What`s Better Than Money

by James Hadley Chase

  ‘An association with a woman like that is something no one likes to admit to,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah.’ He scratched the side of his fleshy face. ‘Well, okay, I guess this takes care of it. You don’t have to worry any more about it. I’m not making a report. I’m just tying up the loose ends.’

  It was my turn to stare at him. ‘You’re not making a report?’

  ‘I’m in charge of this investigation.’ He stretched out his long, thick legs. ‘I don’t see any reason to get a guy into trouble because he takes a roll in the hay.’ His fleshy face suddenly relaxed into a grin: it wasn’t a pleasant grin: it was more a leer than a grin. ‘I wanted to be sure you had nothing to do with her death and I’m sure of it.’ The leering grin widened. ‘You can count yourself lucky. I’m retiring at the end of the month. I might not be so soft with you if I wasn’t going out to grass. You might not think it to look at me but I’m nudging sixty and that’s the time for a man to retire.’

  There was something about him I disliked. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I was suspicious of him.

  He suddenly no longer seemed a cop. He was a man who had done his work, and was now in a vacuum.

  I hated having him in my apartment.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t believe it, sergeant,’ I said. ‘Well, thanks.’

  ‘We use our discretion in blackmail cases.’ He grinned again. ‘We get plenty of that. Guys making goddam fools of themselves with some whore and then getting into a mess. You’re lucky, Mr. Halliday, that Mandon stopped her mouth.’

  ‘She was a blackmailer,’ I said. ‘She could have been killed by any of her victims. Have you thought of that?’

  ‘Mandon killed her. There’s no question about that.’

  I very nearly told him about Wilbur, but I didn’t. If I brought Wilbur into it, the story of the Studio robbery and the shooting of the guard would have to come out, and then I would be fixed.

  ‘Well, thanks again, sergeant.’

  He heaved himself to his feet.

  ‘That’s okay, Mr. Halliday. You’re not going to hear any more about this.’ He looked at me, a half leer, half grin on his face. ‘Of course, if you’re all that grateful, maybe a small donation to the police sports fund might be in order: just a thought, Mr. Halliday, not even a suggestion.’

  It was my turn to stare at him.

  ‘Why, yes, of course.’ I took out my wallet. ‘What would you suggest, sergeant?’

  ‘Anything you like.’ The small eyes were suddenly greedy. ‘Suppose we say a hundred bucks?’

  I gave him twenty five-dollar bills.

  ‘I’ll send you a receipt. The boys will certainly appreciate this.’ The bills disappeared into his pocket.

  ‘Thanks, Mr. Halliday.’

  I wasn’t that much of a mug.

  ‘You don’t have to send me a receipt. I would rather not have it.’

  The leering grin widened.

  ‘Just as you like, Mr. Halliday. Well, anyway – thanks.’

  I watched him go.

  I had been lucky, almost too lucky.

  But what if they caught Vasari?

  CHAPTER NINE

  I

  The following afternoon, while I was working in the office, Clara came in to tell me Mr. Terrell was asking to see me.

  For a moment or so I couldn’t place the name, then I remembered he was the owner of the cottage on Simeon’s Hill that Sarita had been so anxious to have, and that seemed a long way into the past.

  I pushed aside the papers on my desk and told Clara to bring him in.

  Terrell was a man around sixty three or four, heavily built and jovial: he looked like a benign, well red bishop.

  ‘Mr. Halliday,’ he said, as he shook hands, ‘I heard Sarita is coming out of hospital next week. I have a proposition that may interest you.’

  I asked him to sit down.

  ‘What’s the proposition, Mr. Terrell?’

  ‘The sale of my place has fallen through. The buyer has found something nearer his work. My wife and I are off to Miami at the end of the week. I know Sarita had set her heart on our place. I’m going to suggest you take it over just as it stands at a nominal rent: say twenty dollars a week, until she gets better. Then if you like it, maybe you would reconsider buying it, but that’s up to you. My wife and I are very fond of Sarita, and we think it would give her a lot of pleasure to come straight from hospital to our place. How about it?’

