1963 - One Bright Summer Morning

by James Hadley Chase

  He felt a sudden need to talk to Helene. He hesitated for some moments before he put the call through. There could be no danger, he assured himself. Why should there be? He gave his home number to the operator and replaced the receiver. He grinned to himself. Helene would be worrying herself stiff, he thought. Maybe now was the time to tell her about Solly Lucas. She would have to know sooner or later. If she started asking too many questions, he would always hang up on her, but she had better be warned: no use jumping the whole thing on her at once.

  The telephone bell rang and he picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?” Helene said. Her voice sounded far away and tense. “Who's that?”

  “This is your lover,” Kramer said and laughed. He was feeling fine and a little drunk.

  “Oh, Jim! What's happening. Where are you?”

  Joe Seesbruger, one of Dennison's men, who had tapped in on Kramer's line, gently pressed down the start button of the tape recorder connected to the line.

  “How are you, honey?” Kramer was saying. “Are you lonely without me?”

  “Jim! Two Federal Officers have been here! They were asking for you!”

  Kramer felt as if someone had punched him violently under the heart.

  Seesbruger was signalling to the telephone engineer.

  “Trace this call fast,” he whispered.

  “What?” Kramer was saying. “What did they want?”

  “They wanted to talk to you. Oh, Jim, I'm so worried! They know Moe has been here! This man, Inspector Dennison . . .”

  Kramer nearly dropped the receiver.

  “Dennison!”

  “Yes. He said Moe hasn't a restaurant. He said Moe hadn't a dime to call his own. He - he said he hoped for your sake you weren't planning anything bad. Oh, Jim! You're not, are you?”

  Kramer was scarcely listening. He wished now he hadn't had so much to drink. He couldn't think clearly. Dennison! One of the smartest Feds in the business and an old enemy of his! Dennison was a man he dare not underestimate!

  “I'll call you back,” he said hurriedly. “There's nothing to worry about. I've got to go now. Don't worry,” and he hung up.

  The telephone engineer said, “That's a call from the Rose Arms Hotel, Frisco.”

  Seesbruger grabbed the telephone and asked to be put through to the Federal Bureau, San Francisco.

  Kramer was on his feet. What a mad fool he had been to have called Helene! They had seen him with Moe and they had rightly decided he was planning something. He had been stupid enough to have imagined he could lose them, but with Dennison on the job, he hadn't lost them 1

  Dennison would have tapped his home telephone line! By now they would know he was at this hotel! In a few minutes, they would be here! He was already struggling into his lightweight dust coat. His suitcase only contained a change and his toilet things. To hell with it! He wouldn't have time to settle his check before the Feds arrived. He had to get out fast!

  Eleven minutes later, two Federal Officers hurried into the Rose Arms Hotel. They flashed their badges and showed the startled reception clerk Kramer's photograph.

  “Seen this man?” one of them asked.

  “Why, sure,” the clerk said. “That's Mr. Mason. He went out only two minutes ago.”

  The two Federal Officers exchanged exasperated glances.

  The taller of the two, Bob Arlan, said, “Did Mr. Mason make any telephone calls this evening?”

  “I wouldn't know,” the clerk said, “but I can easily find out.” He started towards a door that led to the switchboard.

  Arlan followed him.

  The telephone operator, large-eyed to be questioned by a Federal Officer, gave Arlan the information he needed.

  Dennison was about to go home when Arlan called him.

  “Kramer just beat us to it,” Arlan reported. “He had one other call besides the call to his home. Around eleven, he talked to someone staying at the Mount Crescent Hotel, Los Angeles.”

  “Okay,” Dennison said. “Forget Kramer now. I'm not ready to pick him up.” He cut the connection and then got on to Seesbruger. “Stay where you are. I want details of every call put through to Mrs. Kramer.”

  Seesbruger said wearily he would stay right on the job.

  Dennison looked at his watch. The time was ten minutes after midnight. He called home and warned his wife he would be late, then he went down to where he had parked his car and headed fast towards Los Angeles.

  * * *

  They were all in Carrie's bedroom which was unbearably hot because Moe had shut the windows when he had seen Harper approaching.

