1963 - One Bright Summer Morning

by James Hadley Chase

  The two men paused and looked at each other. The moonlight fell fully on Di-Long and Riff saw him clearly, whereas he was in the shadows and Di-Long only saw a towering black shadow that paralysed him with terror.

  The bottle of Coke slipped from his fingers and dropped silently into the sand. The spilt Coke made a black puddle as Riff, recovering first, his nerves tightening to vicious tension, moved forward. He saw Di-Long open his mouth. He knew that in a second the silent night air would be split by Di-Long's scream for help. His right fist, bound in its chain, swept up with the force of panic and with the speed of a striking snake.

  Riff felt his fist crunch against the side of Di-Long's face. He felt the shock run up his arm. The Vietnamese catapulted back into the cabin and thudded to the floor. Only his thin ankles and small feet in their straw sandals remained in the pool of moonlight.

  I shouldn't have hit him so hard, Riff thought, feeling a chill crawl up his spine. He knew he had hit the little man a terrible blow and he had a sickening idea that a man of that size couldn't recover from such a blow.

  He looked over at the ranch house, feeling cold sweat running down his face.

  My luck! he thought. What was he doing out here? Judas! He scared me! He was going to yell! I had to hit him! He unwound the chain and began to slide it back into his pocket when he became aware that the chain felt wet and sticky. Grimacing, he moved away from the shadow of the cabin and stared at the glistening dark patch that ran three-quarters of the length of the chain. He knew it was blood, and angrily, he scrubbed the chain clean in the sand. Satisfied that it was clean, he returned it to his pocket. Then he lit a cigarette, reached into his hip pocket and pulled out his flashlight. He stared at the small, narrow feet lying in the moonlight. Suppose he had killed this yellow punk? If he had, the job would blow up in his face. Kramer had said there was no risk as he had been certain he could talk the father of the kidnapped girl into paying up and keep the cops out of it, but if this little punk was dead, could Kramer keep the cops out?

  Cursing under his breath, his heart thumping with panic, Riff pressed the button on the flashlight and threw the beam of light on to Di-Long's mangled and dead face.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  If Zelda Van Wylie had been anything but the heiress to a billion dollars, it would be hard to say what she would have become: probably an inefficient saleswoman in some second-rate store or possibly an inaccurate copy-typist, but certainly with her education as it was and her indifferent intelligence, she couldn't have aspired to anything much higher.

  But since she had the fortune to be born the only child of a Texas billionaire who was besotted with her, she was able to surmount to some extent the various handicaps with which nature had endowed her.

  In appearance she was nothing to set a bonfire alight. This she had come to realize herself after hours of examining her naked body before a full-length mirror in her bathroom. She was pretty in a vapid, colourless way. She had large brown eyes that were generally sulky. She had a pretty nose and a nice mouth, but her chin faded away and this spoilt her overall appearance.

  She was flat chested and this distressed her as she admired those movie stars with overdeveloped busts. She was cursed with broad, matronly hips which she endeavoured to discipline by squeezing them in the most vicious girdles that the girdle market could provide. Her legs, however, were long and slender, and they were of great consolation to her.

  From her birth she had been spoilt. Now at the age of eighteen years, she was bored, sexually frustrated, irritable and tiresome. She had enough intelligence to realize that the various young men who swarmed around her had a calculating eye on the riches that would eventually be hers.

  She had come to dislike and distrust men as a breed, but she worked off some of her sexual frustrations by poring over photographs in various Nature magazines of nude males with enormous muscles and bulging jock straps. Her other outlet was the adoration of certain male movie stars whom she pestered continually for their autographs and photographs. She considered men like Cary Grant, George Sanders and William Holden as the acme of male perfection.

  In spite of having everything that money could buy, Zelda led a life of routine boredom. She went to the movies four times a week. The parties she arranged twice a week were vulgar and showy, but the young people who came were happy enough to eat the exotic food and drink the vast quantities of liquor provided, since most people become parasites whenever free food and drink are supplied. They sneered at her behind her back and offered nothing in return.

