Hit and Run

by James Hadley Chase

  She had on a scarlet dress, a small, white hat and white net gloves. She was slightly above medium height and dark: her face had the standard beauty of the Latin-American women you can see any day on the Florida beaches displaying themselves either as ornaments or as commercial propositions depending on who is looking at them.

  She got out of the car with a display of long, tapering legs in nylon, smoothed her dress over solid, well-padded hips and stared at me, her black eyes intent and curious.

  ‘Is this the place where the policeman was killed?’ she asked, moving slowly towards me.

  ‘I imagine it happened farther up the road,’ I said, wondering who she was and what she was doing here. I’d say you’ve passed the actual place.’

  ‘Oh?’ She paused near me. ‘You think farther back up the road?’

  The papers said he was killed on the road.’

  She opened her handbag, took out a crumpled pack of Luckies, put one between her full red lips and then stared at me.

  I took out my lighter and moved close to her. As she bent to dip the cigarette end into the flame I sheltered in my cupped hands, I smelt the perfume she had sprayed on her hair.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She lifted her head and stared directly at me. At such close quarters I could see her heavy pancake make-up had been expertly put on and she had a faint black line of a moustache that gave her that sensual quality that most Latin-American women have.

  ‘Are you a newspaper man?’ she asked.

  ‘A newspaper man? Why, no. I just came down here for a swim.’

  She turned her head and looked at the stretch of sand and stared at the smudge marks made while wiping out Lucille’s and my footprints.

  ‘Did you make those marks?’

  ‘You mean those marks in the sand?’ I tried to sound casual. ‘They were there when I came.’

  ‘They look as if someone has been trying to get rid of footprints.’

  I turned to stare at the marks.

  ‘Do you think so? They could have been made by the wind. The wind can make odd patterns in the sand.’

  ‘Can it?’ Again I felt the dark eyes move over my face. ‘I passed a piece of ground that was trampled over about two miles up the road. Do you think that is where he was killed?’

  ‘It’s likely. I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘I’m not asking out of curiosity. I was going to marry him.’

  I looked sharply at her, remembering one of the newspapers had said O’Brien was going to marry

  a nightclub singer.

  ‘Oh, yes. I read this morning in the paper you were going to marry him.’

  ‘Did you?’ She smiled. It was a cold, bitter smile. ‘I don’t suppose you had ever heard of me before you read that in the paper. I’ve been in show business now for ten years. It’s not very encouraging that the first real publicity I get is when a man I planned to marry gets himself killed because he is too stupid to know any better.’

  She turned abruptly and walked back to the Oldsmobile, leaving me staring after her.

  She got in the car and U-turned. Then without a glance in my direction, she drove away fast in a cloud of sand and dust.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I

  I had a sandwich lunch and then drove back to my bungalow. While I ate the sandwiches and on my way back, my mind was busy, but I didn’t come up with anything helpful. I was more convinced than ever that there was something very phoney about this accident. I was certain Lucille had lied to me about how the accident had happened. The situation had become more perplexing after I had looked over the ground. It was so obvious now she must have seen O’Brien as he was coming towards her. She could not have slowed down and she must have driven straight at him. With such an obvious set-up, she could expect no mercy from any jury, and it was even more obvious to me now why she was so anxious for me to take the blame.

  But my immediate problem was what I was to do with the Cadillac. Sooner or later, if the police search was going to be as thorough as they claimed, they would find it in Seaborne’s garage.

  The Captain of Police had announced that anyone who damaged his car after the time of the accident would have to report the damage immediately, and explain how it had happened.

  I wondered if this ruling could offer me a way out. If I drove the Cadillac hard against the garage door upright, and then telephoned the police, would they accept my explanation that I had damaged the car in this way? Had the damage been done only to the front of the car, I felt I might have been on fairly safe ground, but the two deep scars on the bodywork would not be consistent with ramming into the garage upright, and those two scars could easily arouse the police’s suspicions.

  But at least it was an idea, and I decided to keep thinking along this line. I was still thinking about it as I unlocked my front door when my mind was abruptly switched away from it as I heard the telephone bell ringing.

