Never Bet Your Life

by George Harmon Coxe

  He nodded at the chair Dave had used before. “Sit down,” he said. “Let’s get back to that remark about my taking the trouble to get this stuff back from Gannon. How do you know? Or are you guessing?”

  “I saw your car,” Dave said, taking a chance. “Last night outside the Seabeach Motel.”

  Willie never batted an eye, for he too had been well trained.

  “Yeah?” he said. “What’s the license number?”

  Very good, Dave thought. Oh, very good indeed. Then, because he’d lost that round, he said:

  “I’m the one who drew that agreement. The top copy was in Gannon’s safe the day before yesterday. I saw him put it there along with that five thousand in hundreds. I know because I recognized the initials on the band.”

  He hesitated, having Willie’s complete attention now. “From then on I was with, or near, Gannon practically all the time. Right up until an hour or so before he was killed. So how did you get them, Willie? If it wasn’t your car outside?”

  Willie nodded. There was no change in his expression but somehow he seemed satisfied. He broke the paper band on the bills and put it in the ash tray. He sparked flame from the table lighter and watched it consume the band. When he had torn the two agreement sheets he put them in the ash tray and repeated the process. He stirred the ashes with his fingertip and leaned back.

  “What’ve you got now, Barnum?”

  Dave started to get up. As he had originally suspected, he was just a little out of his depth here. Aware that there was nothing more to be said, he was ready to go, if he could. Willie had not quite finished.

  “Almost smart,” he said thoughtfully. “A very good performance. Using that gag of suggesting Resnik’s agreement might be broken was clever. You conned me nicely.” He put his hand on the edge of the desk, as though about to rise. “You’re spoiling my dinner party, Barnum,” he said. “I’m late now so I’ll ask you one more question and if I think I’ve got a level answer the meeting can adjourn.”

  He hesitated again. “You didn’t come here because of the agreement or the five grand, because you didn’t know I had ’em until you saw ’em. So what brought you here in the beginning? A hunch? The car?”

  “Information. I wanted information,” Dave said.

  “About what?”

  “Sam Resnik. The sort of deal he had and how he stood. I figured you’d know more about that than anyone else.”

  Apparently Willie decided to accept the answer. He stood up. “Get what you wanted?” he asked in a voice that suggested he did not much care.

  “I’ve got more now than I had when I came.”

  “You’ve still got your health too,” Willie said. “That’s more than some can say who take a swing at Saul…. Come on,” he said. “It’s getting late but I think I could still get that redhead for you if you’re interested.”

  They were opposite the living room now, and outside the porch was lighted. The tall blonde and her man were in a careless embrace. On the chaise the other blonde was sitting on her companion’s lap but he was still talking. Willie’s girl, the brunette, was no longer pouting, she was furious.

  Dave shook his head. He grinned because he could not help it. “No thanks,” he said. He went down the steps without glancing back. When he rolled the car down the driveway the gate was open.

  Betty Nelson had a very pleasant afternoon with her Boothville friend, Joyce. They had dinner in an inex pensive restaurant that had a tea-room atmosphere and made a specialty of pastries, on which they gorged themselves. They went to a movie which featured Gregory Peck and pleased them both. Now, over their drugstore sodas, the gossip continued. Not, however, about old times and college friends. For Joyce had read of the murder in the Boothville Standard and what she wanted was details, and more details.

  In later years it was likely that Joyce would have a figure which would be classified as dumpy, but right now she was a sturdy, vital-looking girl with reddish-brown hair, a hearty laugh, and a bright, ingenuous manner. She had been Betty’s roommate in the college dormitory their freshman year and they had both made the same sorority where the friendship continued. It was partly because of her—she was a native of Boothville—that Betty had taken this job in the South.

  That afternoon on the beach she had listened to such facts of murder as Betty could supply, and then had asked for character sketches of the principals together with their dossiers. She had asked for Betty’s own suspicions and when none were forthcoming had brought forth some of her own. Now, over the last of their sodas, she was ready with her opinion.

  “I think it was Tyler,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s the only one that didn’t know Mr. Gannon had tried to commit suicide.”

  “Maybe he did know and we don’t know it.” Betty remained unconvinced. “And anyway, Mr. Gannon wasn’t shot to make it look like suicide.”

  “Just the same,” Joyce said, “I think he’s the one. Running away with Mr. Gannon’s daughter and killing her and then having the nerve to come back to ask for money. Now he’s going to get it…. Wait and see,” she said when they walked out of the store, “if I’m not right.”

  Betty laughed as they walked along the sidewalk to her car. Joyce laughed too, but more reservedly. When they had embraced in their usual fashion and Betty had promised to let her know of any new developments, Joyce voiced her warning. She said Betty should be careful.

  “You’re a sort of witness, you know,” she said. “Whoever killed Mr. Gannon might kill again if he had to.”

  Betty wanted to tell her friend she had been seeing too many crime pictures but she didn’t. She said she would be careful and promptly forgot the matter as she concentrated on the business of driving through the town.

