1975 - Believe This You'll Believe Anything

by James Hadley Chase

  ‘We haven’t had one this way for three years. I guess we’re due one.’ He led his way into his office. ‘There’s always a chance it’ll blow itself out before it reaches us.’

  He sat behind his desk and flicked through the mail, then he handed me three fat envelopes.

  ‘There you are. I hope they aren’t headaches.’ He grinned. ‘How’s your new typist?’

  ‘She’s excellent. That raises a point. I hired her on a temporary basis. How is Mrs. Vidal?’ I opened one of the envelopes so I need not look at him. My mouth was dry and my heart was thumping.

  ‘If your typist is good Burden, my advice to you is to keep her on a permanent basis. It’s my bet Mrs. V. won’t be doing any work for some time, if ever.’

  I looked up and stared at him.

  ‘Is she that bad?’

  ‘Confidentially and don’t pass this on, she is in one of those odd trances of hers.’ He lit a cigarette and pushed the silver box towards me. ‘Although he doesn’t say so, Fontane is foxed. Of course he doesn’t know that she could be hypnotised and I’m not telling him. He would think I was out of my mind. He’s bringing a specialist to look at her this morning.’

  Huskily, I asked, ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘No, but Mrs. Clements is with her most of the time. She tells me Mrs. V. is in a semi-coma, won’t talk, eats practically nothing . . . in fact, doing her zombie act. She appears, according to Mrs. Clements, to have lost all interest in life.’

  He has destroyed me!

  ‘Couldn’t you get your friend Dr. Rappach, to look at her?’

  ‘Not a chance. That old wreck? He’s beyond helping anyone except his nigger children as he calls them.’

  ‘I thought you were a friend of his?’

  ‘I met him at a charity do. He amused me and I gave him money for his deserving nuts. He’s not a bad old boy.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you tell Dr. Fontane about the finger snapping business?’

  ‘That would be sticking my neck out and that’s something I never do. If you want to stick yours out, you tell him. Let’s face it, old boy, you probably started this.’

  I stiffened.

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘Now, don’t get upset.’ He grinned. ‘You did tell me you set her off so she fell and hit her head, didn’t you?’ I turned cold.

  ‘I imagined she had come out of that.’

  ‘Doesn’t look as if she has, does it? Anyway, we’ll know something with luck, after the specialist has seen her.’

  ‘Does Vidal know?’

  ‘Not yet, but he will have to be told. Fontane will call him sometime today.’

  I moved to the door.

  ‘Let me know what happens,’ I said. ‘It worries me that I could be responsible.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry, old boy. If it wasn’t you, it could be someone else. After all, people are always snapping their fingers, aren’t they?’

  I went up to my office to find Connie already at her typewriter. We exchanged greetings and I looked through the briefs that had arrived. I was worried sick by what Dyer had told me. In an impulsive moment, I decided, no matter how great the risk, I had to see Val.

  I gave Connie some work to do, told her I would be back in a few minutes and left the office. I looked down the long corridor that led to Val’s bedroom. Then I walked fast to the door, paused, listened, heard nothing and tapped lightly.

  There was no reply to my tap.

  With my heart pounding, I opened the door silently and looked into the room.

  Alone, Val lay in the big bed.

  ‘Val?’

  Leaving the door ajar, I crossed the room to the bed and looked down at her. I received a shock. She looked so thin and white, and her fixed, blank stare frightened me.

  ‘Val!’

  She didn’t move and her stare remained fixed.

  I knew every second I remained in the room was dangerous. Any moment someone could come in and what excuse could I give for being there? If I had put her in this trance by snapping my fingers could I not get her out of it by snapping my fingers twice as Dyer had told me he had done?

  Dare I experiment with something I knew so little about?

  ‘Val!’

  Still no response.

  I touched her arm.

  Still no response.

  I had to do it! I lifted my hand, hesitated, then snapped my fingers: once, twice.

  Her reaction was immediate. She gave a convulsive shudder. Life came back into her eyes. She started up, staring at me.

  ‘It’s all right, darling . . . it’s me. . . Clay.’

  She reared back, her hands lifting and shaking.

  ‘Val! It’s me . . . Clay!’

