Knock Knock Whos There

by James Hadley Chase

  “Finding drivers is easy, but getting the capital for trucks is

  something else.”

  “Ever thought of doubling your turn-over without buying more

  trucks?” Johnny asked, anxious to get Scott’s mind off the ad.

  “How?”

  “You deliver crates of shrimps to Richville . . . right?”

  “So?”

  “But you come back empty. Can’t you get freight from Richville

  to bring back to New Symara?”

  “Do you imagine I haven’t thought of that?” Scott said scornfully.

  “You go out and sniff the truck. It stinks of shrimps. No one wants

  haulage that stinks that bad. I’ve tried, and anyway, there’s nothing

  in Richville that New Symara wants.”

  “Just an idea.” Johnny got to his feet. “I guess I’ll turn in. See

  you.”

  Scott nodded.

  Johnny left him still staring at the ad.

  Lying in his little bed, watching the moon while he thought,

  Johnny wasn’t ready for sleep. He thought of Freda. Suppose he

  could trust her? She would be safe going to the Greyhound bus

  station and getting the money. But could he trust her? Then his mind

  switched to Scott. Had he convinced him that he had no connection

  with the ad?

  He closed his eyes, trying to force himself to sleep. Then he

  became alert. He heard Freda enter her room. What a woman! His

  mind dwelt on the three times they had made love and he had the

  urge to leave his bed and go into her room and take her again.

  Then a slight sound made him stiffen. His door was gently

  opening. He lay still, his hand reaching under his pillow for his gun.

  The moonlight coming through the open window shone directly

  on the door and through half closed eyes he saw Scott was looking at

  him through the half-open door.

  Johnny emitted a soft snore, watching Scott who stood there,

  still, listening. Johnny snored again and the door closed silently.

  What did this mean? He asked himself, now fully awake. He

  listened. He heard Freda’s door open,

  “Come out on deck.” Scott’s whisper came clearly to Johnny.

  “Don’t say anything . . . he’s asleep.”

  Johnny waited. He heard soft movements, then silence. He slid

  out of his bed, opened his door and peered into the moon-lit living-

  room. He saw Scott and Freda through the window. They were on

  the deck. Moving like a ghost, he crept into the living-room as he

  heard Scott say, “Look at this.”

  He had a flashlight in his hand and he was directing the beam on

  to a sheet of newsprint. Johnny knew at once it was the ad. He

  moved further fonvard.

  “See?” Scott said, his voice low and excited. “I’ve pencilled a

  beard on him. It’s Johnny!”

  “What are you talking about?” Freda’s voice was also a whisper

  but it came clearly to Johnny. “This man’s twenty years younger.”

  “Could be an old photograph.”

  They were standing side by side by the deck rail. Scott was

  wearing pjyamas. Freda had a shortie nightdress. Johnny could see

  her long legs through the moon-lit flimsy material.

  “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”

  Johnny watched them move to the bamboo chairs and sit, side

  by side. He moved forward so he now stood in the darkness within

  three feet of them, listening through the open window behind them.

  “I’ve been thinking about this,” Scott said. “This missing man is

  Johnny Bianda. Our lodger calls himself Johnny Bianco. For all we

  know he has lost his memory and imagine he’s Bianco and not

  Bianda. The more I look at this photo, now I’ve put on the beard, the

  surer I am this is the man they want. Ten thousand dollars! Imagine!

  What do you think?”

  129

  Johnny held his breath. What she would say must tell him if he

  could trust her or not.

  “He doesn’t act like a man who’s lost his memory.” Freda’s voice

  was calm. “We were talking this afternoon. He was telling me about

  his rent-collection experiences. No . . . you’re pipe dreaming.”

  “Suppose I call these people: Dyson & Dyson? Where’s the

  harm? They can send someone to take a look at him. They will

  probably have dozens of people telephoning so what have we to

  lose? We might hit the jackpot.”

  “And if we do . . . what happens?”

  “Ten thousand dollars! You want to leave me, don’t you? You’ve

  had enough of this, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. So I give you two thousand and the rest I buy three more

  trucks and I’m in business. Tomorrow, I’ll call these people from

  Richville. If we’re unlucky, it’s too bad, but if we aren’t . . .”

  Johnny’s heart now was thumping so hard he was scared they

  would hear.

  “Let’s make sure,” Freda said. “I’ll send him out fishing tomorrow

  and while he’s on the lake, I’ll go through his things. This thing about

  a St. Christopher medal. He might have one. If I find it, we’ll know for

  sure it’s him.”

  “What’s wrong with me telephoning tomorrow? They can but

  look at him.”

  A pause, then she said, “Can’t you use your brains? If we are

  really sure we can ask for more . . . we could ask for fifteen thousand:

  Five for me and ten for you.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. Yeah . . . but you don’t get five, baby.

  You’ll get four.”

  “So all right. I get four.” Scott stood up.

  “You check his things. Imagine! Fifteen thousand dollars!”

