Lay Her Among the Lilies vm-2

by James Hadley Chase

  “And before you go you’re having a taste of your own medicine,” she was saying, and, as I lowered the bottle, she thrust the rubber cosh she had picked up towards me. “Go on, hit them!” she said viciously. “Get your own back!”

  I took the cosh because otherwise she would probably have pushed it down my throat, and I looked at Hartsell and MacGraw, who stared back at me like two pigs waiting to have their throats slit.

  “Hit them!” she repeated, her voice rising. “It’s time someone did. They’ll take it. I’ll see to that.”

  It was an extraordinary thing, but I was pretty sure they would have stood there and let me beat their heads off.

  I tossed the cosh on to the settee.

  “Not me, Lady, that’s not the way I get my fun,” I said, my voice sounding like a record being played with a blunt gramophone needle.

  “Hit them!” she commanded furiously. “What are you frightened of? They won’t dare touch you again. Beat them up!”

  “Sorry,” I said. “It wouldn’t amuse me. Let’s turn them out. They’re lousing up the room.”

  She turned, snatched up the cosh and walked up to MacGraw. His white face turned yellow, but he didn’t move. Her arm flashed up and she hit him across his face. An ugly red weal sprang up on his flabby cheek. He gave a whimpering grunt, but he still didn’t move.

  As her arm flashed up again I grabbed her wrist and snatched the cosh out of her hand. The effort cost me a stab of pain through the head and a hard-stinging slap across the face from Miss Spitfire. She tried to get the cosh from me, but I held on to her wrists and yelled: “Beat it, you two lugs! Beat it before she knocks the hell out of you!”

  Holding her was like holding an angry tigress. She was surprisingly strong. As I wrestled with her MacGraw and Hartsell charged out of the room as if the devil was after them. They fell down the steps in their hurry to get away. When I heard their car start up I released her wrists and stepped away.

  “Take it easy,” I said, panting with my exertions. “They’ve gone now.”

  For a moment she stood gasping, her face set and her eyes blazing; a lovely thing of fury, and then the anger went and her eyes lost their explosive quality and she suddenly threw back her head and laughed.

  “Well, we certainly scared the daylights out of those two rats, didn’t we?” she said, and flopped limply on the settee. “Give me a drink and have one yourself. You certainly look as if you need one.”

  As I reached for the bottle I said, looking at her intently, “The name, of course, is Maureen Crosby?”

  “You’ve guessed it.” She rubbed her wrists, making a comical grimace. “You’ve hurt me, you brute!”

  “Sorry,” I said, and meant it.

  “Lucky I looked in. If I hadn’t they would have had your hide by now.”

  “So they would,” I said, pouring four fingers of Scotch into a glass. My hand was very unsteady and some of the whisky splashed on to the carpet. I handed her the glass, and began to fix myself a drink. “Whiterock or water?”

  “In its bare skin,” she returned, holding the glass up to the light. “I don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure or water with Scotch. Do you?”

  “It depends on the business and the Scotch,” I said, and sat down. My legs felt as if the shin bones had been removed. “So you are Maureen Crosby. Well, well, quite the last person I expected to call on me.”

  I thought you would be surprised.” There was a mocking expression in the dark eyes and the smile was calculated.

  “How’s the drug cure going?” I asked, watching her. “I’ve always heard a dopie should lay off liquor.”

  She continued to smile, but her eyes were not amused.

  “You shouldn’t believe all you hear.”

  I drank some of the whisky. It was very strong. I shuddered and put the glass on the table.

  “I don’t. I hope you don’t either.”

  We sat for a long moment, looking at each other. She had the knack of making her face expressionless without losing her loveliness which was quite an achievement.

  “Don’t let’s get complicated. I’m here to talk to you. You’re making a lot of trouble. Isn’t it time you took your little spade and dug in someone else’s graveyard?”

  I made believe to think this over.

