“That's okay,” he said. “Look, Joan, I'm sorry about this. I am in a jam, but it's not what you're thinking. You may as well know the truth now. I've lied to you because I didn't want to lose you. But now it doesn't matter because I see I have already lost you. Glorie's dead. You guessed that, didn't you?”
She went very white, and for a moment he thought she was going to faint, but he was careful not to touch her.
“I'm mixed up with a mob of killers,” he went on tonelessly.
“It was my fault, and I'm making no excuses. Glorie and I pulled a robbery together. You've read about it. I was the guy who took the diamonds from the Moonbeam aircraft. That's how I got the fifty thousand dollars. Up to then I hadn't been worth a nickel, and I would never have been worth a nickel if I hadn't pulled this job. I double crossed the mob, and one of them is tailing me. He killed Glorie out on the beach near Collier City. He now plans to kill me. If I have any luck, I may beat him to it, but maybe I won't have the luck. I may be dead by tomorrow, but I want you to know that I love you: you're the only woman I have ever known who has meant anything to me. Although we haven't known each other very long, the few hours I've spent with you have been the happiest I've ever known.”
“Please don't tell me anymore,” she said huskily. “I don't want to be involved in this. What a fool I've been to have had anything to do with you!”
She got into the car and started the engine.
He stepped back, his face pallid.
“So long, Joan. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done this to you, but I loved you and I still love you. I'd be glad if you wished me luck. I'll need it.”
She engaged gear and, without looking at him, she drove quickly away.
He stood staring after her, knowing the one precious thing in his life had gone now for good.
Borg, sitting in his car across the way, under the shade of the trees, inserted his thick finger into his ear and poked around absently. His fat, cruel face showed his surprised interest.
II
Harry remained at the club house until past two o'clock.
When Joan had driven away, he had walked back to the terrace and had sat staring blankly across the fairway, his mind numb and his thoughts bitter.
But he didn't blame Joan for leaving him. She had done the sensible thing, he told himself. A girl in her position couldn't be expected to associate with him now she knew the truth. He admired her courage to break away. He knew she loved him, and her decision couldn't have been an easy one. As he sat thinking about her, he suddenly realized what Glorie must have suffered during her life. He now realized what it meant to lose someone precious to him, and this had happened to Glorie not once, but several times.
Glorie was dead. He might be dead himself by tonight. He was surprised to find that he didn't care much whether he was or not. He knew he would have to kill Borg to save his own life, and he wondered if it wouldn't be better to let Borg go ahead and finish things for him instead of living out the rest of his life with Borg's murder on his conscience.
What was he going to do if he did succeed in killing Borg? He had about fifty thousand dollars which was quite a piece of money.
His enthusiasm to start an air-taxi business had gone now. He would have to think of something else to do. Perhaps his original plan to go to Europe, to have a look around in London, Paris and Rome might offer a solution. If he did kill Borg, he would be safer in Europe where he could lose himself.
After an hour of continuous brooding, he worked off his bitter mood and decided there was no point in weakly throwing up the sponge. There were plenty of other women in the world, he told himself. He still had a chance of happiness if he could only rid himself of Borg.
He went into the clubhouse and asked the steward to get him a taxi. While he waited, he had a sandwich and a whisky, and, when the taxi arrived, he told the driver to take him to his bank.
Borg, who had been dozing in his car, saw the taxi arrive. He followed it from the golf course to the centre of the town. He watched Harry go to his bank and come out with his brief case bulging. He saw Harry speak to the taxi driver and then walk down the road a few yards to the National Californian Bank.
The taxi crawled after him and parked outside.
Knowing that Borg was tailing him, Harry had to make a pretence of drawing the ten thousand dollars he was supposed to be getting from Joan. He spent some minutes talking to the bank teller about opening an account, then, when he thought he had been in the bank long enough to allay Borg's suspicions, he told the bank teller he would come back later and went out on to the street again. He told the taxi driver to take him to the parking lot where he had left his car.
