Tell It to the Birds

by James Hadley Chase

  “Steal it? What do you mean?” He put his hand on her thigh.

  “Just that. I must have three thousand dollars. It shouldn’t be difficult. I’m committed now. I must find some way to get it.” There was a pause, then as she said nothing, but stared quizzingly at him, he went on, “What kind of man is your husband business-wise?”

  She made a contemptuous movement.

  “All he thinks about… apart from sex… is flowers.”

  “Suppose he has papers to sign? Would he read all the details, including the small print? Is he cautious about what he signs? Some people read every word: others sign without reading anything. This is important. Would he want to read every word of an insurance policy before he signed?”

  “No, but he would never sign an insurance policy.”

  “Just suppose he had a policy in front of him with three or maybe four copies… would he check them all?”

  “He wouldn’t. He’s not like that.”

  Anson finished his coffee and set down the cup.

  “That’s all I want to know… it’ll do for a start.” He leaned forward and pulled her down beside him. “You really want to go ahead with this thing, Meg? Once you’re in it, there’ll be no turning back.”

  She ran her fingers through his blond hair.

  “Why do you keep doubting me?” she asked. “/ said I’ll do it with you. Don’t you understand? To have you and all that money, I’ll take any risk.”

  In the silence of the bedroom with the first rays of the sun striking the dusty mirror above the dressing-table, feeling her fingers caressing through his hair and down the back of his neck, Anson was stupid enough to believe her.

  It was while he was eating an under-done egg and burned toast that Anson happened to notice something in a frame, hanging on the wall opposite to where he was sitting.

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing a buttery knife. “What’s that on the wall?”

  Meg was sipping coffee. The time was ten minutes past eight. She was now wearing a shabby green wrap that was none too clean. Her hair was tousled, but in spite of the lack of make-up, she still looked sensually and excitingly beautiful.

  She glanced in the direction to which he was pointing.

  “Oh, that’s Phil’s. He’s very proud of it. It’s a certificate for shooting. Phil is quite a shot.”

  Anson pushed back his chair and crossed the room and examined the ornate certificate in its black frame. He read that the certificate had been awarded by the Pru’s Town Small Arms and Target Club to Philip Barlowe for winning the first prize in the .38 revolver shooting tournament held last March.

  Anson walked thoughtfully back to the table. He sat down and pushed aside his half eaten egg. His expression was so thoughtful that Meg looked enquiringly at him.

  “What is it, John?”

  “So he shoots,” Anson said.

  “Not now, but he used to. He hasn’t done any shooting for nearly a year. I wish be would go to his dreary club. He would be out of my way.”

  “He owns a gun?” Anson asked.

  “Yes,” Meg said, frowning. “What’s on your mind now, John?”

  “Is the gun here… in the house?”

  “Yes.” She nodded to the ugly sideboard. “In there.”

  “I would like to see it.”

  “See it? But why?”

  “May I see it?”

  She shrugged, got to her feet and went to the sideboard. She pulled open a drawer and took from it a wooden box which she put on the table.

  Anson opened the box to find it contained a .38 police Special, a spare clip and a box of cartridges.

  He lifted the gun from the box, checked to see it was unloaded, then balanced it in his hand.

  “He doesn’t use it now?” he asked.

  “He hasn’t touched it for months. Why the interest?”

  “Do you think it would be safe if I borrowed it for a night?”

  She stiffened.

  “But why?”

  “Could I borrow it?”

  “Yes… of course, but you must tell me… why?”

  “Use your head,” Anson said impatiently. He put the gun in his hip pocket. “I have to find three thousand dollars.”

  She sat motionless, staring at him.

  He took six cartridges from the box and dropped them into his pocket.

  There was a long pause, then he reached out and pulled her to him. His hands moved down her long back as he pressed his lips to hers.