  I entered the lounge and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Mr. Scott?’

  I recognized Watkins’ voice, and I stiffened, wondering why he should be calling.

  ‘Yes, speaking,’ I said.

  ‘Mr. Aitken asked me to call you, sir. He said it was possible you would still be at home,’ Watkins said. ‘If you could spare the time, Mr Aitken would be glad if you could come over.’

  ‘But I’m supposed to be relaxing on the golf course,’ I said. ‘Can’t you tell him you couldn’t contact me?’

  Watkins coughed.

  ‘I suppose I could, sir, but Mr. Aitken gave me to understand the matter was urgent. However, if you think…’

  ‘No, it’s okay. I’ll be over. He wants me right away, of course?’

  ‘I believe he is waiting for you, sir.’

  ‘Okay, I’m on my way,’ I said and hung up. For a moment or so I stood staring at my reflection in the mirror over the mantelpiece. I looked a little pale and my eyes were scared.

  Had Lucille lost her nerve and told him? Had she got her word in first? Aitken had ordered me to take the weekend off and to relax, so why this sudden summons, unless there was trouble?

  I left the bungalow, went down to the Pontiac and drove fast to Aitken’s place.

  During the drive my mind was as panicky as an old lady’s who has heard a noise under her bed.

  I parked the Pontiac beside a grey Buick convertible that stood on the tarmac before the marble steps leading up to Aitken’s terrace. I got out and walked up the steps.

  As I reached the top step and looked along the wide terrace I saw Aitken in pyjamas and a dressing-gown, a rug over his legs, lying in a lounging chair. He had with him a big, broad-shouldered man who sat in an upright terrace chair, his back turned to me.

  I paused. My heart was thumping and my nerves were crawling as I looked at Aitken, who turned his head, saw me and waved. His leather, whisky-red face softened slightly into a welcoming grin and I felt suddenly a little sick. The relief of seeing that grotesque smile hit me like a physical blow. He wouldn’t be smiling if he were after my blood.

  ‘There you are, Scott,’ he said. ‘Were you going out to golf?’

  The other man turned and I felt a sudden cramping sensation in my stomach. I recognized him immediately. He was: Tom Hackett; the man who had seen Lucille and me leaving the bungalow on the night of the accident: Tom Hackett, Seaborne’s pal.

  He looked at me, then got slowly to his feet, his red, good-natured face lighting up with a broad grin.

  ‘Hello, there,’ he said and extended his hand. ‘So we meet again. R.A. tells me you’re going to be his head man in New; York.’

  I took his hand, aware again that mine felt cold in his warm, firm grip.

  ‘Sit down, sit down,’ Aitken said irritably. ‘Were you on your way to golf?’

  ‘I was about to change when Watkins called me,’ I said, moving over to where he lay and sitting down in a chair near Hackett’s.

  ‘I’m sorry. I told you to get a game in. I meant you to,’ Aitken said, r
unning his fingers through his sparse hair, ‘but when Hackett turned up, I thought you should meet him.’

  I looked politely at Hackett, then back to Aitken again. I had no idea what it was all about, but at least it didn’t seem to be trouble.

  Aitken looked over at Hackett and grinned his sneering little grin.

  ‘This young fella’s been working too hard,’ he said. ‘I told him to take the weekend off: to play golf and find a pretty woman. You turning up like this has spoilt it for him.’

  Hackett laughed.

  ‘Don’t you believe it. He may have missed his golf, but he didn’t miss out on the other thing.’ He turned to me with a wide grin. ‘Did you, boy?’

  My smile was stiff, but I somehow managed to keep it in place. I didn’t say anything.

  Aitken looked sharply at me, then at Hackett.

  ‘Oh? What do you know about what he’s been up to?’ I found my hands were turning into fists and I put them in my trouser pockets.

  ‘Never mind: the guy’s got a private life, hasn’t he?’ Hackett said and winked at me. ‘The fact is, Scott, I’m coming in on this New York venture. I’m putting in some of my money. When R.A. told me you were going to handle the office, I wanted to meet and talk to you. That’s about it, isn’t it, R.A.?’