All the time Borg's car kept behind him. Borg made no attempt to keep out of sight.
As Harry was paying off his taxi outside the parking lot, Borg pulled up by him and leaned out of the window. The two men looked at each other. Neither of them spoke until the taxi had driven away, then Borg said, “You've had a busy day, palsy.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, his grip tightening on the briefcase.
Although he felt reasonably safe with the promenade crowded with people, he didn't intend to take any chances with Borg and he wished he hadn't left his gun in the cabin.
“Did you get the dough?” Borg asked, his hard little eyes going to the brief case.
“Yes, I got it.”
“Did she part, palsy?”
“Yes.”
“Was that her bank you've just come from?”
“That's right.”
Borg nodded. He seemed satisfied.
“She didn't look too happy, did she? Didn't she like giving you the dough, palsy?”
“She wasn't overjoyed,” Harry said, his voice tight and hard.
“Well, never mind, it's in a good cause. See you tonight at ten. Don't try anything funny, will you?”
“That goes for you too,” Harry said and, turning his back, he walked over to his car.
Borg looked after him, his little eyes sleepy, then he set the car in motion and drove away. By the time Harry had manoeuvred his car out of the packed parking lot, Borg was out of sight.
Harry returned to the motel. He went over to the office and asked the manager to put his brief case in his safe. As he walked over to his cabin, he saw Borg's car was parked outside Borg's cabin, and he guessed the fat killer was at his window, watching from behind the curtain.
Harry entered his cabin, shut and locked the door, then he unlocked the drawer in his chest where he had put the gun and box. He satisfied himself that nothing had been disturbed, relocking the drawer. He collected his swimming trunks and a towel and, leaving the cabin, he went down on to the beach.
He spent the next two hours swimming and lazing on the sand, determined to keep his mind empty and refusing to let himself think of what lay ahead of him. On his way back to the motel, he stopped in at a bar and spent half an hour over two whiskies and the evening paper. It was just after seven o'clock by the time he got back to his cabin. He noticed Borg's car had gone. He entered his cabin, shaved, showered and changed into a dark lounge suit. Then he went over to the restaurant, taking with him the tools he had borrowed, carefully wrapped in the napkin in case Borg happened to be still watching him. He had dinner, then he walked over to the manager's office and collected his brief case.
By then it was half-past eight, and growing dusk. He locked himself in the cabin, turned on the light and pulled down the blind. He took the box, containing the gun, from the drawer and set it on the table. He was now aware of a cold, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Up to this moment he had managed to keep his mind clear of what was to happen within the next two hours. But, as he looked at the gun in the box, the full force of his predicament hit him. He was going out to the beach alone where Borg would be waiting for him. One of them would survive the meeting; one of them would die. Borg had everything in his favour. He was an expert killer. All Harry had in his favour was the element of surprise and the hope that Borg wouldn't k
ill him until he was sure Harry had brought money with him.
Harry poured himself a shot of whisky which helped to steady his jumping nerves. He picked up the evening newspaper he had brought with him and tore it into two parts. He made two pads from the folded paper and wedged them into the box. He opened the brief case and took out a packet of $100 bills. One of these he slid between the gun barrel and the hole-in the box, masking the gun barrel. The rest of the bills he put on top of the box and fastened them with an elastic band. He stood away and examined the box. It looked as if it were packed tight with one-hundred dollar bills, and that was the way he wanted it to look.
There was no sign of the gun. Picking up the box, he again assured himself that he could get his finger through the hole in the bottom of the box and around the trigger.
He put the box back on the table, and then fastened the strap of the brief case. He would have preferred to have taken the case with him but he was determined that if anything went wrong with his plan and he was killed, the case shouldn't fall into Borg's hands. Not sure that Borg might still be watching the cabin, he decided against taking the case over to the manager's office. If Borg saw him, he would know at once that he was planning a double cross.