  She had always tried to maintain what, for that part of the country, might be called a conservative speed. When she thought to look at the speedometer she tried to keep the needle between forty-five and fifty, and at that most of the traffic passed her by. Lights bothered her sometimes and she was glad that there was so little traffic tonight.

  An occasional car overtook her and then pulled out to speed past, but there had been no trailer-trucks, which always made her nervous with the roar and suction of their passing. There was a car behind her now as she came to this deserted stretch of road where the highway was elevated and ran for a mile or more through a swampy lowland studded with stumps and stunted trees.

  Keeping well to her own side of the road she waited for the car to pass. She glanced at the headlights in the rearview mirror and when they finally angled out behind her she concentrated on holding the wheel straight, not looking at the car as it drew ahead but letting up slightly on the accelerator as a safety measure.

  It was probably that as much as anything that saved her, for if she had maintained her speed the other car, drawing ahead and then swerving sharply right to crowd her off the road, would have clipped her more solidly.

  Even so she saw the crash coming. Disaster threatened and what she did then was automatic, and born of instinct and healthy reflexes. In that first terrifying, fantastic moment she could only wrench at the wheel. Then as her headlights swept the empty blackness of the swamp and the car started to skid with the application of her brakes, she fought that skid and let the brakes alone.

  Somehow the car remained upright. Somehow she was able to cling to the wheel. Even as the coupe hung there on the brink she managed to step on the gas. Miraculously then the car rocked back on four wheels. Canted at a crazy angle the tires gained traction. The car bucked, wheels churning. It rocked back. Then, at what seemed like the final instant, it climbed the edge of the bank before it shuddered into a stall with its front wheels on the highway.

  Betty sat where she was, too weak and helpless to find the starter button, afraid to move lest the car roll backward. A trailer-truck thundered at her from behind and she heard the hiss of air as the brakes were applied. Seconds later a shadowy figure appeared at the door, ope
ning it now, muttering curses in the instant before it spoke.

  “I wish to God I could get my hands on that guy,” the voice said. Then, more gently: “I think you’d better get out, miss. I can snag you out of here in a jiffy.”

  Betty moved automatically, vaguely aware that the driver had a helper who was lighting a flare to warn oncoming traffic. Cars came and slowed down and passed, their occupants peering out the windows. The truck reversed slowly and in a matter of minutes a towing cable had been attached and the coupé was back on the road.

  The driver got in and started it. He said it seemed to be all right and did Betty think she’d be able to drive. She said yes because she knew she had to drive. She got in and shifted, disciplining her nerves as best she could. She voiced her thanks and the driver waved to her as he put the truck in motion.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DAVE BARNUM was too occupied with his encounter with Willie Shear to realize he was hungry until he had driven nearly twenty miles. Then, seeing the lights of a roadside restaurant ahead of him, he pulled in, and in the space of thirty minutes, including time of preparation, demolished a steak sandwich and three cups of coffee.

  It was after ten when he drove through Vantine, and without any intention of stopping at the Club 80 he found himself heading for the parking lot. By the time he was inside he knew he wanted a drink so he stopped at the bar and ordered his Bourbon and water. Beyond, in the main room, the orchestra was playing and he saw Liza Drake sitting with some people at a table. Apparently she saw him too because she appeared at his side when he was about halfway through his drink. He said hello, and what would she have?

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  Liza looked very striking in the white, strapless gown that contrasted so sharply with her tanned shoulders. It fitted her handsome, full-blown body like a sheath, and it was obvious that there was very little but Liza underneath. Her red mouth held a faint and none too reassuring smile, and her dark eyes, black in the shadows, were enigmatic as they inspected him.

  Dave waited, aware that she had something on her mind that concerned him and not particularly wanting to hear it. Neither did he intend to gulp his drink and run. Presently she had her say.

  “Your friend was around to see me,” she said.

  “Friend?”

  “Captain Vaughn.”

  Oh, thought Dave, so that’s it.

  He considered again his earlier estimate of the woman and decided she would be a swell person to have on your side. She would be a staunch and loyal supporter so long as she liked you. Having earned her displeasure, as he most certainly had, you would find things less pleasant.

  “Why don’t you ask me what he wanted?” she asked coldly. “Sleeping capsules,” she added when Dave kept his attention on his drink.

  “Did he find any?”

  “No.”

  “He didn’t think he would.”

  “He asked me what I’d done with them. I told him I never used them.” She hesitated, her smile fixed. “He quoted you. I said no. It was sort of a standoff.”

  In trying to avoid her gaze, Dave’s glance slid beyond her to find Sam Resnik picking his way through the tables, and now it came to him that, at the moment, he had no more desire to talk to Sam than to Liza. Very quickly then he put a bill on the bar. He said good night and walked out.

  Dave saw Betty’s car when he rolled down the driveway. He parked his own car, locked the doors, and came round to the front of the bungalow. As he entered and snapped on the lights he heard Betty call to him.

  A sudden glow of pleasure struck through him in that first instant when he stepped to the door and saw her on the steps. “Hi,” he said. “Have a good time?”

  He did not get at all the reaction he expected. When he stepped outside and took her hand he could feel it tremble. He detected a certain breathlessness in her voice when she spoke.