  Aitken scowled. He disliked anyone taking charge of the conversation just as he disliked being side-tracked, but he said in a fairly genial tone: ‘Yes, that’s it. Well, here he is for you to talk to.’ He turned to me. ‘Hackett is putting up a hundred thousand dollars, and he naturally wants to make sure you’re the man to look after his money.’

  ‘From what R.A. tells me, you must be okay,’ Hackett said, leaning back in his chair, ‘but there are one or two points I’d like to cover with you. You don’t mind answering a few questions, do you?’

  ‘Why, no,’ I said, relaxing a little. ‘I’d be glad to.’

  ‘They won’t touch on your private life,’ he said and smiled. ‘How a man lives outside the office is no concern of mine, unless, of course, he gets mixed up in some mess or scandal.’ The jovial face was still jovial, but the eyes were now a little too steady and searching for me to meet. I took out my cigarettes and hid behind the business of lighting up. ‘I don’t suppose you aim to mix yourself up in any scandal, do you?’ he went on.

  Aitken moved impatiently.

  ‘There’s nothing like that about Scott,’ he growled. ‘You don’t imagine I employ men who get mixed up in scandals, do you?’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t,’ Hackett said and, leaning forward, he slapped me on the knee. ‘I’m a great little kidder. Don’t pay my attention to it. Now, suppose you tell me about your qualifications?’

  Maybe he was a great little kidder, but he wasn’t kidding me. He knew something or suspected something. I was sure of that. Had he guessed the girl he had seen me with was Lucille?

  I told him about my qualifications, and then answered a series of searching questions to do with my career. He also asked me questions about my plans for the New York office, the staff I would need, where the office would be located and so on. Finally, he seemed satisfied and he sat back, nodding his head.

  ‘You’ll do. You’re a regular R.A. man, and that’s good enough for me.’ He glanced over at Aitken. ‘And he’s putting up twenty thousand?’

  Aitken nodded.

  ‘And he’s to get five per cent on the gross as well as his salary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hackett brooded for a moment, and I was expecting him to say he didn’t agree with the percentage, but he didn’t.

  ‘Okay. They’re damn good terms, Scott, but I bet you’ll earn them. When do you put the money up?’

  ‘Next Thursday,’ I told him.

  ‘Okay, R.A. You’ll have my cheque at the same time. Okay?’

  ‘Suits me fine. I’ll have the whole thing fixed through Webster. You know him, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah—a good man.’ Hackett got to his feet. ‘Well, we mustn’t keep Scott from his golf.’ He

  offered me his hand, ‘I’m;’ sure you’re going to make a big success of the job. I wish you luck.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I shook his hand then turned to Aitken. ‘If that’s all…’

  I broke off as Aitken stared past me down towards the long twisting drive.

  ‘Now what the devil is this?’ Aitken growled.

  I looked in the same direction.

  A dark blue car with a red flasher and a siren horn on its roof was coming fast up the drive.

  I felt myself turn rigid.

  There were four men in the car—all cops.

  II

  A big man, wearing a grey, crumpled suit and a lightweight hat pushed to the back of his head got out of the police car. His fleshy face was hard and sunburned. There was a mass of freckles across his short, flat nose. He looked what he was: a tough-cynical, suspicious cop.

  He looked up at Hackett and me as we leaned over the balustrade, then he started up the steps, moving slowly as if he had plenty of time and was in no hurry to reach us.

  Two uniformed cops had spilt out of the car and now stood around in the aimless way cops have. The driver remained at the wheel.

  The plain-clothes man finally arrived at the top step and came over to us, moving slowly and deliberately.

  I watched him came, my heart beating fast, my mouth dry. I wondered, the way all guilty people must wonder at the sight of a cop, if he had come here to arrest me.

  He walked across the terrace, his big feet coming down on the hot stonework with a slight slapping sound, and he stopped in front of Aitken.

  ‘Detective-lieutenant West, City police, sir,’ he said. The Captain’s compliments. We are asking for your co-operation.’

