Strictly for Cash Page 11
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “I’ve handled a job like this before.”
I spun the knob, pausing at each letter. When I had spelt out the complete word, there was a
click and the door swung open.
“When you shut the door, the combination is automatically scrambled,” Evesham went on.
“And the safe is self locking.”
“That’s fine,” I said.
“The key to-this vault is kept with the guard. Our clients are not allowed to take keys off
the premises. Have you any special instructions for us? Do you wish anyone to come here, or
only yourself?”
“No one is to touch the safe unless I’m with them,” I said. “Will your guard know me?”
He allowed himself a princely smile.
“When you opened the safe your photograph was automatically taken. It will be lodged in
the guard-house and checked when you apply for the key.”
“You certainly have thought this thing out.”
“Perhaps you will come downstairs now and complete the formalities, sir?”
“I’d like to get the hang of the safe and check through the contents of my bag before I
leave,” I said. “Would it be all right if I joined you in a few minutes?”
“Certainly. You know where to find me. The guard will direct you to the elevator.”
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When he had gone I opened the suitcase and took from it ten one-hundred-dollar bills. That
amount would hold me for a few days. As I tucked the roll into my hip pocket I felt the bun
of the .22. I had the .38 in my coat pocket, and I didn’t figure I’d need two guns, so I dropped
the 22 into the suitcase. Then I put the case into the safe and shut the door.
Twenty minutes later I was on my way to 3945, Apartment 4, Franklin Boulevard.
I hummed under my breath as I drove. For the first time since the suitcase had come into
my possession I was relaxed and at ease. The money was safe. Neither Ricca nor Benno nor
Pepi could possibly get their hands on it.
A mile or so along Franklin Boulevard I spotted the house: a big place set in its own
grounds: a little run to seed, unpretentious and far from gaudy. I kept straight on.
At the next intersection I saw a filling-station. I swung the car into the circular drive-in and
pulled up.
An attendant came over.
“Okay for me to leave this heap for a while?”
“As long as you like.”
I walked back along the boulevard and paused at the double gates of 3945. There was a
short drive leading directly to the house. No one appeared to be watching at the windows or
hiding in the shrubbery, I knew I was taking a risk coming here, but if I could get into the
apartment I was hoping I’d find something that would jog my memory to life again. There
might be letters, a photograph or even a diary. I figured it was worth the risk.
I walked up the steps into the lobby. The stairs faced me. On the fourth floor I found
Apartment 4.
I pulled out the .38 and held it down by my side, then sank my thumb into the bell-push.
There was a long silence. I stood waiting, not expecting anyone to answer the door, but
ready if they did. I rang again. I could hear the bell. Then I heard something else that brought
me to a stiff, alert attention. I heard the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door.
I waited, the gun ready. The door opened.
A girl stood in the doorway: a girl with thick, short hair like burnished copper, whose big,
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startled eyes were as blue as the sky on a hot summer’s day.
It was Ginny!
I stood there, transfixed, staring at her. The sight of her ripped away the blanket of fog that
had hung over my mind. It was like a blind man suddenly being able to see.
“Oh, Johnny,” she cried. “You’ve come back!”
Then everything seemed to happen at once. Terror jumped into her eyes. Her mouth opened
to scream. I heard the swish of a descending cosh, and then a dazzling white light exploded
inside my head. I groped wildly for her as I began to fall, but she was no longer there. I went
on falling, down and down, out of the present into the past.
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PART THREE
FLASH-BACK
I
A WOMAN screamed, but it wasn’t Ginny.
I lifted a hand that felt as heavy as lead and groped into space, but found nothing. I tried to
sit up, but the effort was too much for me.
The woman suddenly stopped screaming. The only sound I now heard was my own
breathing. Each breath came very lightly as if it were going to be the last.
“Johnny!”
I knew that voice: a voice out of the past; Della’s voice.
My mind groped to remember. I felt again the crushing punch the Kid had given me. I saw
Della again, her black eyes twin explosions as she screamed: “Get up and fight, you quitter!”
Somehow I got my eyes open. The darkness bothered me. There should have been blazing
lights coming down on me from the stadium batteries. I found myself thinking the Kid must
have hit me with a hammer; that maybe he had blinded me. I struggled up in a sitting
position.
“Johnny! Say something! Are you badly hurt?”
Della was bending over me. Beyond her I could see the outlines of trees against the night
sky. Then I remembered the car coming at us like a bat out of hell, heard again the grinding,
crunching noise as it side-swiped us, and felt again the sensation of flying through space.
“I’m all right,” I said. “Let me alone.” I put my hand to my face. It felt wet and sticky.
“What happened?”
“You must get up and help me,” she said, her voice urgent. “I think he’s dead.”