  ‘You’re not Clay!’ Her voice was low: a croak. ‘Get away from me! I know who you are, you devil! Get away from me!’

  The tenor in her eyes, the terror in her croaking voice drove me to the door.

  ‘Get out!’ Her voice was now shrill. ‘Get out!’

  Shaking, cold and shocked, I moved into the corridor and quietly closed the door. I stood for some moments, leaning against the wall, feeling sick and desperate. I had lost her!

  She now imagined I was Vidal!

  I walked unsteadily down the corridor, down the stairs and out to my car.

  Once in the car, I tried to control myself. I sat there for some five minutes then, making the effort. I started the car engine.

  I had to kill him!

  But first to buy a gun!

  * * *

  I got off the Turnpike onto East street and found parking in a lot behind a rundown hotel. I walked north towards the Harlem quarter. As I progressed I was aware of hostile stares.

  I didn’t give a damn. I walked my way, shoving through the blacks on the congested street, my eyes searching for a pawnshop.

  At the corner of Southern Beach road I found one. I pushed open the double swing doors and walked into a big space that smelt of black people, dirty feet and despair.

  Facing me was a long counter at which stood, in hopeless resignation, some thirty or forty black men and women.

  Before them on the counter were bundles which they clutched with possessive fear while three black clerks moved up and down behind the counter with indifferent, arrogant expressions.

  I stood hesitating. Then I saw a black hand waving to me.

  I walked away from the counter to a small cubicle, boxed in on either side but open at the back and front.

  An old Negro in a black threadbare alpaca coat and a grey flannel shirt with a string tie smiled at me from behind the counter. He had a high domed forehead. His crinkly white hair receded and his bushy white eyebrows made shades for his eyes.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ he said. ‘There is something, sir?’ I moved close to him.

  ‘I want to buy a gun,’ I said.

  What would he do? Send for the police? Refuse me? I was beyond caring.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ His expression conveyed I had asked for nothing more ordinary than a flower vase or an alarm clock. ‘A gun? Perhaps a sporting rifle, sir? We have a selection. I have a .22 rifle that has just come in. Would that be of interest, sir?’

  ‘I want a pistol.’ I wished I knew something about guns. ‘Not a rifle.’

  He smiled, showing big yellow teeth like the keys of an old piano.

  ‘Yes . . . so many people now want handguns. It is the new way of life. We must protect ourselves. Certainly sir, I can offer you something exceptional.’ The black eyes moved over me, up and down, taking stock. ‘The price comes a little high, but this gun is far from ordinary: a police .38 automatic: a beautiful weapon!’

  I didn’t know what to say. All I wanted was a gun capable of killing Vidal, but this I couldn’t tell this old Negro.

  ‘Well. . .’

  ‘Would you be interested at one hundred and thirty dollars?’ The black eyes stared fixedly at me. ‘A beautiful weapon, sir.’

  ‘Show it to me.’

  He went
away and after several minutes, while I stood with my back to the shop, feeling curious eyes boring into me, he came to the counter and laid a gun before me.

  I stared down at it. It meant nothing to me. It was a gun. I felt a cold tremor run through me as I regarded the short barrel, the trigger and the blue metallic finish.

  ‘You live in this neighbourhood, sir?’ the old Negro asked. ‘It has become a sad district. Thirty years ago, I well remember how pleasant it was. But now, people come to me in fear. They want guns. They need to protect themselves. Now with a gun like this . . .’ He picked up the gun and fondled it. ‘You could sleep peacefully. A knock on your door, the sound of breaking glass, a shadow across your bed . . .with a gun like this you would feel secure.’

  ‘I know nothing about guns,’ I said huskily. ‘Please show me.’

  Ten minutes later. I walked out into the heat and the wind. For the first time in my life, I had a loaded gun in my hip pocket.

  I got back to the Vidal residence at 10.45. As I parked my car I saw Dr. Fontane and a short fat man I guessed would be the specialist coming down the steps from the house. They were talking together. Fontane, bending forward, his birdlike face worried, hanging on the words of the fat man. They got in Fontane’s car and drove away.

  Dyer now appeared. Seeing me, he came down the steps and joined me.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he asked.

