1955 - You Never Know With Women

by James Hadley Chase

  “But the compact would support the sleep-walking tale. She wouldn’t leave that in his safe unless she was screwy or did walk in her sleep.”

  “But suppose Brett denied the compact was left in the safe in order to get even with her?”

  I stubbed out the cigarette regretfully. It was the best smoke I’d had in days.

  “Why couldn’t she raise money on the dagger if it’s as valuable as you say?”

  “For the obvious reason: it is unique. There were only two gold daggers made by Cellini in existence. One of them is in the Uffizi, and the other belongs to Brett. There’s not a dealer in the world who doesn’t know by now that Brett owns the dagger. It would be impossible to sell it unless Brett personally handled the deal.”

  “Okay, then let Brett bring a charge. If she flashes her G-string at the jury, she’ll beat the rap. It’s a cinch they’d never convict her.”

  He even had an answer for that one.

  “Miss Rux can’t afford the publicity. If Brett brought a charge it would be impossible to keep the case out of the papers. It would ruin her career.”

  I gave up.

  “So what’s happening? Is Brett bringing a charge?” Gorman smiled.

  “Now we come to the point, Mr. Jackson. Brett left for San Francisco early this morning. He returns the day after tomorrow. He thinks the dagger is still in his safe.”

  I knew what was coming, but I wanted him to tell me. I said, “So what do we do?”

  At least, that produced some action. He fished from his inside pocket a roll of money big enough to choke a horse. He peeled off ten one-hundred-dollar-bills and laid them fan-shape on the desk. They were new and crisp, and I could almost smell the ink on them. I had already guessed he was in the chips, but I hadn’t expected him to be as well-heeled as this. I hitched my chair forward and took a closer look at the notes. There was nothing wrong with them except they were on his side of the desk and not on mine.

  “I want to hire your services, Mr. Jackson,” he said, lowering his voice. “Would that fee interest you?”

  I said it would in a voice I didn’t recognize as my own, and ran an unsteady hand over my hair to make sure I hadn’t lost the top of my head. The sight of those iron men had sent my blood pressure up like a jet-propelled rocket.

  From another pocket he produced a red leather case. He opened it and pushed it towards me. I blinked at the glittering gold dagger that lay on a white satin bed. It was about a foot long, covered with complicated engravings of flowers and animals, and there was an emerald the size of a walnut let into the top of the hilt. It was a nice thing if you like pretty toys: I don’t.

  “This is the Cellini dagger,” Gorman said, and there was honey in his voice now. “I want you to return it to Brett’s safe and bring away Miss Rux’s compact. I realize it is a little unethical, and you will have to act the role of a burglar, but you won’t be stealing anything, Mr. Jackson, and the fee is, I suggest, appropriate to the risks. The fee, Mr. Jackson, of a thousand dollars.”

  I knew I shouldn’t touch this with a twenty-foot pole. The alarm bell kept ringing in my mind telling me this fat flesh-peddler was stringing me for a sucker. I was sure the whole lousy tale — the Cellini dagger, the stripper who walked in her sleep, the compact in the safe — was a tissue of lies a half-wit paralytic could have seen through. I should have told him to jump in a lake — into two, if one wasn’t big enough to hold him. I wish I had now. It would have saved me a lot of grief and being hunted for murder. But I wanted those ten iron men with a want that tore into my guts, and I thought I was smart enough to play it my way and keep out of trouble. If I hadn’t been broke or in a jam, if Redfern hadn’t been squeezing me, it might have been different. But why go on?

  I said I’d do it.

  chapter two

  Now that he had me on the dotted line, Gorman wasn’t giving me a chance to change my mind. He wanted me out at his place right away. It didn’t matter about going bad” to my rooms to pick up any overnight stuff. I could borrow anything I wanted. He had a car outside, and it wouldn’t take long to get to his place, where there were drinks and food and quiet in which to talk things over. I could see he wasn’t going to let me out of his sight now or use a telephone or check his story or tell anyone he and I had made a deal. The promise of a drink decided me. I agreed to go along with him.

