Hit and Run

by James Hadley Chase

  He grinned.

  ‘I know. You don’t have to tell me. I’ve done it myself. Women can be hell at times. Well, this isn’t anything that can’t be fixed, but I don’t think I can get it done before the end of the week.’

  The mechanics came over and stared gloomily at the car.

  ‘These two scratches have gone deep,’ Sam went on, examining the side panel. ‘You boys had getter get busy. Get the door off and fix that first.’ He turned to me. ‘Got the police certificate, Mr. Scott?’

  As I put my hand in my pocket to get out my wallet, I heard the sound of an approaching motorcycle, and looking around, I saw a patrol cop pull up outside the garage.

  My heart stood still for a second and then began to race. Somehow I managed to keep my face expressionless as the cop stalked into the garage.

  ‘Just a second,’ Sam said to me and went across to meet the cop whom he appeared to know. ‘Hey, Tim. What do you want?’ he asked the cop.

  ‘Got a damaged car here?’ the cop growled.

  ‘Why, sure. Mr. Scott has just brought in his Caddy. He’s had a pile-up against a tree.’

  The cop shot me a hard stare, then stalked over to the Cadillac. He looked at the smashed headlamp.

  By now I had pulled myself together and had got the certificate out of my wallet.

  I walked over to him.

  ‘I have a certificate for the damage, officer,’ I said. ‘Lieutenant West gave it to me.’

  The cop turned slowly and deliberately and held out his hand, while his small, hard eyes moved over my face. It needed an effort of will to meet those probing eyes, but I did it.

  He studied the certificate.

  If he checked the licence tag with the number plates I was sunk. There was nothing I could do but stand there and wait, and the next few minutes were about the worst I have lived through.

  He looked at the number plates, then again at the certificate, then he pushed his cap to the back of his head and blew out his cheeks.

  ‘When did you see the Lieutenant?’ he demanded.

  ‘He was out at Mr. Aitken’s place. I work for Mr. Aitken,’ I said. ‘The Lieutenant cleared Mr. Aitken’s cars and mine.’ I was aware my voice didn’t sound too steady. ‘Sam knows me. He’s handled my car often enough.’

  ‘How did you do this?’

  ‘I rammed it into a tree.’

  Sam joined us.

  ‘Mr. Scott was cuddling a girl,’ he said, his face one vast expansive grin. ‘Done it myself when I was his age, but I went clean through a shop window.’

  The cop didn’t seem amused. He shoved the certificate at me.

  ‘I have a mind to take you in,’ he growled, glaring at me.

  ‘You might have killed someone.’

  ‘I know. That’s what the Lieutenant said.’ I tried to sound humble. ‘I told him I wouldn’t do it again.’

  The cop hesitated. I could see he wanted badly to make something of this, but I felt sure that by mentioning West’s name I would block him off and I was right.

  ‘You’d better not do it again,’ he said, then turning his back to me he went on to Sam: ‘I thought I’d caught up with that joker who killed O’Brien. I had a report from a driver who had seen this car. Well, okay. I’ll get on,’ and he stalked out of the garage.

  When he had driven away, Sam winked at me.

  ‘You were smart to mention Lieutenant West, otherwise that big-head would have run you in. He’s a guy who looks for trouble.’

  I gave him the certificate.

  ‘You’ll want this.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Sam put the certificate in his pocket. ‘Can I lend you a car, Mr. Scott?’

  ‘I’d be glad if you would.’

  ‘Take the Buick over there. I’ll get the Caddy fixed by Friday. You bring the Buick on your way home and the Caddy’ll be ready for you.’

  I thanked him, got in the Buick and drove out on to the highway.

  I didn’t feel like returning to my bungalow. The time now was twenty minutes to eleven. I was still feeling pretty shaky from my encounter with the patrol cop and the thought of sitting in my lonely lounge with so much on my mind was something I just couldn’t face up to. So I drove into town.

  I parked the Buick and went into a little bar Joe and I used sometimes when we felt a drink might help us get a few new ideas.

  The barman, an elderly, fat humorist we called Slim, nodded to me as I came up to the bar.

