1968-An Ear to the Ground

by James Hadley Chase

  ‘You’re quite a swimmer,’ she said, treading water.

  ‘You’re not so bad either.’ He grinned. ‘Race you back?’

  She nodded.

  Martha, sitting on the terrace, holding a carton of chocolates and dipping into it from time to time with Henry by her side, watched the two as they raced back to the shore.

  ‘She’s showing off,’ she said as she saw Gilda was leaving Johnny behind.

  Henry watched with critical interest.

  ‘Women show off to men . . . men to women . . . that’s nature.’

  Johnny just got ahead in the last twenty yards, but only just. There wasn’t more than inches between them as he was the first to touch the sea wall.

  ‘Women!’ Henry shook his head. ‘Wonderful creatures. She could have beaten him by ten yards. Did you see she deliberately slowed down to let him win?’

  Martha snorted.

  ‘Well, if it makes him happy. . .’

  ‘Of course it does.’ Henry crossed one stork-like leg over the other. ‘Men never like being beaten by women.’

  Two

  Alan Frisby laid down a file he was studying and looked inquiringly at his secretary as she came into his office.

  ‘Colonel and Mrs. Shelley are here,’ she told him. ‘They have an appointment.’

  ‘Sure . . . send them right in.’ Frisby pushed aside the file and leaned back in his executive’s chair. He was a slim, tall man who had been in the insurance business longer than he cared to remember. Now, at the age of fifty-five, with a first-class business under his control, he was hoping very soon that his son who was at the University would qualify and then take over some of the harder work.

  He was a little startled when Martha came into his office which until her appearance had seemed to him to be large, but now as she moved towards him, the room seemed to shrink by her enormous size. The tall, stork-like man who followed her was obviously Colonel Shelley, her husband.

  Frisby got to his feet, shook hands and arranged chairs. Martha sat down, but Henry moved to the window, pulling at his moustache and Frisby got the impression that the Colonel was being petulant for some reason or other.

  Seeing him looking at Henry, Martha leaned forward and patted his arm with her hot, fat hand.

  ‘Take no notice of the Colonel, Mr. Frisby,’ she said. ‘You have no idea the trouble I had getting him here . . . he just doesn’t believe in insurance.’

  ‘Never have done. . . never will do,’ Henry growled as he moved around the office. ‘Waste of money. You lose something, and it’s your own damned fault. The thing to do is not to lose anything!’

  Frisby had dealt with all kinds of eccentrics. After giving the Colonel his professional, understanding smile, which was returned by a stony stare, he turned his attention to Martha.

  ‘This is really nothing much, Mr. Frisby,’ Martha said. ‘The dear Colonel has just bought me a present for our wedding anniversary and I want it insured.’

  ‘Damn nonsense,’ Henry said from behind Frisby. ‘If you lose it, you deserve to lose it!’

  ‘Don’t pay any attention to him,’ Martha said, smiling. ‘The Colonel has ideas of his own . . . I have ideas of my own. I think I should insure my present.’ With a little flourish, she put the jewel case on Frisby’s desk. ‘After all, he paid eighteen thousand dollars for it . . . you never know . . . it could be stolen.’

  As Frisby picked up the case, Henry, a small piece of putty in his lean old hand, pressed the putty against the lock of the big filing cabinet that stood behind Frisby. The movement was swift, and immediately Henry came around Frisby’s desk and walked over to the window. He put the impression in a small tin box he had brought with him and dropped the box into his pocket.

  ‘This is beautiful,’ Frisby said, admiring the bracelet. ‘I can arrange to have it covered. You should have it insured.’

  ‘I deal with the Los Angeles & California,’ Martha said. ‘They take care of my other jewels.’

  ‘That’s fine, Mrs. Shelley. I work with L.A.&C. I can fix it. I take it you want it covered for a year?’

  Martha nodded.

  ‘Yes . . . I would like that.’

  Frisby checked his rates book.

  ‘Thirty dollars, Mrs. Shelley . . . that gives you full coverage.’

  ‘We’ll settle right now. Henry, have you thirty dollars?’

  ‘I have thirty dollars,’ Henry said, scowling. ‘Throwing good money away’ But he drew a thick roll from his hip pocket, peeled off three $10 bills and dropped them on the desk.

