This Way for a Shroud

by James Hadley Chase

  She wondered if she should shout for help, but suppose Pete was close by and got to her before outside help could reach her? She decided it would be safer to try and get out by herself. She looked up and down the path that seemed in the reflection of the mirrors to have no ending and no beginning, and she felt a wave of panic sweep over her.

  It was as if she were caught up in some ghastly nightmare. She wanted to sit on the ground and cry: to give up weakly, to hide her face in her hands and wait until someone found her. But suppose Pete found her first? She fought back her tears and made an effort to pull herself together. If she continued down this path, she told herself, and at every intersection she turned left, surely it would bring her to the exit?

  She started off, walking slowly, her ears strained to catch the slightest suspicious sound that might come to her above the roar of the amusement park. She hadn’t gone more than a few yards when she had an irresistible urge to look behind her.

  She stopped and turned.

  At the far end of the path she saw something move, and her heart stopped beating, then began to race madly. She half turned to run, but stopped when she saw the figure behind her make a similar movement. She realized with a little sob of hysteria that she was watching her own distant reflection.

  She went on.

  At the end of the path, seeing herself grow larger as she approached the mirror facing her, she realized she had come up another cul-de-sac and once again she had to fight against a rising panic.

  She turned around to retrace her steps; Her eyes caught a movement at the far end of the path. She wasn’t to be caught like that again, and she kept on. Then suddenly she felt a cold chill crawl up her spine. The figure ahead of her wasn’t moving as she was moving.

  She stopped and peered down the path.

  A squat, square-shouldered man in a black suit stood watching her. In his hand glittered a nickle-plated automatic.

  It was Moe.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I

  CONRAD spent a feverish twenty minutes searching for the threeseater sports car in the various car parks that surrounded the amusement park. He was still at it, but realizing the hopelessness of the task, when he heard a police siren, and saw Bardin with a car full of prowl boys swing into the avenue leading to the main entrance of the amusement park.

  Conrad ran out to meet the car, waving his hands.

  The car pulled up and Bardin, looking hot and irritable, scowled out of the window.

  “How are you getting on?” he demanded. “Found the car yet?”

  “Shut that damned siren off!” Conrad snapped. “Do you want to scare those two hoods into action?”

  Bardin got out of the car as the sergeant driver flicked off the siren.

  “Well, come on. Did you find the car?”

  “There’re about ten thousand blasted cars in here. Get your men spread out and searching. Any more coming?”

  “A couple of wagons just behind. The Captain will raise hell when he hears I’ve pulled out the reserve.”

  “If this girl gets killed, the D.A. will raise all the hell McCann will ever want! Get your men into action!”

  “Hey! Wait a minute,” Bardin said, putting his hand on Conrad’s arm. “Look who’s coming,” and he jerked his thumb towards a tall young fellow with a crew hair-cut, who was wearing a red-patterned shirt outside his trousers. In his arms he held a collection of dolls, vases and boxes of candy. By his side walked a blonde girl in a white sports frock. “Think those are the two we’re looking for?”

  “There must be ten thousand punks who’re wearing their shirts like that right in this park,” Conrad growled, “but I’ll ask him.” He strode up to Buster Walker. “You just come from Lennox Avenue?” he demanded, and felt a little shrill crawl up his spine at Buster’s look of blank astonishment.

  “Why, sure,” Buster said. “How did you know?”

  Conrad looked at Bunty.

  “You Miss Boyd?”

  “Yes,” Bunty said blankly.

  Conrad signalled to Bardin, who joined them.

  “These are the two. You’d better handle it, Sam.”

  Bardin flashed his buzzer.

  “I’m Lieutenant Bardin, City Police. Where’s Miss Coleman?”

  “Frankie?” Buster gaped at him. “What do you want her for? What’s the idea?”

  “Answer the question and snap it up!” Bardin barked. “Where is she?”

  “We left her in the amusement park.”

  “Alone?”

  “No, she’s with Burt.”

