Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
One Bright Summer Morning
James Hadley Chase
1963
CHAPTER ONE
At five-thirty-seven on what promised to be a bright summer morning, Victor Dermott came awake suddenly in a cold sweat of fear.
Victor Dermott was thirty-eight years of age. He was powerfully built, tall and dark. From time to time, he had been mistaken for Gregory Peck by shortsighted autograph hunters. This was something he shrugged off, but which had secretly annoyed him. It had annoyed him because he was successful and wealthy in his own right. During the past ten years he had written four very successful plays that had been produced on Broadway, and were even now earning him a substantial income in the capital cities of Europe. His success and wealth hadn't spoilt him. He was considered by those who came into contact with him as a nice guy: that was what he was. He was happily married to a twenty-eight year old redhead who adored him as much as he adored her. They had a ten-month old baby.
Two months previous to this hot summer morning, Vic Dermott had suddenly conceived an idea for his next play. It was one of those white-hot inspirations that demanded to be written at once and without interruption, without the clamour of the telephone bell and without any social commitments.
Dermott had asked his secretary, a grey-haired and efficient woman named Vera Synder, to find him a place where he could work for three months in complete isolation.
Within two days, she had found him the exact place: a compact, de luxe ranch house on the fringe of the Nevada desert, some fifty miles from Pitt City and some twenty miles from Boston Creek.
Pitt City was a major town, but Boston Creek had little to offer except a service station, a number of cafes and a general store.
The ranch house was called “Wastelands.” It was owned by an elderly couple who spent most of their lives travelling in Europe. They were happy to rent the place to such a well-known person as Victor Dermott.
The ranch house had a long private drive that met a dirt road that in its turn went on a further fifteen miles through scrub and sand to meet the main highway to Pitt City. For genuine isolation and de luxe comfort, it would be hard to find a better place to live in than Wastelands.
Vic Dermott had driven with his wife, Carrie, to inspect the ranch house. He saw at once that it was exactly what he wanted and he signed a three-month agreement without a quibble.
Wastelands had a big living room, a dining room, a study-cum-gunroom, three bedrooms, three bathrooms, a well-equipped kitchen and a swimming pool. It also had a garage for four cars, a tennis court and a go-kart track complete with four go-karts. Some two hundred yards from the house was a five-roomed wooden cabin for the staff.
The rent came a little high, but as Vic was making plenty of money, and the place pleased him, he didn't argue about the cost. But before deciding to take the ranch house, he had talked it over with Carrie.
“It could be pretty dull for you,” he had pointed out. “We won't see anyone until the play is finished. Perhaps it would be better if you stayed home and I went there on my own.”
This Carrie wouldn't consider. She would have plenty to do, she said. She had Junior to look after. She would do Vic's typing. She would do the cooking, and she would take along a couple of unfinished paintings she had been working on.
They decided to take with them only one servant: a young Vietnamese, Di-Long, who had been with them for just over a year. He was not only highly domesticated, but also a trained mechanic. Being so far from a service station, Dermott had decided he should have someone around who could cope with a car breakdown.
After two months of hard, concentrated work, the play was practically finished. Vic was now polishing the dialogue and wrestling with the second act curtain that didn't entirely satisfy him. He was sure that in another couple of weeks the play would be ready for production and he was certain he had written yet another big success.
During the two months they had spent at Wastelands, both Vic and Carrie had come to love the place. They regretted that in a few more weeks they would have to return to the hustle and bustle of their Los Angeles home. For the first time, since their honeymoon, they had been given the opportunity of being entirely alone together and they liked the experience. They now realized the pressure of their social life, the continuous parties, the constant ringing of the telephone bell had been robbing them of the experience of getting to know each other more intimately and also had been robbing them of having the time to watch their baby growing up.
Although Wastelands was a big success with the Dermotts, it was far from being a success with their Vietnamese servant who became more and more morose as the weeks went by and more indifferent in his work.
Both Vic and Carrie worried about this little man. They wished he had a wife to console him. They encouraged him to take the second car into Pitt City to see a movie, but they understood when he shrugged irritably that a movie had to be pretty good to make a fifty-mile journey there and back in a day.
Every so often Vic would lose patience, pointing out to Carrie that Di-Long was being paid three times the amount anyone in their right minds would pay a servant. Carrie, who had a prickly conscience regarding servants, had argued that Di-Long, no matter how much he was paid, had reason to complain about his loneliness.
This story begins on a July morning, a little after five-thirty, when Vic Dermott came awake with a start to find his body clammy with cold sweat and his heart thumping so violently he had difficulty in breathing.
He lay motionless: all his senses alert. He could hear the ticking of the bedside clock and the faint rumble of the refrigerator in the kitchen as it turned itself on, but the rest of the ranch house was silent.
He couldn't remember having had a bad dream to frighten him, and yet, here he was, woken from a deep sleep and more frightened than he had ever been before in his life. He raised his head and looked over at the twin bed in which Carrie was sleeping peacefully. He regarded her for a brief moment, then he looked across the room to where Junior was also sleeping peacefully.