  But before we started we had a little argument over the money. He wanted to pay by results, but I didn’t see it that way. Finally I squeezed two of the Cs out of him and persuaded him to agree to part with two more before I did the actual job. I would receive the balance when I handed over the compact.

  Just to show him I didn’t trust him further than I could throw him, I put the two bills in an envelope with a note to my bank manager, and on the way down to the street level I dropped the envelope into the mail chute. At least, if he tried to double-cross me he wouldn’t get his paws again on those two bills.

  An early-vintage Packard Straight Eight cluttered up the street outside the office. The only thing in its favour was its size. I had expected something black and glittering and streamlined to match the diamond, and this old jalopy came as a surprise.

  I stood back while Gorman squeezed himself into the back seat. He didn’t get in the car: he put it on. I expected the four tyres to burst as he settled himself in, but they held. After making sure there was no room in there with him, I got in beside the driver.

  We roared out of town, along Ocean Boulevard, into and over the foothills that surrounded the city in the shape of a horseshoe.

  I couldn’t see much of the driver. He sat low behind the steering-wheel and had a chauffeur’s cap pulled down over his nose and he stared straight ahead. All the time we drove through the darkness he neither spoke nor looked at me.

  We zigzagged through the foothills for a while, then turned off into a canyon and drove along a dirt road, bordered by thick scrub. I hadn’t been out this way before. Every so often we’d pass a house. There were no lights showing.

  After a while I gave up trying to memorize the route and let my mind dwell on the two hundred bucks I’d mailed to the bank. At last I would have something to wave at the wolf when next he called at the office.

  I wasn’t kidding myself what this job was about. I’d been hired to rob a safe. Never mind the elaborate build-up: the poor little stripper, scared of the big, bad millionaire, or the phoney dagger made by Mr. Cellini. I didn’t believe one word of that tall tale. Gorman wanted something that Brett had in the safe. Maybe it was a powder compact. I didn’t know, but whatever it was, he wanted it badly, and had come to me with this cooked-up yarn so as to have a back door to duck through in case I turned him down. He hadn’t the nerve to tell me he wanted me to rob Brett’s safe. But that’s what he was paying me to do. I had taken his money, but that didn’t mean I was going through with it. He said I was tricky and smooth. Maybe I am. I’d go along with him so far, but I wasn’t going to jump into anything without seeing where I was going to land. Anyway, that’s what I told myself, and at that time I believed it.

  We were at the far end of the canyon now. It was damp down there and dark, and a thin white mist hung above the ground. The car headlights bounced off the mist and it wasn’t easy to see what was ahead. Somewhere in the mist and darkness I could hear the frogs croaking. Through the misty windshield the moon looked like a dead man’s face and the stars like paste diamonds.

  The car suddenly swung through a narrow gateway, up a steep driveway, screened on either side by a high, thick hedge. A moment later we turned a bend and I saw lighted windows hanging in space. It was too dark even to see the outline of the house and everything around us was quiet and still and breathless: it was as lonely out there as the condemned cell at San Quentin.

  A light in a wrought-iron coach lantern sprang up over the front door as the car pulled up with a crunch of tyres on gravel.

  The light shone down on two stone lions crouching one on either side of the porch. The fr
ont door was studded with brass-headed nails and looked strong enough to withstand a battering-ram.

  The chauffeur ran around to the rear door and helped Gorman out. The light from the lantern fell on his face and I looked him over. There was something about his hooked nose and thick lips that struck a chord in my memory. I’d seen him somewhere before, but I couldn’t place him.

  “Get the car away,” Gorman growled at him. “And let us have some sandwiches, and remember to wash your hands before you touch the bread.”

  “Yes, sir,” the chauffeur said and gave Gorman a look that should have dropped him in his tracks. It wasn’t hard to see he hated Gorman. I was glad to know that. When you’re playing it the way I had it figured out it’s a sound thing to know who is on whose side.

  Gorman opened the front door, edged in his bulk and I followed. We entered a large hall; at the far end was a broad staircase leading to the upper rooms. On the left were double doors to a lounge.