  “I think,” she said, “I need a drink. I’ve been waiting for you to come.”

  The words jarred him but he sensed that this was not the time for questions.

  “Sure.”

  He drew her into the bungalow and here, where the light was good, he could see the traces of shock in the corners of her hazel eyes. Her face was still pale under its film of moisture and though he understood at once that something had happened he wanted to get some of the drink into her before any sign of hysteria could develop. He tried to play it lightly.

  “Should we pull the blinds? In case Mrs. Craft has her binoculars out?”

  She shook her head, her small smile forced. “I think it would be better to leave them up. Then Mrs. Craft won’t have to use her imagination.”

  He made the drinks quickly, handing her the stronger one. He insisted that she drink half of it before he consented to listen. Then, standing in front of her chair, he heard her story.

  Even now it scared him a little because her own fears were so real, the details so vivid. But the talking had helped her. There was a calmness about her voice and manner that reassured him. The color had seeped back into her cheeks and he could see her facial muscles compose themselves one by one. When he questioned her about certain details she answered as best she could but when, finally, he asked if she thought the attempt could have been deliberate, she could not say.

  “I simply don’t know,” she said. “I thought about it all the way back and while I was waiting for you to come. I told myself it was ridiculous to build things up in my mind. Things like that happen all the time.”

  Dave agreed. He said it might have been-a drunken driver, or some crazy kid who had misjudged the distance in passing. He told himself it was a risk you had to take when you drove a car. She had been lucky, but she was safe, and what more could one ask?

  It was all very sound thinking. The trouble was he did not believe it. When she finally decided it could not have been deliberate, that there was no reason for it, he had to disagree.

  “Did you see the car?” he asked. “Anything about it—kind or style or size?”

  “No, I hardly saw it.”

  “If it was deliberate,” he said, thinking aloud, “whoever did it would have to know you were going to Boothville. He’d have to keep an eye on you and be ready to follow you home. A smart guy wouldn’t take a chance on using his own car. He’d rent one or steal one…. Resnik’s got plenty of tough help down at the club,” he continued. “He has to have in that business. He’d know how to get a car. He wouldn’t even have to do it himself.”

  “But why should he—”

  He cut her off more sharply than he intended. “You saw him outside here last night. You’re the only one that saw him.”

  She said: “O-hh!” and her eyes went wide.

  “Who else could it be?” he asked, quiet now but persistent. “What else did you see that you haven’t told me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Think.” He watched her shake her head and then remembered something else. “Did you see a Cadillac convertible around here at any time after you and Workman came back? A blue one?”

  “I—I don’t think so. No, I’m sure I didn’t.”

  “And what about Workman? How long did it take you to change into your bathing suit after he left you?”

  “I don’t know. I just—well—”

  “Five minutes?”

  “Probably. I undressed and hung up my things and put my suit on and pinned up my hair. I checked to see if I had cigarettes in my beach bag.”

  “Were you ready when he came? Did you have to wait?”

  Her brow furrowed with thought, the frown reaching down into the saddle of freckles on the bridge of her nose.

  “Maybe a minute or two. But you don’t think Carl—”

  She refused to finish the thought and Dave said he did not know what to think. In his own mind he was sure of only two things: he was badly confused, and he was worried about Betty. He glanced at his watch. He said it might be a little late to call Captain Vaughn but he’d try.

  The operator
at the police station said the captain wasn’t in and Dave said if he could be reached to tell him that Dave Barnum had called. Then he made Betty finish her drink. He walked her to her room. When he insisted that he go in with her and glance around she giggled.

  “What,” she said, “will Mrs. Craft think now?”

  The remark that came first to his mind was too profane to repeat so he settled for a grunt. “I’ll give Mrs. Craft something else to think about,” he said and then, standing there in the doorway, he kissed her.

  It was a thing he had not attempted before and he acted now on impulse alone. She looked so lovely standing there and looking up at him that he leaned down before she knew what was happening, pressing her lips lightly with his own because it was something he simply had to do.

  “Lock the door,” he said, and pressed her hand. “I’ll take this up with Mrs. Craft in the morning.”

  He stepped back into darkness before she could reply and he stood there until the door closed and the lock clicked into place. When he got back to his own place the telephone was ringing and the familiar voice of Captain Vaughn came to him as he answered.

  Vaughn listened to the story without comment. When it was over he asked the same questions Dave had asked Betty.

  “It could have been an accident,” he said finally, “the way the screwballs drive these days, but thanks for telling me. I’ll see what I can find. I’ll want to see you in the morning, too.”

  “All right,” Dave said, “but make it late. I’ve got some things to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m expecting a copy of the will. I’ll have to come in and talk to some people about taxes and death certificates and property values and funeral arrangements.”

  Vaughn said he saw what Dave meant. He said he would expect him as soon as he could make it.

  Dave Barnum seldom saw any of the transient customers of the Seabeach Motel at breakfast. On the days when he had gone fishing with Gannon they had been away too early, and at other times the transients were gone when Dave got to the Coffee Shop. It was that way this morning, or nearly so.