This Way for a Shroud

by James Hadley Chase

  IV

  Around six-thirty the passages, kitchens and still rooms of the Ocean Hotel were noisy with bustling activity as the staff prepared dinner for over five hundred guests.

  Unlike the glittering, luxurious restaurant, the staff quarters were dark, damp and cramped. The kitchen staff, already sweating from the heat of the ovens, cursed the long line of laundry hampers that were stacked along the wall, narrowing the passage to and from the kitchens to the preparation room.

  The hampers wouldn’t be moved until the following morning when they would be unpacked and the laundry sorted and taken upstairs; in the meantime they were unwelcomed obstructions.

  Vito Ferrari lay curled up in one of the top hampers. He listened to the activity going on around him and watched through a chink in the wicker-work the staff scurrying backwards and forwards.

  In half an hour the activity would be transferred to the kitchens and the restaurant. In the meantime he waited.

  Waiting was no hardship to Ferrari. Patience was the greatest asset to a professional killer, and Ferrari’s patience was without limit.

  It had cost him twenty dollars to be smuggled into the hotel basement in the laundry hamper. The delivery man had accepted Ferrari’s story of an illicit loveaffair between himself and the wife of the head chef. The delivery man thought it was pretty funny for a dwarf to be in love to the extent of paying out good money just for a chance of seeing the chef’s wife through a hole in the laundry hamper.

  It had been simple enough for him to carry Ferrari in the hamper down to the basement. Ferrari didn’t weigh much more than ninety pounds, and the delivery man had handled heavier weights than that.

  So Ferrari waited in his hamper, and the hands of his strap-watch crawled on. By ten minutes after seven, the rushing to and fro began to dwindle. By seventhirty the long passage between the kitchen and the preparation room was silent and deserted.

  Cautiously Ferrari lifted the lid of the hamper and peered up and down the dimly lit passage. He listened, then hearing only the uproar coming from the kitchens, he slid out of the hamper, closed the lid and keeping close to the darkest side of the wall, he went silently and swiftly down the passage, away from the kitchens towards the storerooms and the staff elevators. He arrived at the end of the passage which opened out into another big lobby stacked with cases of beer.

  He heard an elevator on the move and he ducked behind the cases of beer.

  The elevator bumped to rest and the door slid back. Two waiters, manoeuvring a trolley, came out and went away along the passage, leaving the elevator doors open.

  In a matter of seconds, Ferrari was in the elevator and had pressed the button to the ninth floor. The elevator took him smoothly and quickly upwards.

  He leaned against the wall and picked his teeth with a splinter of wood. He was as calm and as unruffled as a bishop at a tea-party.

  The elevator stopped.

  Ferrari knew this was his first dangerous moment. If someone happened to be in the passage when he opened the elevator doors his plans might easily be ruined. It was a risk he had to take. In any plan, no matter how carefully thought out, there were always two or three unavoidable risks. They were risks Ferrari accepted, knowing that up to now his luck had been extraordinary. He saw no reason why his luck should desert him at this moment.

  He didn’t hesitate. As he pressed the button to open the doors, his hand slid inside his coat and closed on the butt of his gun.

  The corridor was deserted.

  He left the elevator, slid across the corridor and behind a curtain that screened one of the big windows overlooking the sea. The curtain had barely fallen into place when he heard someone coming, and he grinned to himself. His luck hadn’t deserted him.

  He peered through a chink in the curtain and nodded to himself.

  A big burly man who had “cop’ written all over him, came slowly along the corridor. He passed Ferrari’s hiding-place and went on, disappearing around the bend of the corridor.

  Ferrari immediately left his hiding-place, and walked swiftly in the opposite direction.

  The long corridor stretched ahead of him, and after he had walked fifty yards or so, he again ducked behind a window curtain. He remained there, listening and watching.

