1963 - One Bright Summer Morning

by James Hadley Chase

  Chita was looking in her direction as she sat in the sunlight.

  Huskily, Carrie said, “You'd better come . . . please.”

  Chita looked indifferently at her.

  “Keep out of it,” she said. “You'll only get hurt.”

  “But you can't let him . . .”

  “Go back to your room.”

  Carrie went back to her room. She put Junior into his cot, and with an unsteady hand she gave him one of his favourite toys, then with a rapidly beating heart, she walked to Zelda's room. This was probably the bravest thing she had ever done in her life. The thought of having to face Riff again terrified her, but she couldn't leave Zelda defenceless to cope with him alone. She turned the door handle, but the door was locked.

  She hesitated, then she began hammering on the door with her clenched fists.

  “Open this door!” she shouted, her voice unsteady with terror.

  The silence from the room horrified her. Maybe this awful savage had killed the girl!

  She hammered on the door again.

  “Zelda! Are you all right! Open this door!”

  There was a long pause of silence, then Carrie heard whispering. Then she heard Zelda giggle. The sound came as such a shock to her that she felt the blood leave her face.

  “It's all right,” Zelda called. “Do go away!”

  As Carrie remained motionless, aware of her thudding heartbeats, she heard a sound behind her and she looked around.

  Chita had come silently into the house. She stood glaring at Carrie. Her expression was something that Carrie hoped never to see on a woman's face again. There was pain, anger, frustration and bitter jealousy that had turned Chita's face into a mask of despair.

  “What are you worrying about, you poor fool?” Chita demanded, her voice shaking with pent-up fury. “My brother has a way with women! Get away! Go back to your room!”

  Sickened, Carrie walked past her and entered her room. She closed the door, her hand against her aching face. With a shiver of disgust, she locked herself in.

  * * *

  Patrol Officer Murphy walked into Jay Dennison's office. He saluted as he said, “Murphy, 'D' Division. Sergeant O'Harridon told me to report, sir.”

  “Miss Van Wylie?” Dennison asked, pushing aside the papers on his desk.

  “That's right, sir,” Murphy went quickly over the facts. “There was this other girl with her, sir,” he went on. “She was something a bit different.” He gave a detailed description of Chita. “I got the idea Miss Van Wylie was giving this girl a lift into town.”

  Dennison asked a number of questions. By the time he had finished with Murphy he had all the information he could get from the Patrol Officer.

  “I followed Miss Van Wylie as far as the Macklin Square car park,” Murphy concluded. “I left her there.”

  “Okay,” Dennison said. “You'd be able to identify this other girl again?”

  “Sure would.”

  Dennison dismissed Murphy with a wave of his hand after cautioning him not to talk. He then called the San Bernadino police headquarters. He asked them to check the Macklin Square car park. He said he had an idea they would find Miss Van Wylie's Jaguar there. The sergeant in charge said he would call back.

  Merrill Andrews and Abe Mason came in as Dennison replaced the telephone receiver.

  “We've been through every photograph in the Herald's library,” Mason said. “Mr. Andrews isn't sure, but he thinks he's spotted the man we're after.” He put a photograph of a group of men on Dennison's desk. “This photograph is of the cast of a play called 'Moonlight in Venice.' The man in the last row, third from the right, is Victor Dermott who wrote the play. Mr. Andrews has an idea he's our man.”

  “Yeah,” Andrews joined in. “It's a bad photo, but he certainly looks like the guy.”

  Dennison reached for the telephone. He asked to be connected with Mr. Simon of Simon and Ley, the theatrical agents. After a long wait, Simon came on the line. He knew Dennison, but he seemed surprised to have a call from the inspector.

  “Sorry to worry you, Mr. Simon,” Dennison said. “I want to get in touch with Mr. Victor Dermott. Can you give me his address?”

  “I guess I can give you his home address,” Simon said cautiously, “but I don't think you'll find him at home. He's away some place. What's it all about?”

  “It's urgent and confidential,” Dennison said. “I'd be glad of your help.”

  Seconds later, after making a note on a scratch pad, Dennison said, “Thanks: sorry to have bothered you,” and he hung up.