  “Are you just asking or is this a proposition?” I said finally.

  Her mouth tightened and the smile went away.

  “Can you be bought? I was told you were one of those clean, simple, non-grafting characters. I was particularly advised not to offer you money.”

  I reached for a cigarette.

  “I thought we had agreed we didn’t believe all we heard,” I said, leaning forward to offer the cigarette. She took it, so I had to reach for another. Lighting hers caused me another stab of pain in the head and didn’t improve my temper.

  “It could be a proposition,” she said, leaning back and blowing smoke at the ceiling. “How much?”

  “What are you trying to buy?”

  She studied the cigarette as if she hadn’t seen one before, said, without looking at me, “I don’t want trouble. You’re making trouble. I might pay you to stop.”

  “What’s it worth?”

  She looked at me then.

  “You know you’re a big disappointment to me. You’re just like any of the other slimy little blackmailers.”

  “You’d know about them, of course.”

  “Yes; I know all about them. And when I tell you what I think it’s worth I suppose you will laugh the way they always laugh and raise the ante. So you will tell me what it’s worth to you and give me the chance to laugh.”

  I suddenly didn’t want to go on with this. Maybe my head was aching too badly; maybe, even, I found her so attractive I didn’t want her to think me a heel.

  “All right, let’s skip it,” I said. “I was kidding. I can’t be bought. Maybe I could be persuaded. What makes you think I’m stirring up trouble? State your case. If it’s any good I might take my spade and go dig elsewhere.”

  She regarded me for perhaps ten seconds, thoughtfully, silently and a little doubtfully.

  “You shouldn’t kid about those things,” she said seriously. “You might get yourself disliked. I wouldn’t like to dislike you unless I had a reason.”

  I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes.

  “That’s fine. Are you just talking to gain time or do you mean that?”

  “I was told you had the manners of a hog and a way with women. The hog part is right.”

  I opened my eyes to leer at her.

  “The woman part is on the level, too, but don’t rush me.”

  Then the telephone rang, startling us both. It was right by me, and as I reached for it she dipped swiftly into her handbag and brought out a .25 automatic. She pushed the gun against the side of my head, the little barrel rested on my skin.

  “Sit where you are,” she said, and there was a look in her eyes that froze me. “Leave the telephone alone!”

  We sat like that while the bell rang and rang. The shrill sound gnawed at my nerves, bounced on the silent walls of the room, crept through the closed french windows and lost itself in the sea.

  “What’s the idea?” I asked, drawing back slowly. I didn’t like the feel of the gun against my face.

  “Shut up!” There was a rasp in her voice. “Sit still!”

  Finally the bell got tired of ringing and stopped. She stood up.

  “Come on, we’re getting out of here,” and again the automatic threatened me.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, not moving.

  “Away from telephones. Come on if you don’t want to get shot in the leg.”

  But it wasn’t the thought of being shot in the leg that made me go with her; it was my curiosity. I was very, very curious because all of a sudden she was frightened. I could see the fear in her eyes as plainly as I could see the little hollow between her breasts.

  As we walked down the step
s to a car parked just outside my front gate, the telephone began to ring again.

  V

  The car was a stream-lined, black Rolls, and its power and pace was tremendous. There was nothing about the car to convey a feeling of speed : no sway, no roll, no sound from the engine. Only the thunder of the wind ripping along the stream-lined roof and the black, blurred smudge of a madly-rushing night told me the needle of the speedometer, flickering on ninety, wasn’t fooling.

  I sat beside Maureen Crosby in what felt like a low slung armchair and stared at the dazzling pool of light that lay on the road ahead of us and that fled before us like a scared ghost.

  She had whipped the car along Orchid Boulevard, blasting a Path for herself through the theatre traffic by the strident, arrogant use of the horn. She overtook cars in the teeth of oncoming traffic, slipping between diminishing gaps and a certain head-on crash by the thickness of her fender paintwork. She stormed up the broad, dark Monte Verde Avenue and on to San Diego Highway. It was when she got on to the six-traffic-lane highway she really began to drive, overtaking everything that moved on the road with a silent rush that must have made the drivers start right out of their skins.

