You Find Him, I'll Fix Him

by James Hadley Chase

  I realized then that I knew nothing about Helen’s activities in Rome during those weeks. I had taken her out a few times, been to her apartment twice and met her once at a party, but apart from that I had no idea how she had passed her time.

  She had stayed at the Excelsior hotel, and then had rented an expensive apartment off the Via Cavour. Chalmers probably had paid the hotel bill: giving her a little luxury until she had settled down in Rome. It was probable that after staying at the hotel a few days, she was to move into one of the university hostels. Instead, she had moved into an apartment that must have soaked up nearly all of her sixty dollars a week allowance.

  Did this mean that she had met X at the Excelsior, and he had persuaded her to take the apartment, probably paying for it?

  The more I thought about it, the plainer it became that I should have to start this hunt for X in Rome. I knew of a firm of private investigators who had a reputation for thoroughness. It wouldn’t be possible for me to dig into Helen’s past back-ground without help. My first move would be to consult them. I got to my feet and wandered into Helen’s bedroom. I had only glanced into the room previously, but now I examined it in detail.

  I looked at the double bed and felt a little qualm. She had planned this for both of us. I must not lose sight of that. It was obvious to me that her affair with X had petered out and, looking for a new lover, she had selected me. Had she been in love with me or had she been looking for a father for her unborn child? The thought was unsettling, but it was something that was a waste of time to brood on. Only Helen could tell me that, and she was dead.

  Then another idea dropped into my mind. I remembered what Maxwell had said about Helen. She makes a play at arty-thing in trousers. The trouble she gets a guy into! Suppose X had still been in love with her, and she had grown tired of him? Suppose he had found out she had taken this villa and was planning to live here with me? He might have come down to even the score. He might even have thrown’ her over the cliff.

  This would be a sweet theory to lay before Chalmers, who was obviously convinced that Helen was a thoroughly decent girl. I couldn’t lay it before him without involving myself.

  With this idea nagging at the back of my mind, I spent an hour going through her three suitcases. It was a waste of time, because I knew both Carlotti and Chalmers had been through them and had found nothing. Her clothes carried a faint smell of an expensive perfume that made her memory very alive to me. I was feeling pretty depressed by the time I had completed repacking the suitcases, ready to put in the car when I left.

  I looked over the whole villa, but I found nothing that’d tell me what she had done from the time the village woman had left her arranging the flowers to the time she had died.

  I carried the suitcases down the steps and loaded them on the back seat of the convertible. I returned to the villa and gave myself another drink.

  I told myself that my search must begin in Rome. Here I had found nothing, and as I thought about that, I got another idea. I stood thinking for a moment, then I crossed to the telephone and asked to be connected with Sorrento police headquarters. When I got through, I asked for Lieutenant Grandi.

  “This is Dawson,” I said. “I forgot to ask you: did you have that film processed? The film in Signorina Chalmers’s cine camera?”

  “There wasn’t a film in the camera,” he said curtly.

  “No film? Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  I stared at the opposite wall.

  “If there was no film in the camera, she wasn’t using the camera when she died,” I said, speaking my thoughts aloud.

  “That doesn’t follow. She could have forgotten to put a film in, couldn’t she?”

  I remembered that the indicator on the camera had shown that twelve feet of film had been run off. I knew a little about these cameras, and I knew that when you put a film in, there is a catch that opens the film gate through which you thread the film, and as the gate opens the indicator is automatically set back to zero.

  “I suppose she could,” I said. “Did Lieutenant Carlotti think anything of it?”

  “What’s there to think about?” Grandi snapped.

  “Well, thanks. Just one other thing: there wasn’t anything taken from the villa, was there? Besides the jewels, I mean.”

  “We didn’t take anything.”

  “Have you finished with the camera and the case? I’m collecting la signorina Chalmers’s things now. If I drop by, can I have the camera?”

  “We don’t want it any more.”

  “Okay, I’ll be along then. So long, Lieutenant,” and I hung up.

  The footage indicator on the camera had shown twelve feet. That meant there had been a film in the camera, and it had been removed by someone who wasn’t familiar in handling this type of camera. The film had been forcibly removed, ripping the length of film out of the gate without releasing the gate lock. It meant too that the film had been ruined by taking it out this way, so it followed whoever had taken it out hadn’t wished to keep the film. The only purpose for removing the film was to destroy it.

  Why?

  I gave myself another drink. I was suddenly excited. Could this be the clue Chalmers had said I would find, and having found this one, I’d find another?

  Helen wouldn’t have ripped the film out of the camera. That was certain. Then who did?

  Then the second clue dropped into my mind the way a leaf floats off a tree.

  I remembered her showing me ten cartons of cine film when I had called at her Rome apartment. I remembered chaffing her about buying so many, and I remembered she had said she intended to use most of the film in Sorrento.

  And yet there wasn’t one carton of film in the villa or m her luggage.

  There wasn’t even a film in her camera. The police hadn’t taken the films. Grandi had said they had taken nothing from the villa.

  Was this the explanation of the intruder I had seen creeping around in the villa? Had he found and taken them? Had he ripped the film from the camera, and then tossed the camera down the cliff face?