  For a moment I couldn’t believe my ears, then I started to my feet and grabbed his hand.

  ‘It’s a wonderful idea! I can’t thank you enough! Of course, I’ll accept! But here’s what I would like to do. I’ll give you a cheque right now for ten thousand dollars and as soon as I get these operations and doctor’s bills out of my hair, I’ll pay you the balance. It’s a sale!’

  And that’s how it was arranged.

  I didn’t tell Sarita. I wanted to see her expression when the ambulance pulled up outside Terrell’s cottage.

  Helen Mathison helped me to take our personal things to the cottage. We had six clear days to prepare the place before Sarita left the sanatorium. I was working long hours at the office, spending my nights at the cottage, but in spite of being so preoccupied, every now and then, I would think of Vasari and wonder. Every morning I scanned the newspapers to make sure he hadn’t been found, but there seemed to be no interest now in the murder. During the past days there had been no mention of it in the papers.

  Finally the day came when Sarita was to leave the sanatorium. I took the afternoon off. Helen drove me out there and left me. I was to ride back with Sarita in the ambulance.

  They brought her out in a stretcher. The nurse who was going to stay with us came with her.

  Sarita smiled excitedly at me as they slid the stretcher into the ambulance. The nurse and driver sat in front, and I got in with her.

  ‘Well, this is it!’ I said as the ambulance moved off, and I took her hand. ‘You’re going to be fine from now on, my darling. You don’t know how I’ve been looking forward to taking you home.’

  ‘I’ll soon be up and around, Jeff,’ she said, squeezing my hand. ‘I’ll make you happy again.’ She looked out of the window. ‘How good it is to see the streets again and the people.’ Then after a while, she said, ‘But, Jeff, where are we going? This isn’t the way home. Has he lost his way?’’

  ‘This is the way home, Sarita,’ I said. ‘Our new home. Can’t you guess?’

  I had my reward then. The expression in her eyes as the ambulance began to climb Simeon’s Hill was something to see.

  All my past days of tension, fear and worry were wiped out as she said in unsteady voice, ‘Oh, Jeff, darling! It can’t be true!’

  The next few days were the happiest of my life. I had a lot of paper work to do so I didn’t go to the office. I worked at home, keeping in touch with Ted Watson and Clara on the telephone.

  We made up a bed in the lounge for Sarita so she could be with me. She read or knitted while I worked, and every so often I would push aside my work and we would talk.

  She was gaining strength every day, and on her fourth day home, Dr. Zimmerman who had come out to see her, said she could get into a wheel chair.

  ‘She has made tremendous progress, Mr. Halliday,’ he said as I walked with him to his car. ‘I thought once she was home she would pick up, but not as fast as this. I wouldn’t be surprised if in a few months, she won’t be walking.’

  The next day the wheel chair arrived, and the nurse and I put Sarita into it.

  ‘Now there’ll be no holding me,’ Sarita said. ‘We must celebrate. Let’s ask Jack and the Mathisons to lunch. Let’s have a thanksgiving lunch.’

  So we threw a party.

  There was turkey and champagne, and after lunch, when the nurse had insisted that Sarita should go back to bed for a rest and after the Mathisons had gone, Jack and I sat outside on the terrace, overlooking the river, where in the distance we could see the men working on the bridge wh
ile we finished our cigars.

  We were both feeling relaxed and good. We talked of this and that, then as Jack got lazily to his feet, he said, ‘So they finally caught the Santa Barba killer. I was beginning to think they would never get to him.’

  I felt as if a mailed fist had slammed a punch under my heart. For a moment or so I couldn’t even speak, then I said, ‘What was that?’

  He was stretching and yawning in the hot sunshine, and he said indifferently, ‘You know: the guy who killed the woman in the bungalow. They cornered him in a New York night club. There was a gun battle and he got hurt. They say he won’t live. I picked it up on the car radio as I came out here.’

  Somehow I kept my face expressionless. Somehow I kept my voice steady.