  Aitken stared up at him, his expression puzzled.

  ‘What is it? What’s the Captain want?’

  ‘It’s to do with this hit-and-run case. Maybe you’ve read about it in this morning’s papers.’ West’s voice was slow and heavy. ‘The Captain aims to check every car in the city for damage. If it’s okay with you, Mr. Aitken, we’d like to look your cars over.’

  Aitken started to get a bloom on his face.

  ‘Look at my cars? Why? You don’t imagine I had anything to do with it, do you?’

  I looked quickly at Hackett. He was leaning against the balustrade, his heavy face showing his interest.

  West tilted his hat a little farther to the back of his head. His forehead was glistening with sweat.

  ‘No, sir, we don’t think that. But we’re checking every car in town. You have a chauffeur. Maybe he used one of your cars last night. I didn’t say he did, but a check would clear him. The Captain said if you objected, I wasn’t to bother you.’

  Aitken’s face took on a deeper hue.

  ‘My chauffeur didn’t use any of my cars last night,’ he grated. West’s face became expressionless.

  ‘Okay, sir, the Captain said not to persist, but if your chauffeur didn’t use any of your cars, someone else might have.’

  ‘None of my cars have been out since I broke my leg,’ Aitken Said, his voice tight with rage. ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  West lifted his heavy shoulders.

  ‘It’s what I get paid for. If you object to me looking at your cars, that’s okay with me. I’ll leave it and report back to the Captain.’

  ‘Listen to him!’ Aitken exploded and turned to Hackett. ‘This is a fine example of how these guys waste our money!’ Four men to check four cars! I’ll write to Sullivan about this! Just because some fool got himself knocked over and kill there’s all this uproar.’

  ‘The driver didn’t stop,’ Hackett said mildly. ‘You can blame this officer, R.A. He’s only doing his duty.’

  Aitken drew in a long breath.

  ‘Okay, go and look at my cars! I don’t give a damn! Go ahead and waste the money I pay out in taxes. Go on: but off this terrace!’

  ‘Thank you,’ West said, his face expressionless. ‘Would y
ou tell me where the garage is?’

  Aitken turned to me.

  ‘You know where my garage is?’

  I said I did.

  ‘Then take this man and show him, will you? And keep with him. See none of his men kick a panel in. Just watch out there’s no evidence manufactured to get my chauffeur into trouble.’

  I walked to the head of the steps and West plodded after. We went down the steps to where the uniformed men were waiting. West shook his head at them, and we went past them, leaving them standing motionless in the sun.

  When we were out of sight of the terrace, West said quietly: ‘Do you work for that guy?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Rather you than me.’ He took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. ‘I thought my chief was the world’s worst, but I can see he’s not even trying compared to this guy Aitken.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  We walked past the Pontiac and the Buick. West paused and stared at the two cars.

  ‘Know who they belong to?’

  I had taken the precaution of removing Seabome’s licence tag and substituting my own, but I knew if he wanted to he could easily check the licence number against the tag, and then I’d be sunk, but I didn’t dare tell him I had borrowed the car. I hesitated only for a split second.

  ‘The Pontiac’s mine. The Buick belongs to Mr. Hackett, the guy up on the terrace.’

  Moving slowly and deliberately, West walked around the two cars. He stood staring at them for some seconds, then moved back to where I stood, tense, my hands gripped behind my back.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with either of them, is there?’ he said in a conversational tone. ‘You said yours was the Pontiac?’

  ‘That’s right’

  ‘May as well give you a clearance certificate now: save my boys calling on you. What’s your name?’

  I told him.

  He took a pad of printed forms out of his pocket and began to write.

  ‘Address?’

  I told him.

  He looked over at the car, wrote some more, then ripped the sheet from the pad.

  ‘This is the Captain’s idea,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s not so lousy. This certificate clears your car from this date. If you dent your fender or damage your car in any way, you don’t have to bother to report to us. If you get stopped, all you have to do is to show the certificate. This is quite a job; checking every damn car in town.’ He pushed the form at me and I took it. ‘Don’t lose it. It might save you a headache.’