  No butler came to greet us. No one seemed interested in us now we had arrived. Gorman took off his hat and struggled out of his coat. He looked just as impressive without the hat, and as dangerous. He had a bald spot on the top of his head, but his hair was clipped so close it didn’t matter. His pink scalp glistened through the white bristles so you scarcely noticed where the hair left off.

  I tossed my hat on a hall chair.

  “Come in, Mr. Jackson,” he said. “I want you to feel at home.”

  I went with him into the lounge. Walking at his side made me feel like a tug bringing in an ocean liner. It was a nice room with a couple of chesterfields in red leather and three or four lounging chairs drawn up before a fireplace big enough to sit in. On the polished boards were Persian rugs that made rich pools of colour, and along the wall facing the french windows was a carved sideboard on which was displayed a comprehensive collection of bottles and glasses.

  A thin, elegantly dressed man pulled himself out of a lounging chair by the window.

  “Dominic, this is Mr. Floyd Jackson,” Gorman said; and to me he went on, “Mr. Dominic Parker, my partner.”

  My attention was riveted on the bottles, but I gave him a nod to be friendly. Mr. Parker didn’t even nod. He looked me over and his lips curled superciliously and he didn’t look friendly at all.

  “Oh, the detective,” he said with a sneer, and glanced at his finger-nails the way women do when they’re giving you the brush off.

  I hitched myself up against one of the chesterfields and looked him over. He was tall and slender, and his honey-coloured hair was taken straight back and slicked down. He had a long, narrow face, washed-out blue eyes and a soft chin that would have looked a lot better on a woman. From the wrinkles under his eyes and a little sag of flesh at his throat I guessed he wouldn’t see forty again.

  He was a natty dresser, if you care for the effeminate touch. He had on a pearl-grey flannel suit, a pale-green silk shirt, a bottle-green tie and reverse calf shoes of the same colour. A white carnation decorated his buttonhole and a fat, oval, gold-tipped cigarette hung from his over-red lips.

  Gorman had planted himself in front of the fireplace. He stared at me with empty eyes as if he were suddenly bored with me.

  “You’d like a drink?” he said, then glanced at Parker. “A drink for Mr. Jackson, don’t you think?”

  “Let him get it himself,” Parker said sharply. “I’m not in the habit of waiting on servants.”

  “Is that what I am?” I asked.

  “You wouldn’t be here unless you were being paid, and that makes you a servant,” he told me in his supercilious voice.

  “So it does.” I crossed over to the sideboard and mixed myself a drink big enough to float a canoe. “Like the little guy who was told to wash his hands.”

  “It’ll be all right with me if you talk when you’re spoken to,” he said, his face tight with rage.

  Gorman said, “Don’t get excited, Dominic.”

  The hoarse, scratchy voice had an effect on Parker. He sat down again and frowned at his finger-nails. There was a pause. I lifted my glass, waved it at Gorman and drank. The Scotch was as good as the diamond.

  “Is he going to do it?” Parker asked suddenly without looking up.

  “Tomorrow night,” Gorman said. “Explain it to him. I’m going to bed.” He included me in the conversation by pointing a ringer the size of a banana at me. “Mr. Parker will tell you all you want to know. Good night, Mr. Jackson.”

  I said good night.

  At the door, he turned to look at me again.

  “Please co-operate with Mr. Parker. He has my complete confidence. He understands what has to be done and what he tells you is an order from me.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  We listened to Gorman’s heavy tread as he climbed the stairs. The room seemed empty without him.

  “Go ahead,” I said, dropping into one of the lounging chairs. “You have my complete confidence too.”

  “We won’t have any funny stuff, Jackson.” Parker was sitting up very stiff in his chair. His fists were clenched. “You’re being paid for this job and paid well. I don’t want any impertinence from you. Understand?”

  “So far I’ve only received two hundred dollars,” I said, smiling at him. “If you don’t like me the way I am, send me home. The retainer will cover the time I’ve wasted coming out here. Suit yourself.”

