Knock Knock Whos There

by James Hadley Chase

  The cool water gave him pleasure. He was a powerful swimmer

  and he swam for some two hundred yards in a racing stroke to

  release the stiffness and the lust the woman had raised in him, then

  he turned around and swam back, joining Scott as he was swinging

  himself up onto the deck.

  “I’ll get you a towel,” Scott said and disappeared into the living-

  room. He returned moments later, tossed Johnny a towel, then

  disappeared again.

  Johnny mopped off, then went to his bedroom. He smelt onions

  frying and his mouth watered. He realized he hadn’t eaten since he

  had left the snake man’s cabin and suddenly he was starving.

  Dressed, he left his room and went into the living-room. Scott

  was smoking and staring out of the window. He looked up as Johnny

  came in.

  “Okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “We don’t drink here,” Scott said. “Can’t afford it. If you want a

  drink you can buy anything at the store. Take the motorboat over

  tomorrow.”

  Johnny would have liked a whisky, but he sat down, shrugging.

  “That smells good.”

  “Yeah. Freda can cook.”

  “You told her about me?”

  “Oh, sure.” Scott leaned forward and turned to the T.V. set.

  “She’s in the kitchen.” He waved. “Go talk to her.”

  Johnny hesitated, then getting to his feet, he pushed open a door

  at the far end of the living room and looked into the small kitchen

  with a butane gas cooker, a cupboard, a table, a refrigerator and

  Freda Scott.

  She was stirring something in a pan and she looked up.

  Johnny felt a little jolt. God! he thought, this woman’s beautiful!

  And she was. Her face matched her body. She had to be a Swede

  with those bright china blue eyes, the blonde, silky hair, the high

  cheek bones, the straight, long nose.

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  While he stared at her, she gave him a brief, quick searching

  look, then scooping up raw, chopped-up fish, she dropped the pieces

  into the pan.

  “Hungry?” She had a musical, soft voice which was like a sexual

  caress. “I guess you must be. Well, it won’t be long. Ed says you’re

  going to stay.”

  “If it’s all right with you.”

  She was wearing a pair of stretch pants and a man’s shirt, a

  faded blue. He eyed the curve of her buttocks, remembering the

  body, naked. His eyes shifted to her full breasts, straining against the

  shirt.

  “We want the money,” she said. “Anyway, as Ed says, it’ll be

  company for me. Do you like curry?”

  “I like anything.”

  “Go watch T.V. It’ll be twenty minutes. I prefer to cook on my

  own.”

  She glanced up and they looked at each other. The bright blue

  eyes ran over his short, heavily-built body, then to his face and their

  eyes locked.

  “Call me Johnny,” Johnny said and his voice was a little husky.

  “Freda.” She waved him away. “Keep Ed company . . . not that he

  likes company, but he might grow used to it.” Johnny caught a bitter

  note in her voice.

  Leaving her, he returned to the living-room.

  Andy Lucas came into Massino’s office, closed the door and

  looked from Massino to Tanza. The room was heavy with cigar

  smoke and there was a half-bottle of whisky, glasses and an ice

  bucket on the desk.

  “Well?” Massino snarled.

  “I’ve checked,” Andy said. “It’s taken time, but I’ve now talked

  with every driver who left the bus station between 2 a.m. and 5 a.m.

  on the night of the steal. None of them took those bags. If they take

  luggage, they have to issue a ticket . . . no luggage.”

  “So that thins it down,” Tanza said. “He either had someone with

  him who took the money out or the money is still in town.”

  Massino brooded about this.

  “So suppose he was on his own. Suppose he dumped the money

  in one of those left-luggage lockers across the street, planning to

  come back for it? What do you think?”

  Tanza shook his head.

  “He’s no fool. He must know he couldn’t come back. It’s my bet

  he was working with someone who took the money out.”

  Massino nodded.

  “Looks like it, but just suppose he did dump the money in one of

  those lockers.” He looked at Andy. “Can we check?”

  “There are over three hundred lockers,” Andy said. “Even the

  Commissioner couldn’t get into them all without a judge’s say-so. We

  could try, but do you want that, Mr. Joe?”

  Massino thought about this, then shook his head.

  “No. You’re right. We start a caper like that and the press will get

  on to it.” He thought some more. “But we can seal of those lockers.

  Get it organized, Andy. I want a twenty-four-hour watch kept. Have

  two men on four-hour shifts, day and night, watching those lockers.

  Give them a description of the bags. If anyone opens a locker and

  takes those bags, he’s to be nailed!”

  Andy nodded and left the office.

  “So what’s the organization doing?” Massino demanded.

  “Take it easy, Joe. We’ll find him . . . may take a little time, but

  we’ll find him. The word’s gone out. By now, everyone connected

  with us knows we want him. Take a look at this.” He produced from

  his wallet a printer’s proof and laid it on the desk. “This will appear in

  all the Florida newspapers tomorrow morning.”

  Massino leaned forward and read the proof.

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  HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?

