1963 - One Bright Summer Morning

by James Hadley Chase

  “I guess so,” Harper said without much enthusiasm.

  “You've got to be surer than that,” Dennison said, a sudden edge to his voice. “These hoods mustn't be alerted. They could be killers. I know they are acid throwers. If they suspect we are on to them, they could massacre the girl, the Dermotts and anyone else there who could identify them.”

  While he was talking, he was thinking. “Hang on a moment.”

  He put down the receiver, lit his cigar while he continued to think. Then, picking up the receiver, he said, “Here's what you do, Tom. Hire a car. Leave your wallet, your warrant and your gun with Brody. Drive out to Wastelands, take a look at the place, then ring on the front

  doorbell. Tell whoever answers the door that you are a friend of the Harris-Jones and they are letting you hire the house in a couple of months' time. As you happen to be passing, could you look over the house and see if it is suitable for your requirements . . . you know the blah. Keep your eyes open. They won't let you in, but you'll get an idea of the geography of the place. Let me know what outbuildings there are: what cover there is: if we can get a bunch of men near enough to the house to rush it. You know the sort of thing I want. And watch out, Tom: these hoods are dangerous if Kramer is hooked up with them.”

  “Okay, Chief,” Harper said. “I'll get moving right away. I should be out there by five o'clock. Should I take either Letts or Brody with me?”

  “What for?” Dennison said impatiently. “Do you imagine you're going to feel lonely?”

  * * *

  Moe Zegetti had taken his time about returning to Wastelands. When he was clear of Boston Creek, he had pulled up by the side of the road, prepared to give way to his grief.

  To his surprise the tears he was expecting didn't come, for he suddenly realized what his mother's passing really meant to him. He realized for the first time in his life he would be able to do exactly what he wanted to do without having to consult his mother first. This unexpected realization startled him and he lit a cigarette and considered, not without a twinge of guilt, just what this discovery could mean to his future.

  He was forty-eight years of age. He had never married because his mother had never approved of any girl he had brought home for her inspection. All his life he had been under his mother's domination. There had been times when she had driven him half-crazy with her bossy ways. Among many irritating things, she had insisted that he should change his shirt every day and that he should limit his drinking and so on and so on. With a quarter of a million dollars coming to him, he would have a new, free and exciting life to look forward to. Still thinking about himself as he sat in the car, he realized that when his mother hadn't been bossing him around, Kramer had. He had to admit that when Kramer had walked out on him, his affairs had turned sour, but that hadn't been really his fault. He had had bad luck. Now Kramer was back, bossing him around again! Moe moved restlessly. A quarter of a million dollars!

  It was nice money, but why had Kramer offered him such a sum? Just how much was Kramer going to get out of this snatch? If Kramer was willing to part with a quarter of a million, it was a safe bet that Kramer himself was going to pick up at least three or possibly four million!

  Influenced by this new heady feeling of freedom, Moe decided the split wasn't fair. Although Kramer had planned the job, he, Moe, had been landed with the dangerous end.

  If the job happened to turn sour, he would be the first to take the rap. It wasn't good enough. When Kramer began to dish out the money, Moe told himself, he would be a sucker if he didn't ask for more. He might even persuade Kramer to split the take.

  With these thoughts running through his head, Moe started the car and drove towards Wastelands. During the drive, he brooded about the ransom. He finally convinced himself that Kramer must split the money with him. He would tell Kramer he, Moe, would be willing to pay off the Cranes from his share, but Kramer would have to accept the new terms. In this mood of elation, Moe didn't even consider just how he would persuade Kramer to do this.

  It was because his native cunning was alerted by these thoughts that he immediately sensed that something was wrong as he pulled up outside the ranch house. He sat for a long moment in the car, looking towards the veranda. Zelda, in a new outfit, with Chita was standing tense and looking towards him. There was no sign of Riff.