He took his handkerchief from under his pillow and wiped his sweating face. The silence, the familiar room and the fact that his two most precious possessions were undisturbed lessened this odd fear that gripped him, and after a few seconds, his heartbeats gradually returned to normal.
I must have been dreaming, he thought, but it's odd I can't remember . . .
Not satisfied, he threw off the sheet and slid out of bed.
Moving silently so as not to wake Carrie, he put on his dressing gown and thrust his feet into heelless slippers. Then he crossed the room, gently opened the bedroom door and moved out into the big square-shaped lobby.
Although his heartbeat was now normal, he still had a feeling of acute uneasiness that worried him. Quietly, he went into the big lounge and looked around. Everything was just as he had left it the previous night. He crossed the room and looked through the big window across the patio at the fountain throwing its lively cascade of water, at the lounging chairs and at the magazine Carrie had left lying on the paved terrace.
He walked into his workroom and looked around. He looked out of the window at the staff cabin some two hundred yards across the way where Di-Long slept. There was no sign of life, but that didn't surprise him as Di-Long never got up before ha
lf past seven.
Unable to find an explanation for his uneasiness, he shrugged irritably and made his way to the kitchen. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep if he returned to his bed. He might as well make some coffee, he told himself, and begin work.
He entered the kitchen, unlocked and opened the door that led onto another small patio with a gate that the Dermotts always kept open so that Bruno, their Alsatian dog, could have the run of the place, and yet sleep in his kennel during the night.
Vic whistled for the dog and then plugged in the coffee percolator. He put the bowl containing Bruno's breakfast on the floor by the door, then he crossed the lobby into the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, shaved, showered and dressed in a white singlet, blue cotton trousers and white sneakers, he made his way back to the kitchen. He was about to turn off the percolator when he paused and frowned. Bruno's breakfast was untouched. There was no sign of the dog.
As he stared at the untouched food in the bowl, Vic again had the prickly feeling of fear crawl up his spine. This was something that hadn't happened before since the Dermotts had moved into the ranch house. A single sharp whistle had always brought Bruno bounding into the kitchen.
Vic walked quickly across the patio and peered into the kennel. It was empty. He whistled again and stood for some moments waiting and listening, then he went to the gate and looked out into the scrubland and the sand, but there was no sign of the dog.
It was early, he told himself. He usually got up around seven. The dog was probably chasing a marmot, but it was unusual . . . it was becoming a tiresomely unusual morning.
He returned to the kitchen, poured coffee, added cream and took the cup into his workroom. He sat at his desk and sipped a little of the coffee before lighting a cigarette. He picked up the nearly completed manuscript and began to read the last few pages. He turned a page, then realized he hadn't registered what he had just read. Impatiently, he turned back the page and began to read again, but his mind was now fully occupied with Bruno. Where was the dog?
He pushed aside the manuscript, finished his coffee and went back to the kitchen.
Bruno's breakfast remained untouched. Again Vic crossed the patio to the gate. Again he whistled and looked across the white sand dimes.
He had a sudden feeling of loneliness and he had an urge to talk to Carrie, but after hesitating, he decided not to disturb her. He returned to his workroom and sat down in the lounging chair and tried to relax.
From where he sat, he could see through the big window the sun rising behind the dimes. He watched the red ball appear, its light colouring the vast sweep of the desert to rose pink. Usually this sight fascinated him, but this morning he was only aware of the vastness of the space surrounding the ranch house, and for the first time since he had come to Wastelands, he was uncomfortably aware of their isolation.
The sudden whimpering cry of his son brought him to his feet. He went quickly across the lobby and into the bedroom. Junior was beginning his morning bawl for his breakfast. Carrie was already sitting up in the bed, stretching. She smiled at him as he paused in the doorway.
“You're early. What's the time?” she asked and yawned.
“Half past six,” Vic said and went over to the cot. He lifted Junior who immediately stopped crying at the familiar firm touch of his father and he gave Vic a toothless grin.
“Couldn't you sleep?” Carrie asked as she slid out of bed.
“I was restless.”
Vic sat on the end of the bed and held Junior. He watched his wife walk across the bedroom and into the bathroom. He felt a little surge of pleasure at the sight of her in her transparent nightdress that revealed her exciting young body and her long, lovely legs.
Fifteen minutes later, Carrie was feeding Junior while Vic lolled on the bed and watched. This was a moment that always gave him considerable pleasure.
Carrie said abruptly, “Did you hear that motorcycle last night?”
Watching this ritual of feeding, Vic had forgotten his fears, but these words from Carrie brought him abruptly alert.
“Motorcycle? I heard nothing last night.”
“Someone came out here on a motorcycle,” Carrie said. She put Junior back in his cot. “It was around two o'clock. I didn't hear the cycle go away.”
Vic ran his fingers through his hair.
“What does that mean, honey?”
Carrie came away from the cot and sat on the bed.