  CHAPTER 4

  Sometime during the late afternoon, Anson drove into the Caltex Service Station on the Brent highway. While the attendant was filling his tank and cleaning his windshield, Anson went into the office and through to the toilet. He left the toilet door ajar and standing against the far wall, he examined the office. There was a desk, a filing cabinet and a big, old-fashioned safe. He noticed the two big windows that faced the highway.

  He moved out of the toilet, satisfied he now had the geography of the office set in his mind and he returned to the car.

  As he paid the attendant, he said casually, “You keep open all night, don’t you?”

  “That’s a fact, but I go off in three hours. My sidekick does the night shift.”

  A few months back, Anson had talked with the manager, of the Service station about insuring the takings. He knew there was anything from three thousand to four thousand dollars in the safe. While he had been examining Barlowe’s gun, it had flashed through his mind that the Service station could be a pretty easy hold-up.

  He was surprised that he felt so calm about planning this robbery. The weight of the gun in his hip pocket gave him a lot of confidence. He decided around four o’clock in the morning he would walk into the Service station and force the attendant at gun point to open the safe. With any luck he would then have enough money to pay off Joe Duncan and to pay the first premium of Barlowe’s fifty thousand dollar life policy.

  Back at the Marlborough hotel, Anson went up to his room. Sitting on his bed, he examined Barlowe’s gun. He knew something about guns as he had served his two years of military service. He satisfied himself that the gun was in good working order, then he loaded it with the six cartridges he had in his pocket. He put the gun in his suitcase.

  He then went down to the bar. After drinking two stiff whiskies, he went along to the restaurant. He ordered dinner and asked for half a bottle of claret. He seldom drank wine, but he wanted the cork from the bottle: the cork was to play a minor part in his robbery plan. His stomach still felt sore and he had no appetite. He merely picked at his food. Around nine o’clock, he signed the check. He put the cork from the wine bottle into his pocket and leaving the restaurant, he walked to the men’s toilet room. There was an old Negro attendant, dozing in a chair. He peered sleepily at Anson and seeing he needed no service, he closed his eyes again.

  Anson washed his hands, and while he did so, he looked in the mirror at the rows of hats and coats hanging on the rack behind him. He picked on a well worn brown and green striped overcoat; a shabby but distinctive coat, and a Swiss hat with a gay feather in it on the next peg.

  After drying his hands, he looked at the dozing Negro who had begun to snore gently. Anson took the hat and coat and left the hotel by a side entrance.

  Carrying the hat and coat, he walked the few yards down the street to where he had parked his car. He opened the trunk tossed in the hat and coat, closed the trunk and returned to the hotel.

  Back in his room, he stretched out on his bed, lit a cigarette and went over in his mind the plan to make sure he knew exactly what he was going to do.

  It seemed simple and straightforward so long as he didn’t lose his nerve. He would leave the hotel by the staff entrance around three o’clock a.m. At that time he wasn’t likely to run into anyone. There was a lay-by near the Service station. He would leave his car there.

  He would then darken his blond eyebrows and the sides of his hair with burnt cork, put on the Swiss hat and the borrowed
topcoat, tie a handkerchief over the lower part of his face and walk to the Service station. Once he had the money, he would put the telephone out of action and return to his car. If anyone tried to act like a hero… well, he had the gun.

  He got off the bed feeling restless and excited. It was only ten o’clock. He wondered what Meg was doing. She hadn’t been far from his thoughts during the day. He went down to the bar, and seeing two salesmen he knew, he joined them.

  It was around one o’clock when he returned to his room. He was a little drunk and in a reckless mood. He took Barlowe’s gun from the suitcase and sitting on the bed, he balanced the gun in his hand.

  This is it, he thought. There is a time when every man worth a nickle must make up his mind what to do with his life.

  I’ve put off my decision long enough. I’ll never get anywhere without money. With Meg to help me and with fifty thousand dollars to get me started, I’ll reach up and take the sun out of the sky.