  $10,000 Reward

  Below this headline was Johnny’s prison photograph. The

  letterpress went on:

  Missing from home, believed suffering from loss of memory:

  Johnny Bianda. Heavily built, five foot nine inches, clean shaven,

  sallow complexion, grey-black hair, forty-two years of age. Known to

  favour a St. Christopher medal.

  A reward of $10,000 will be paid to anyone giving information

  that will lead to this man being found. Contact:

  Dyson & Dyson, Attorneys-at-Law,

  1600 Crew Street.

  East City. Tel. 007.611.09

  “He’ll hide up with someone without money . . . they always do,”

  Tanza said with his evil grin. If this doesn’t flush him out, we have

  other tricks, but I think it will.”

  SEVEN

  Johnny came fully awake when he heard the phut-phut of a

  motor boat. Lifting his head, he looked out of the open window to

  see Freda in a small boat, powered by an outboard motor, moving

  away from the houseboat. She was wearing the faded shirt and

  stretch pants and a cigarette dangled from her lips. The boat headed

  across the lake. Johnny dropped back on his pillow. He had been

  woken previously by the sound of the truck starting up, and only half

  conscious, he realized Scott was off to work.

  He lay on the small bed and thought of the previous evening.

  They had eaten curried Black Crappie, a lake fish, with rice, onions

  and tomatoes. It had been a good meal, eaten more or less in

  silence. Scott had wanted to see somet
hing on T.V. and he had eaten

  fast, then leaving the other two at the table, he had gone over to the

  set and turned it on.

  Johnny had been very aware of Freda as they sat opposite each

  other. He had eaten hungrily.

  “You cook fine,” he said.

  “Ed says the same.” The flat in her voice made him look sharply

  at her. “That’s all men think of . . . food.”

  He glanced across the room to where Scott was absorbed in the

  lighted screen.

  “Not all men.”

  “Have some more.”

  “I’d be nuts if I didn’t.”

  She pushed back her chair.

  “We live like pigs here. Go ahead. I’ve things to do,” and she left

  the table, going into the kitchen.

  The food was so good and he was so hungry, he didn’t hesitate.

  He cleared the bowl, then sat back reaching for a cigarette.

  After a short smoke, he crushed out his cigarette, collected the

  plates and carried them into the kitchen. He was surprised to see her

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  sitting on the deck, staring across the lake.

  “Let’s clear up,” he said. “You want to?”

  “Sounds like you’re domesticated.” There was a slight jeer in her

  voice. “Leave it for tomorrow . . . tomorrow’s another day.”

  “I’ll do it. You stay there.”

  She stared at him, then shrugged.

  “So I stay here.”

  It took him some twenty minutes to wash the dishes and clear

  the table. He liked doing this. It reminded him of the safety of his

  own apartment which seemed far away, then he joined her on the

  deck and sat beside her in an old, creaking bamboo chair.

  “Nice view,” he said.

  “You think so? I’ve got used to it. After two years, a view gets

  faded. Where are you from?”

  “Up north . . . and you?”

  “Sweden.”

  “I guessed that. Your hair . . . your eyes . . . you’re a long way

  from home.”

  “Yes.” A pause, then she said, “Look, you don’t have to make

  conversation with me. For two years I’ve lived more or less on my

  own. I’m used to it. You’re our lodger. I wouldn’t have you here if it

  wasn’t for the money. I like being alone.”

  “I won’t get in your way.” He stood up. “I’ve had a rough day. I’m

  turning in. Thank you for a fine meal.”

  She leaned back in her chair and looked up at him. “Thanks for

  clearing up.”

  They regarded each other, then he went into the living-room.

  The T.V. serial had come to an end and Scott was getting to his feet.

  “Bed,” he said. “See you around seven tomorrow evening. You

  got all you want? The fishing tackle is in that closet there. Use my rod

  if you want to.”

  “I’ll do that.” A pause. “Well, good night, I guess I could sleep the

  clock around.”

  Johnny went to his room and got into bed. He lay watching the

  moon and the still waters of the lake and he thought of Scott and his

  woman. Then his mind switched to Massino. He drew in a long,

  relaxed breath. Here, he felt safe. This surely was the one place on

  earth where the organization would never think to look for him.

  And now after a good sleep, with the sun up, seeing Freda in the

  motorboat, he became fully awake. He stripped off and plunged into

  the lake, swam for some minutes in the cool clear water, then

  returned to the houseboat, dried off, dressed and went into the

  kitchen. Freda had set out a pot of coffee, a cup and saucer, sugar

  and milk. There was a stale loaf of bread and a toaster, but he didn’t

  bother with that. He carried the cup of coffee on to the deck and sat

  down, looking at the distant pines, the reflections of the clouds in the

  lake, the stillness of the water and he felt at peace.