“I didn't hear the motorcycle drive away,” she repeated. “I heard it arrive. The engine stopped . . . then nothing.”
“It was probably the Highway Patrol,” Vic said and reached in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. “He comes out here from time to time . . . remember?”
“But he didn't go away,” Carrie said.
“Of course he went away. What happened was you went off to sleep. You didn't hear him go. If he hadn't gone away, he'd be here now, wouldn't he? He isn't.”
Carrie stared at him.
“But how do you know he isn't still here?”
Vic moved impatiently.
“Look, darling . . . why should he be? Anyway, Bruno would have started barking . . .” Vic paused and frowned.
“Come to think of it . . . Bruno hasn't shown up this morning. I whistled, but he didn't come. It's damned odd.” He got to his feet and went quickly into the kitchen. The bowl of food remained untouched. He went to the door and whistled again.
Joining him, Carrie said, “Where can he be?”
“Chasing something, I guess. I'll go and look for him.”
Junior, feeling neglected, began to bawl and Carrie hurried back to the bedroom. Vic hesitated, then he set off on the long walk down to the entrance gate. He passed the shut-up staff cabin. The time now was seven o'clock. Di-Long still had half an hour before he showed himself. As Vic walked down the long drive, he paused from time to time to give his long, piercing whistle.
He finally reached the five-barred gate and he looked up and down the narrow dirt road beyond without seeing a movement of anything alive.
Then he looked down at the sandy road. Between the tyre tracks of his car, he saw the unmistakable imprint of two single tyre tracks . . . the tracks of a motorcycle. These tracks led from afar, direct to his gate and they stopped there. He looked to his left, but the tracks were no longer visible. It seemed, on the face of it, that someone had driven from Pitt City highway, up the dirt road to his gate. The driver and his machine had then vanished into space. There was no sign that the motorcycle had come up the drive nor had gone on to Boston Creek. The machine had stopped at the gate and then had apparently dissolved into nothingness.
For several minutes, Vic stared at the motorcycle tracks and up and down the dirt road, then turning, he stared up the drive. The strange, uneasy feeling of loneliness closed over him again and he started back towards the ranch house at a pace that set him sweating in the growing heat of the early sun.
As he passed the staff cabin, he came into sight of the ranch house. Carrie was standing in the open doorway and she was waving to him. Her movements were quick and urgent. As he approached her, he called, “What is it?”
“Vic! The guns have gone.”
He now reached her. He could see she was frightened.
Her blue eyes were round and alarmed.
“Guns? Gone?”
“I went into your room . . . the guns aren't in the rack!”
He went quickly into the gunroom. The gun rack was out of sight of his desk, around the L-shaped room. He paused and stared at the empty rack. There had been four shotguns: a .45 and two .22 rifles in the rack. The rack now stood empty.
Vic stared at the empty rack, feeling the hairs on the nape of his neck bristle. He turned to find Carrie watching him.
“They were here last night,” she said in a small, frightened voice.
“That's right.” Vic walked over to his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. In this drawer he kept a .38 Police Special automatic presented to him
by the Los Angeles Chief of Police.
It came as a sickening shock when he looked into the empty drawer with its slight smear of oil where the gun had been.
“Your gun too?” Carrie asked, moving forward.
He forced the feeling of panic that gripped him into control and turning, he smiled at her: a forced smile, but a smile.
“Looks like someone broke in here last night and grabbed all the guns,” he said. “I guess I'd better call the police.”
“That motorcycle I heard . . .”
“Could be. I'll call the police.”
As he picked up the telephone receiver, Carrie said, a rise in her voice, “He - he could still be here. I told you . . . I didn't hear him leave.”
Vic scarcely heard what she was saying for he was realizing as he held the telephone receiver to his ear and as he began to dial that the telephone was dead.
Speaking as calmly as he could, Vic said, “Seems the telephone is on the blink.” Slowly he replaced the receiver.
Carrie said breathlessly, “It was all right last night. We had that call from . . .”
“I know,” Vic cut in. “Well, it's not working now.”
They faced each other.
“What's happened to Bruno?” Carrie asked. She folded her arms across her breasts, her blue eyes growing rounder. “Do you think . . .?”
“Now don't get worked up,” Vic said sharply. “Someone broke in here last night, disconnected the telephone and took the guns. It's possible he has put Bruno out of action.”
Carrie flinched.
“You mean . . . Bruno's dead?”
“I don't know, darling. Drugged perhaps . . . I don't know.”
Carrie came into the room and moved quickly to Vic, putting her arms around him. He held her, feeling her slight body trembling. “Oh, Vic, I'm frightened! What is it? What are we going to do?”
He patted her, holding her close to him, aware that he too was a little frightened: aware too of the loneliness of the place. He thought of Di-Long.
“Look, you go back to Junior. I'm going to wake Di-Long, I'll get him to stay with you while I take a look around. Come on, Carrie, you don't have to look so scared.”
1963 - One Bright Summer Morning Page 1