  A tap on the door saved his dignity. He said to come in in his cold, spiteful voice and thrust his clenched fists into his trouser pockets.

  The chauffeur came in, carrying a tray. He had changed into a white drill jacket that was a shade too large for him. On the tray was a pile of sandwiches, cut thick.

  I recognized him now he wasn’t wearing the cap. I’d seen him working at the harbour. He was a dark, sad-looking little man with a hooked nose and sad, moist eyes. I wondered what he was doing here. I remembered seeing him painting a boat along the waterfront a few days ago. He must be as new to this job as I was. As he came in he gave a quick look and a puzzled expression jumped into his eyes.

  “What’s that supposed to be?” Parker snapped, pointing to the tray.

  “Mr. Gorman ordered sandwiches, sir.”

  Parker stood up, took the plate and stared at the sandwiches. He lifted one with a finicky finger and thumb, frowned at it in shocked disgust.

  “Who do you think can eat stuff like this?” he demanded angrily. “Can’t you get into your gutter mind sandwiches should be cut thin: thin as paper, you stupid oaf. Cut some more!” With a quick flick of his wrist he shot the contents of the plate into the little guy’s face. Bread and chicken dripped over him: a piece of chicken lodged in his hair. He stood very still and went white.

  Parker stalked to the french windows, wrenched back the curtains and stared out into the night. He kept his back turned until the chauffeur had cleared up the mess.

  I said: “We don’t want anything to eat, bud. You needn’t come back.”

  The chauffeur went out without looking at me. His back was stiff with rage.

  Parker said over his shoulder, “I’ll trouble you not to give orders to my servants.”

  “If you’re going to act like an hysterical old woman I’m going to bed. If you have anything to tell me, let’s have it. Only make up your mind.”

  He came away from the french windows. Rage made him look old and ugly.

  “I warned Gorman you’d be difficult,” he said, trying to control his voice. “I told him to leave you alone. A cheap crook like you is no use to anyone.”

  I grinned at him.

  “I’ve been hired to do a job and I’m going to do it. But I’m doing it my way, and I’m not taking a lot of bull from you. That goes for Fatso too. If you want this job done, say so and get on with it.”

  He struggled with his temper and then, to my surprise, calmed down.

  “All right, Jackson,” he said mildly. “There’s no sense in quarrelling.”

  I watched him walk stiff-legged to the sideboard, j
erk open a drawer and take out a long roll of blue paper. He tossed it on the table.

  “That’s the plan of Brett’s house. Look at it.”

  I helped myself to another drink and one of his fat cigarettes I found in a box on the sideboard. Then I unrolled the paper and studied the plan. It was an architect’s blue print. Parker leaned over the table and pointed out the way in, and where the safe was located.

  “Two guards patrol the house,” he said. “They’re ex-policemen and quick on the trigger. There’s an elaborate system of burglar alarms, but they are only fixed to the windows and safe. I’ve arranged for you to enter by the back door. That’s it, here.” His long ringer pointed on the plan. “You follow this passage, go up the stairs, along here to Brett’s study. The safe’s here, where I’ve marked it in red.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” I said sharply. “Gorman didn’t say anything about guards and alarms. How is it the Rux dame didn’t touch off the alarm?”

  He was expecting that one, for he answered without hesitation.

  “When Brett returned the dagger to the safe he forgot to reset it.”

  “Think it’s still unset?”

  “It’s possible, but you mustn’t rely on it.”

  “And the guards? How did she miss them?”

  “They were in another wing of the house at the time.”

  I wasn’t too happy about this. Ex-policemen guards can be tough.

  “I have a key that’ll fit the back door,” he said casually. “You needn’t worry about that.”

  “You have? You work fast, don’t you?”

  He didn’t say anything to that.

  I wandered over to the fireplace, leaned against the mantel.

  “What happens if I’m caught?”

  “We wouldn’t have chosen you for the job if we thought you’d be caught,” he said, and smiled through his teeth.

  “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

  He lifted his elegant shoulders.

  “You must tell the truth.”