You've Got It Coming

by James Hadley Chase

  Joan Goldman's face showed her interest.

  “Green? You mean Griffin, don't you?”

  “Do I?” Borg groped inside his coat and produced a soiled, much-thumbed notebook. “Yeah, that's right,” he went on after pretending to consult a blank page. “Harry Griffin: that's the guy. Do you know him?”

  “What is this?” the girl asked sharply. “Who are you?”

  Borg took a card from the notebook and pushed it at her.

  “Alert Enquiry Agency,” he said. “The name's Borg. B for butter, O for orange, R for ravioli and G for goulash: Borg.”

  There were moments when Borg prided himself on his sense of humour that amused no one but himself, and this was one of them.

  The girl looked startled.

  “You mean you're a detective?”

  “Private investigator,” Borg said. “Can I come in or do you like this draught that's blowing me into a lung hospital?”

  “Why, yes, come in.” She stood aside and let him in.

  Borg took up his position with his back to the fireplace. He was enjoying himself. Harry Griffin, he thought. He would rather have heard the guy's name was Harry Green, but, never mind, something might come of it.

  “Is Mr. Griffin in trouble?” the girl asked and Borg could see she was burning up with curiosity.

  “He could be,” Borg said. “Miss Dane a friend of yours?”

  “I don't know that she's a friend. We're neighbours. I pass the time of day with her, but I couldn't say we were friends. Is she in trouble?”

  “I don't know. This guy Griffin has a way with women. Miss Dane got any money?”

  “Not that I know of. She's been out of a job for some time. At one time She worked at the Daffodil club. That was about eighteen months ago, but she hadn't done anything since. No, I wouldn't say she had any money.”

  “That's her good luck. Griffin specializes in getting money out of women.”

  The girl looked shocked.

  “I wouldn't have thought it. Are you sure you're not confusing him with someone else?”

  Borg's eyes went sleepy.

  “I guess not. What's this guy like, you know?”

  'Why, he's tall and handsome. Dark hair, around twenty-eight. When he came to see Glorie in his uniform I thought he looked a little like Gregory Peck.”

  “What uniform?” Borg asked casually.

  “He was a pilot for the C.A.T.C. I did hear he had left them. Glorie said something about him looking for another job. That's when he moved into her apartment.” She sniffed. “They weren't married, of course, but that's their business. You can't live other people's lives, can you?”

  “I guess that's right. When did he leave the C.A.T.C.?”

  “About three or four weeks ago.”

  Borg produced a photograph of Harry Green he had taken the trouble to buy from the Photomat shop in Essex Street.

  “Is that the guy?”

  The girl examined the photograph and handed it back.

  “Why, no. It's not a bit like him. Mr. Griffin was young and he didn't have a scar. Is that the man you're looking for?”

  Borg nodded. He put the photograph back into his notebook and the notebook back into his pocket.

  “The trouble with my job” he said as he heaved himself towards the door, “is there are too many punks ready to give me a bum steer. I thought I was on to the right guy for a change. You don't know where I can find Miss Dane?”

  “No, I don't.” The girl was looking bewildered. The janitor might know.”

  “Never mind,” Borg said. “I don't suppose it matters.”

  He thudded down the stairs, holding on to the banister rail.

  He paused in the hall and brooded, then he went down the passage to the janitor's office. The janitor was a skinny little man with a prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down in his throat like a yo-yo on a string. Borg loomed over him, staring down at him, his eyes bleak and unfriendly.

  “You the janitor?” he demanded, and poked at the little man with a finger as thick as a sausage.

  “That's right,” the janitor said, backing away.

  “I'm looking for Glorie Dane. Where is she?”

  “What do you want her for?” the janitor asked, backing further away as Borg edged his gross body against him.

  “I want her. She's in trouble. Where is she?”

  The janitor licked his lips. His Adam’s apple flopped up and down.

  “She told me not to give her address to anyone,” he said feebly. “What sort of trouble, mister?”