“Dead? Who?”
“Paul! Come on, Johnny, don’t just sit there. Help me!”
“Okay, okay; give me a minute.”
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My head began to pound and ache as I struggled to my knees. I waited a moment or so,
then got to my feet. If she hadn’t steadied me I would have fallen flat on my face.
“Pull yourself together!” she exclaimed, and the hard, impatient note in her voice startled
me. “He’s lying over there. He doesn’t seem to be breathing.”
I staggered over the sandy ground. Each step I took sent a stab of pain through my head,
but I kept on until I reached him. He was lying on his side by the smashed Bentley, his head
resting on his arm, one leg drawn up almost to his chin.
I knelt by his side. It was too dark to see much of him, but when I turned him and he
flopped over on his back, his head remained on his arm. That told me his neck was broken. I
touched his hand, felt his pulse, but it was a waste of time.
She dropped down on her knees beside me, her hand on my arm. I could feel her trembling.
“He’s dead,” I told her. She didn’t say anything, but her fingers closed on my arm, her nails
digging into my flesh.
“Stay here,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’ll see if I can get someone to help us.”
“Are you sure he’s dead?” Her voice sounded hard and cold. “He’s dead all right. His
neck’s broken.”
She stood up and moved away from me and leaned against a twisted palmetto tree. Her
sleek black hair was dishevelled; there was a six-inch rip in her skirt, and one stocking was
down to her ankle. The moonlight, coming through the tangle of overhead branches, fell on
sunk deep into her head, and she was staring sightlessly at me as if her mind were furiously
preoccupied with some urgent decision.
“The other car’s across the road, Johnny,” she said. “See what’s happened to the driver.”
“And Pepi’s car?”
“No sign of it. Maybe they thought we were killed. But go and find out what’s happened to
the other car.”
Moving slowly, still dazed, I made my way on to the highway. Away from the palmetto
thicket the moonlight lit up the white road brilliantly, but even in that light it took me several
minutes before I found the car. It had crashed into the thicket on the other side of the road,
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and lay on its side: a big Packard, now fit only for the scrap-heap.
I peered through the shattered window. The driver still sat behind the wheel: a young
fellow with a set, fixed grin on his face and horror in his wide, staring eyes. The steering-column had been driven into his body like a grotesque spear: from his neck to his waist he
was pulp.
I stepped back. There was no one else in the car, and there was nothing I could do for him. I
crossed the road again and went back to the thicket where she was waiting.
“Well?” she asked, her eyes searching my face.
“He’s dead.”
“Anyone else in the car?”
“No.”
“You’re sure he’s dead?”
“Yes.”
She gave a funny little strangled gulp.
“What a marvellously lucky break!”
I stared at her. It suddenly occurred to me that the smash, the death of her husband and the
death of the other driver were utterly remote to her. She wasn’t thinking of them at all. There
was something else occupying her mind: something so urgent and important to her that even
the shock of being thrown out of a car at over sixty miles an hour had made no impression on
her.
“What’s the matter with you?” I demanded.
“I want my handbag, Johnny.”
“To hell with your handbag! Are yon all right?”
“Yes.” She moved unsteadily towards the smashed Bentley. “Help me find my handbag.”
“There are more important things to do than look for your bag,” I said sharply. “I’ve got to
fetch the police.”
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“The police?” She paused, turned and stared at me. “What good will they do?”
“We’ve got to get them here,” I said impatiently. “What’s the matter with you?” My head
was pounding, my nerves were flayed and I was shouting at her. “We’ve got two bodies on
our hands! We’ve got to report this …”
“I must have my bag, Johnny,” she said with an obstinacy that infuriated me. “There’s
something very valuable in it. I must find it before we worry about the police.”
“All right! All right! We’ll find it!” I said, and went over to the Bentley and wrenched
opened the door.
“Let me look,” she said, pushing me aside, and began groping about on the floor of the car.
I went around to the offside, but the door was jammed and wouldn’t open.
“I can’t see a thing!” she exclaimed. “Haven’t you a match?”
I struck a match and held the flame through the shattered window. She found the bag
wedged between the brake and clutch pedals.
“Okay, now you have it, you’d better sit down and take it easy,” I said, stepping away from
the car. “I’ll hunt up a phone.”
She came around the car to where I was standing.
“No, Johnny. We won’t bother about the police. No one must know he’s dead.”
“They’ll find him sooner or later. They’ll identify the car…” I stopped and stared at her.
“What is all this? Why shouldn’t they know he’s dead?”
“I can’t explain now; later, Johnny. Don’t look so worried. It’s all right. I’ll tell you later.”
“You’re suffering from shock,” I said sharply. “Sit down. I’m going for the police.”