  He got out of the car. Something was up, he told himself, but what? The Cranes were tricky, but for all their trickiness, he couldn't imagine what they had been up to to give him this feeling of uneasiness. Casually, he undid the button of his jacket to enable him to get at the .38 automatic he carried in a holster under his jacket.

  He walked slowly to the steps of the veranda and mounted them.

  “All okay?” he asked, pausing at the top of the steps and staring at Chita.

  He saw Zelda glance swiftly at Chita and then away.

  Chita said, “Why shouldn't it be?”

  There was something about her expression that made him uneasy. He saw too that the left side of her face was slightly bruised.

  “Where's Riff?” he asked without moving.

  “Inside,” Chita said.

  There was a pause as Moe stared searchingly at her, then Riff appeared in the front doorway. He was wearing his black leather suit. There was sweat on his face and his smile was a fixed grimace.

  “Hyah, there,” he said. “So you're back.”

  “Where's Mrs. Dermott?” Moe asked, turning so he faced Riff.

  “Inside with her brat,” Riff said.

  Moe suddenly noticed that Riff's hand was out of sight, behind his back.

  “Everything okay while I've been away?” he asked.

  “Sure . . . fine,” Riff said and he began to move towards Moe.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Moe was aware that Chita was moving casually, but her languid strides were bringing her quickly towards him.

  “What have you behind your back?” Moe asked.

  “What are you talking about?” Riff asked. He was nearly within striking distance of Moe.

  Moe hadn't been considered by the police as a dangerous criminal for nothing. He may have allowed himself to be bossed around by his mother and by Kramer, but when in a tight spot, Moe could be as dangerous as a rattlesnake. As Kramer's lieutenant, he had had control of young vicious hoods who could turn into killers and he had never lost in a showdown. He had the knack of drawing a gun faster than any of the hoods he handled. It was a knack that had saved his life many times in the past and a knack he had never let get rusty.

  Riff, his hand bound in his chain, was about to deal Moe a crushing blow to his face when he found himself looking at the vicious nose of a .38 that had appeared in Moe's hand as if by magic.

  Seeing the gun, Chita stopped as if she had run into an invisible wall. The Cranes looked at Moe who moved slightly so he could swing the gun easily to cover them both.

  “What's the big idea?” Riff asked, his voice uneven.

  “Get that chain off!” Moe snapped. “Drop it on the floor, fast!”

  This was a new Moe. The fat face had tightened: the black eyes were steady and threatening.

  Riff hurriedly unwound the chain and let it drop.

  “I was only fooling,” he said, a whine in his voice. “What's eating you, Moe?”

  “Get over there!” Moe snapped and jerked the gun towards Chita.

  “You gone nuts or something?” Riff said, but he moved to join his sister.

  Without taking his eyes off Riff, Moe bent and scooped up the chain.

  “Now I'll ask the questions,” he said. “What's going on here?”

  There was a long pause, then Zelda who had been watching this scene, her eyes wide with fear, said breathlessly, “You mustn't hurt him! We are leaving together! He and I are getting married! If you will help us, I'll see my father gives you some money.”

  This news so stunned Moe that he lowered his gun to stare blankly at Zelda.

  Quick to see his opportunity, Riff said,
“That's the McCoy, Moe. We've taken a fancy to each other. Listen, this is a cinch. We'll take her back and her old man will be so pleased he won't sick the cops on to us. We'll be in the clear . . . the three of us. How's about it, pally? She and I will get married and we'll take care of you.”

  Moe looked at Zelda and he saw the way she was regarding Riff, then he looked at Chita and he realized that this was something she didn't go along with.

  Moe thought of Kramer. He cursed himself for ever suggesting the Cranes should come in on this job. There were three more days before Kramer could collect the final ransom. He now had Zelda and Riff against him. What was he to do with them? Chita might be on his side, but he knew he couldn't trust her. Then he had the Dermott girl in his hair too.