  “I got a summons for her. If you want me to call a cop to talk to you, say so,” Borg snarled.

  “Well, she asked me to forward her mail to the Maddox hotel, New York.”

  Borg stared at him.

  “I hope that's right,” he said. “If it isn't I'll be back and you’ll be sorry.”

  He walked away down the passage to the front door, leaving the janitor staring after him. He was whistling softly under his breath as he struggled into his car and set it moving.

  He drove four blocks, turned left and pulled up outside the dingy entrance to the Daffodil club. Leaving his car, he walked down the stairs to the small, shabby foyer. At this hour in the afternoon the manager of the club, a thin, sharp-featured Mexican, was taking it easy, his feet on his desk, his eyes closed, his hands folded over the beginning of a paunch.

  His office door stood open, and he looked up as he heard Borg’s heavy breathing. When he saw who it was, he reacted as if he had seen a cobra.

  Slowly and with exaggerated care, he removed his feet from the desk and sat up. He placed his hands on the desk.

  “Hello, Sydney,” Borg said, propping himself up against the doorpost. “Long time no see.”

  “Yeah,” the Mexican said. “That's right. Anything I can do for you, Mr. Borg?”

  “I'm looking for Glorie Dane. Remember her?”

  “Why, sure. I haven't seen her for months.”

  “I didn't think you had. Got a photograph of her, Sydney?”

  The Mexican's black eyes opened wide.

  “Is she in trouble?”

  “No. I just want to talk to her.”

  The Mexican pulled open a drawer in his desk, took out a bundle of half-plate, glossy photographs, skimmed through than, took one from the pack and dropped it on the desk.

  “That's her.”

  Borg's dirty fingers closed on the photograph. He stared at it for some seconds.

  “Not bad. I've seen worse. This like her?”

  “It was taken two years ago. She's a little worn at the edges now, I guess. But you'd know it was her if you saw her.”

  Borg nodded, put the photograph between the pages of his notebook and the notebook back into his pocket. He turned and plodded out of the office.

  “You're sure she's not in trouble?” the Mexican asked. “She was a nice girl. I never had any bother with her when she was here. I wouldn’t . . .”

  He stopped short as he found himself talking to the air.

  By then Borg had dragged his bulk up the stairs and had got into his car.

  He was coming along, he told himself as he started the engine.

  Could this Griffin guy be Harry Green? Everything pointed to it. He'd been a pilot, and it was obvious that Harry Green had also been a pilot. Griffin had worked for the C.A.T.C., and he had had the means of knowing about the diamonds. Borg thought that he was on the right track. He revved the engine and sent the car away fast.

  Forty minutes later, he was being shown into the Personnel Manager's office of the C.A.T.C. The Personnel Manager, a thickset, friendly looking man with rimless glasses, regarded Borg unfavourably. On the desk was a small wooden plaque bearing the name: Herbert Henry.

  Borg removed his hat and sank his bulk into a chair by Henry's desk.

  “What can I do for you?” Henry asked. He looked at the card

  Borg had sent in, frowned at it and laid it down.

  “You had a guy
working for you some weeks ago,” Borg said. “Harry Griffin. Remember him?”

  Henry's face clouded.

  “Yes, of course. What about him?”

  “I'm trying to find him.”

  “I can't help you. I haven't seen him since he left the company.”

  “He's left town,” Borg said. “I hear he's somewhere in New York.”

  “Why this enquiry? Is he in trouble?”

  “No. I've been hired by Gregson and Lawson, the attorneys, to find him. He's come into some money and they want to deliver.”

  Henry's face relaxed and his suspicions went away.

  “I'm glad to hear that. Is it much?”

  Borg lifted his heavy shoulders.

  “Well, no, but it's worth having. Something like two thousand dollars, but if I don't find him fast, it'll all go in my expenses. I don't even know what the guy looks like. You wouldn't have a photograph of him, would you?”

  “I guess so,” Henry said and pressed on a buzzer. When a girl came in he told her to get Griffin's file.