  To make absolutely sure, I went over the whole villa again, searching for the cartons of film, but I didn’t find them. Satisfied, I locked up the villa, dropped the keys into my pocket, and then, leaving the Lincoln where it was, I walked down the garden path, through the gate and along the path to the cliff head.

  By now it was just after midday and the sun blazed down on me as I walked. I passed the inaccessible villa below. This time I paused to look more closely at it.

  On the terrace, in the shadow of a table umbrella and lying on a lounging chair, I could see a woman in a white swim-suit. She appeared to be reading a newspaper. The edge of the umbrella prevented me from seeing much of her. I could just make out her long, tanned shapely legs, part of the swim-suit and a tanned arm and hand that held the newspaper.

  I wondered vaguely who she was, but I had too many things on my mind to take any interest in her, and I kept on until I reached the place where Helen had fallen.

  Methodically, I searched the path, the rough grass and the surrounding rocks within a thirtyyard radius. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I thought it might pay dividends to do it.

  It was hot work, but I kept at it. I found one thing that might or might not mean something. It was a half-smoked Burma cheroot.

  As I stood in the hot sunlight, turning the butt over between my fingers, I had a sudden and unmistakable feeling that I was being watched.

  I was pretty rattled, but I was careful not to look up. I continued to study the butt, my heart beginning to thump. It was an eerie feeling, being up there on this dangerous path, knowing that someone was close by in hiding and watching me.

  I slid the butt into my pocket and straightened, moving away from the edge of the cliff head.

  The feeling of being watched persisted. Casually, I looked around. Dense shrubs, and about fifty yards away, the thick wood, showed me that anyone could be hidden and watching
me without a hope of my spotting them.

  I started back down the path to the villa. All the way back to the garden gate, I felt eyes boring into my back. I had to exert a lot of will power not to look over my shoulder.

  It wasn’t until I had got into the Lincoln convertible and was driving fast along the snakeback road to Sorrento that I began to relax.

  III

  My first move when I reached Sorrento was to hand the keys of the villa to the estate agent. I settled the rent that was owing and gave him my Rome address in case any mail came for Helen at the villa. I told him to forward it to me.

  He said it was very sad that such a beautiful girl should have had such a terrible accident. He said he had written to the owner of the villa advising him to have the path fenced in. I wasn’t in the mood for a chit-chat about fences. I made a grunting noise, shook hands with him and went back to the car.

  I drove to the police staion where I collected the cine camera and its case. Grandi kept me waiting outside his office, for a quarter of an hour, then sent a sergeant out with the camera. The sergeant got me to sign a receipt for it.

  I left the police station and crossed over to the car, carrying the camera in its case slung over my shoulder. I got into the car, started the engine and drove slowly into the traffic-congested main road.

  The experience I had had on the cliff head had made me alert. I noticed in the driving mirror, a dark green Renault pull out from behind another parked car and drift after me.

  If I hadn’t been certain that someone had been watching me up on the cliff head, I wouldn’t have thought anything of this move, but now I was suspicious. The fact that there was a dark blue sun shield covering the windscreen of the Renault making it impossible to see who was driving, added to my suspicion.

  I headed for Naples, driving at a moderate speed, and from time to time glancing in the driving mirror. The Renault kept a respectful hundred yards behind me. I kept going, driving at

  a steady forty miles an hour, and the Renault kept after me.

  It wasn’t until I reached the entrance to the autostrada that I decided to see if the Renault was really following me of if it was a coincidence that it hung in my rear.

  I eased the speed of the Lincoln up to sixty. The Renault still remained a hundred yards behind me. I pushed the gas pedal down to the floorboards. The Lincoln surged forward. It had plenty of speed and snap, and in a minute or so the speedometer needle was swinging up to eighty-seven miles an hour.

  The Renault had fallen back, but it had also increased speed. As I watched it in the driving mirror I saw it was closing the gap again, and I was pretty sure now that I was being followed.

  There was no hope of shaking it off on this fiat, straight autostrada. The time to try tricks would be when I reached Naples.

  I slackened speed to seventy miles an hour, and drove steadily to the end of the autostrada.

  The Renault hung on, keeping its hundred yards distance, but as I slowed to hand my ticket to the official at the exit of the autostrada, the Renault, as if the driver realized that once I was in Naples traffic I would be much more difficult to follow, moved up and closed the gap between us. I took the opportunity to memorize the car’s number. As I drove into the thick Naples traffic there were only twenty yards or so between us.

  I made one attempt to shake off the Renault, but I wasn’t successful. The driver was a lot smarter at manoeuvring in congested traffic than I was, and when I made my bid I only achieved frenzied curses from the drivers of cars either side of me and wild hooting from the on-coming traffic.

  I drove to the Vesuvius hotel, swung the Lincoln into the only available space before the hotel, told the porter to keep an eye on it and went quickly into the lobby.

  I paused then to look through the revolving doors to see if I could spot the Renault, but there was no sign of it.