  ‘Where are you staying, Mrs. Shelley?’ Frisby asked as he made out a receipt.

  ‘Bellevue on Lansdown Avenue.’

  Frisby looked impressed.

  ‘That’s Jack Carson’s place?’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve rented it for three months.’

  ‘Would you have your policy number?’

  ‘No, but you can check with them. It’s Colonel Henry Shelley, 1247 Hill Crescent, Los Angeles.’

  Frisby made a note, then seeing Henry was peering at the photocopying machine on a stand by the window, he said, ‘Are you interested in these machines, Colonel?’

  Henry turned.

  ‘Don’t understand them. Glad I’ve got out of business. Too damned old now to cope with anything.’

  ‘Now that will do,’ Martha said, putting the jewel case into her handbag. ‘You’re not all that old.’ She heaved herself to her feet.

  When they had gone, Frisby called the Los Angeles & Californian Insurance Corporation. He always checked on strangers as Martha knew he would. He was told that Colonel Shelley was a recent client of theirs. His wife’s jewellery was covered for $150,000. He wasn’t to know, nor the Insurance Company, that Abe had loaned the jewels to Martha to get them insured. Nor were they to know that 1247 Hill Crescent was merely an accommodation address, owned by Abe, and used by any number of jewel thieves who needed a respectable background.

  Martha climbed heavily into the Cadillac, parked outside Frisby’s office block. Henry followed her in.

  Johnny set the Cadillac in motion.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Looks simple,’ Henry reported. ‘No alarms. Doors to the office easy. The only tricky one is the lock on the filing cabinet, but I have an impression that might give you a lead.’

  ‘How about the janitor?’

  ‘He looks the kind of slob who does as little as possible.’

  Johnny grunted.

  ‘We could be in there a couple of hours. The best time would be at eight o’clock. We can’t work in the dark.’

  ‘Yes.’ Henry gnawed at his moustache. ‘The business district is deserted by eight. You’ll have a full hour and a half before it gets dark.’

  When they reached the villa, they had a conference.

  Martha explained the operation.

  ‘I got this dope from a woman who worked for Frisby’ she said, peering into the depleted box of chocolates. ‘What I want are Frisby’s insurance records for jewellery. This woman told me Frisby keeps a complete file in the cabinet in his office. It should be easy to find. It had a tab on it marked “Local Jewellery Coverage.” In front of the file is a list of names and addresses, values and details of where the jewels are stored — whether in a safe at home or in a bank or what-have-you. This I want. With this list, we’ll know exactly what is worth going after and how tricky it will be to get at. Without the list, we’ll just waste time and get nowhere. There is a photocopying machine in the office. All you have to do is to photocopy the records, put the originals back in the cabinet as you found them, relock the cabinet and we will be in business.’

  ‘The machine is a Zennox,’ Henry said to Gilda. ‘The directions are printed on the lid. The machine is loaded with paper. All you have to do is to put the originals on the machine and press a button.’

  Gilda nodded.

  Henry took the tin box from his pocket and handed it to Johnny.

  ‘That’s the impression
of the cabinet lock. Tell you anything?’

  Johnny opened the box and examined the impression. He grimaced.

  ‘It tells me a lot. This is a Herman lock and they are damned tricky.’ He sat back, staring out at the sea while he thought.

  Martha, a large cream filled chocolate held in her fingers, watched him, suddenly alarmed.

  ‘Can’t you handle it?’ she demanded, her voice a little shrill. ‘Abe said you could handle any lock!’

  Johnny turned his head slowly. His cold eyes surveyed her.

  ‘Don’t panic, Fats,’ he said. ‘I can handle any lock, but I want to give it a little thought.’

  Gilda giggled.

  ‘Don’t call me Fats!’ Martha snarled, outraged. ‘Now, listen to me . . .’

  ‘Screw you,’ Johnny said. ‘Let me think, will you?’

  Henry stroked his moustache and looked at Gilda. His heavy tortoise-like eyelid lowered a trifle. Martha was so shaken she put the chocolate back in the box, but she kept quiet.

  Finally, Johnny nodded.

  ‘It can be done. I’ll have to go to Miami for some key blanks. It would be too risky to get them here. Yes, okay, it can be done.’