  ‘Is that a fact?’ I said. It didn’t sound like me speaking. ‘Well, that’s his bad luck. I guess I’ll get back to the grindstone. It’s been swell having you, Jack.’

  ‘Thanks for the lunch.’ He put his hand on my arm. ‘And just for the record, Jeff: I’m terribly glad Sarita pulled through. She’s a wonderful girl, and you’re a damn lucky guy.’

  I watched him drive down the hill in his black and white Thunderbird.

  A damn lucky guy!

  ‘I was shaking, and there was sweat on my face.

  So they had finally caught Vasari!

  There was a gun fight, and he got hurt. They say he won’t live.

  That would be lucky too – too lucky.

  I had to know the details.

  I told the nurse I was going down town. She said Sarita was sleeping, and she would stay around.

  I drove fast to the nearest news stand. I bought a paper, but there was no news of Vasari’s arrest. I might have known I would have to wait for the final night edition.

  I drove over to the office. My mind was aflame with panic.

  Would he die? If he didn’t die he would go for trial for a murder I knew he hadn’t committed. I couldn’t let him go to the gas chamber.

  There was work waiting for me in the office but I found it almost impossible to concentrate. I had an interview with a contractor, and my mind wandered so badly I saw he was looking at me, puzzled. I apologised.

  ‘My wife’s just out of hospital,’ I said. ‘We’ve been celebrating. I guess I’ve had too much champagne.’

  Later, Ted Watson came in from the bridge site. He was carrying an evening paper which he dropped on the desk. I was still working with the contractor. The sight of that paper blew my concentration sky high.

  We were getting out figures, and I began to make so many mistakes, the contractor said sharply,

  ‘Look, Mr. Halliday, let’s call this off. That champagne certainly must have been dynamite. Suppose I call around tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, but I have a hell of a head. Yes, let’s make it tomorrow…’

  As soon as he had gone, I leaned over and grabbed the paper.

  ‘May I borrow this, Ted?’

  ‘Sure, Mr. Halliday, help yourself.’

  On the front page was a photograph of Vasari and a pretty dark girl who didn’t look more than eighteen years of age. He had his arm around her and was smiling at her.

  The caption under the photograph read: Jinx Mandon marries torch singer on the day of his capture.

  The account of Vasari’s capture was scrappy.

  While celebrating his marriage with Pauline Terry, a night club singer, at the Hole in the Corner Club, Vasari had been recognised by a detective who happened to be in the club at the time. When the detective had approached the table where Vasari and his wife were dining, Vasari had pulled a gun. The detective had shot him before he had had a chance of firing. Dangerously wounded, Vasari had been rushed to hospital. Doctors were now fighting to save his life.

  That was all, but it was enough. I couldn’t do any more work. I told Weston I was going home, but I didn’t go directly home. I went to a nearby bar and drank two double Scotches.

  The doctors were now fighting to save his life.

  The irony of it! They were trying to save his life so that he could be executed! Why couldn’t they let him die?

  What was I going to do?

  If he lived, I would have to come forward. I had now no excuse not to. Sarita was no longer helpless.

  Soon she would be walking again.

  Maybe he wouldn’t live. There was nothing I could do now but to wait. If he died, then I would be out of this mess for good.

  But if he lived…

  II

  The next six days were nightmare days for me.

  The press was quick to recognise the drama of the doctors’ fight to save Vasari’s life. There was a bulletin printed every day. One day the headline would read: Gangster Sinking, and I would relax a little.

  The next day it would be Jinx Mandon lives on. Doctors hopeful.

  On the sixth day, the headlines read: Ninety-nine to one chance operation to save gangster’s life.

  The paper stated that an operation by one of New York’s most eminent surgeons was to be performed on Mandon in a final effort to save his life. The surgeon, interviewed by the press, said that Mandon had only the slightest chance of survival. The operation was so delicate that it would attract the attention of the medical profession throughout the world.

  It was while I was reading this that I heard Sarita say, ‘Jeff! I’ve spoken to you twice. What is it?’

  I put down the paper.

  ‘Sorry, darling. I was reading. What did you say?’