  ‘A double Scotch,’ I said, climbing up on the stool.

  There were only four men in the bar and they were at the far end, shooting crap.

  ‘Right away, Mr. Scott,’ Slim said. ‘You’re late tonight.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘still, tomorrow’s Sunday.’

  ‘That’s a fact: my favourite day.’ He poured the Scotch, dropped ice into the glass and placed it before me. ‘Heard the latest on the hit-and-run case?’

  The muscles in my stomach suddenly cramped up.

  ‘No. What’s new?’

  ‘On the radio: ten minutes ago. A man and woman were seen driving off the highway and going down the beach road where the cop was killed about the time of the accident. The police are asking them to come forward. They seem to think they might have seen the car that killed O’Brien or maybe they did it themselves.’

  I took a long pull at my whisky.

  ‘Is that right?’ I said, not looking at him.

  ‘I bet they don’t come forward. A man and woman don’t go down that kind of road to admire the view.’ He winked at me. ‘I bet those two aren’t going to get themselves on the front pages of the papers.’

  ‘That’s a fact. Well, they’re certainly making an effort to catch the guy who did it,’ I said, trying hard to sound casual.

  ‘Yeah. Seems a lot of fuss to me. People get killed every second of the day, but when it’s a cop, it’s got to be special.’

  I sat and listened to views about the police for several minutes, then I asked him suddenly: ‘Would you know a guy who calls himself Oscar Ross?’

  Slim looked surprised.

  ‘Why, sure. He’s a barman at the Little Tavern nightclub out at Mount Cresta. You know him, Mr. Scott?’

  ‘No, but someone was saying he was the best barman in town.’ I was careful to keep my face expressionless although this unexpected information had me seething with excitement. ‘I just wondered what was so special about him.’

  ‘I bet a lady told you that,’ Slim said, his face registering contempt. ‘The best barman in town! That’s rich. Why, he’s just an amateur. The martinis he throws together would make a cat puke. I tell you what he’s got: he’s got looks. I’ll say that for him. The dames go for him in a big way. He really gives them the works when they come into the bar: you know the stuff: the steady stare, looks up and down them, strokes their behinds when he helps them up on the stools. They love it, but he hasn’t any talent as a barman. I wouldn’t have him in this bar, not if he offered to work here for nothing.’

  ‘The Little Tavern? Isn’t that where Dolores Lane sings?’

  ‘That’s the joint.’ Slim picked up a cloth and began to polish the bar. ‘You ain’t missed a thing by not going there. She’s nothing to lose sleep over either.’

  ‘Wasn’t she supposed to be engaged to this cop who was killed?’

  Slim scratched the back of his neck and stared blankly at me.

  ‘Yeah, I believe you’re right, but maybe it’s just a newspaper story. What would a nightclub singer want to marry a cop for?’

  I finished my whisky.

  ‘You’re right. I only believe half of what I read in the newspapers,’ I said as I slid off the stool. ‘Well, I’ve got to be getting home. So long, Slim.’

  ‘Always glad to have you in here, Mr. Scott. Have a nice weekend.’

  I went out to the Buick. Getting in, I lit a cigarette.

  By the merest chance I had picked up a piece of information that had to be important. So Ross and Dolores Lane worke
d at the same nightclub. Dolores had told me she was going to marry O’Brien. As Slim had said why should a nightclub singer hook up with a cop? It didn’t make sense. It certainly deserved to be investigated.

  On the spur of the moment, I decided to take a look at the Little Tavern nightclub.

  I thumbed the starter, moved the Buick into the evening traffic, and headed out to Mount Cresta.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I

  The Little Tavern nightclub was a typical roadside joint with a circular drive-in, a lot of coloured neon lights, a gaudy doorman and a big parking lot crammed with the less expensive cars.

  I found space in one of the rows, cut my engine and turned off my lights.

  Then I walked back between the alley of cars to the entrance of the nightclub.

  The doorman turned the revolving door for me, touching his cap as he did so.