  She came back after five minutes or so and handed the file to Henry.

  “I’m glad he's had this bit of luck,” Henry said, as he flicked through the pages of the file. “He was a good pilot, and I was sorry he left.”

  “I heard he was run out,” Borg said, making a guess.

  Henry frowned.

  “There was some trouble. It was his hard luck more than anything else.” He flicked a half-plate photograph across the desk.

  “I can let you have that if it's any use to you.”

  Borg gathered up the photograph, glanced at it, nodded and straggled to his feet.

  “I guess I'll find him with this,” he said. “I'll tell him you gave me the photo. Maybe he'll buy you a drink.”

  He plodded to the door, opened it and went out to his car.

  When he had put several miles between himself and the airport, he pulled up and took out the photograph Henry had given him and studied it. He studied it for a long time, then he took a pencil from his pocket and very lightly sketched in a moustache, a scar and filled out the lean, hard face that looked at him from the glossy surface of the photograph.

  He stared at it for a few seconds, held it out at arm's length and stared at it again. Then a sly, cruel smile lit up his fat face.

  “Yeah. I think I know who you are, you sonofabitch,” he said softly. “I think you're the boy I'm hunting for.”

  chapter five

  I

  Joe Dodge, the hotel detective at the Maddox hotel, New York, crouched over a racing sheet, an intent, worried expression on his lean, foxy face. For the past week he had consistently backed a series of losers, and his financial future now depended on his selection from the list of the afternoon's runners.

  If he made a mistake, he would be in trouble, and the thought made him sweat.

  He sat in his small office which was off the reception hall of the hotel. The room was cloudy with cigarette smoke and the ashtray on his desk was crammed with butts: proof of his nervous concentration. He was so preoccupied with 'his task that he didn't hear Borg enter the room, and it was only when Borg cleared his throat noisily that he became aware that he wasn't alone. He looked up, frowning. When he saw Borg, his frown deepened.

  “What do you want?” he said curtly. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Yeah, I'm not blind,” Borg said and pulled up a straight-backed chair to the desk. He lowered his bulk on to it. “If you're looking for a winner try Red Admiral. At forty-four to one he'll be at the winning post before the rest get halfway.”

  Dodge's eyes narrowed. This was the kind of tip he was looking for.

  “Who says so?”

  “I do,” Borg said, taking a cigarette from his limp pack and lighting it. “I saw that horse run at San Diego a couple of months ago. The jock was holding him in so hard he nearly bust the reins, and even at that, he came in second. If you don't want to make some dough, don't listen to me. Why should I care?”

  Dodge pushed back his chair.

  “I've had ten losers in a row. I can't afford to risk another one.”

  “That horse can't lose even if two of its legs fall off,” Borg said, “but if you're scared of losing your own money, I might even be able to do something for you in that line.”

  Dodge pushed aside the racing sheet.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” he demanded, his hard, mean little eyes searching Berg's face.

  Borg took out one of his phony agency cards and flicked it across the desk. Dodge picked it up and stared at it.

  “Alert Enquiry Agency?” he said, frowning. “That's a new one on me.”

  “We operate in Los Angeles,” Borg said glibly. “I'm working on a nice case where money's no object. I've got an expense sheet that's yearning to be milked. I want a little information from you and I've got authority to pay for it.”

  Dodge leaned forward.

  “What information?”

  “I'm looking for a couple who could be registered here under the name of Griffin.”

  Dodge thought for a moment, then shook his head.

  “No one staying here under that name.”

  Borg produced the photographs of Glorie and Harry he had acquired. He laid them on the desk.

  “Those are the two. Know them?”

  Dodge examined the photographs.

  “Maybe. What's it worth?”

  “It doesn't end there. You're in line for twenty-five bucks if you can earn it.”

  Dodge considered this. Twenty-five dollars would be a considerable help at this moment.

  “I know them. They booked in three days ago. They registered as Mr. and Mrs. Harrison.”