  Johnny moved silently back to his bedroom, closed the door and

  lay on the bed.

  So he could trust her! She was clever! She had gained a day . . .

  but what then?

  There was no sleep for him that night.

  Carlo Tanza came into Massino’s office, kicked the door shut and

  dumped his heavy body into a chair.

  “We’ve certainly started something with that ad!” he exclaimed.

  “Already it has produced three hundred and forty-nine telephone

  calls. Dyson is flipping his lid. Every call has to be checked out.”

  Massino glared at him.

  “It was your bright idea.”

  “It was a good idea, but how was I to know so many bastards

  resemble this bastard? So, okay, we’re checking them out but it’s

  going to take time.”

  “That’s your business,” Massino said. “I pay . . . you produce. One

  thing I do know, if the money is in one of those lockers across the

  street, the sonofabitch will never get it . . . that’s something I’m

  damn well certain about!”

  131

  EIGHT

  The sound of the truck had scarcely died away when Johnny’s

  bedroom door opened and Freda came in.

  In the grey light of the dawn, she looked to Johnny the most

  desirable woman in the world, but this was no time for love.

  She sat on the side of his bed.

  “He talked to me last night,” she said.

  “I know. I heard every word,” Johnny said and put his hand on

  hers. “You played it smart, but when he comes back tonight . . .

  what’s going to hap
pen?”

  “I’ll tell him I’m sure you’re not the man he thinks you are. I’ll tell

  him I’ve seen your driving license and it’s in the name of Bianco. I’ll

  say there’s no St. Christopher medal.”

  Johnny shook his head.

  “That won’t stop him. He’s money hungry. As he said; what’s

  there to lose except the price of a telephone call?”

  “Then let’s get out of here,” Freda said. “Let’s get the money and

  get lost. I know where I can hire a car in the village. We’ll drive to

  East City, pick up the money, then head North? What do you say?”

  He lay back on his pillow and marvelled at her ignorance of the

  net that was closing around him. “If only it could be as simple as

  that,” he said. “But they don’t know me!” Freda said impatiently.

  “Where have you hidden the money? Why can’t I get it while you

  wait, out of sight?”

  “East City is swarming with Massino’s Men. Every one of them

  will have a description of the bags, holding the money. Two shabby

  red hold-alls with black leather handles,” Johnny said. “Anyone seen

  carrying two such bags wouldn’t survive five minutes.”

  “Then we’ll buy a trunk and put the two bags in the trunk . . .

  what’s the matter with that?”

  Johnny now felt he had to tell her everything.

  “The bags are in a left-luggage locker in the Greyhound bus

  station, right opposite Massino’s office. You couldn’t load them into

  a trunk without being seen.”

  “But there must be some way I could get them!”

  “Massino’s sharp. Maybe he has thought of the lockers. Maybe

  he has them staked out. Before we do anything, I’ve got to check.”

  Johnny thought for a moment. “Where’s the nearest call booth?”

  “In the village . . . the local store.”

  “I’ve a contact in East City. He’ll tell me what’s happening. How

  soon does the store open?”

  “Seven-thirty.”

  He looked at his watch. The time was 05.30.

  “Will you take me across in the boat?”

  She hesitated.

  “They’re all eyes and ears over there. So far, they don’t know you

  exist. You could cause a sensation.”

  “I’ve got to get to a phone.”

  She thought for a long moment.

  “Suppose I tell Salvadore you’re my step-brother on a visit? Be

  nice to him. He’s easy to con: you just have to be nice to him.”

  “An Italian?” Johnny stiffened. “Who’s he?”

  “He owns the store: Salvadore Bruno. He’s harmless. If we time

  our arrival as the store opens, no one will be around. You really

  mean you must phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean once you know it will be all right, we can hire a car

  and get the money?”

  “I’ve got to know first.”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll get coffee. There’s time.”

  He reached out and pulled her down on him. “There’s also time

  for coffee.”

  133

  The motorboat drifted into the little harbour. Johnny could see

  the store: a low, ramshackle building, facing the waterfront. He

  glanced at his watch. It was a minute after 07.30 and he saw the

  door leading into the store, was standing open.

  He was wearing his bush jacket to conceal his gun and holster.

  His eyes darted along the waterfront, but there was no sign of life.

  Freda jumped onto the quay. Johnny tossed the rope to her and

  she secured the boat.

  Together they crossed the dirt road and walked into the store.

  “The phone’s there,” Freda said and pointed.

  As Johnny stepped into the call booth, he saw a short, fat man

  come out from behind a curtain. He shut the door, then turned his

  back and inserted coins. He called Sammy’s apartment.

  There was a delay, then Sammy’s sleepy voice came over the

  line.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Sammy! Wake up! This is Johnny!”

  “Who?”

  “Johnny!”

  A low moan of fear came over the line.

  “Listen, Sammy . . . what’s happening up there? What’s the

  news?”

