Not My Thing

by James Hadley Chase

  He paused in the doorway, stiffened his shoulders, then walked steadily down the marble steps to the waiting Rolls.

  * * *

  Lucan found Kling lounging in the sun outside his cabin. The time was 18.00.

  Kling raised his hand as Lucan, smiling, sank down on a lounging-chair by his side.

  ‘Did you fix it, Lucky?’ Kling asked.

  Lucan had been given Jamison’s five thousand dollars, plus another five thousand dollars, supplied by Kling, to pay Lucy Loveheart’s deposit. He had seen her, handed over the money, and had been given the key to the Whipping room.

  ‘No problems, Ernie.’ Lucan handed the key to Kling. ‘That’s it. I’ve done my stint. It’s now up to you. You have the room for two weeks. When will you pay her?’

  ‘Don’t worry your head about that,’ Kling said. ‘I’ll fix it.’ He smiled. ‘I’m a great little fixer.’

  Lucan became alarmed.

  ‘Ernie, for God’s sake, don’t try to double-cross Lucy. She’s tougher than teak and she draws big clout in this city. You’re not planning…?’

  ‘Oh, relax, Lucky. She’ll get her money.’

  ‘How about my money?’ Lucan demanded, sitting forward. ‘Have you fixed my Swiss account?’

  Kling flicked ash off his cigarette.

  ‘We haven’t got the ransom yet, have we?’

  ‘But you’ll fix it?’

  ‘Sure. Just relax. You’re almost within reach of a half a million,’ Kling said. ‘That should give you sweet dreams.’

  ‘Almost?’ Lucan’s voice shot up. ‘What do you mean? Our arrangement was as soon as I found you a safe-house, I’d get the money. What’s this ‘almost’ thing?’

  ‘Look, Lucky, I have first to case the joint.’ Kling regarded the key Lucan had given him. ‘I’ll have an unconscious woman on my hands. I have to get her up to this room, and it’s got to be done fast and smooth.’ He got to his feet. ‘So you and I will go take a look at the setup. I want to know the lay-out.’

  ‘There’s no problem,’ Lucan said, beginning to sweat. ‘There’s an underground garage. You drive in. You’ll see an elevator on your left. You go up to the top floor. You have the key. No one will see you. That’s it, Ernie.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ Kling said. ‘Okay, let’s take a long look, huh?’

  An hour later, Kling, who had surveyed the scene and was satisfied, patted Lucan on his shoulder.

  ‘Okay, Lucky. You’ve done a good job. Now, you stick around. I may need you. Just stay within reaching call,’ and he walked into his cabin, firmly closing the door.

  Ng was waiting. He came into the living-room.

  ‘I have prepared curried prawns and a mixed salad for dinner, sir,’ Ng said. ‘Would that please you?’

  ‘Great.’ Kling sank into one of the lounging-chairs. ‘Give me a drink.’

  When Ng had given him a Scotch, Kling regarded him.

  ‘Are you any good at lifting a car, kid?’

  ‘You mean steal a car, sir?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Ng nodded.

  ‘No problem, sir.’

  ‘Right. Tomorrow morning at six, I want you to get a car and bring it here. Take it from some over-night car park. Together, we’ll handle this kidnap job. It’ll be dead easy. The woman goes to church at seven thirty. The plan is to stop her as she leaves.’ Kling sipped his drink. ‘I want you to cope with her. I want her unconscious. Can you fix that, kid?’

  Ng nodded.

  ‘Yes, sir. No problem, sir.’

  Kling laughed.

  ‘There are times, kid, when you kill me. Nothing’s anything of a problem to you, is it?’

  Ng stared at him, his eyes bewildered.

  ‘Should it, sir?’

  ‘Okay.’ Kling shrugged. ‘Suppose we eat? Smells fine.’

  Five minutes later, the killer and his slave were eating a big dish of curried prawns with rice, fried bananas and red peppers.

  ‘Kid, you certainly know how to cook!’ Kling said as he shovelled food into his mouth.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘How would you like to own half a million dollars?’ Kling asked abruptly.

  Ng paused, his loaded fork hovering before his mouth while he stared at Kling.