  “Burt — who?”

  “Why, Burt Stevens, of course. What’s all this about?”

  Bardin glanced at Conrad, who asked, “Has this Stevens guy got a birth-mark?”

  “That’s right. A port-wine stain down the right side of his face.”

  “Are you sure his name is Stevens?”

  “He said it was. Is there something wrong, then?”

  “But you don’t know for certain?”

  “No, we don’t,” Bunty broke in. “I didn’t like the look of him when he came to the house. You see, we were all going to the beach: Frankie, Buster, Terry Lancing and myself. Terry phoned to say he couldn’t make it, and was sending his friend Burt to take his place. This boy turned up. He said he was Burt Stevens, but of course as I’ve never seen him before I don’t know for certain if he really is Burt Stevens.”

  “Where exactly did you leave Miss Coleman?”

  “They were going into the maze,” Buster said.

  “What maze?”

  “The mirror maze. It’s at the end of that avenue, next to the big tent. I wish you’d tell me what this is all about.”

  “No time right now,” Conrad said curtly. “Stay right here. We may need you again.” He turned to Bardin. “Come on!” He didn’t wait to see Bardin’s reaction, but broke into a run, and began forcing his way through the crowds towards the big tent.

  Bardin paused only long enough to give instructions to his sergeant.

  “Get that maze surrounded. Don’t let anyone out. You know who to look for. Watch out for Moe. He’ll try to shoot his way out.”

  He turned and ran after Conrad, leaving Buster and Bunty staring blankly after him.

  II

  The rays of the sun, striking obliquely into the maze, caught the nickel plate of the automatic and made the gun glitter in Moe’s hand.

  For a brief moment Frances stared at the pointing gun. Moe s appearance struck terror in her heart. His black suit, his hunched shoulders and his stillness sent a cold dull up her spine. She knew instinctively that he was a killer, and she realized he was about to shoot at her.

  There was no retreat. She looked desperately along the row of mirrors and saw an opening about ten feet ahead of her. She braced herself and jumped forward. As she moved Moe shot at her.

  The crash of gunfire, hemmed in by the confined space, sounded like a bomb exploding. Frances screamed wildly as a mirror right by her smashed into pieces. Fragments of glass flew like shrapnel. A splinter of glass sliced her frock missing her flesh by a hair’s breadth.

  She bolted down the turning, and ran as she had never run before. Ahead of her stretched an endless path of mirrors. Behind her she heard the soft padpad-pad of running feet, coming at a much faster speed than she was going. She flew over the ground, reached another turning and sped round it, cannoning into a mirror as she took the turning.

  She tried desperately to regain her balance, then slid down on one knee. As she struggled up, the automatic cracked again and a bullet zipped past her face, smashed a mirror, ricocheted against another mirror and smashed that too.

  The narrow path became full of flying fragments of glass. Covering her face with her arms, Frances blundered on down the path, running slower now, her breath coming in hard sobbing gasps.

  Moe pulled up short as he reached the pile of broken glass. He knew time was running out. He had been told to kill this girl, and he knew if he failed his own li
fe would be snuffed out. His small hard eyes looked along the path at the racing figure in the blue dress. He watched for a brief moment her slim flying legs and her black silky hair floating out behind her. He brought up the automatic and levelled the sight in the exact centre of her slim young shoulders. His finger curled around the trigger. He couldn’t miss now. She was running as straight as a foot rule, and the sun made her pale blue frock a dazzling target.

  Then he felt a violent blow against his shoulder, and gunfire crashed in his ears. His gun hand jerked up as his gun went off. He staggered back and looked up.

  Standing on one of the walls was the figure of a man, gun in hand. Moe recognized him immediately: the Special Investigator to the District Attorney’s office. He flung himself flat as Conrad shot at him again.

  Blood was running down Moe’s sleeve and down his fingers. He felt a dull burning pain in his right shoulder. He looked along the path, but the girl had now vanished, and he drew back his lips in a snarl of fury.

