’ll need a truck to bring the

  money in. Don’t kid yourself you’ll be able to carry it.”

  Sammy cringed as he put the envelope in the bag. “And, Johnny,”

  Solly said, handing Johnny his envelope, “maybe it would be an idea

  to get more protection for Sammy next week. Have a word with Mr.

  Joe.”

  Johnny grunted. He was a man of few words. He turned to the

  door and went out into the street, followed by Sammy.

  They had only a few yards to walk to where Johnny had parked

  his car and with relief Sammy got into the passenger’s seat. The

  handcuff around his thick wrist was chaffing his skin. That was

  another thing that scared him: to be handcuffed to the bag! He had

  once read of some bank clerk who had had his hand chopped off

  with an axe by some nutter, trying to get the bag from him. To be

  without a hand!

  Johnny sank into the driving seat and searched for the ignition

  key. Sammy looked uneasily at him. He had an idea that Johnny had

  something preying on his mind. For the past few weeks, Johnny had

  been more silent than he had ever been. Yes, Sammy was sure

  something was preying on his mind and this worried him because he

  was fond of this short, thickset man with his thick black hair, shot

  with grey, his deep-set brown eyes and his firm, hard m
outh. Sammy

  knew Johnny was as tough as teak and he carried a punch like a

  sledge-hammer blow. Sammy had never forgotten how Johnny had

  once handled a punk who had tried to pick a quarrel. He and Johnny

  were enjoying a beer in a down-town bar when this punk, twice

  Johnny’s size, came up and said in a voice like a fall of gravel that he

  didn’t drink in the same bar as a nigger.

  Johnny had said quietly, “Then drink somewhere else.”

  That was something Sammy always admired about Johnny: he

  always spoke quietly: he never shouted.

  The punk had turned on Sammy who was sweating with fright,

  but Johnny had stepped between them so the punk had hit him. To

  Sammy, it seemed a hell of a punch, but Johnny didn’t even grunt. He

  swayed a little, then the punk took a bang on the jaw that broke it

  and flattened him. Sammy hadn’t seen the punch: it had been too

  fast, but he had seen the effect.

  Yes, Johnny-was as tough as teak, but he was fine with Sammy.

  He didn’t talk a lot. In fact, Sammy, after going around with him for

  ten years, knew little or nothing about him except that he had been

  Massino’s gunman for some twenty years, was maybe forty-two or

  three years of age, unmarried, no relations, lived in a two-room

  apartment and Massino thought a lot of him.

  Whenever Sammy got worried or had woman trouble or his

  young brother was playing up or something he would consult Johnny,

  9

  and Johnny, speaking in his quiet voice, always managed to make

  Sammy feel good even if he didn’t solve his problem.

  When they began the collection together, Johnny had been more

  talkative. He had said something that Sammy had never forgotten.

  “Listen, Sammy,” Johnny had said. “You’ll make good money

  from this racket, but don’t let it kid you. You put by ten per cent of

  what you earn every week. Understand? Out of every ten dollars you

  earn, put one dollar aside and don’t touch it. In a few years you’ll

  have enough to be independent and you can get out of this racket,

  for as sure-as God made little apples, sooner or later, you’ll want to

  get out.”

  Sammy had followed this ‘advice. It made sense to him. He

  bought a steel box and every week when he got paid he put ten per

  cent of his earnings in the box which he kept under his bed. Of

  course there had been times when he had been forced to milk the

  box. There was that business with his brother who had to have five

  hundred dollars or go to jail. Then there was that business with Cloe

  who had to have an expensive abortion, but over the years the ten

  per cent mounted up and the last time Sammy checked the amount

  he was astonished to find he was worth three thousand dollars.

  The box which wasn’t large was getting too full of ten dollar bills

  for comfort and Sammy began to worry whether to buy another box.

  There was something about Johnny these days that made him

  hesitate to ask his advice. He was sure Johnny had something on his

  mind and he didn’t want to be a nuisance. He thought maybe he

  would wait a little longer before consulting him. Maybe he would get

  whatever it was off his mind and then, he would be in the mood to

  advise him.

  They drove in silence to Massino’s office: a large room with a big

  desk, a few chairs and a filing cabinet. Massino believed in austerity

  when he was downtown, although he had a Rolls, a sixteen-bedroom

  house up-town, a yacht and a ten-bedroom house in Miami.

  He was at his desk when Johnny and Sammy came in. Leaning

  against the wall was Toni Capello, one of Massino’s bodyguards: a

  thin, dark man with snake’s eyes and nearly as fast as Johnny with a

  gun. Sitting on a hardbacked chair, picking his teeth with a splinter of

  wood was Ernie Lassini, another of Massino’s bodyguards: a fat,

  hulking man with a razor ‘Sear down the left side of his face: another

  good man with a gun.

  Sammy shambled up to the desk and put the bag in front of

  Massino who leaned back in his chair and grinned at the bag.