  It was while he was standing in the hot evening sunlight, trying to solve this problem that he saw a cloud of approaching dust: the unmistakable sign of an approaching car.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Tom Harper pulled up outside the five-barred gate that guarded the entrance to Wastelands.

  As he got out of the car to open the gate, he wiped his sweating face. It was a hot evening, but he realized he was sweating more than he usually did. He was aware too of the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach: a feeling of fear.

  He was unarmed, and he was about to drive up to this house which for the moment, he couldn't see and he was then going to ring on the front door bell. If his Chief was right, hidden in the house were dangerous hoods who had kidnapped one of the richest girls in the world. Unhappily, Harper thought, his Chief was invariably right. If these hoods got the slightest hint by some mistake he might make that he was a Federal Officer, they would kill him. Kidnappers had nothing to lose. The fact that they were kidnappers automatically put their lives in jeopardy. They wouldn't hesitate to kill him and then make a bolt for it.

  Harper opened the gate, got in his car and drove up the drive. He drove slowly and his alert eyes took in the scene. He grimaced. The place offered no cover. There were a few small sand dunes behind which a man could hide, but they were too far away from the house. He could see as he drove that any car approaching would create a telltale dust cloud.

  As he drove past the sand dimes, he saw the house. It was a quarter of a mile from him, set on a flat plane of sand, surrounded by green lawns and several outbuildings. He saw at once that there was no hope of approaching the house in daylight without being seen. He knew from the previous night that the moon shed a brilliant white light over the desert. It would be tricky and dangerous even to make the attempt at night.

  He whistled through his teeth, thinking that Dennison would have a job on his hands if he meant to rush the place.

  As he drew nearer to the house, he could see the long, deserted veranda. He noticed all the windows were closed. It looked as if no one was at home. Then he noticed a Lincoln

  car parked near the house. It was dusty and had California number plates. He memorized the number as he pulled up near the car.

  He felt instinctively that he was being watched. He got out of the car and stood for some moments regarding the house, then with casual strides and a thumping heart, he reached the veranda steps, mounted them and rang the front doorbell.

  As he waited, he thought ruefully that although Dennison was his future father-in-law, he certainly dreamed up some tough jobs for him.

  There was a long pause, then the door opened and Chita regarded him, her face expressionless, one eyebrow lifted. The sight of her gave Harper a jolt. Dennison had supplied him with the description of the girl who had been riding with Zelda Van Wylie just before Zelda's disappearance given to him by Patrol Officer Murphy. Harper recognized Chita at once from this description.

  So Dennison was right as usual, he thought. I've walked right into them.

  “Sorry to disturb,” he said with a wide, friendly smile, “but I was passing. Could I see Mr. Dermott for a moment?” He inclined his head slightly to one side. “You wouldn't be

  Mrs. Dermott?”

  “They're both out,” Chita said in a cold, flat voice.

  “Mr. Harris-Jones . . . in case you don't know he owns this place,” Harper said. “He is renting it to me in a couple of months. As I was passing, I wondered if I could look the house over. I'm not all that sure if it will be big enough for my requirements.”

  “I can't let you in, while they're out.”

  Harper widened his smile which was beginning to make his face ache.

  “I can see that. Well, then I'll get along. I shouldn't have bothered you, but . . .”

  “Yeah,” Chita said. “You told me: you happened to be passing,” and she shut the door in his face.

  Still aware that he was being watched, Harper walked to his car. The back of his neck felt prickly. He didn't hurry although he wanted to run. In spite of the fact that he kept wondering if he was going to get a bullet in his back, his eyes kept busy. There was a small cabin to his right, probably for the staff, to his left a double garage, then this expanse of lawn and another vast expanse of sand. It would be a hell of a place to approach without being seen.

  It wasn't until he was in his car and driving fast down the drive-in that he began to relax. He had the information that Dennison wanted and he had got away with his skin in one piece: how Dennison was going to tackle this place happily was Dennison’s headache.