  A door opened suddenly a few yards from him, and a girl appeared. She was wearing a low-cut, off-the-shoulder evening gown, and Ferrari looked at her creamy neck and shoulders with an approving eye. She closed the door, but left the key in the lock. He watched her walk slowly to the elevator. She pressed the button and waited, humming under her breath.

  The big cop came back along the corridor. He touched his hat to the girl who smiled brightly at him, and he went on, not looking back.

  The elevator door opened and the girl entered the cage.

  Ferrari waited.

  After a few minutes the cop came back. He passed close to where Ferrari was

  hiding, and once more disappeared around the bend in the corridor.

  Ferrari stepped out from behind the curtains, crossed over to the door of the room the girl had just left, opened it softly and looked in.

  The room was in darkness. He took out the key, stepped into the room, closed the door and shot the bolt. Then he snapped on the lights.

  The bed had been turned down and the room was tidy, Ferrari decided the floor maid had already visited the room, and with any luck he wouldn’t be disturbed for at least an hour. He turned out the light and went over to the window, drawing back the curtains.

  The window overlooked the swimming-pool and the lawn. He could see the bright lights, the crowds still swimming or lounging around the pool while waiters in white jackets hurried to and fro carrying trays of drinks.

  Frances’s room, Ferrari knew, was at the back of the hotel, facing the sea. He knew, too, that all the windows on the tenth floor on that side of the hotel were guarded. To reach her window, he would have to climb up the roof, lower himself over the ridge and then climb down the other side.

  It would be a dangerous and difficult climb, one of the most dangerous climbs he had ever undertaken, but it didn’t worry him. He had studied the roof for a long time through a pair of powerful field glasses, and had decided on the route to take.

  He pulled the curtain and sat on the window ledge and watched the crowd below. It wasn’t dark enough to make an attempt just yet. In another half hour the darkness would hide him from anyone who happened to look up towards the roof.

  He sat staring down at the lighted bathing-pool, his mind a blank, his muscles relaxed. The hands of his strap-watch crawled on and the sky slowly darkened. At a few minutes past nine o’clock he decided it was dark enough.

  From under his coat he produced a long coil of silk rope that he had wound round and round his thin body. At one end of the rope was a rubber-covered hook, and at the other end a heavily padded ring.

  He stepped out on to the window sill and looked up. Above him was the balcony of one of the bedrooms on the tenth floor. He tossed up the hook which caught in a stone projection and held.

  He climbed up the rope as effortlessly and as quickly as a monkey runs up a tree. He reached the balcony, swung himself over the balustrade and dropped on to hands and knees.

  He peered through the window into an empty room, then he looked over the balustrade and stood watching the activity below until he had satisfied himself no one from the ground had seen him.

  He climbed up on to the balustrade and looked up at the perpendicular roof some twenty feet or so above him. A stout rain gutter ran the length of the roof, and he tossed up his hook again. The hook caught in the gutter, and he pulled, testing the gutter’s strength. It neither bent nor creaked under his persistent pulling, and without more ado he launched himself into space and went swarming up the rope until his claw-like hands got a grip on the gutter.

  He pulled himself up as far as his waist above the gutter, shifted his handholds, got one leg up and along the gutter, his foot in the gutter. There he
remained while he adjusted his balance.

  The steep roof towered above him. Far below, the bright floodlights, the blue water of the swimming-pool and the continual arrival of cars, looked like a child’s toy laid out on a green carpet.

  Ferrari began to lean forward very slowly, and at the same time he drew up his other leg and got that along the gutter. He was now balanced only on his hands, and the slightest error of judgment would pitch him backwards into the black gulf below.

  He was quite calm, but he knew his danger.

  When he had told Maurer he believed he was the only man in the world who could do this job he had been sincere. This moment of balancing was the hardest task he had ever attempted. He wasn’t frightened, but he did wonder if he hadn’t overestimated his skill.

  He leaned forward a trifle, then began to draw his legs along the gutter towards him. As he began to bend his knees he suddenly felt his balance go, and for a split second the weight of his body swayed outwards.