  Martha drew in a long, deep breath that lifted her enormous bosom.

  ‘You had me scared for a moment. Everything depends on getting those records.’

  Johnny looked away from her. He made no attempt to conceal his impatience with her; nor his dislike.

  ‘We’ll need another car,’ he said. ‘The Caddy is fine for a front, but it gets noticed. I’ll rent a Hertz.’ He got to his feet and went into the living room. The three heard him calling Hertz.

  ‘Hello, Fats,’ Gilda said and gave a hoot of laughter. ‘I wish you could have seen your face! Oh, boy! Did you have to take it!’

  ‘Shut up, you little bitch!’ Martha snarled. ‘I know you’ve got hot pants for him! You . . .’

  ‘Ladies!’ Henry broke in sharply. ‘That will do! We’re working together, and we are in business together.’

  Gilda got up from her chair. She looked at Martha who was glaring at her, then she made a cheeky face and walked off the terrace, swinging her hips.

  Johnny came back.

  ‘That’s fixed. I’m picking the car up at the office. Well, I’ll get off. I’ll be back around eight o’clock.’

  ‘Wait a moment, Johnny,’ Henry said, ‘as you’re going to Miami would you take the bracelet back to Abe? I bet he’s laying an egg wondering what has happened to it. Give it to him, Martha.’

  Martha hesitated, then handed the jewel case to Johnny.

  ‘Don’t lose it.’

  Johnny grinned at her.

  ‘Think I’m going to run off with it?’

  ‘I said don’t lose it!’ Martha snapped.

  When he had gone, Henry lit a cigar and stretched out his long legs with a sigh of content.

  ‘Abe picked the right one, Martha,’ he said. ‘He’s a professional.’

  ‘Fats!’ Martha muttered. ‘I’ll remember that!’ She was about to take another chocolate, then suddenly she pushed the box violently away from her and glared out to sea. Henry hid a grin.

  Johnny returned around eight-thirty. He had seen Abe and given back the bracelet and collected Henry’s receipt. He had also the key blanks which he had got through a friend of Abe’s and also the necessary tools to do the job. He said he would work on the key in the morning.

  Flo gave them lobster thermidor for dinner and after Martha had eaten her way through two large lobsters and a pint of ice cream, they settled down for the evening.

  Gilda was a TV addict. She turned on the set and anchored herself to it. Henry, with pad and pencil, sat with Martha on the terrace while he worked out his imaginary profit and loss on the Stock Exchange. Martha stitched away at her embroidery. Johnny sat away from them, looking down at the lighted harbour, watching the yachts and the headlights of the cars making a continuous double ribbon of light as the cars crawled around the bay.

  At eleven-thirty, Martha hoisted herself to her feet.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ she announced.

  No one bothered to say anything and she plodded past Gilda, who was staring, hypnotised by the lighted screen, snorted and then made her way to the kitchen. She looked hopefully into the refrigerator. Flo always left a selection of cold food waiting for her. For some moments, Martha hesitated between a breast of chicken or a fillet of fried sole. She decided on the chicken and putting it on a paper plate — a stack of them always stood on the top of the refrigerator — she went to bed.

  Twenty minutes later, Henry completed his balance sheet. He was delighted to find that he was ahead. He folded the newspaper and said, ‘Good night, all,’ and went to bed.

  Gilda felt a quickening of her blood as she heard Henry’s bedroom door close. The play she was watching was pure corn.

  She looked through the open doors, leading on to the terrace. Johnny was sitting there, his feet on the iron rail, motionless, looking down at the scene below She got to her feet, turned off the set and wandered out on to the terrace. She was wearing white stretch pants and a red halter. Her chestnut coloured hair was free about her shoulders. She was aware that she looked very attractive and this feeling gave her confidence. She came to stand near Johnny. She put her arms on the rail and peered down at the distant harbour. Johnny made no move to show he had noticed her. She waited for a long moment, then said, ‘What are you going to do with the money when you get it?’

  ‘I haven’t got it yet.’

  ‘Assume you will. . . what will you do with it?’

  He looked up at her. ‘Why do you want to know?’ She turned.

  ‘Because I’m interested.’