  I had trouble in meeting her puzzled eyes.

  ‘Is something wrong, Jeff?’

  She was seated opposite me at the breakfast table in her wheel chair. We were alone. She looked well, and she was already restless to try to walk.

  ‘Wrong? Why no, of course there’s nothing wrong.’

  Her cool grey eyes searched my face.

  ‘Are you sure, Jeff? You have been so nervy these past days. You worry me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was preoccupied with the bridge. There’s a lot to think about.’ I got to my feet. ‘I must get down to the office. I’ll be back about seven.’

  I had a date with Jack at the bridge site. The first girder was to be put in place.

  While we were waiting, Jack said, ‘Is there anything on your mind, Jeff? You’ve been looking like hell these last few days.’

  ‘I guess I take all this a bit harder than you,’ I said. ‘I’m really worked up about this bridge.’

  ‘You don’t have to be. It’s working out like a charm.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I guess I’m the worrying type.’

  He saw the foreman was handling the girder clumsily, and with a muttered expletive, he left me and went down to where the men were working.

  I would have to watch myself, I thought uneasily. The strain was beginning to show.

  Two days later, it happened.

  The headlines of the paper said Mandon’s operation had been successful and he was now out of danger. In another week he would be flown to Santa Barba jail. As soon as he was strong enough, he would go for trial for the murder of Rima Marshall.

  I read the report in the evening paper that had been delivered to our home.

  I felt physically sick.

  This was it! Vasari had survived and now, unless I told the truth, he would stand trial and be executed.

  I looked across at Sarita who was reading. The temptation to tell her the truth was strong, but my instincts warned me not to tell her.

  I mustn’t wait any longer. Tomorrow I must go to Santa Barba and tell Keary the whole story. He must start the hunt for Wilbur right away.

  ‘I forgot to tell you, Sarita,’ I said as casually as I could. ‘I have to go to San Francisco tomorrow. I’ll be away a couple of days. It’s to do with this steel project.’

  She looked up, startled.

  ‘Tomorrow? Well, all right, Jeff, but isn’t it rather sudden?’

  ‘We’re not getting delivery fast enough,’ I lied. ‘Jack wa
nts me to go. I’ve only just remembered.’

  When she had gone to bed, I called Jack at his pent house apartment.

  ‘I want to talk to Stovell,’ I said. ‘I’m running up to San Francisco tomorrow. The steel isn’t coming through fast enough.’

  ‘It isn’t?’ Jack sounded surprised. ‘I thought they were doing pretty well. They’re sending it through as fast as I can handle it.’

  ‘I want to talk to Stovell anyway. Ted can look after the office while I’m away.’

  ‘Well, okay,’ I could hear the puzzled note in his voice. ‘Suit yourself. There’s no big rush at your end now.’

  That night as I lay in bed, I wondered what Keary would do when he heard my story. Would he arrest me or would he first check my story? Should I tell Sarita that she might not see me again when I left the next morning? Should I tell her the truth?

  What a shock it would be to her if I were arrested and didn’t see her again. I knew I should tell her the truth, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  All night, I lay in the darkness, sweating it out, and when the dawn light came through the open window, I was still undecided what to do, but finally as I was dressing I decided to see the police first.

  A little after four o’clock in the afternoon, I walked into the Santa Barba police station house.

  A large, well fed police sergeant sat at a desk, chewing the end of his pen. He looked at me without interest and asked me what I wanted.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Keary please.’

  He took the pen out of his mouth, looked at it suspiciously and then laid it on the desk.

  ‘Who shall I say?’

  ‘My name is Jefferson Halliday. He knows me.’

  His large hand hovered over the telephone, then as if he couldn’t be bothered, he shrugged and waved me to the corridor.

  ‘Third door on the left. Help yourself.’

  I walked down the corridor, paused outside the third door on the left and knocked.

  Keary barked, ‘Come on in.’

  I opened the door and walked in.

  Keary was lolling in a desk chair, reading a newspaper. The room was small and cramped. There was just room for the desk, the desk chair and an upright chair. With me in the room, it became a squeeze.