  His fingers dug into the cold hard guttering, and he dropped his head down on to his chest. The shifting weight of his head corrected his balance, bringing him slightly forward again.

  He remained motionless for over a minute while sweat ran down his face and his breath came from his emaciated chest in great rasping gasps. He had been but a heart-beat away from death, and he was momentarily shaken.

  When he had recovered sufficiently he again leaned forward and keeping his head down, he again began to draw up his legs. This time he succeeded in getting his feet under him, his knees bent up to his chin. He looked like a tiny black ball perched precariously on the edge of the gutter. Then still leaning forward, he slowly straightened his legs, thrusting his body forward and upright. He had to let go of the gutter, and his hands reached out and flattened on the tiles of the roof.

  He was standing upright now, his toes in the gutter, his body flat against the roof, his head still bent down. He remained in that position until his breathing had returned to normal.

  Then he slowly freed the rope which he had hung around his neck and tossed the hook upwards towards the apex of the roof.

  He had to make four casts before the hook caught, and once in his anxiety to make a better cast he again nearly over-balanced.

  But as soon as he was satisfied the hook had a hold, he was once more his confident self. Taking hold of the rope in both hands and leaning well out, he walked up the perpendicular roof and got astride the apex.

  He could now look down at the sea, calmly washing over the rocks some two hundred feet below him. Somewhere just below the edge of the roof was Frances’s room.

  He could see the reflected lights from the windows just below, and could hear music from a radio. He fixed the ring at the end of the rope around his ankle, then holding on to the rope he lowered himself down until his heels wedged into the gutter. On this side, the roof was much less steep and he had no difficulty in sitting against the tiles.

  Silently he lowered himself over the edge of the roof, turning upside down as he did so. He released the rope and swung head downwards, held only by his ankle. His head and shoulders came just level with the open window and he looked into a big, airy bedroom.

  For a moment he couldn’t believe his good luck. He had hit on Frances’s room at his first attempt!

  There were three people in the room. Two police women and Frances.

  The two police women were sitting away from the window; one was reading, the other was knitting.

  Frances sat before a dressing-table. She was brushing her hair.

  He hung upside down in the darkness and watched her. After a minute or so, she laid down the hair-brush and stood up. She was wearing a pale-blue silk wrap that accentuated her paleness. She wandered over to an armchair near the window and sat down.

  Ferrari swung himself upwards, catching hold of the rope and hauling himself back on to the gutter. He looked at his watch. The time was now half-past nine. He had half an hour to wait.

  He waited.

  V

  Conrad looked up as Forest came into his room.

  Forest had had dinner and had taken a stroll around the grounds before coming up to Conrad’s room. He sank into a deep armchair with the air of a man both relaxed and satisfied.

  “That wasn’t a bad dinner,” he said. “They do you well here, don’t they?”

  “Oh, sure,” Conrad said indifferently. He hadn’t even noticed what he had had for dinner. “Well, sir, what do you think of her?”

  “A nice girl; a damned pretty girl, too,” Forest said, stretching out his legs. “I had a long talk with her and I think I’ve persuaded her to sign the statement. Of course she’s scared of Maurer. Weiner did a good job, putting the fear of Maurer into her, but she promises to let me know one way or the other tomorrow morning.” He looked up. “I put in a word for you, Paul.”

  “You did? How did she react?” Conrad asked, sitting forward.

  “She seems a little stunned that you should want to marry her. She’s got a lot of complexes, and that’s not to be wondered at. You’ll have to be patient, Paul. It may take a long time. I told her if she will sign the statement, we’ll finance a trip to Europe for her and you and Miss Fielding for a couple of months immediately after the trial. She seemed to like the idea.”

  “Did she? That’s pretty good of you, sir. How about the financial angle? The Treasury won’t finance her, will it?”

  “Not a hope,” Forest said, and laughed. “That’s up to you, Paul. I’ll give you leave for a couple of months, but you’ll have to stand the racket.”