  ‘I had things to do. What’s the news?’

  ‘Foxed them both. The official verdict is a nervous breakdown. These quacks! Anyway, Fontane has talked to Tiny. He’s coming back.’

  A sudden squall of rain and wind made him retreat up the steps and into the hall. I followed him. We both paused as rain poured out of the sky.

  ‘Hell!’ Dyer said. ‘I think we’re in for it. Did you hear the hurricane warning half an hour ago?’

  I couldn’t care less about hurricanes.

  ‘A nervous breakdown?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘That covers everything, doesn’t it?’ He was staring up at the now leaden sky, ‘They say this is going to be the biggest blow we have had since 1928. I’ll have to see these lazy tykes get busy battening down.’

  Nodding, he ran out into the rain and down the path towards his office.

  Moving slowly, I mounted the stairs and walked into my office.

  Connie was on the telephone, a half-eaten hamburger clutched in her fat little fingers.

  ‘That’s right,’ she was saying. ‘Okay, I’ll fix the visas,’ and she hung up. ‘I’ve got one schedule tied up, Mr. Burden,’ she said, smiling happily. ‘I’ve sent Potter for the visas. They’re for Mr. and Mrs. Lu Mayer.’

  I didn’t know what she was talking about nor did I care. I nodded. ‘Good work,’ I said. ‘What else is there?’

  ‘There is a schedule. . .’

  I hadn’t listened. He is coming back. When? I had to know. I flicked down the switch of the intercom.

  ‘Burden,’ I said when Dyer answered. ‘When did you say Mr. Vidal was returning? Can I fix his reservation?’

  ‘He is already on his way,’ Dyer said. ‘He’s due in at 06.00 tomorrow. I’ve told his chauffeur. There’s nothing for you to handle.’

  As I flicked up the switch, my gun hand went behind me and my fingers touched the butt of the gun.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr. Burden,’ Connie said, ‘would you mind if I got the weather service?’

  I was far away with my thoughts and came to with a start. I blinked at her.

  ‘What was that again?’

  She held up a tiny transistor.

  ‘The weather service.’

  ‘Oh, sure . . . go ahead.’

  I looked across the big room to the two picture windows.

  Rain poured down the big panes, blotting out the palm trees and the sky.

  The weather service man said that the hurricane, named ‘Hermes’ was coming from the West Indies, was approaching the Florida coast at the rate of 20 miles an hour. Unless it was diverted which seemed unlikely it would hit Key West in two days’ time and then Miami the following morning.

  ‘This is a hurricane warning,’ the voice said. ‘Stand by for hourly reports.’

  ‘What does all that mean?’ I asked as Connie switched off the transistor and produced a paper sack from her handbag.

  ‘When we get a hurricane warning, we have to make arrangements,’ she told me. ‘All the rich ran away. People like you and me stick here and get battered. It’s quite fun really. I’ve been through two hurricanes and I’m still here to brag about it.’ She peered into the paper sack. ‘Would you fancy a bit of chocolate cake, Mr. Burden?’

  ‘Not right now, thank you.’ I said.

  The intercom buzzed. I flicked down the switch.

  ‘Do you mind coming to my office, old boy?’ Dyer said.

  ‘Bring an umbrella or something. It’s raining like hell.’

  ‘I’ll be along and I can see it is raining.’

  I got wet running along the path to Dyer’s office. I found him at his desk, a telephone receiver clamped to his ear.

  He was saying. ‘Get men working on it, Harry. Board up the place. You take care of the yacht . . . okay? What’s that? God knows! You know Tiny. He could opt to stick. Yes. . . call me back,’ and he hung up.

  I shook the rain off my jacket as I moved further into the room.

  ‘Action stations.’ He grinned. ‘Hermes is going to be violent. From tomorrow the office closes. All the staff will either go to Dallas - that’s Tiny’s second headquarters or stay home. How about you Burden? Want to stick around here or go home?’

  I rested a hip on his desk.

  ‘I’m not with you. What’s all the fuss?’

  He laughed.