  “The address is 13345 Lincoln Avenue, Los Angeles,” he told Mason. “Take Mr. Andrews and go out there. Ask for Mr. Dermott. See if you can get a good photograph of him if he isn't at home. If he is our man, find out where he is.”

  As Andrews and Mason left the office, Tom Harper came in.

  “Report on the Telex from Chase National, San Bernadino and Merchant Fidelity of Los Angeles,” he said. “They have cashed bearer cheques for four hundred thousand dollars, signed by Van Wylie.”

  “Any description of the man who cashed them?”

  “Yeah . . . the same. He's around thirty-eight, tall, good-looking and dark. Well dressed.”

  Dennison thought for a long moment, then he said, “I have a special job for you, Tom. Go out to Arrowhead Lake. I want you to check all the hotels in the district. See if you can find out if a man answering Jim Kramer's description is staying or has stayed at any of the hotels. Be careful how you make your inquiries. Get Kramer's photo from our files. Take Letts and Brody with you. I want a report back fast.”

  Harper forgot himself for a moment, to say, “Jim Kramer? You don't mean . . .?”

  Dennison stared at him.

  “I said report back fast!”

  “Yes, sir,” Harper said hurriedly and left the office at a run.

  * * *

  “Carrie!”

  Zelda's voice floated across the lobby and Carrie, who had been bathing her aching face, came out of the bathroom and to her bedroom door.

  “Carrie!”

  She unlocked the door and moved out into the lobby.

  “Yes?”

  “Will you come?”

  Carrie assured herself that Junior was amusing himself, then she walked across the lobby to Zelda's room. The door stood open. She hesitated a moment, then went in.

  Zelda was sitting on the side of her bed which was in disorder.

  She was wrapped in a sheet. Her usually immaculate hair was tousled. Her face was flushed and her eyes reminded Carrie of the eyes of a cat that had satisfied itself with too much cream.

  Carrie glanced quickly around the room. There was no sign of Riff Crane. By the bed were the remains of Zelda's clothes. The dress she had been wearing lay in two pieces. White rags represented her underwear.

  “I haven't any clothes,” Zelda said very calmly. “Could you lend me some?”

  “Are you hurt?” Carrie asked anxiously. “Where – where is he?”

  Zelda giggled and blushed.

  “I'm fine . . . he's taking a bath. I persuaded him.” She nodded to the closed door of the bathroom. “Oh, Carrie! I must tell someone! I'm wild about him!” She closed her eyes, her expression ecstatic. Carrie felt a sudden impulse to smack her face, but she controlled herself. “You don't know! He's marvellous. He's so - so primitive! Carrie! I'm in love with him! He's the first man who really means something to me! I'm going to marry him!”

  “Have you gone mad?” Carrie exclaimed. “How can you think of such a thing! Look at me! He hit me! Look at my face!”

  Simpering, Zelda pulled aside the sheet to reveal a livid purple bruise on the side of her thigh.

  “He hit me, too. He's like that. He doesn't know his own strength. He takes what he wants . . . brutally . . . marvelously . . . He . . .”

  “Stop it, you stupid little fool!” Carrie cried, revolted. “A brute like that! You must be out of your mind!”

  Zelda's face hardened and s
he pouted.

  “You needn't be jealous,” she said. “I know he preferred me to you, but what can you expect? After all, you're older and you have a baby . . . Riff wouldn't want a woman . . .”

  Carrie said dangerously. “If you don't stop it, I'm going to slap you . . . I mean just that.”

  The bathroom door swung open and Riff stood in the doorway. He had a towel draped around his middle. His massive muscular chest was black with coarse thick hair. His arms also sprouted black hair. To Carrie, he looked like a terrifying ape. She moved back towards the door.

  “Hello, baby,” Riff said, grinning at her. “You still around, looking for trouble?”

  “Oh, leave her alone, Riff,” Zelda said, looking adoringly at him. “She's only jealous. She wouldn't dare do a thing to me with you around.” To Carrie, she went on, “Please let me have some clothes,” She simpered. “Riff was in such a hurry, he - he ripped everything of mine to bits.”

  Riff leered at Carrie.

  “Fix her up with something,” he said and laughed. “We've taken a fancy to each other.”