  The few people whom she knew better than others thought it was sad that Zelda regarded her father as the reason for her unhappiness and boredom. If he hadn't had so much money, she was continuously saying, she would be happily married by now. Marriage was Zelda's idea of the cure for all her troubles and boredom. Her father's cloying affection smothered her like a blanket.

  His eager interest in everything she did or planned infuriated her. His constant suggestions to relieve her boredom were received with scorn. It was certainly due to his continual encouragement to have a good time with boys of her own age that soured Zelda's interest in men. John Van Wylie did his best for his daughter, but he failed to realize that by spoiling her, by showering everything on her she wanted or didn't want, he had become to her a nerve-tingling old bore.

  On this summer morning in July, Zelda had risen at seven o'clock and had submitted to an hour's painful massage by an expert who lived in the enormous house for the express purpose of attempting to reduce Zelda's hip line. She then had a sulky breakfast with her father and finally, a few minutes to nine o'clock, following her set routine, she left the house and got into the E-type Jaguar that waited for her at the bottom of the terrace steps.

  She had decided to brighten her weekend by having her hair dyed the colour of fresh apricots. She had read in one of the numerous women's magazines that apricot was not only the latest colour for the hair, but it was also very chic and sophisticated. If there was anything that Zelda wished it was to be considered both chic and sophisticated.

  She drove the Jag down the long drive. Among her very few talents, Zelda could handle any car like a racing expert. At the far end of the drive, by the electrified gate, Chita waited. She stood beside a blue Ford Lincoln that Kramer had bought in some out-of-the-way car mart.

  Some twenty yards from her, Moe Zegetti stood behind a thick clump of shrubs, aware that his heart was beating uneasily. He had no doubt that Chita would do what had been asked of her, but he knew, once they had the girl, there would be no turning back. Like Riff Crane, he too was aware that he was risking his life. Although trying to assure himself that Kramer had never made a mistake, he realized that Kramer was no longer the same man who had once ruled the Unions so ruthlessly and so successfully.

  To add to his uneasiness, as he was leaving to meet Chita, he had had a telephone call from the hospital. The nurse had told him his mother was now very ill and was asking for him.

  This was something Moe could do nothing about. He had committed himself to this job. He had told the nurse he would come as soon as he could. He knew his mother would understand.

  His depressed thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an approaching car. He was in time to see the Jaguar as it swept up to the gate before he ducked out of sight. By now Chita had lifted the hood of the car. She was wearing a blue and white cotton dress, bought with Kramer's money for this occasion and her dyed hair was tied neatly back with a piece of blue ribbon. She looked like any average American girl you see in their thousands.

  Unlike Moe and her brother, Chita had entered into this affair with complete confidence. Already she was planning what they would do when they had the ten thousand dollars promised them. It never occurred to her, in spite of Riff's uneasiness, that the job could turn sour.

  As Zelda got out of her car to open the gate, she stared enviously at Chita. She saw by the hard nipples pushing against the cheap material of Chita's dress that this girl wasn't weari
ng these wretchedly uncomfortable “falsies” that she was forced to wear.

  “Can you help me?” Chita asked, her smile wide and friendly. “There's something wrong with the ignition. Is there a garage near here?”

  Watching and listening, Moe nodded his head with approval. Chita was giving a natural and acceptable performance. Zelda liked the look of this girl. She was from a world in which she never had the chance of mixing. The girl interested her.

  “There's a garage along the highway. I'll take you there . . . get in.”

  It was as easy as that.

  As Chita slid into the car, she said, “Gee! What a beaut! Is it yours?”

  Zelda nodded as she pressed the starter.

  “Yes . . . you like it?”

  “I bet it does over a hundred.”

  This was the wrong thing to have said for Zelda was a showoff. With her foot gently squeezing the gas pedal, Zelda slid through the gears. The car surged forward, and within seconds the speedometer needle was flicking around one hundred and thirty-five miles an hour.

  Moe who was about to get into the Lincoln saw the Jag literally vanish from sight. Cursing, he started the Lincoln and swung out on to the highway.