  I had no idea where we were going, and when I began to say something, she cut me off with a curt, “Don’t talk! I want to think.” So I gave myself up to the mad rush into the darkness, admiring the way she handled the car, sinking back into the luxury of the seat, and hoping we wouldn’t hit anything.

  San Diego Highway makes its way through a flat desert of sand dunes and scrub and comes out suddenly right by the ocean, and then cuts in again to the desert. Instead of keeping to the highway when we reached the sea, she slowed down to a loitering sixty, and swung off the road on to a narrow track that kept us by the sea. The track began to climb steeply, and the sea dropped below us until we breasted the hill and came out on to a cliff head. We were slowing down all the time, and were now crawling along at a bare thirty. After the speed we had been travelling at, we scarcely seemed to be moving. The glaring headlights picked out a notice: Private. Positively No Admittance, at the head of another narrow track lined on either side by tall scrub bushes. She swung the car into it, and the car fitted the track like a hand fits in a glove. We drove around bends and hairpin corners, as far as I could see, getting nowhere.

  After some minutes she slowed down and stopped before a twelve-foot gate smothered in barbed wire. She tapped her horn button three times: short, sharp blasts that echoed in the still air and was still coming back at us when the gate swung open apparently of its own accord.

  “Very, very tricky,” I said.

  She didn’t say anything nor look at me, but drove on, and, looking back, I saw the gate swing to. I wondered suddenly if I was being kidnapped the way Nurse Gurney had been kidnapped. Maybe the whisky I had swallowed was taking a hold, for I really didn’t care. I felt it would be nice to have a little sleep. The clock on the dashboard showed two minutes to midnight: my bed-time.

  Then suddenly the track began to broaden out into a carriage way, and we slip through another twelve-foot gate, standing open, and again looking back, I saw it swing to behind us as if closed by an invisible hand.

  Into the glare of the headlights appeared a chalet-styled wooden house, screened by flowering shrubs and Tung blossom trees. Lights showed through the windows of the ground floor. An electric lantern shed a bright light on the steps leading to the front door. She pulled up, opened the car door and slid out. I got out more slowly. A terraced garden built into the cliff spread out before me in the moonlight. At the bottom, and it looked a long way down, I could see a big swimming-pool. The sea provided a soft background of sound and glittered in the far distance. The scent of flowers hung in the hot night air in overpowering profusion.

  “Is all this yours?” I asked.

  She was standing by my side. The top of her sleek dark hair was in line with my shoulder.

  “Yes.” After a pause, she said, “I’m sorry about the gun, but I had to get you here quickly.”

  “I would have come without the gun.”

  “But not before you had answered the telephone. It was very important for you not to answer it.”

  “Look, I have a headache and I’m tired. I’ve been kicked in the throat, and although I’m tough, I have still been kicked in the throat. All I ask is for you not to be mysterious. Will you tell me why you have brought me here. Why it was important I shouldn’t answer the telephone and what you want with me?”

  “Of course. Shall we go in? I’ll get you a drink.”

  We went up the steps. The front door stood open, and we walked into a lobby, through an archway into a big lounge that ran the width of the house. It was everything you would expect a millionairess to have. No money had been spared. The colour scheme was cream and magenta, and the room was showy without being vulgar. Not my idea of a room, but then I run to very simple tastes.

  “Let’s sit on the verandah,” she said. “Will you go through? I’ll bring the drinks.”

  “Are you alone here?”

  “Except for a servant. She won’t worry us.”

  I walked out on to the verandah. There was one of those big swing lounging seats about ten feet long arranged so you could sit and admire the view: as a view it was well worth admiring. I dropped on to a soft leather cushion and stared at the distant sea. All the time I had been in the car I had been wondering what she wanted with me. I still wondered.