  I entered a large ornate vestibule. A hat-check girl, clad in a frilly thing that showed her knees, hipswayed towards me, showing her even white teeth in a smile of welcome. The smile slipped a little when she saw I had no hat and had nothing to leave with her for her to earn a possible dollar tip.

  I moved around her, giving her one of nay boyish smiles, but for the impression it made on her, I might be offering a beggar the time of day. She turned and hip-swayed back to her station. For build, she and Marilyn Monroe had a lot in common.

  I went up the red-carpeted stairs to a passage lit by ceiling lights and headed towards a pale-blue neon light that flashed Bar at me.

  I paused in the doorway and surveyed the scene.

  The room was big, with a horseshoe-shaped bar at the far end, and a lot of tables and chairs to cope with the hundred odd people who were getting liquored up for the night.

  It wasn’t what I would call a smart crowd. None of the men were in tuxedos. The women were a mixed lot: some of them looked like businessmen’s secretaries out for the night in return for past services rendered; some of them looked like slightly soiled young ladies from the back row of unsuccessful musicals; some of them were obviously professionals, and they sat alone at various tables, discreetly distant from each other, and there were a few elderly women waiting impatiently for their gigolos: the usual crowd you can see any night of the week in the less smart nightclubs of Palm City.

  I looked over the bar. There were two barmen coping with the rush: neither of them was Ross: two small men, Mexicans to judge by their sleek, black hair, their dark oily skins and their servile, flashing smiles.

  I didn’t expect to find Ross serving behind the bar. I guessed it was his night off.

  As I looked around I was aware that at least ten of the women on their own were staring pointedly at me. I took care not to meet their inviting eyes.

  I wandered over to the bar and waited my turn beside a fat man in a slightly creased, tropical white suit who was being served with a rum and lime juice and who looked three parts drunk.

  When my turn came, I ordered a Scotch on the rocks, and while the barman was fixing the drink, I asked him what time the cabaret started.

  ‘Half past eleven, sir,’ he said, sliding the drink over to me. ‘In the restaurant, second on the left down the passage.’

  He went away to serve a tall, bony blonde in a sea-green evening dress whose elderly escort seemed to begrudge her the champagne cocktail she was whining for.

  I glanced at my wrist watch. The time was twenty minutes past eleven.

  The fat drunk next to me turned and grinned sheepishly as if to apologize for intruding. He said on a rum-ladened breath: ‘You don’t want to waste good money on the cabaret, friend. It’s the worst swindle in town, and that’s saying a lot.’

  ‘No girls?’

  He made a face.

  ‘Well, yes, there are girls, if you can call them girls.’

  I twiddled my glass.

  ‘I heard this Lane dish is worth catching.’

  He sucked up some of his rum and lime juice, and then closed a heavy eyelid.

  ‘If you could catch her, I’d say she would be pretty satisfactory, but she’s hard to catch. I’ve tried, and all I’ve got out of it is a couple of evenings listening to her sing, and that’s something she can’t do.’

  ‘So what’s good about this joint?’

  He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was listening, then leaning close and lowering his voice, he said: ‘Between friends, they have a roulette table upstairs. The table stakes are up to the ceiling. All the rest of the muck here is just a front. But keep it under your hat, friend. I’m doing you a favour, telling you.’

  ‘Maybe I might see what I can lose.’

  He lifted his fat shoulders.

  ‘They’re pretty strict who they let up there. It’s strictly illegal. You might have a word with Claude: he manages the joint. You can mention my name if you like: Phil Welliver.’

  ‘Thanks. Where do I find him?’

  He nodded across to the bar to a door.

  ‘In there.’ Then he pushed himself away from the bar. ‘I’ve got to move along. I promised the wife I’d take her out tonight. Went right out of my mind until five minutes ago. I’d better not be too late.’

  I watched him lurch across the bar, and when I was sure he had gone, I went the same way, again aware of the twenty staring eyes on me as I walked to the exit.

  I found the restaurant on the left of the passage: an oval-shaped room with dim lighting, rose-pink mirrors and blue decor. There were about sixty people finishing dinner, and the room was full of the hum of voices and cigarette smoke.