  “Here now?”

  “She is; he isn't. He left the day after they arrived. Said he would be back: some business trip.”

  “But she is?”

  “That's right.”

  “Is she in now?”

  Dodge got up.

  “I'll find out.”

  Through the office doorway, Borg watched Dodge cross to the reception desk, look at the key rack and then come back.

  “No, she's out,” he said, as he closed the office door and made his way around the desk to sit down again.

  “I want to look at her room,” Borg said.

  “Can't be done. That's strictly against the rules of the hotel.”

  Borg suppressed a yawn.

  “Well, okay, if that's the way you feel about it. I guess I won't waste any more of your time or mine either.”

  He made a show of heaving himself to his feet.

  “Wait a minute,” Dodge said. “You owe me some dough.”

  “That's right.” Borg' rolled out a thick roll of bills. He opened the roll, pawed through the bills until he found a five-dollar bill which he tossed over to Dodge. “That's all I rate your information at up to now.”

  Dodge scowled.

  “You said twenty-five. Look, mister, don't let's have any trouble. I want twenty-five.”

  “What you want and what you get depends on the service you give me,” Borg said. “I'll pay a hundred bucks if you get me a room near hers and the pass key to her room for an hour. I'll want you to watch for her and when she comes back, to tip me.”

  He took two fifties from his roll and held them up for Dodge to see.

  Dodge licked his lips.

  “Cash on the barrel head?”

  “Sure.”

  “Wait here.” Dodge went out, shutting the office door behind him. He was away five minutes. When he returned, he put on the desk two keys.

  “That's your room key. No. 334. She's right opposite at 335. That's the pass key. I'll call her room as soon as she shows.”

  Borg slid the two fifties across the desk. He picked up the keys as Dodge grabbed the bills. He got to his feet and, crossing the lobby, he took the elevator to the third floor and let himself into Room 334. He took off his hat and coat, opened his suitcase and took from it a coil of in
sulated wire, a set of tools in a leather wrapper and a small cardboard carton. He crossed the corridor and, using the pass key, he opened the door to No. 335.

  He took a quick look around the room, then he closed the door and put his tools and wire on the bed. He opened the carton and took from it a small microphone. This he laid in the transom above the door and screwed it into place. He attached two wires to it, threaded the wires through the transom and out into the corridor. He worked quickly and neatly, running the wire under the carpet that covered the corridor and across to his room.

  Leaving the coil of wire on his bed, he returned to the opposite room and collected his tools. He looked around. Apart from two suitcases that hadn't been unpacked and a nightdress and silk wrap hanging on the back of the door, the room was unlived in.

  When he looked into the cupboards and drawers he found them empty. He decided Glorie didn't intend to stay at the hotel for long, and he reckoned he had arrived just in time. As he was about to leave the room, the telephone bell rang. He lifted the receiver.

  “She's on her way up,” Dodge told him.

  Borg grunted and replaced the receiver. He left the room, locked the door and went across to his own room. He pushed the door nearly shut and waited.

  After a few minutes, he heard the elevator doors clang back, then he heard someone coming quickly down the corridor. He peered through the crack between the doorpost and the door.

  He didn't recognize Glorie. He had seen her once or twice when she had been around with Delaney but he had scarcely bothered to look at her. Women had never interested him. He considered them not only a gross waste of money, but an overrated pastime.

  He watched the tall, slim girl, dressed in a black-and-white costume, grope in her bag for her key. She looked older than her photograph, Borg thought, tired and worried, but she was a looker in spite of the dark smudges under her eyes and her white, too-thin face.

  She went into the room and shut the door.

  Borg took from his suitcase a small amplifier and wired the microphone wires to it. He put on a pair of headphones, plugged the amplifier leads to the mains and switched on.

  The microphone he had hidden in Glorie's room was exceptionally sensitive. He could hear her moving about, and when he listened carefully, he could hear her breathing. He lit a cigarette, settled down in his chair and waited.