  Realizing that Moe couldn't possibly catch up with them at this speed, Chita put her hands to her face and screamed, “It's too fast! Please! It's too fast!”

  Zelda laughed. She delighted in scaring anyone with speed. She slowed down until they were moving at a sedate seventy miles an hour.

  “Did it really scare you? I often drive as fast as that . . . I adore speeding!”

  “I thought I did,” Chita said and looked over her shoulder through the rear window. There was no sign of Moe. “But . . . that was too fast!” She paused, then went on. “It's some car! You wouldn't be going to San Bernadino, would you? I have a date . . . I'm late already.”

  “That's where I am going,” Zelda said, “but we can stop off at the garage and get them to fix your car. They can drive it to San Bernadino for you.”

  Chita could see the Shell sign ahead of them. Quickly she said, “It doesn't matter. I'll get a taxi back. I really want to get to S.B. as soon as I can. I'm late already.”

  Zelda shrugged and zipped the Jaguar past the service station. Then, glancing in the driving mirror, she exclaimed, “Oh hell! Not again!”

  “What is it?” Chita asked sharply.

  “A damn speed cop,” Zelda said in disgust. “Sorry, but I'd better stop,” and she slowed, pulled to the side of the road and stopped. A moment later, a big, red-faced cop pulled up beside the car.

  Chita sat motionless, her hands clenched tightly between her knees. She kept her face turned slightly away from the cop as he got off his motorcycle and leaned into the car.

  “Morning, Miss Van Wylie,” he said with a beaming smile. “You were clocking a hundred and thirty just now. Sorry, but I've got to book you.”

  “Oh the hell with you and your wife and your children!” Zelda snapped. “Go ahead and book me! I hope you fall off your lump of iron and break your neck!”

  The cop laughed.

  “Sure, Miss Van Wylie, but for Pete's sake relax with the gas on this highway.” He scribbled on a pad and gave her a ticket. “Your Pa okay, Miss Van Wylie?”

  “As if you care,” Zelda said and made a face at him. “He'll hate you worse than he does already when he hears of this.”

  The cop laughed again. It gave him a kick to hand a speeding ticket to one of the richest girls in the world. He knew Zelda well. He gave her a ticket at least once a week. His small, cop eyes shifted to Chita and they hardened. He stared for a long moment and Chita turned her head slowly and looked directly at him. For a brief moment, she felt suddenly small and naked under the probing, hard eyes, then forcing down this feeling of fear, she looked away.

  The cop stepped back, giving an elaborate salute.

  “Sorry to have stopped you, Miss Van Wylie, but you know how it is.”

  “Oh, go jump in the sea, Murphy,” Zelda said and smiled. As she pulled once more on to the highway, Moe, in the Lincoln, came upon them. He kept going, driving past them, seeing the cop and feeling a clutch of fear at his heart.

  Zelda said sharply, “That looks like your car.”

  They were now moving at a sedate forty miles an hour.

  Chita shook her head.

  “My car? How could it be?”

  Zelda looked puzzled, then she shrugged.

  “I thought it looked like your car. What a bore about that cop! He'll follow me now all the way to S.B. I know him. He's a damned sadist. He loves booking me.”

  They were now climbing the hill to San Bernadino.

  Chita hesitated. She looked back. In the distance she could see the cop was following them; this could be dangerous. Maybe the cop would turn back once they reached the city. She opened her handbag and took out the flat flask Kramer had given her.

  Zelda said, “What have you got there?”

  With a sudden vicious note in her voice, Chita told her.

  * * *

  For several seconds Vic Dermott stared down at his bloodstained shoe, then with a little grimace of disgust, he flicked the shoe off his foot.

  Carrie had sat down abruptly on the bed.

  “It's blood, isn't it?” she asked in a tremulous voice.

  “It could be . . . I don't know. Come on, Carrie, don't just sit there! Let's get going!”

  The note of urgency in his voice forced Carrie to her feet.

  “I'm nearly ready . . . Vic . . . it is blood, isn't it?”