  “I’ll stand it. Did she say where she would like to go?”

  “I made a suggestion,” Forest returned, rubbing the side of his nose and looking artful. “I told her she should see Venice. If you can’t cook up a little romance in a gondola, then you’re not the man I think you are. Ever been to Venice? I took my wife there on our honeymoon. No place like it in the world.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Conrad said, smiling. “Well, that’s something to think about for the future, but right now we’ve got to think of getting her safely over the trial. What do you think of my precautions?”

  “Excellent,” Forest returned. “I’m as satisfied as you are they can’t get at her here now I’ve seen for myself. This is a good spot, Paul. What are your plans for taking her to the courthouse?” He glanced up sharply. “That plane sounds damned low.”

  The sudden whoosh of air and the roar of an aircraft engine had startled them both.

  “There’s a night trip from Pacific City to Los Angeles that passes about this time,” Conrad said, glancing at his watch. It was just ten o’clock. “I think the best thing we can do is to take her from here in an armoured car with an escort of cycle cops. We’ll keep her in the court-house. There’re some rooms in the basement she can have. They’re not particularly pleasant, but it’ll only be for a week or so. There’re no windows and only one entrance.”

  “Yes,” Forest said, “but we’ve got to catch Maurer first.”

  “Still no news?”

  “Bardin was on the phone about ten minutes ago. He says there’s a rumour going around that Maurer’s back. They’re checking now.”

  Conrad sat up.

  “Back? Who started the rumour?”

  “There’s that plane again,” Forest said, as the aircraft, flying very low, roared past the window. He got up and went to the window. “Goddamn it! Look at this, Paul.”

  Conrad joined him at the window.

  Flying out to sea was a small, single-winged aircraft, lit up by red neon lights. It looked like some strange bird of paradise as it swept around in a tight circle and came back towards the hotel.

  “Some advertising stunt,” Conrad said, watching the plane without interest. His mind was busy thinking about Frances. The idea of taking her to Venice made his heart beat faster. The trip would give him a chance to try and straighten out her mind.

  “Looks pretty good,” Forest said, leaning
out of the window to see more of the plane as it came around the hotel and swept downwards towards the sea. “What’s he advertising, I wonder? Hey! Look at that, Paul.”

  A little irritated by Forest’s childish interest, Conrad moved closer to the open window.

  The plane was now flying just below the cliffs and practically level with the hotel gardens. A figure, lit up by red and blue fairy lights, was standing on one of the wings. It waved as the plane roared past the hotel.

  “The reckless fool,” Conrad grunted. The things people will do for money.”

  “When I was a kid,” Forest said, “I wanted to be a wing-walker. That guy’s certainly got a nerve. Look at him!”

  The plane was returning now, still flying low. The wing-walker was standing on his hands, balanced precariously on the edge of the wing.

  Faintly above the roar of the engine. Conrad could hear the excited cries of the people in the garden as they waved to the plane.

  “Here he comes,” Forest said, leaning farther out of the window. “He’s hanging on with one hand…”

  Conrad felt the rug they were standing on shift suddenly as Forest leaned still farther out of the window. He saw Forest lurch forward and grab frantically for the window sill. Conrad snatched at Forest’s coat, braced himself as he felt Forest over-balance. For one horrible moment he thought the coat was going to be wrenched out of his grip, then Forest managed to get a hold on the windowframe and heave himself back into the room.

  “For God’s sake…” Conrad gasped.

  Forest was white-faced and shaken.

  “Thanks, Paul,” he said huskily. “Hell! I nearly went out. That’s a long way down. Phew! I guess the rug slipped… .”

  Conrad stood rooted, his face white. Above the returning roar of the aircraft both men heard a wild, terrified scream that chilled their blood.

  “What’s that?” Forest exclaimed.

  Conrad flung himself across the room, wrenched open the door and ran blindly down the corridor to Frances’s room.

  Two of the guards were coming from the opposite direction. Conrad beat them to the door and threw it open.