Lifting the mattress on the bed, he pushed the brief case tinder it and then straightened the bedspread.
It was now time to go. He put on his hat, lit a cigarette, picked up the box and left the cabin, locking the door after him.
He got into his car, put the box on the seat beside him and drove quickly along Bay Shore Drive, up Le Jeune Road towards Highway 27. It was dark by the time he reached Tamiami Canal. The broad highway was alive with traffic coming into Miami. He seemed to be the only one leaving town, and the continuous blaze of headlights coming towards him irritated him.
The luminous hands of the dashboard clock showed twenty minutes after nine as he passed the wood where he and Glorie had stopped to argue and where the oil-truck driver had asked the way to the Denbridge service station.
Harry thought then of Glorie. He realized now that he should never have left her. She was his kind whereas Joan was way out of his class. Nothing he did would have ever shocked Glorie. If she had been alive now, she would have come with him to face Borg. She would never have let him do this drive alone.
He came to the intersection that led to Collier City, and he turned left. The time was now five minutes to ten. He was aware that his heart was pounding and his hands were cold and clammy.
After five minutes driving he saw on either side of the road the mounds of clam shells in his headlights. He pulled up just clear of the wall of shells. He turned off the headlights and sat for a long moment staring through the windshield at the open beach and the sea glistening in the moonlight.
The moon rode in a cloudless sky like a shield of polished silver.
It’s hard, white light made black shadows but lit up the beach so that Harry could see every piece of flotsam and even the crinkles in the sand as if they were pinpointed by a searchlight.
There was no sign of Borg.
Harry got out of his car, picked up the box and put it under his arm.
He walked slowly to the end of the road until he could see the whole length of the lonely beach. He could see the scattered seaweed that marked Glorie's grave. He turned away hurriedly, a chill of horror creeping over him.
As he stood listening, he fancied he heard a slight sound near him: so slight he wasn't sure if he had heard it. He stiffened, his nerves crawling. Very slowly he turned his head to look to his right.
Borg was there: a gross, black, shadowy figure, leaning against a tree, within ten yards of him.
Harry remained motionless, staring at Borg.
“Did you bring the dough, palsy?” Borg asked in his hoarse whisper.
“I've got it,” Harry said. “Where's the wrench?”
“I've got that too,” Borg said. He lifted his right hand and stepped forward two paces out of the shadows. The moonlight fell on the .38 he held in his hand and which he pointed at Harry. “Watch it, palsy,” he went on. “No tricks. Let's see the dough.”
It was going to work, Harry thought, his mouth dry, his heart hammering so violently he could scarcely breathe. He had guessed right. Borg wasn't going to kill him until he was sure he had the money.
“I've got it here,” Harry said hoarsely. He let the box slide from under his arm into his right hand. His thumb and little finger gripped the sides of the box, his forefinger slid into the hole and around the trigger.
Borg suddenly turned on the powerful flashlight he held in his left hand. The beam of the flashlight dazzled Harry, but, by narrowing his eyes, he could just make out Borg's bulk as Borg moved a little to his left.
“Let's see it,” Borg said.
Harry turned so he faced Borg. He moved the box around so that the hidden gun was pointing directly at Borg.
He heard Borg's wheezing breath pause as the beam of the flashlight fell directly on the box in Harry's hand. Harry knew instinctively that Borg realized the box was a fake. The box had gone to Borg's eyes and to his brain and had given him a warning. Harry knew he had only that split second before Borg's brain sent an impulse to his trigger finger.
Harry squeezed the trigger of the hidden gun. The gun went off as Borg's gun spat fire. The two crashes of gunfire were simultaneous.
The dum-dum bullet hit Borg below his heart, dropping him in his tracks. He went down like a pole-axed bull. His gun spat fire again, then again, the bullets whistling away towards the night sky.
A fraction of a second after Harry had fired, he felt an agonizing shock in his right bicep. The box fell out of his paralysed fingers and he staggered back, his left hand clutching his right arm.