  The head waiter, a jaded young man with red-gold wavy hair, came up to me, his face set in a professional smile.

  ‘I wanted to catch the cabaret,’ I said, ‘but I don’t want the dinner.’

  ‘Certainly, sir: perhaps a drink and a sandwich…?’ He let his voice die away as he waved his hands apologetically.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll have a whisky sour and a chicken on rye bread.’

  He led me around the back of the tables to a small table a little too near the band for comfort, but I didn’t argue about it.

  He went away and I sat down.

  The band was a four-piece job: four well-built Negroes: a trumpet, drums, double bass and a saxophone. They played as if they needed a vacation and were going to strike at any moment if they didn’t get it.

  After a while the waiter brought my chicken sandwich and my drink. The rye bread was a little dry and the chicken looked as if it had had a sharp attack of jaundice before departing the earth. I let the sandwich lie. I’ve drunk worse whisky sours in my time, but not much worse.

  Around quarter to twelve, the floor was cleared and four girls came prancing in. They wore Gstrings, halters and guards-men’s hats. They were pretty terrible, and there was one of them who had dirty knees. They were strictly for the drunks, and after they had shown themselves off and made eyes at the habitués they bounced out more enthusiastically than they had bounced in. As my rum and lime juice friend had said: as a cabaret, it was a swindle.

  A little after midnight, Dolores Lane came in and stood holding a microphone the way a drowning man hangs on to a life-belt.

  She was wearing a gold lame dress that fitted her like a second skin, and she looked pretty good as she stood there under a white spotlight. She sang two Latin-American songs. Her voice was small, but at least she could sing in tune. Without a microphone, no one would have heard her. She sang listlessly as if she were bored with the whole thing, and the applause she collected could have been packed into a thimble without overflowing.

  She went away, her eyes glittering, and then the crowd began to dance again.

  I found a scrap of paper in my wallet and wrote the following message:

  Will you have a drink with me? I hope you didn’t get sand in your shoes this morning.

  A nutty note to send her; but I had an idea it might book her. I grabbed a passing waiter, gave him the note and a five-dollar bill and told him to get some action
. He made sure the bill was for five dollars before he said he would fix it.

  I was working on my second whisky sour when the waiter came back.

  ‘She’ll see you in her dressing-room,’ he said and gave me a curious stare. ‘Through that door, turn left, and it’s the door ahead with a star on it.’

  I thanked him.

  He paused just long enough for me to reach for my wallet if I felt inclined, but as I didn’t, he moved off.

  I finished my drink, settled the check which was three times too much, and then, made my way through the door the waiter had indicated into a typical behind-the-scenes passage.

  Facing me was a shabby door with a faded, gold star on it. I rapped and a woman’s voice said: ‘Come on in.’

  I turned the handle and stepped into a small room with a lighted mirror, a small dressing-table, a cupboard, a screen in a corner, two upright chairs and well-worn carpet on the floor.

  Dolores was sitting in front of the mirror doing things to her face. She had on a red silk wrap which fell open above her thighs to show me her sleek legs in nylon stockings.

  On the dressing-table was a bottle of gin, half-full, and a glass with either gin and water in it or just gin.

  She didn’t turn, but looked at my reflection in the mirror as I closed the door and moved over to the upright chair.

  ‘I thought it would be you,’ she said. ‘Want some gin? There’s a glass somewhere around.’

  I sat down.

  ‘No, thanks. I’ve been on whisky. The idea was for me to buy you a drink.’

  She leaned forward to peer at herself in the mirror. She picked up a rabbit’s foot and dusted the powder off her dark eyebrows.

  ‘Why?’

  I had an idea she was a little drunk, but I wasn’t sure.

  ‘I liked your act. I thought it was worth a bottle of champagne,’ I said, watching her. ‘Besides, I wanted to talk to you.’

  She put the rabbit’s foot down and drank from the glass. By the way she grimaced, and then shuddered, I knew the glass contained neat gin.

  ‘Just who are you?’

  Her eyes were slightly glassy and slightly out of focus. That told me she was three parts drunk, but not drunk enough not to know what she was saying or doing.