  Her face coldly horrified, Carrie waved to the row of closets.

  “Take what you want,” she said and went quickly out of the room.

  Riff wandered over to the dressing table. He picked up a cut-glass bottle of toilet water. He slapped the toilet water onto his chest, sniffing appreciatively.

  “I smell like a tart now,” he said, grinning. “You like me this way?”

  Zelda looked adoringly at him.

  “I think you're marvellous, Riff. Those muscles . . . you . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You get some clothes on, baby. I'll be back,” and winking, he went out of the room, closing the door. Barefooted and with only the towel around his middle, he went out into the hot sunshine.

  Chita stood waiting for him. Her back rested against the veranda rail, a cigarette hung from her lips, her face was a cold, hostile mask.

  Riff padded towards her, grinning gleefully.

  “Baby, we're on the gravy train.” He kept his voice low. “This stupid cow has fallen for me! Can you imagine? Ten thousand bucks! That's a real laugh now. She wants to marry me!”

  Chita lost colour. Her eyes glittered.

  “Marry you! What do you mean?”

  Riff was excited. He sat down in the basket chair near Chita and moved his thick fingers through his hair.

  “What I'm telling you. I've only just found out who she is. Her old man is one of the richest punks in the world! He owns half Texas, goddam it! That's why Kramer was smart enough to snatch her! Now listen, she's gone soppy about me. She's the type who likes it rough.” His savage, scarred face lit up with a leering grin. “And baby! Did I give it to her rough; I had her . . .”

  “Shut up, you stinker!” Chita shouted at him. “Marry you! You stupid hunkhead! You imagine her old man would let you marry you! You're crazy!”

  Riff's leg shot out. He hooked his foot around Chita's ankles and she came down heavily on the end of her spine. The shock drove the breath out of her body and Riff, leaning forward, slapped her across her face. He jumped to his feet, his face ugly with fury as she half tried to get up.

  “Want more?” he snarled. “You can have it! Keep your mouth shut! Now you listen to what I'm telling you. Hear me?”

  Chita sank back. The marks of Riff's thick fingers made white weals on her face.

  “This is where we cash in,” Riff said, sitting down again. “Can't you see? That guy Kramer had a nerve to offer us only ten thousand! That's peanuts! And besides, this job could turn sour. I've thought it all out. All we now have to do is to get the car and take the girl back to her old man. That'll put us clear of the snatch. He'll be so grateful, he won't take police action. Then she'll tell him she loves me.” He grinned. “She'll tell him there's a baby on the way. So what can he do? Whether he likes it or not, he's got to say okay, and then, baby, we'll have all the money in the world! Married to that little cow means we get our hooks on the old man's dough . . . he's worth millions!”

  “I'm not marrying her,” Chita said quietly. “So what happens to me?”

  Riff scowled at her.

  “What's the matter with you? You come along for the ride. What do you think happens to you?”

  “The three of us, is that it? She'll love that. I'll love it too!”

  “She'll do what I tell her!”

  “But I won't!”

  Riff made an exasperated gesture with his hands.

  “You want to spend her money, don't you?”

  Chita leaned forward. Her face, still showing the four livid marks of Riff's fingers, was vicious.

  “No, I don't! We've been together ever since we were born! We've done everything together! We've had fun together! I'm not sharing you with any other woman! I'm not letting that poor fool with all her money come between us!”

  “You talk as if you were my wife,” Riff snarled. “Have you gone nuts or something?”

  Chita stared at him. “Well, aren't I your wife?”

  “You! You're crazy! What do you mean . . . you're my sister! What are you talking about?”

  “I am also your wife,” Chita said.

  Riff tried to meet her steady, furious gaze, but he couldn't do it. He looked away.

  “Don't bring that up,” he muttered and got to his feet. “That's only happened once and you know it was your fault. You're my sister! My wife! You're nuts!”

  “Oh, Riff. . .”

  They both looked quickly down the veranda to where Zelda was standing. She had on a lemon-coloured shirt, pair of scarlet, tight-fitting slacks and she had bound a white scarf around her hair. Her expression was so animated she almost looked beautiful.

  “When are we leaving, Riff?”

  “Just as soon as I get some clothes on,” Riff said.