  I went into the bar, ordered a Scotch and soda and then took the Paillard Bolex camera from its case. I opened’ the camera. Both the film spool and the take-up spool were missing. When I slid the catch of the film gate release, a strip of torn film about three inches long dropped into my hand.

  This confirmed what I had thought had happened. Someone had opened the camera, taken out

  the two spools with the film wound on to them and yanked the film clear of the gate.

  I replaced the strip of film and locked the gate into position. Then I put the camera back into its case. I lit a cigarette and did some thinking.

  It seemed likely that X had ripped out the film. The only reason why he had done so was because Helen had photographed something he didn’t want anyone to see. The chances were that he had come on her while she was on the cliff head and, as he approached her, she had turned the camera on him. He had realized the danger of leaving such a record in the camera. After he had disposed of her, he had ripped out the film and destroyed it.

  After he had disposed of her.

  I realized now that since I had discovered the film was missing from the camera and that the films had been taken from the villa I had known that Helen hadn’t died accidentally. It was something I was loath to admit, but now I had to admit it.

  Chalmers’s wild guess had been right. Helen hadn’t died accidentally. She hadn’t committed suicide.

  I was now in a far worse jam that I had imagined. Helen had been murdered, and if I wasn’t careful, the finger of guilt would soon be pointing at me.

  PART SIX

  I

  “It’s Mr. Dawson, isn’t it?”

  I snapped out of my nightmare, nearly dropping the camera, end looked up.

  June Chalmers was standing before me. She had on a grey linen dress, ornamented with a red belt and buttons; red, spike-heeled shoes, and a red skull-cap with a white goose-feather in it.

  I got to my feet.

  “That’s right, Mrs. Chalmers.”

  “Were you looking for my husband?”

  “I was hoping to catch him before he left.”

  “He won’t be long.”

  She sat down in a lounging chair near to the one I had been sitting in, crossed her legs, and let me see her knees.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Dawson, I want to talk to you.”

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  She shook her head.

  “No, thank you, I’ve only just finished lunch. We are hoping to catch the three-forty plane. Mr. Chalmers is supervising the packing right now. He loves to do that sort of tiling himself.”

  I sat down and looked at her.

  “Mr. Dawson, I haven’t much time,” she said. “Please don’t misunderstand me if I seem harsh towards Helen, but I must speak to you about her. My husband is a very ruthless and hard man but, like so many hard men, he has a sentimental side. All his affection and love were lavished on his daughter. It may be difficult for you to believe this, but he worshipped her.”

  I moved restlessly. I couldn’t see where this was leading to. I remembered what Helen had said about her father, and how bitter she had been. She had said he had no interest in her, and he only thought of himself and finding a new woman to amuse him. What June Chalmers was telling me didn’t add up.

  “I’ve heard that he didn’t give that impression,” I said cautiously. “Most people think he had no time for her.”

  “I know. That was the impression he did give, but in actual fact he was ridiculously fond of her. He was anxious not to be thought an indulgent father, and he very stupidly kept her short of money. He thought too much money would spoil her, and he gave her only a very small allowance.”

  I sank a little lower in my chair. I can’t say I was particularly interested in all this.

  “I believe you are anxious to return to New York and take up your new appointment: it’s the foreign desk, isn’t it?” she said abruptly.

  That stiffened me to attention.

  “Yes.”

  “The job means a lot to you?”

  “Why, of course…”

  “My husband has a v
ery high opinion of you,” she went on. “He has told me what he wants you to do. I mean about Helen. He is sure she has been murdered. He gets these fixed ideas from time to time, and nothing anyone can say will make him think otherwise. The police and the coroner are satisfied it was an accident. I am sure you think so too.”

  She looked inquiringly at me.

  For no reason I could think of I felt suddenly uneasy in her presence. Maybe it was because I had an idea that her smiling calmness was phoney. There was a suppressed tension about her I could sense rather than see.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That’s something I’m going to investigate.”

  “Yes, and that brings me to why I want to talk to you. Mr. Dawson. I want to warn you to be careful how deeply you probe into this business. My husband was crazy about Helen. I don’t like speaking badly about anyone who can’t defend themselves, but in this case I haven’t any choice. He thought she was a good, decent, studious girl, but she wasn’t. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for money: nothing at all. She lived for money. My husband only gave her an allowance of sixty dollars a week. I know for a fact she spent as much as two or three hundred dollars a week when she was living in New York. She had absolutely no scruples how she got money so long as she got it. She was perhaps one of the most worldly, undisciplined, immoral and unpleasant women I have ever met.”

  The rasp in her voice as she said this shocked me.

  “I know it is a dreadful thing to say,” she went on, “but it is the truth. If you probe into her past you will find this out for yourself. She was utterly rotten. This wasn’t the first time she was pregnant: a thing like that wouldn’t have worried her. She knew what to do and who to go to. The men she went around with were degenerates and criminals. If anyone deserved to be murdered, she did!”

  I drew in a long, slow breath.

  “And yet you don’t think she was murdered?” I said.

  “I don’t know.” She stared at me. “All I do know is that the police are satisfied she died accidentally. Why can’t you be satisfied?”