  ‘Well, if you’re that interested, I’ll tell you.’ He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. ‘Want one?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘I’m going to buy a garage.’ He lit the cigarette and blew smoke towards the star-studded sky. ‘I have one lined up. It handles fast cars. . . specialises. It’s not doing much now, but then the guy who owns it doesn’t really understand fast cars. . . I do. I could make a big thing out of it.’

  She felt a little pang of jealousy. Men always had some project in mind . . . a garage, for God’s sake!

  ‘Where is it?’ she asked, forcing herself to show interest.

  ‘A little place called Carmel on the Pacific Coast.’

  She was aware of a dreamy note in his voice and this irritated her.

  ‘Well, don’t count on it. . . we may not get the money,’ she said sourly.

  ‘It’s worth a try.’

  There was a long pause, then as he was now staring down at the harbour again, she spoke sharply, ‘Obviously you’re not interested in what I would do with my share, are you?’

  Johnny flicked ash over the rail.

  ‘Not particularly. You’ll spend it. . . women always spend money.’

  ‘I suppose they do.’ She felt an urge to touch him, but she restrained herself.

  Johnny suddenly looked directly at her. His eyes went from her head to her feet and then up again.

  Gilda felt her nipples harden under that look. She tried to outstare him, but she failed. She looked away.

  ‘Do you want to come to bed with me now?’ he asked.

  She wanted to cry out: ‘Of course! Why do you sit there like a goddamn, superior dummy? Why don’t you grab me . . .I’m here to be grabbed!’

  Her voice shaking with frustration and anger, she said aloud, ‘Is that what you say to every girl you meet?’

  He grinned, his eyes moving over her.

  ‘It saves time, doesn’t it? Do you or don’t you?’

  ‘No, I don’t!’ Gilda said furiously and she walked off the terrace. She heard him mutter something and she paused, turned and demanded, ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said who are you kidding?’ Johnny repeated and laughed.

  ‘Oh! I hate you!’

  ‘The same old corny dialo
gue. You watch TV too much.’

  She ran to her bedroom and slammed the door.

  The following night, soon after ten-thirty, the tension between Martha and Henry became electric. They were sitting on the terrace, waiting. Henry was smoking a cigar too fast so that it burned unevenly. Martha gnawed at a turkey leg, every now and then laying it down to wipe her fingers on a Kleenex and then picking it up again.

  ‘Don’t keep looking at your watch,’ Henry said sharply, having just looked at his own. ‘It’s getting on my nerves!’

  ‘On your nerves? What about mine?’

  ‘All right, Martha, don’t let’s get panicky.’ Henry was making a strenuous effort to control his own fluttering nerves.

  ‘They’ve only been gone two and a half hours.’

  ‘Do you think the cops have got them?’ Martha asked, leaning forward and waving the turkey leg. ‘That Johnny! I’m scared of him. He could talk. He doesn’t like me.’

  Henry looked with disgust at his unevenly burning cigar and crushed it out in the big glass ashtray.

  ‘You’re working yourself up for nothing,’ he said, trying to control the little shake in his voice. ‘He could have had trouble with that lock.’

  ‘But Abe said he could handle any lock!’

  ‘Well, you know Abe . . .’

  Martha bit into the succulent dark flesh of the turkey leg and munched, staring down at the lights below.

  ‘I can’t go back to prison, Henry,’ she said finally. ‘That’s something I can’t do. I’ll take an overdose.’

  ‘There’s no need to talk like that.’ Henry paused and thought back on those fifteen years he had spent in a cell: an experience he too was determined not to repeat. An overdose? Well, why not? He was sixty-eight. There were times when he thought of death with pleasure. He knew he was walking a tightrope. If it hadn’t been for Martha, God knows what he would be doing now . . .certainly not sitting on this terrace with this view, after an excellent dinner and a good brandy to hand. This would be his last steal. It was, he knew, a gamble. He was healthy enough. There was nothing wrong with him. If he got the money and avoided the police, he could settle in a two-room apartment in Nice, France. He had done some clever and profitable jobs in and around Monte Carlo in his younger days. He had always planned to retire to Nice. But if the job went wrong — and it could — then it would be better to finish his life. With his record and with the size of the job against him, he would go away for at least ten years. That meant he would die in a cell. Martha was no fool. She was right. An overdose would be the best way out.