  Vic put on another pair of shoes. He was trying to remember where he could have picked up the blood that had stained his shoe. He was sure he would have noticed the blood if it had been out in the open. It must have been in the cabin, he told himself. Had Di-Long been hurt?

  “Yes, I think so. Let's not talk about it now. Let's . . .”

  He stopped as he heard a sound that set him alert. It was the unmistakable sound of the door of the refrigerator closing.

  “Did you hear that?” Carrie whispered, her eyes growing round. “There's someone in the kitchen!”

  Vic hurriedly completed lacing his shoe, then he straightened.

  They looked at each other.

  “Sounded like the refrig door shutting,” he said, a little unnerved.

  “It was! Oh, Vic! Someone's in the house!”

  “All right . . . all right,” Vic said. “Now don't get scared. You wait here. I'll go and see.”

  “No . . . you mustn't! Stay with me!”

  “Darling . . . please . . .”

  Moving silently, he went to the door of the bedroom which stood ajar. He listened, heard nothing, then looking over his shoulder, he said softly, “Stay with Junior,” and then walked quickly and silently across the lobby to the kitchen door.

  He paused in the doorway, his heart skipping a beat. The sight of Riff Crane in his shabby leather outfit and his scarred face, as he sat on the kitchen table gnawing at the leg of a chicken would have shaken men with much better nerves than Vic possessed.

  Vic stood motionless, his heart now thumping and a cold wave of blood crawling up his spine.

  Riff grinned at him.

  “I bet I scared the crap out of you, Mac,” he said. He took a final bite out of the chicken leg and then flicked the bone across the kitchen. As the bone skidded along the floor, Vic's fear turned to sudden anger.

  “What do you think you're doing here?” he demanded. “Who are you?”

  Riff eyed him. The fixed smile remained on his scarred face, but his eyes turned bleak and hard. He slid the bicycle chain from its pocket.

  “Listen, Mac, you'll have to get used to me. I'm here for quite a while. Relax and you won't get pushed around. If you do what I tell you, you and the doll and the brat will be fine.” He began to wind the chain slowly around his right fist. “I want coffee. Tell your doll to make me some . . . hear me?”

  “Get out of here!” Vic said. “Go on . . . get o
ut!”

  Carrie came to the door. She caught her breath in a sharp gasp at the sight of Riff who eyed her and grinned.

  “Nice,” he said and leered. “Hi, baby doll, get me some coffee or your pretty boy will get hurt.”

  Vic made a move forward, but Carrie, terrified at the sight of Riff, caught his arm.

  “No, Vic! I'll give him coffee. Vic . . . please!”

  “That's the idea, baby. So long as you both do what you're told, no one gets hurt,” Riff said. Then his expression changed to animal viciousness and he smashed his chained fist down on the table. He yelled, “Coffee! Hear me? I won't tell you again!”

  Vic caught hold of Carrie and pushed her roughly out of the kitchen.

  “Stay with Junior,” he said. “I'll handle this thug!”

  As he turned he was in time to see Riff slide off the table and come at him with a sneering little grin on his face.

  Vic had always kept himself fit and in his Varsity days he had been a pretty useful boxer, but he was no match for Riff who had been fighting brutally ever since he could remember.

  Vic shot out a left hand punch that Riff avoided by a lightning shift of his head, then his chained fist slammed against the side of Vic's face and he went down as if struck by a sledgehammer. He lay unconscious at Riff's feet.

  With a sharp scream, Carrie threw herself down on her hands and knees beside Vic, turning him and screaming again at the sight of the blood running down his face.

  Riff unwound the chain and returned it to his pocket, then leaning forward, he twined his thick fingers in Carrie's hair and dragged her to her feet. She struck out blindly, but he gave her one paralysing shake that nearly broke her neck, then releasing her, he shoved her away.

  “Coffee!” he bawled at her. “Hear me! Coffee or I'll put the boot to this jerk!”

  Carrie steadied herself. She looked in horror at the steel tipped skiing boots Riff was wearing, then not quite knowing what she was doing, she walked unsteadily across the kitchen and plugged in the percolator.