  She came out after a few minutes, pushing a trolley on which were bottles, glasses and an ice-pail. She sat down at one end of the seat. There was about eight feet of leather and space between us.

  “Whisky?”

  “Thank you.”

  I watched her pour the whisky. Dark blue lights in the verandah roof made enough light for me to see her, but not enough to try the eyes. I thought she was about the loveliest lovely I had ever seen. Even her movements were a pleasure to watch.

  We were both careful not to say anything while she poured the drinks. She offered me a cigarette, and I took it. I lit hers, and then mine.

  We were now ready to begin, but she still seemed reluctant to say anything, and I wasn’t chancing a wrong remark that might put her off. We stared at the garden, the sea and the moon while the hands of my wrist-watch moved on.

  She said suddenly, “I’m sorry about the way I—I acted. I mean offering you money to leave me alone. I know it was the wrong approach, but I didn’t want to give anything away until I had had a chance to find out what kind of man you are. The fact is I want your help. I’m in a mess, and I don’t know how to get out of it. I’ve been an awful fool, and I’m scared. I’m scared out of my wits.”

  She didn’t look scared, but I didn’t tell her so.

  “I wish I knew for certain if he knows of this place,” she went on, as if talking to herself. “If he does he’s certain to come here.”

  “Suppose we take this nice and slow?” I said mildly. “We have all the time in the world.

  Why was it important I shouldn’t answer the telephone? Let’s start with that one.”

  “Because he would know where you were, and he’s looking for you,” she said, as if she were talking to a dim-witted child.

  “You haven’t told me who he is. Is it Sherrill?”

  “Of course,” she said shortly.

  “Why is he looking for me?”

  “He doesn’t want trouble, and you’re making trouble. He’s determined to get rid of you. I heard him tell Francini to do it.”

  “Is Francini a little Wop with pock-marks on his face?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he works for Sherrill?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it was Sherrill who engineered Stevens’ kidnapping?”

  “Yes. That settled it for me. When I heard the poor old man had died I came straight to you.”

  “Does Sherrill know you have this place?”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t think so. I’ve never
talked about it, and he hasn’t ever been here. But he might know. There’s very little he doesn’t know.”

  “All right, now we have got that ironed out, suppose we begin at the beginning?”

  “I want to ask you something first,” she said. “Why did you come to Crestways, asking for me? Why did you go and talk to Dr. Bewley? Has anyone hired you to find out what I have been doing?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Your sister, Janet,” I told her.

  If I had hit her across the face she wouldn’t have reacted more violently. She reared back in the seat as if she had trodden on a snake, making the swing rock violently.

  “Janet?” The word came out in a horrified whisper. “But Janet’s dead. What do you mean? How can you say such a thing!”

  I took out my wallet, found Janet’s letter and held it out to her.

  “Read this.”

  “What is it?” she asked, and seemed afraid to look at it.

  “Read it, and look at the date. It was mislaid for fourteen months. I only read it myself for the first time a day or so ago.”

  She took the letter. Her face stiffened and the pupils of her eyes contracted at the sight of the handwriting. After she had read it she sat still for several minutes, staring at it. I didn’t hurry her. Fear, real and undisguised, was plain to see on her face.

  “And this—this started you making inquiries?” she asked at last.

  “Your sister sent me five hundred dollars. I felt bound to earn it. I came out to Crestways to see you and talk it over. If you had been there and had explained the letter I should have returned the money and dropped the inquiry. But you weren’t there. Then all kinds of things started to happen, so I continued the investigation.”

  “I see.”

  I waited for her to say something else, hut she didn’t. She sat still, staring at the letter; her face white and her eyes hard.

  “Were you being blackmailed?” I asked.

  “No. I don’t know why she wrote to you. I suppose she was trying to make trouble. She was always trying to make trouble for me. She hated me.”