  Conrad was about fifteen yards from where Moe crouched. Two paths divided him from the path in which Moe was. He couldn’t see him now, but he knew he was still there. The wall was only six inches thick and it wasn’t easy to stand on it, let alone jump the six feet to the next wall.

  Already a dozen police were climbing up on to the top of the walls and were spreading out slowly to surround the maze.

  “He’s here,” Conrad shouted, and pointed to the path where Moe was crouching.

  Moe straightened up and fired at Conrad, who felt the slug zip past his face. As he automatically ducked, he lost his balance and fell into one of the mirrored paths.

  The police had called for planks and were crossing the paths by laying the planks across the tops of the walls, and then pulling the planks after them.

  But by the time they reached the path where Moe had been, he had vanished, leaving only a smear of blood on one of the mirrors to show where he had been.

  A police sergeant, squatting on the wall, looked down at Conrad.

  “You all right, sir?”

  “I’m okay,” Conrad said tersely. “I’ll stay here. See if you can spot him, then direct me on to him. If you see the girl, let me know at once. And watch out!”

  The sergeant nodded and started off, bent double, along the narrow wall.

  Moe in the next path watched him come, a savage gleam in his eyes. He lifted the automatic and shot the sergeant through the head.

  The sergeant threw up his arms and fell heavily into the next path to the one Moe was in.

  Gripping his wounded arm, Moe ran down the path, turned a corner and then paused to listen. He saw something blue reflected in one of the mirrors, and his lips came off his teeth in a grinning snarl.

  The girl was standing at the next intersection, and as he watched her, he saw her edge into the path where he was, looking away from him.

  Moe transferred his gun to his left hand. He lifted the gun and sighted it, aiming at the centre of her young full breasts. The gun sight wobbled as he fought against the increasing feeling of faintness, and he cursed under his breath.

  Suddenly a voice sounded over a loudspeaker: a voice that rolled over the maze, amplified like the sound of thunder.

  “Miss Coleman! Miss Coleman! Attention please! The police are looking for you. Will you shout so we can find you? Be on your guard. Keep looking to your right and your left. The gunman is still at large!”

  Frances caught her breath in a gasp of relief and alarm. She hastily looked to her right, then her left, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw the black suited figure not more than thirty yards from her, the automatic pointing at her. She shut her eyes and screamed wildly. Gunfire crashed against her ear drums. She felt a scorching pain bite into her arm and she felt herself falling.

  Moe watched her fall, his eyes alight with vicious triumph. He was aware of the sound of running feet, but he fired again at the still figure as it lay on the ground. The slug smashed the mirror an inch or two above Frances’s prostrate body, bringing a shower of glass down on top of her.

  The running feet sounded very close now, and Moe swung around.

  Conrad pulled up as he reached the corner of the path. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Moe, crouching, with his gun pushed forward, and beyond Moe, the body of a girl in a blue frock. He ducked back as Moe fired at him, the slug throwing a spray of glass splinters dangerously near his face.

  Dropping flat, Conrad edged around the corner. Moe spotted him as Conrad lifted his gun and they both fired simultaneously.

  Moe’s slug cut through the crown of Conrad’s hat. Conrad’s shot was more accurate. He saw Moe drop his gun, clutch his side and pitch forward on his face.

  Two policemen arrived above Conrad and jumped down beside him.

  “Watch him,” Conrad cautioned as he stepped into the path where Moe lay.

  But Moe didn’t move when they reached him. One of the police turned him over on his back.

  Moe’s white face was twisted into a snarl of pain and fear. His sightless eyes stared up at the blue sky. Blood soaked the front of his coat. Even as Conrad looked down at him, Moe’s jaw dropped and the last of his breath came through his open mouth in a tired, hissing sigh.

  III

  Naked, her body still rose-pink from the vigorous towelling she had given it, Dolores sat on a stool in one of the luxurious shower rooms in the Paradise Club and carefully dried between her toes with a piece of cotton wool.