  ‘A half a million dollars? Who wants all that money?’

  Kling ate some more, then said, ‘Money buys a hell of a lot of fun, kid. With half a million tucked up your jersey, you could live well, you wouldn’t have to slave for me, you could have girls, you could have a ball.’

  Ng made a little grimace.

  ‘I wouldn’t like that, sir. If you are offering me all this money, I thank you, but I don’t need it. I want to be with you. I don’t need money.’

  What a character! Kling thought.

  ‘How about your mother, kid?’

  ‘Perhaps if you would let me have no more than three thousand dollars, I could make her more comfortable, but no more.’ Ng ran his fingers through his thick, black hair. ‘My mother is difficult, sir. She thinks I am a houseboy, working for you.’ He looked up and stared earnestly at Kling. ‘And that’s what I am. I want her to be sure of that, sir. I can tell her you won a big bet and insisted on giving me three thousand dollars, so I give it to her. That she would accept. She is difficult.’

  Kling shrugged, then pushed away his chair.

  ‘Okay, kid. That was a great meal. Tomorrow at six o’clock, I want a car here. We’ll drive to Jamison’s villa and pick up the woman. Got it?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Ng said, and began to clear the dishes while Kling wandered over to the TV set and turned it on.

  * * *

  Arriving at the La Guardia airport, Jamison took a taxi to the Waldorf-Astoria hotel where he was received with bows and smiles.

  On the flight up, he had decided not to return to his NYC apartment, although there would be servants there to look after him. The apartment would hold too many lingering memories of Shannon who had made it one of the most luxurious, comfortable homes he had ever lived in.

  It was too late now to go to the office. He would go there in the morning for a brief visit before returning to Paradise City.

  Sitting in the comfortable living-room of the hotel suite, he sipped a vodka martini which the waiter had served. His mind shifted to Tarnia. He had an irresistible urge to talk to her. Glancing at his watch, he calculated it would be 01.00 in Rome. She would be in bed, but, he was sure, glad to hear his voice.

  Picking up the telephone receiver, he told the operator to connect him with Miss Tarnia Lawrence at the Excelsior Hotel, Rome.

  A twenty-minute wait tore at his nerves. Finally, the operator told him that Miss Lawrence had checked out that morning and had left no forwarding address.

  Jamison felt a spasm of frustrated rage as he slammed down the receiver.

  What was happening? Where had Tarnia gone? Then he remembered that this bloody couturier had told her he would lend her an apartment. She must have moved there!

  He finished the martini and poured himself another from the big cocktail shaker. He looked at his watch again. The time was 19.00. In less than fourteen hours, Shannon would be dead and he would be free!

  Then he remembered that as soon as the bomb had exploded, the police, Smyth, his friends, would want to contact him. It would take a little time before the news hit the headlines of the newspapers.

  He snatched up the telephone receiver and told the operator to connect him with his villa in Paradise City. After some minutes’ delay, he heard Smyth’s voice: ‘This is Mr Jamison’s residence.’

  ‘Any messages for me?’ Jamison barked.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I am staying at the Waldorf-Astoria for the night,’ Jamison said. ‘I will be returning on the four o’clock flight. Tell Conklin to meet me at the airport.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘We will be dining in, Smyth. Prepare a decent dinner. Is Mrs Jamison there?’

  ‘No, sir. Mrs
Jamison left half an hour ago. I believe she is attending a concert.’

  Thank God for that! Jamison thought. To have to talk to Shannon would, he felt, be too much for his jumping nerves.

  ‘If anything important turns up, you can reach me at the hotel until 09.30. Then at my office.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  Jamison hung up.

  That takes care of that! he thought. Now what was he going to do? He thought of those bleak hours ahead of him. The club? The thought of talking to his various friends with this thing hanging over him was impossible. A movie? A woman? Impossible!

  If he could only talk to Tarnia, he felt sure he would be able to relax. Tomorrow, he must find out the telephone number where she was staying.

  Getting to his feet, he began to pace around the room. Tomorrow at eight thirty! Another twelve hours!