  After drinking the coffee and smoking a cigarette, he explored

  the houseboat, finding it consisted of three small bedrooms, beside

  the living-room, the kitchen and a shower room. The bedroom next

  to his was obviously Freda’s. The room was neat and clean with a

  small, single bed, a chest of drawers, a closet, books and a table with

  a bedside light. The room next to hers belonged to Scott: not so tidy,

  no books and the bed also small. In one corner stood a .22 target rifle

  and a shot gun. Johnny eyed these two weapons, then backed out of

  the room, closing the door.

  He collected Scott’s fishing rod and went out onto the deck. He

  spent the next hour trying to catch fish but he had no luck. Still, it

  was relaxing to sit in the sun, the rod in his hand and he thought of

  all that money stashed away in the left-luggage locker. If he could

  stay here for a week or so, he decided it would be safe to return and

  get the money. Surely, after six weeks, the heat would be off. In a

  week or so, he would go with Scott to Richville and from there call

  Sammy who would be able to tell him what was happening.

  Another hour drifted while he thought of the moment when he

  would buy his boat, then he heard the phut-phut of the returning

  motorboat and out of the sun, he saw Freda at the tiller. He waved at

  her and she lifted her hand. Ten minutes later she climbed on deck

  while Johnny secured the boat.

  “You’ll never catch anything from here,” she said, seeing the rod.

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  “If you want to fish, take the boat.” She had a loaded shopping

  basket. “Lunch in two hours. Take the boat and see if you can get

  something for supper.”

  Johnny had stripped off his shirt and suddenly she looked at his

  hairy chest and pointed.

  “What’s that?”

  He fingered the St. Christopher medal.

  “My lucky charm.” He grinned. “St. Christopher. My mother gave

  it to me. Know what she said just before she died? She said ‘As long

  as you have that nothing really bad can happen to you’ “.

  “You’re an Italian, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right, but I was born in Florida.”

  “Well, don’t lose it,” and she carried the basket into the kitchen.

  Taking the rod and tackle, he got in the motorboat and started

  the engine. It was good to be in a boat again, and an hour later when

  he had landed a four-pound bass, he decided he hadn’t spent a nicer

  morning since he was a kid.

  He felt absurdly proud of himself when he carried the bass into

  the kitchen and saw Freda’s look of surprise.

  “You’re quite a fisherman!” she said. “Put it down there. I’ll

  attend to it.”

  “I’ve gutted it . . . used to fish a lot when I was a kid: hadn’t much

  else to eat. That smells good.”

  “Ed gets a free meal in Richville. I thought I’d spend some of your

  money.” She looked at him. “Beef casserole. Like to give me some

  rent? I’ve spent all I bad.”

  “Why, sure.” He went into his bedroom, unlocked the suitcase

  and took out two ten dollar bills. Then returning, he handed them to

  her.

  “Thanks.” She put the money in a shabby little purse. “We can

  eat.”

  While they were eating, she asked, “What do you
plan to do?

  Just sit around here?”

  “If I’m not in the way. I’m taking a vacation and this suits me

  fine.”

  “You’re easy to please.” The bitter note in her voice made him

  glance at her.

  “Yeah, I can guess it gets monotonous after a time. Ed was telling

  me about this shrimp contract.”

  “He’s crazy!” She forked beef into her mouth. “The moment I can

  lay my hands on some money, I’m off! God! I’m sick of this way of

  life, but we’re stuck for money.”

  “It’s tough. He seems to work like a slave. I’m sorry.”

  “He works all right, but does he kid himself! He’ll never be

  anything. There are finks who slave themselves to death and never

  amount to anything . . . he’s one of them.” The bright blue eyes met

  his. “What do you do for a living?”

  “Rent collecting. I got fed up with it, sold everything and when

  my money runs out, I’m going to get a job on a boat. I’m crazy about

  boats.”

  “Boats?” She grimaced. “What sort of living can you make out of

  boats? Fishing? Is that a living?”

  “A living doesn’t worry me. I just want to get on a boat.”

  She laid down her knife and fork.

  “Some ambition.”

  “And you? If you had enough money to get away from here,

  what would you do?”

  “Live! I’m twenty-six. I know men go for me.” She stared directly

  at him. “You go for me, don’t you?”

  “So what’s that to do with it?”

  “If I could get to Miami, I’d find a man and I’d squeeze every

  dollar out of him for services rendered. You know something? I

  thought this was the golden land of opportunity when I landed here

  three years ago. Was I green? I spent two months in New York in a

  Travel Agency, routing old jerks to Sweden. God! Was that a bore!

  Then I got a transfer down to Jacksonville: the same old bore. Then

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  one day . . . my unlucky day . . . when I was fed up to my back teeth, I

  had to run into Ed, full of plans of starting up in the haulage business,

  owning his own truck, in a year owning two trucks, in four years a

  fleet of trucks . . . really in the money! So I married him! Okay, I

  asked for it and got it! We came here. ‘Give me a year,’ he said, `and

  you’ll see. Let’s rough it for a year, then I’ll get another truck.’ That’s

  two years ago! And what a man! What a man to live with!” She

  looked directly at Johnny. “Are you on to him?”