  She had just come in from a swim, and following her usual practice, she had taken a shower to wash the salt water from her skin.

  Her expression was thoughtful and her almond-shaped eyes had lost their usual alive gleam and were cloudy with angry anxiety.

  An hour ago Jack Maurer had abruptly told her he was going on a fishing trip; destination unknown, and he would be away probably for three weeks to a month. Even now as she glanced out of the window that overlooked the ocean she could still see the yacht as a minute speck in the horizon.

  She had guessed Maurer had gone on Abe’s advice, and because of June Arnot.

  She had known about June ever since the affair had started. She had watched the affair progress, and had felt her own power over Maurer weaken as the months passed. She knew her throne was tottering. It gave her no satisfaction that June was dead. If it wasn’t June, then it would be someone else. She knew that Gloria Lyle, a second-rate movie actress with a bust like a pouter pigeon’s and the morals of an alley cat, had gone aboard the yacht, ten minutes before Maurer had left the club for the harbour.

  June’s murder had shocked Dolores. To her it was the writing on the wall. When Maurer came back, she was sure that her reign would end. The odds were that he wouldn’t bother to divorce her; he would get rid of her as brutally as he had got rid of June.

  Dolores had no illusions about Maurer. She knew he thought no more of taking a life than he thought of drinking a Scotch and soda.

  She had been his wife now for four years, and the wonder was she had lasted so long. It was only because she had never given him a chance to complain, never looked at any other man, that she had lasted. She knew he was growing impatient for his freedom. He wouldn’t dare divorce her. She knew too much about his business affairs to risk her being free from his watchful influence. She was sure that before long, probably when he returned, he would tell one of his hoods what to do, and she would the. She would have a car smash or a shooting accident; she might get carried out to sea when she was bathing. There were many convenient ways in which she could the: convenient for Maurer, of course.

  She reached out for a cigarette, lit it and released two thin trails of smoke down her finely shaped nostrils.

  She wasn’t alarmed, but she realized she would have to do something if she were going to survive. Already her quick wits and her shrewd razor-sharp mind had created a passible solution. Now Maurer was out of the ways she must make immediate use of her opportunities.

  She stood up and walked over to the wall mir
ror and surveyed herself. She smoothed her hands down her long, sleek flanks as she studied her body with thoughtful narrowed eyes. She thought of Gloria Lyle with her short legs and ridiculous bust. What did Maurer see in her, she wondered. What could he see in her? He was no better than an alley cat himself in search of any new sensation with an animal urge for something fresh, no matter how ugly it was.

  Shrugging her shoulders, she began to dress, her mind still occupied. Her position was dangerous. She had thought of taking her jewellery and the clothes he had once showered on her and trying to hide herself somewhere, but she knew there was nowhere safe from his long-reaching arm.

  She snapped a garter into place, smoothed her dress over her solid hips and walked out of the shower room and along the passage to the cocktail bar.

  Abe Gollowitz sat on a high stool, sipping a martini. His fat buttocks spread over the stool, making the stool look like a grotesque mushroom.

  She stood in the doorway, looking at him. In him was her only hope, and she felt a little shiver of disgust run through her. Pot-bellied, oily old men were her only refuge, she thought: the only men who had the power and the money that were essential to her way of life. If only Abe were like that flash, hard-muscled Seigel. She had often wondered what Seigel would be like as a lover. Several times she had been tempted to experiment, but she knew the danger. Once she had made Seigel her lover, her life would be hanging on a thread.

  She studied Gollowitz as he sipped his martini, unaware of her presence. She could do anything with him, and she had long known he lived for the day when he would take over Maurer’s position. But would he be strong enough to protect her when the time came?

  “Hello, Abe,” she said, coming up to him and smiling her brilliant, sensual smile. “So Jack’s gone.”

  He hurriedly slid off the stool, his fat, dark face lighting up.

  “Yes, he’s gone,” he said, his eyes undressing her. “How beautiful you look, Dolly. How do you manage it?”