  He remembered he hadn’t had lunch and although not feeling hungry, he rang room service and ordered a plate of chicken sandwiches and another shaker of martinis. He continued to pace, thinking of Tarnia until the waiter brought the sandwiches and shaker. He poured himself another drink and ate two of the sandwiches. As he continued to pace up and down, a thought dropped into his mind that made him pause.

  Just suppose Tarnia changed her mind about giving up her career and marrying him. Just suppose this couturier had persuaded her to remain in Rome. The thought brought him out in a clammy sweat. He remembered Tarnia’s lack of enthusiasm when he had said, as soon as the divorce went through, she would become his wife. Had he imagined this? No! This was dangerous and stupid thinking! He was sure she loved him, sure that she wanted to give him children.

  If I’m going to spend the night in this state, I’ll go out of my mind, he told himself.

  Sleeping-pills!

  That was the answer! Oblivion until the morning when Smyth or the police would tell him Shannon was no more and he was free.

  Forcing his mind to remain blank, he undressed, took a hot shower, then four sleeping-pills which he always travelled with. His usual dose was one pill, but he wanted to be sure that he would sleep through the night. Getting into bed, he turned off the light.

  In the dark, his mind came alive again. Suppose the temptation of continuing her brilliant career would prove too much for Tarnia. He was so much older than she was. Suppose she met a man of her own age, and he interested her, sharing the same talents. Suppose… suppose…

  The sleeping-pills took charge of him and he drifted off into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

  The persistent ring of the telephone bell by his bedside brought him awake. For a few seconds, he didn’t know where he was, then his razor-sharp mind clicked into action. He looked at the bedside clock. The time was 08.55.

  This was it! Here was the news that he was longing to hear! Shannon was dead and he was free!

  He threw off the bedclothes, swung his feet to the floor and snatched up the receiver.

  The hotel operator said, ‘Your butler, Mr Jamison, is asking to speak to you. I hope I didn’t disturb you.’

  God! The way these creeps sucked up when you had money! Jamison thought, then snapped, ‘Put him through!’

  There was a click, then Smyth said, ‘Mr Jamison?’

  ‘Yes… yes! What is it?’

  ‘Mr Jamison, I have very bad news for you,’ Smyth said, and Jamison could hear Smyth’s voice was shaking.

  ‘What is it?’ he barked, thinking, so at last I am free to marry Tarnia!

  ‘I fear Mrs Jamison has been kidnapped,’ Smyth said. ‘It would certainly appear so.’

  Jamison’s heart skipped a beat, then began to pound. Kidnapped! What was this old fool drivelling about? Maybe he was trying to break the news that Shannon had been blown to pieces by a bomb.

  ‘Kidnapped?’ he shouted. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Perhaps, sir, I should tell you what has happened.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, tell me!’

  ‘Well, sir, Mrs Jamison left here for church at her usual time. Conklin observed her driving down the drive until he lost sight of her at the bend. At eight thirty, he walked down the drive and found Mrs Jamison’s car parked in the middle of the drive, near the gates which were closed, but Mrs Jamison was not in the car. Conklin telephoned me from the lodge and I immediately joined him. I found a piece of paper under one of the windshield-wipers.’

  ‘Get on with it!’ Jamison snarled.

  ‘On this paper, sir, was a typewritten message. I have it here,’ Smyth said, huskily.

  ‘Get on with it, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Yes, sir. The message reads, ‘Jamison, your wife has been kidnapped. If you want to see her alive, don’t alert the police nor do anything smart until you hear from us at eight o’clock tonight’. That’s all, sir.’

  In his long life, Jamison had faced many tricky situations. His mind, trained over the years, was geared to cope with emergencies.

  ‘Right, Smyth!’ he snapped. ‘Do nothing! Understand? Move the car back to the garage and wait for my arrival.’ He had so often travelled to and fro from Miami to New York he knew the flight schedules by heart. ‘I will catch the eleven-thirty flight. Tell Conklin to meet me at the airport,’ and he hung up.

  It would be a race to catch that flight. Without bothering to shave or shower, Jamison scrambled into his clothes, refusing to think what had happened. It wasn’t until he was seated in the aircraft, taking off for Miami, that he surveyed the situation.

  A gyp!