  Once out of sight of the house, Harper pulled up and jotted down the number of the Lincoln. He then drove on fast to Pitt City. There he called Dennison.

  “You hit it right on the nose,” he told Dennison when he came on the line. “This girl who was driving with Miss Van Wylie came to the door. From the description, I'm certain it's the same girl.” He went on to describe the approach to the ranch house and gave Dennison careful details of the layout of the house.

  “Okay,” Dennison said. “Here's what you do now. Take Brody and Letts and go back there after dark. Get as close to the place as you can . . . you'll have to walk part of the way. Take a pair of field glasses with you. I want a twenty-four hour non-stop watch kept on the house. Go prepared. I don't have to tell you what you want. Get Franklin of Pitt City to fit you out. I want to know who is in the house. Understand,”

  “Yeah,” Harper said.

  “The one thing you have to take care about is that no one in the house has the slightest idea they are being watched. That's your responsibility. Take no risks. Good luck,” and Dennison hung up.

  * * *

  The reception clerk of the Mount Crescent Hotel, Los Angeles, smiled politely as Vic Dermott came up to the desk.

  “You have a reservation for me,” Vic said. “The name's Jack Howard.”

  “That's right, Mr. Howard. Room 25. You will be staying only the one night.”

  “Yes.” Vic was aware the clerk was staring curiously at his bruised face. “Just the one night.”

  He signed the register, handed his grip to the bellhop and followed him to the elevator.

  The time was twenty minutes to six. When the bellhop had finally finished fussing around the bleak little room and had gone, Vic sat on the bed and rested his aching face in his hands. His thoughts were of Carrie and Junior. He wondered fearfully what was happening to them.

  He had eight hundred thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills in his suitcase. He had had no trouble in cashing the first two cheques. Tomorrow, he would buy another suitcase, and then go to the Chase National Bank and cash the third cheque. Then he would leave Los Angeles and drive up the coast as directed. At eleven o'clock tonight, this fat gangster had said he would telephone.

  The nagging ache of his face and the nervous tension of the day exhausted him. He dropped back across the bed and closed his eyes. He hoped he would sleep for a while.

  * * *

  At the Rose Arms Hotel, San Francisco, Kramer poured himself a large whisky from the bottle standing on the dressing table, added water and tried to make himself comfortable in the armchair that was a shade too small for his bulk.<
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  He kept looking impatiently at his watch. The time now was five minutes to eleven. Had Dermott succeeded in picking up the first of the money? How were things going at Wastelands? Kramer drank some of the whisky. Maybe he had better ease off with this drinking, he thought. He had been drinking steadily since he had had the indifferent hotel dinner. His head felt hot and there was this goddam nagging pain in his side. He drank again, then set down the glass. He lit a cigar and then reached for the telephone. He asked the hotel operator to connect him with the Mount Crescent Hotel, Los Angeles. There was a slight delay, then he got the number.

  He recognized Dermott's voice.

  “You know who this is,” he said. “How did it go? Care how you talk. Did you run into any trouble?”

  “No,” Vic said.

  “You have the first consignment?”

  “Yes.”

  Kramer grinned. When it came to planning, he was still in there, beating the best of them!

  “Fine. Tomorrow you go to Santa Barbara, and then on to Salinas. I've booked a room for you at the Cambria Hotel under the same name. I'll call you this time tomorrow.”

  “I understand.” A slight pause, then Vic said anxiously, “I want to call my wife. May I do that?”

  “I shouldn't if I were you,” Kramer said heavily. “Not unless you want to annoy our friend. He doesn't like telephone calls,” and he hung up.

  He finished the whisky and refilled his glass. His heavy face was flushed and sweat beads made his thinning hair glisten in the hard overhead light.

  He was now eight hundred thousand dollars to the good, he told himself. In another three days, he would have four million dollars in cash! There was Moe and these two young punks to take care of, but even after their cut had been deducted, he would still have three and a half million dollars for himself. At his age, that was lasting money!