  ‘Of course, you’re from Boston. You haven’t ever experienced a hurricane. It’s quite something. We bed down and sit it out . . . those who have to. The migration of the rich, the fat and the powerful has already begun. Everyone who can shoves off. Paradise City, Miami and Fort Lauderdale come to a grinding halt. If Tiny opts to remain here, then Mrs. Clements, the chef and the butler will stay.’ He pulled a face. ‘Me too. I’ve been through this caper before. It’s pretty dreary. Canned food, no electricity, hellish noise, but plenty of booze. What do you want to do? You’d better stay home. There will be no work to do.’

  ‘You mean everything literally comes to a standstill?’

  ‘That’s what I’m telling you. According to the weather bureau, Hermes is going to be a real sonofabitch. Your best bet is to stay home.’

  ‘What is going to happen to Mrs. Vidal?’ He shrugged.

  ‘That’s for Tiny to decide. If he thinks she shouldn’t be moved then I’ll have to stay here. When he arrives tomorrow I’m hoping he’ll have her shifted to Dallas. I want to know where you will be. As soon as Hermes blows itself out, I’ll have to recall the staff. I have your home address, haven’t I?’

  I didn’t hesitate.

  ‘I’ll stick around here,’ I said. ‘If things get rugged I might be of help, but if Vidal goes to Dallas, I’ll go home.’ He looked surprised.

  ‘Please yourself. You won’t have anything to do, but if you want to stay, it’ll be company for me. Bring an overnight bag with you tomorrow. After tomorrow no one will be happy on the streets.’

  A trash of thunder rattled the windows.

  ‘It’s building up.’ He reached for the telephone. ‘Have a word with Mrs. Clements. She’ll fix your room here.’

  It was now raining so violently I had to borrow an umbrella from the receptioness before returning to the house.

  I told Connie not to come in tomorrow and I would call her when the hurricane had blown itself out. I then called Mrs. Clements on the intercom.

  ‘Mr. Dyer suggests I have a room here until the hurricane is over,’ I said. ‘Can that be arranged?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Burden. Room 2, next to your office.’

  That put me thirty yards from Val’s room.

  There w
as very little work now to keep us occupied.

  Around 16.00, as there was a lull in the rain, I sent Connie home.

  When she had gone, I lit a cigarette and leaned back in my chair. So Vidal was returning tomorrow. Val was supposed to be having a nervous breakdown. I was going to spend the following night here, close to her and close to Vidal.

  I took the gun from my hip pocket and examined it. The old Negro had explained about the safety catch, had shown me how to load and unload it. It was now unloaded. I had six cartridges in my pocket. I raised the gun, sighted along the short barrel and squeezed the trigger. The hammer made a sharp snapping sound. I wondered if when the time came I could bring myself to shoot. I put the gun in my brief case and lit another cigarette. Now was the time to think of a safe and foolproof method to kill Vidal. No one must suspect Val nor me. I sat in the stillness of the room with the sound of the storm for the next two hours while I racked my brains but no foolproof idea presented itself. I tried to assure myself that an opportunity would arrive. I had a gun. When the opportunity did arrive, I would use the gun. That was as far as I got with my thinking: a pretty feeble effort which depressed me.

  Finally I quit thinking and left the office. The wind was now screaming through the palm trees. Driving towards home, I found the traffic was bad. All cars seemed to be heading out of the city. There were many buses crammed with old people.

  As Dyer had said the migration had begun.

  Along the main shopping street, men were busy removing electric signs and boarding up shop windows. A string of trucks piled high with bedding and cooking utensils held me up, and impatiently I took a side road that would take me in a circular route to my complex.

  In the residential quarter I saw men standing on bungalow roofs capping chimneys and others plugging windows and door crevices.

  The wind was so violent I had trouble in steering my car in a straight course. Every now and then a gust forced the Plymouth half across the street.

  I was glad to drive down the ramp of the communal garage and get out of the wind. As I locked the car, torrential rain began to fall.

  Leaving the elevator, I walked into the apartment. Rhoda was standing by the window, looking out at the rain and the wind lashed palms.

  ‘So the hurricane is going to arrive after all.’ I said as I put my briefcase, containing the gun, in my desk drawer. ‘Did you see all the preparations going on?’