  He realized he had been double-crossed. His fists clenched. This is what comes, he thought, of dealing with a Mafia crook! Kidnapped! So now the price would be enormous. Well, he thought, I have all the money in the world, and I will pay, so long as I am certain that I will be free of Shannon. Any money paid out would be worth my being free!

  The air hostess brought him a flacon of coffee. While he was drinking the coffee, his hard, ruthless face creased into an unpleasant smile.

  Jamison, he told himself, you have been out-smarted. You stupidly led with your chin, and you’ve taken a sock, but not a knock-out sock.

  He remembered a cliché so often used by his father: He who laughs last laughs best. Okay, Mr Kling, he thought. I’ll fix you, and I’ll fix that stinking creep, Lucan. First, I must examine the scene. I am not Sherman Jamison for nothing!

  Then he thought of Tarnia. There would be no telephone call to her to tell her he was free. His mind shifted to the note that Kling had left in the car: If you want to see her back alive, don’t alert the police. The last thing he wanted was to see Shannon alive. All the same, he must keep the police out of this. First, he must know what ransom Kling would be demanding. He thought of Smyth and Conklin. He would have to convince them that he knew what he was doing. They were stupid, but devoted to Shannon, but he felt certain he could overawe them.

  He poured himself another cup of coffee and relaxed back in his seat, his mind busy, as the plane winged him back to Miami.

  * * *

  Lepski sat at his desk, his eyes clock watching. In another ten minutes he would sign off and go home. He had promised Carroll to take her to a movie and then out to dinner. Why women wanted to be taken to some stinking movie and then eat out when it was much more comfortable sitting at home defeated Lepski, but that’s the way women are made, he told himself.

  He was thumbing through a book of comics, having had a dull, uneventful day, when his telephone bell rang.

  Reluctantly, Lepski lifted the receiver.

  ‘Charlie here,’ a voice told him. ‘I’ve a kid who wants to see the best detective on the force, so I thought of you.’ Charlie Tanner was the desk sergeant whose job was to sort out the goats from the sheep, and also supply Beigler with coffee. ‘Do you want to see him?’

  Lepski looked at his watch. The time was now close on his checking-out time: 18.00.

  ‘What’s he want?’

  ‘He says he has an important statement to make, but he won’t talk to anyone but the best de
tective on the force.’ There was a suppressed gurgling sound as Charlie Tanner smothered a laugh. ‘Do I send him up?’

  ‘What are you sniggering about, Charlie?’ Lepski snarled. ‘If this kid wants to talk to the best detective on the force, then goddamn send him up,’ and Lepski slammed down the receiver.

  The boy who walked up to Lepski’s desk was around ten years of age, remarkably fat, well dressed with a moon-shaped face, ornamented by big glasses.

  ‘You Mr Lepski?’ he demanded, his voice surprisingly confident.

  ‘That’s me,’ Lepski said, pushing his hat to the back of his head. He always made a habit of wearing his hat when at his desk. He imagined it gave him a tough, movie-like appearance.

  ‘The fink downstairs said you were the best detective on the force. Right?’ the fat boy said.

  Lepski smirked.

  ‘That’s a fact, sonny. So what?’

  ‘I want to make a statement about a serious crime.’

  ‘Is that right? Now look, sonny, I’m busy. What do you call a serious crime?’

  ‘Kidnapping,’ the fat boy said.

  Lepski gaped at him.

  ‘Kidnapping? What are you talking about?’

  ‘That’s a serious crime, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure. Kidnapping, huh?’ Lepski lifted his hat, scratched his head and replaced his hat. ‘Now listen, sonny, if you’re wasting my time, I could make it rough for you. Are you serious or are you trying to be smart?’

  The fat boy regarded Lepski with bored eyes.

  ‘Do you want my statement or don’t you? I have to get home for dinner. If I’m late, my father moans. If there’s one thing I hate more than another it’s when my father moans.’

  ‘Okay. Sit down and tell me,’ Lepski said, pushing his hat further back. ‘Who was kidnapped, when and where?’

  The fat boy looked around, pulled up a chair, settled his bulk on it and rested his chubby hands on his still more chubby thighs.

  ‘To save time, shouldn’t you get out a form, know who I am, where I live, and then take my statement?’