  But he knew he was kidding himself. He knew in a year, probably less, the fifty thousand dollars would be gone. He had never been able to hold onto money. He knew Meg was an exciting sexual plaything, but nothing more, and she would never help him. She was a slut: shiftless and worthless, and like him, money loving.

  Well, all right, he said shrugging, the money may not last long, but well have a fine time while it does last. He lay back on the pillow, nursing the gun and thinking again of Meg.

  Harry Weber had been working the night shift at the Caltex Service station for the past two years. It was a soft job, and Harry liked it. He was an avid reader and the job gave him the opportunity to indulge himself.

  After one o’clock a.m. he considered himself busy if he had to service more than three cars up to the time he came off duty

  which was at seven o’clock a.m. He sometimes wondered why the Service station kept open all night, but as he could relax and read, it was no skin off his nose if they were willing to pay him good money just to sit on his backside and soak himself in the paperbacks on which he spent most of his wages.

  A few minutes to four, Harry made himself a jug of coffee. Cup in hand, he settled back in his chair to continue a James Bond story when the glass door to the office swung silently open.

  Harry looked up, stiffened, then very slowly set down his cup of coffee on the desk. The paperback slipped out of his hand and dropped to the floor.

  The man facing him was wearing an odd looking topcoat and Swiss style hat. The lower part of his face was hidden by a white handkerchief. In his right hand he held a vicious looking gun that he pointed to Harry.

  For a brief moment the two men stared at each other then the gunman said quietly, “Don’t act like a hero! I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to. Get that safe open and pronto!”

  “Sure,” Harry said, badly shaken. He got slowly and unsteadily to his feet.

  The gunman came into the office and crossed to the toilet, his gun still covering Harry. He pushed open the door and backed into the dark little room.

  “Get the safe open!” he said, standing in the doorway. “Hurry it up!”

  Harry pulled open the top drawer of the desk. Lying by the safe key was a .45 automatic supplied by the Service station for just such an emergency as this. He looked down at the gun and hesitated. Could he grab the gun and shoot before this gunman shot him?

  Watching him, Anson saw his hesitation and a warning instinct told him there was a gun in the drawer. “Don’t move!" he yelled. “Get back… get your hand up!” The note in his voice frightened Harry. Cursing himself for hesitating and yet glad of it, he lifted, his hands and backed away.

  Anson moved forward, reached into the drawer, took out the gun and then stepped back into the toilet. He put the gun on the floor at his feet.

  “Get the safe open!” he said, a snarl in his voice. “Start, acting like a hero and I’ll kill you!”

  Harry took the key and opened the safe.

  Anson glanced anxiously through the wide windows and out on to the dark highway.

  “Get over against the wall!” he ordered. “Face the wall and don’t move.” Harry obeyed. Anson knelt before the safe and pulled out a large steel cash box. It was unlocked. He opened it. The pile of bills in the box made his eyes gleam. As he began stuffing the bills into his topcoat pockets, he heard the unexpected sound of an approaching motor cycle engine.

  His heart skipped a beat. This could only be a traffic cop coming. Would he stop or would he pass the Service station?

  Working frantically, Anson stuffed the rest of the bills into his pockets, threw the cash box back into the safe and slammed the safe door shut. He stepped back into the toilet.

  “Sit at the desk,” he said to Harry, his voice tense and vicious. “Quick! Give me away and you’ll get it first!”

  Harry was moving towards the desk as the beam of the motor cycle headlight flashed across the office. A moment later the sound of the motor cycle engine spluttered to silence.

  A trickle of cold sweat ran down Anson’s face. The cop had stopped. He would be coming in!

  “If there’s any shooting,” Anson said, “remember, you’ll get it first,” and he pushed the door of the toilet so it stood ajar.

  He could only see part of the office now and it worried him he couldn’t see Harry.

  As the toilet door pushed to, Harry picked up a pencil and quickly wrote on a check pad: Hold up. Gunman in toilet.