He recovered his balance, staring at Borg's fallen bulk Then slowly and unsteadily he moved closer, picked up the flashlight in his left hand and turned the beam on Borg's dead face.
He stood looking down at Borg while blood dripped from his fingertips, then, satisfied Borg was dead, he moved away, still holding his arm, feeling the blood soaking through his coat.
Already he was feeling faint and light-headed. He knew he must stop the bleeding. His mind went to Joe Franks, remembering how he had been shot in the arm and how he had bled. He managed to get his coat off. The effort made him feel so sick and faint that he had to sit on the sand. Somehow he managed to roll up his shirtsleeve. He had been hit in the fleshy part of the arm and he was bleeding badly. He tied a handkerchief around the wound, knotted it tightly by holding one end of the handkerchief between his teeth. He rested for several minutes, his head on his unwounded arm.
Well, he had beaten Borg, he told himself. It had been a close thing, but he had done it. Had Borg brought the wrench with him? Harry thought it unlikely, but he had to make sure.
He got slowly to his feet, taking up the flashlight. He went over to Borg and, kneeling beside him, he ran his hand over the gross body, but he didn't find the wrench. Picking up the box, containing his gun, he set off into the wood. After a few minutes' walk, he came upon Borg's car, but the wrench wasn't in it. Had Borg sent the wrench to the police or had he left it in his cabin?
Harry thought it was more likely that Borg had left it in his cabin.
He walked unsteadily to the opening of the road, and paused to look back at the place where he had buried Glorie.
“So long, Glorie,” he said. “I hate leaving you here, but there's nothing else I can do.”
Then he turned and made his way back to his car.
III
The drive back to Biscayne Avenue motel was like a nightmare to Harry. When he got on to the highway, his arm began to burn, and very soon he felt as if his flesh had caught fire. He drove slowly riding the pain, feeling light-headed and faint. He kept telling himself he had to get to Borg's cabin before Borg's body was found. He must find the wrench. It was only this urge of danger that kept him going. He realized now how Joe Franks had suffered, and he flinched when he remember
ed how he had left him to bleed to death in the desert.
The traffic bothered him. He was afraid he would run off the road if he went faster than twenty miles an hour, and the other cars kept flashing past him with a blast from their horns. The constant noise and the glare in his driving mirror from the headlights of the cars coming up behind him confused his mind and he drove badly, zigzagging about the road.
Once he felt he was losing consciousness. It was only with an effort that made him break out in a cold sweat that he pulled himself together and crushed down the cold sick feeling of faintness that threatened to engulf him. He kept on, his right arm stiff and burning, his left hand on the steering wheel.
How he managed to negotiate the traffic on Bay Shore Drive he never knew. From time to time, drivers shouted at him, once he saw a car appear in his headlights, coming straight at him, but he had no will nor strength left to swerve. It was the other driver, with a screaming of tyres, who managed to avoid a head—on collision. Harry kept on, hunched down in his seat, his teeth gritted against the pain in his arm, forcing himself to keep conscious until he saw ahead of him the red-and-green neon lights over the entrance to the motel.
He drove slowly up the dark drive to the parking lot, cut the engine and groped for the parking brake. Then he sat motionless, his breath hissing between his clenched teeth, cold sweat on his face. When at last he felt capable of making a move, he opened the car door and dragged himself out. He stood unsteadily, his hand on the car door for some moments before he could trust himself to cross over to Borg's cabin.
He got there somehow, and, surprisingly, the cabin door swung open when he turned the handle, and he stepped into darkness.
His left hand groped for the light switch, found it and turned it on. He stood looking around the empty room, then he saw a long, thin brown-paper parcel lying on the table. He went over to it and picked it up. He knew by its hardness and its weight that it was the car wrench, and his lips came off his teeth in a mirthless grin.
1955 - You've Got It Coming Page 23