  “I've found you something to wear,” Zelda said. “I've laid them out on the bed. Hurry, Riff. I want to leave as quickly as I can.”

  Chita said in a cold, flat voice, “There's a car coming.”

  Riff turned quickly and stared down the long dirt road.

  He stood tense for a few moments watching the approaching car.

  “It's Zegetti!” Riff exclaimed.

  “This should be fun,” Chita said. “What are you going to tell him about taking her home?”

  Riff ran quickly down the veranda and into Zelda's bedroom. Quickly, he picked up his black leather trousers which he had flung on the floor. He put his hand in one of the hip pockets for Vic's gun, but it wasn't there. A quick search, amid a stream of obscene cursing, confirmed the gun had vanished!

  * * *

  Vera Synder, a large comfortable-looking woman with grey hair, whose pleasant face now carried an expression of alert curiosity, had been Vic Dermott's secretary for the past five years. She sat behind her large desk and regarded Abe Mason and Merrill Andrews through big horn-rimmed spectacles as she said. “Federal Bureau, Mr. Mason? I don't understand.”

  “Can you please tell me where I can find Mr. Dermott?” Mason repeated politely.

  “You asked that question just now. I said I don't understand. What business have you with Mr. Dermott?”

  While they were talking, Andrews was looking around the big, pleasantly-furnished room. He saw at the far end of the room a photograph of a man in a silver frame. He got abruptly to his feet, walked the length of the room and stared at the excellent likeness of Dermott, then he turned and said excitedly, “It's Dermott all right! No possible mistake about it!”

  Mason relaxed. Now at last they were getting somewhere. To Miss Synder, he said, “This is an urgent police matter. It is essential we get in touch with Mr. Dermott right away. Please tell me where he is.”

  “Mr. Dermott is writing a play,” Miss Synder said with determination. “He is not to be disturbed. I have no authority to give you his address.”

  Mason restrained his impatience with difficulty.

  “Mr. Dermott could be in very great danger,”
he said quietly. “We have reason to believe that kidnappers have moved into the house where he is living and are threatening the lives of his wife and baby.”

  Vic had often said that if an atomic bomb went off behind Miss Synder's chair, she would be completely unruffled.

  She was unruffled now.

  “May I see your credentials, Mr. Mason?”

  With a suppressed grunt of exasperation, Mason handed over his warrant card. Miss Synder examined it and then returned it.

  Three minutes later, Mason was on the telephone to Dennison.

  “It's Dermott all right,” he said. “He and his wife have rented a ranch house called Wastelands from a Mr. and Mrs. Harris-Jones. The house is completely isolated: about twenty miles from a little place called Boston Creek and some fifty miles from Pitt City.”

  “Good work,” Dennison said. “Come on back. We don't need Mr. Andrews anymore. Get back here as fast as you can.”

  As Dennison replaced the receiver, the telephone bell began to ring. With an impatient movement, he lifted the receiver again. It was Sergeant O'Harridon of the San Bernadino police.

  “We've found Miss Van Wylie's Jag,” he reported. “It was where you said. One interesting point: the passenger door has been sprayed with some pretty strong acid. It's eaten away all the leather work.”

  “Get every fingerprint you can find on the car,” Dennison ordered. “Let me know what acid has been used.”

  “The boys are working on it now,” O'Harridon said and hung up.

  As Dennison reached for a cigar, the telephone rang again.

  It was Tom Harper.

  “Hit the jackpot right away, Chief,” Harper said. “Kramer stayed two days at the Lake Arrowhead Hotel. The doorman identified him from the photograph. Three o'clock on the day of the kidnapping, Kramer hired a convertible Buick and drove away, heading towards Pitt City. He didn't return that night, but he arrived back at the hotel the following morning soon after eleven o'clock. He paid his check, handed over the Buick and took a taxi to the railroad station. He was in time to catch the Frisco train.”

  “Good work,” Dennison said. “So it looks as if it could be Kramer at the back of this. Now look, Tom, I have a job for you as you are out there on the spot. We're pretty sure Miss Van Wylie is at a ranch house called Wastelands.” He described where Wastelands was located. “But I'm not absolutely sure she is there. I want you to find out. Think you can do it?”