  The office door swung open, and a big red faced cop walked in. He often passed at this time and Harry always had a cup of coffee ready for him.

  “Hi, Harry,” the cop said cheerfully. “Got any Java for your old pal?”

  Anson looked around the dark little toilet for a way of escape but he saw immediately he was trapped. The window was too high and too small for him to use.

  He heard Harry say, “I’ve just made some, Tom.”

  The cop pulled off his gauntlet gloves and as he dropped them on the desk, Harry who was now standing, pointed to the written message.

  The cop wasn’t bright. He frowned down at the message, saying “What’s this? Something you want me to read?”

  Hearing this, Anson knew he had been betrayed. Again he was surprised how calm he felt. Silently, he opened the door of the toilet room.

  Harry saw him and went white. The cop, frowning, was staring at the written message, then he looked round and saw the masked gunman.

  “Hold it!” Anson exclaimed, his voice unnaturally high. He lifted the gun so it pointed directly at the cop.

  The cop’s small eyes widened with shock, then he recovered and slowly he straightened. He looked enormous and threatening to Anson.

  “Get back against the wall,” Anson said. “Go on… the pair of you!”

  Harry hurriedly moved back until his shoulders were flat against the wall, but the cop didn’t move.

  “You can’t get away with this, punk,” he said in a hard, gritty voice. “Give me the rod. Come on… you can’t get away with it.”

  Anson had a sudden feeling of sensual excitement. This stupid hunk of meat was going to be brave. He watched as the cop held out an enormous hand. He heard him say again, “Hand it over… come on!” As if he were talking to a circus dog.

  Anson didn’t move. His finger steadily took up the slack of the trigger. Then as the cop began a brave and slow advance, Anson became aware that there was no more slack to take up. The bang of the exploding gun and the kick of it in his hand startled him. He stepped back, drawing in a quick gasping breath. He watched the red of the cop’s face suddenly drain from under the coarse weather-beaten skin and the massive legs buckle as if the bones had turned into jelly.

  Anson stood motionless, the handkerchief covering the lower part of his face was wet with sweat. He watched the bulky body slide to the floor. One massive hand feebly caught the edge of the desk, spilled off it and then the cop was lying face down at Anson’s feet.

  Anson started towards the door, paused, grabbed the telepho
ne and wrenched it from the wall. He threw it viciously at Harry who had his hands covering his head, his nerve broken by the shooting.

  Anson ran out into the night. With the weight of the money in his pockets flapping against his legs, he fled towards his car.

  The following morning, immediately after he had had breakfast, Anson went into the writing room of the hotel and wrote a cheque for $ 1,045 in favour of Joe Duncan. He put this cheque into an envelope with a curt note saying he would no longer bet with Duncan, sealed the envelope, and then, leaving the writing room, he went to one of the telephone call boxes and telephoned Meg.

  There was some.delay before she answered and when she did, she sounded cross. The time was twenty minutes to nine and Anson guessed he had got her out of bed.

  “I’m coming out this afternoon,” he said. “I have something I borrowed to return. Will you be in?”

  “Oh, it’s you.” She still sounded cross. “You woke me up!”

  With the vision of the cop falling like a felled tree still in his mind, Anson said impatiently, “Will you be in?”

  “Yes… of course.”

  “Then around three,” he hung up.

  He left the hotel and went over to the Pru Town National bank. He paid in one thousand dollars in cash. The money, he told the teller, was to be credited immediately to his account at Brent. He then registered the letter to Duncan and posted it.

  He had five calls to make. He sold a policy worth a thousand dollars to a fanner. Until lunch time he tried to convince two other prospects why they should insure with the National Fidelity but without success. He then returned to Pru Town for lunch.

  He bought the lunch edition of the Pru Town Gazette and read Dout the robbery and the shooting at the Caltex Service Station. He learned the cop’s name was Tom Sanquist. He had been lot through the lungs and his condition was so critical his life and twelve-year-old son were at his bedside.