  At the age of fifty-five, Joe Massino was massively built. Medium

  height, he had barn-door shoulders, no neck, a heavy fat face with a

  flattened nose, a straggly moustache and bleak grey eyes that scared

  men, but intrigued women. Massino was a great womanizer.

  Although fat, he was still tough and there had been times when he

  had personally disciplined one of his mob and that man hadn’t been

  fit for active service for two or even three months.

  “No problems, Sammy?” Massino asked and his small grey eyes

  shifted to Johnny who shook his head. “Okay . . . get Andy.”

  But Andy Lucas, Massino’s accountant, had already come into

  the office.

  Andy was sixty-five years of age: a tiny, bird-like man with a

  computer for a brain. Fifteen years ago he had served a -stretch for

  fraud and when he had come out, Massino, realizing Andy’s

  brilliance, had hired him to control his financial kingdom. As with

  most things Massino did, this was a wise choice. There was no one in

  the State as smart as Andy when it came to a tax form, an

  investment or an idea to make money.

  Andy unlocked the handcuff from Sammy’s sweating wrist, then

  pulling up a chair by Massino, he began to check the contents of the

  bag while Massino watched as he chewed a dead cigar.

  Both Sammy and Johnny moved away and waited. The count

  came to sixty-five thousand dollars.

  Andy put the money back in the bag, then nodding to Massino,

  he carried the bag into his office and put it in the big, old-fashioned

  safe.

  “Okay, you two,” Massino said, looking at Johnny and Sammy,

  “take time off. I don’t need you until next Friday. You know what

  next Friday is?” His hard little eyes rested on Johnny.

  “The 29th.”

  Massino nodded.

  11

  “That’s it; the freak day: Leap year’s day. It’s my bet the take will

  be around $150,000.”

  “Solly said the same.”

  “Yeah.” Massino dropped the dead cigar into the trash basket.

  “So . . . Ernie and Toni will go with you. You’ll collect in the car. Never

  mind the traffic. I’ll have a word with the Commissioner. Next Friday,

  the cops will look the other way if you have to double park $150,000

  is a hell of a lot of money and maybe some hop-head just might try,”

  He eyed Sammy. “Take it easy, boy, you’ll be protected. Don’t sweat

  so.”

  Sammy forced a sick grin.

  “I’m not worried, boss,” he lied. “You tell me what to do and I’ll

  do it.”

  Out in the drizzle, Johnny said, “Come on, Sammy, let’s have a

  beer.”

  This was the usual ritual after the collection and Sammy walked

  along beside the short, thickset man, gradually relaxing until they

  came to Freddy’s bar. They went into the warm darkness, climbed on

  stools and ordered beer.

  They drank in silence, then Sammy ordered more beer.

  “Mr. Johnny . . .” He paused and looked uneasily at the
hard,

  expressionless face. “Excuse me, but have you got worries? You’re

  sort of quiet these days. If there’s anything I can do . . .” He began to

  sweat, scared he had talked out of turn.

  Johnny looked at him and smiled. Johnny didn’t often smile, but

  when he did it sent a glow of happiness through Sammy.

  “No . . . there’s nothing.” He lifted his heavy shoulders. “Maybe

  I’m getting old. Anyway, thanks, Sammy.” He took a packet of

  cigarettes, rolled one towards Sammy and lit up. “This is a hell of a

  lifer isn’t it? No future in it for us.” He let smoke drift down his

  nostrils, then asked, “How do you feel about it, Sammy?”

  Sammy shifted on his stool.

  “The money’s good, Mr. Johnny. I get scared, but the money’s

  good. What else could I do?”

  Johnny regarded him, then nodded.

  “That’s right . . . what else can you do?” A pause, then he went

  on, “Have you been saving?”

  Sammy smiled happily.

  “Just like you told me, Mr. Johnny. One dollar in ten. That’s what

  you said and now I’ve got three thousand bucks in a box under my

  bed.” He lost his smile as he paused. “I don’t know what to do with

  it.”

  Johnny sighed.

  “You keep all that money under your bed?”

  “What else can I do with it?”

  “Put it in a bank, you goon.”

  “I don’t like banks, Mr. Johnny,” Sammy said earnestly. “They’re

  for white men. It’s best under my bed. I guess I’ll have to buy another

  box.”

  Although Sammy looked hopefully at Johnny wanting him to

  solve this problem, Johnny shrugged and finished his beer. He

  couldn’t be bothered with Sammy’s stupid problems. He had too

  many problems of his own.

  “Please yourself.” He slid off the stool. “Well, see you next

  Friday, Sammy.”

  “Do you think there’ll be trouble?” Sammy asked fearfully as he

  followed Johnny out into the drizzle.

  Johnny saw the naked fear in Sammy’s big, black eyes. He smiled.

  “No trouble. Not with me, Ernie and Toni with you. Take it easy,

  Sammy . . . nothing will happen.”

  Sammy watched him drive away, then he set off along the street

  towards his pad. Friday was a long way off, he told himself.

  $150,000! the Boss had said. Was there that much money in the

  world? Nothing would happen. He’d believe that when Friday was

  over.