She dipped her hand into the bag and brought out a .38 automatic.
“You’ll stay where you are,” she said softly, and pointed the gun at me.
II
The headlights of an approaching car lit up the sky as it climbed the long, sloping hill from
Pelotta. A moment or so later the car swept into sight; headlamps blazing. It was going fast,
and roared past us with a snarl and a rush of wind.
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Neither she nor I moved. The moonlight fell directly on the glittering barrel of the
automatic: the gun looked menacing and large in her hand.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” she said, and her voice was as hard and as cold as a chunk of
ice.
“Have you gone crazy?” I said, not moving. “Put it down!”
“I believe this is the most important moment in my life,” she said. “You and I are the only
two who know Paul is dead. You don’t realize yet how essential it is that no one else should
know. Now listen, Johnny, you can either come in with me or I’m going to kill you. There’s
no other way I can be certain you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
I thought she had taken leave of her senses, but that didn’t alter the fact that she meant what
she was saying. I felt a little prickle run up my spine.
“There isn’t time to tell you what it’s all about,” she went on. “But if you come in with me
you’ll make money: big money, Johnny. What’s it to be?”
“What do you want me to do?” I said, and my voice was husky as yours would have been if
you had seen those glittering eyes and the hard, ruthless line of her mouth.
“Take his clothes off and put yours on him,” she said.
“They’ve got to think it was you who died in the car.”
“Me? They know me in Pelotta. They’ll identify me.”
“No, they won’t. You’re going to put him back in the car and set fire to it.”
“I can’t do that! Now wait …”
“You’ll do it or I’ll have to get rid of you, Johnny. There’s no other alternative.”
The bang I had taken on my head when I was thrown out of the car made clear thinking
impossible. If I hadn’t been so punch-drunk I might have tried to get the gun from her. As it
was, I knew I hadn’t a chance to reach her before she fired, and she would fire, the look in her
eyes told me that.
“Get going,” she said softly. “We’ve wasted enough time already.”
“But tell me why!”
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“Later. Are you going to change clothes with him ?” There was a fixed, awful little smile
on her lips now, and her knuckle showed white as she took in the slack of the trigger. I was
one heart-beat away from being shot. I knew it, and she could see I knew it.
“Yes.”
She relaxed, and the smile went away.
“Hurry, Johnny.”
With cold sweat on my face I walked over to where he was lying and began to strip him.
Apart from his broken neck he wasn’t hurt and hadn’t bled. I changed into his clothes while
she watched me, the gun covering me. Then I got my clothes on him. It was a gruesome job,
but I did it. But when I came to put my shoes on his feet, I gave up.
“I can’t do it.”
“Throw them in the car,” she said, and her voice was as unsteady as mine. “It’s all right.
They’ll th
ink they came off in the crash. Get him in and put him behind the steering-wheel.”
I dragged him over to the car. He was no light weight, and it was all I could do to get him
into the car. I propped him up against the driver’s door. He fell forward across the wheel.
“Loosen the carburettor pipe,” she said, “then tie your handkerchief over the leak and touch
it off with a match.”
“They could send us to jail for this,” I said, breathing heavily. “Get on with it! The tool
case is clipped inside the hood. You want a spanner … hurry!”
I loosened the carburettor pipe, burning my hand against the cylinder head as I did so. I was
working in a trance. My head kept expanding and contracting, and my legs felt as if they were
made of rubber. I did exactly what she told me to do. I tied one end of my handkerchief
around the leaking pipe.
“Now set fire to it.”
I struck a match. A moment later a long tongue of flame shot out of the car’s engine, and
spread in a hot, glaring mass to the coachwork.
I jumped back just in time.
She came running towards me.
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“Come on!” she said. “Before anyone comes.”
I went with her because there was nothing else to do.
We moved fast, and in silence, until the glare of the burning car died away in the distance,
and we came out on to the soft white sand of the beach.
“Wait, Johnny,” she said, and stopped.
I turned to look at her. She still held the gun, but it was no longer pointing at me.
“There’s not much time, but I have to talk to you,” she said. “I wish I knew more about
you. It’s fantastic we should meet like this, and be in this position together. Do you realize
that from now on you and I have got to trust each other, work with each other, and stay with
each other as if we had known each other for years? What sort of nerve have you got? Just
how ambitious are you? I wish I knew what kind of man you are.”
“And do you realize they could send us to jail for what we’ve done?” I said. “Have you
gone crazy …?”
“Don’t worry about that. They won’t find out. Do you want to get your hands on some
money? Real money, Johnny? If you have the right kind of nerve we can help ourselves to
half a million dollars: half for you and half for me.”
I stiffened. A quarter of a million dollars! That was the kind of money I had always