  “Mr. Johnny . . . I asked you . . . I begged you not to contact me. I

  could get into real trouble. I . . .”

  “Cut it out,” Sammy! You’re my friend . . . remember? What’s

  happening?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know nothin’. No one talks any more, Mr.

  Johnny. I swear I don’t know nothin’!”

  “I want you to do something for me, Sammy.”

  “Me? Haven’t I done enough, Mr. Johnny? You’ve got all my

  money. Cloe keeps worrying me for money and I’ve got none now to

  give her. My brother. . .”

  “Skip it, Sammy! I told you: you’ll get your money back. Now

  listen carefully. You know the Greyhound bus station?”

  “Yeah. I know it.”

  “When you have driven the boss to his office, go in there and buy

  a newspaper. Wander around. I want to know if any of the mob are

  staked out there. You getting this, Sammy?”

  “They are staked out there, Mr. Johnny. Don’t ask me why, but

  they are. I went in there last night to get cigarettes and Toni and

  Ernie were hanging around.”

  Johnny nodded to himself. So Massino suspected the money was

  in one of those lockers.

  “Okay, Sammy. Now don’t worry about your money. I’ll send it to

  you soon,” and he hung up.

  For a long moment, Johnny stood staring at the coin box. It was a

  matter of patience. For how long would Massino have the lockers

  watched? He could not know the money was there: he was guessing.

  This had to be thought about. How to deal with Scott tonight?

  He pushed open the booth door and moved into the store.

  “Johnny! Come and meet Salvadore,” Freda called. She was

  standing by one of the counters. On the other side was the short, fat

  man who thrust out his hand.

  “Glad to meet you,” he said with a wide smile. “Big surprise. Mrs.

  Freda never told me she had a half-brother. Welcome to Little

  Creek.”

  As Johnny shook hands, he took this man in with a quick

  searching glance: balding, around sixty, a bushy moustache, small,

  intelligent eyes and a stubbly chin.

  “Passing through,” he said. “Got business in Miami. Nice store

  you have here.”

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s all right.” The little eyes dwelt on Johnny’s face.

  “You Italian like me?”

  “My mother was Italian,” Johnny said. “Our old man was a

  135

  Swede.” He looked at Freda who nodded. “Mother comes out in you,

  huh?”

  “You can say that.”

  “Yeah.” A pause. “You staying long?”

  “It’s pretty nice up here. I’m in no hurry to get to work.” Johnny

  forced a laugh. “I heard a lot about this place when Freda wrote, but

  I had no idea it’s as good this.”

  “You fish?”

  “I like it. Yesterday, I landed a four-pounder first try . . . a bass.”

  Salvadore beamed.

  “So you’re a fisherman.”

  “Could I have t
wo pounds of bacon and a dozen eggs,” Freda

  broke in.

  “In a moment.”

  Salvadore hurried to another counter. Johnny and Freda

  exchanged glances. They didn’t say anything.

  Ten minutes later, after more talk, they walked across the quay

  to the boat.

  Salvadore watched them go. The benign expression on his fat

  face slowly faded and his little eyes became like marbles.

  He reached under the counter and produced yesterday’s Florida

  Times. Quickly, he thumbed through the pages until he came to the

  Have You Seen This Man? advertisement. He stared for several

  moments at the photograph, then taking a pencil from behind his

  ear, he carefully pencilled in a beard. After staring at the photograph

  again, he crossed to the call booth, inserted a coin and dialled a

  number.

  A growling voice replied.

  “Bruno. Little Creek,” Salvadore said. “This guy Johnny Bianda.

  There’s a guy just arrived, calling himself Johnny who looks like him.”

  “What guy?”

  Salvadore talked.

  “If she says he’s her half-brother why the hell can’t he be her

  half-brother.”

  “This doll isn’t getting it from her husband. It’s my bet she’d say

  anything to get it and it’s my bet this guy is giving it to her.”

  “Okay. I’ll send someone to take a look. We’ve got hundreds of

  goddamn suspects to check out, but I’ll send someone.”

  “When?”

  “How do I know? When I’ve got a man free.”

  “If it’s him, I get the reward?”

  “If it’s him,” and the line went dead.

  The noise of the outboard engine made conversation impossible.

  Johnny sat in the prow of the boat, his mind active. The store-keeper

  had alerted his sense of danger. He had had to phone Sammy, but

  now he realized the risk he had taken. There were Mafiosi

  everywhere. So they were watching the lockers at the Greyhound

  bus station! As he sat in the prow of the boat, feeling the breeze

  against his face, watching the prow cut through the still waters, he

  felt the net closing in on him.

  When he had tied up and had followed Freda on to the deck of

  the houseboat, he dropped into one of the bamboo chairs.

  “Well?”

  She stood over him and he looked up into her bright blue eyes.

  “They’re watching the lockers.”

  The disappointment in her eyes made him uneasy. She was so

  money hungry, he thought. She sat by his side.