  Carrie stood near the cot. Happily, Junior, overcome by the heat, was asleep. Zelda and Riff stood by the window, concealed by the net curtains. Moe, gun in hand, was in a position where he could see out of the window and yet watch the other three in the room.

  They watched Harper get in his car and drive away. The door had been left ajar and they had all listened to the conversation between Chita and Harper. Now, Chita came back into the room.

  “Okay,” Moe said, relaxing a little. “Just one of those things. Get those windows open.”

  Riff pushed open the windows and let in the light evening breeze.

  Moe said, “Listen you two. I don't give a damn what you all do after we've got the ransom. You can marry this girl or her grandmother for all I care, but you're not leaving here until Kramer comes back with the ransom. I've handled punks like you most of my life. If you think you can do something about it, try, but I warn you the next time you try to start something, I'm shooting first and crying over you after. That understood?”

  Riff eyed him. He was seething with fury, but the way Moe had produced the gun as if by magic had chilled him. He knew he hadn't the equipment to go up against a man who could draw a gun that fast. He had no guts for a showdown with Moe.

  “You're crazy in the head!” he snarled. “Can't you see this lets us out? We take her back and we're in the clear. We take the ransom and we're in trouble. Can't you see that, you stupid Wop?”

  “No one's getting into trouble,” Moe said quietly. “It's all been worked out. You two . . .” he waved his gun at the Cranes, “keep out of here. From now on, you're going to live in the cabin over there. She . . .” he waved his gun at Zelda, “is staying right here. If either of you come within fifty yards of the house, you'll get a bullet. I won't kill you, but you'll get a broken leg. Got it?”

  Riff grinned evilly at him.

  “And what are you going to do, Wop?” he sneered. “Keep awake for three nights?”

  The room shook with the bang of the gun. The vicious yellow flame that lit the shadows like a photographer's flash gun made Zelda scream.

  Riff staggered back. His hand went to his ear. Blood showed on his fingers. Blood began to run down the side of his neck. Riff stared at his bloodstained fingers as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

  Moe watched him. A faint wisp of smoke drifted from the gun barrel.

  “I can shoot, Riff,” he said softly. “Now get the hell out of here and stay out! You too!” to Chita.

  Shocked and bleeding, Riff went out of the room. He was now holding a dirty handkerchief to his ear. The bullet had flicked off the lobe of his ear with the precision of a surgeon's knife.

  As Chita followed him, Junior began to cry. Zelda had flung herself face down on the bed, sobbing and pounding the bed with her clenched fists. Carrie, white-faced from the shock of the exploding gun, picked Junior out of his cot.

  Moe stood by the open window and watched Riff and Chita cross the expanse of green lawn until they reached the cabin and went inside, then he turned and looked at Carrie.

  “You've got to watch this girl,” he said gently. “Don't let her out of your sight. I'll watch the other two. They're bad. If you and your bambino want to get out of this alive, you'll have to work with me. We have three days before the ransom arrives.” He paused, then said, “Are you going to be on my side?”

  Carrie hesitated. So
far this fat, swarthy Italian had behaved like a human being, she reasoned. The Cranes and this stupid girl were people she couldn't possibly trust. She realized she couldn't remain neutral in this nightmare affair. She had to take sides and there was no choice. She nodded slowly.

  “Yes,” she said. “I'll be on your side.”

  Moe visibly relaxed. He put his gun away. He stared at Junior who was still crying and Moe smiled.

  “My brother had ten children,” he said. “He was killed in the war. I looked after his kids. I'm good with babies. Could I have him?”

  Carrie felt a cold shiver run down her spine. She began to refuse but there was this odd, kindly look in Moe's eyes that stopped her.

  “He - he doesn't like strangers,” she said. “Perhaps you . . .”

  But Moe reached out and reluctantly she let him take the baby. The gangster and the baby stared at each other. Then Junior suddenly stopped bawling and screwed up his face as he continued to peer at Moe. Moe blew out his fat cheeks. He made a soft whistling noise, stopped, started the noise again and then grinned widely. Junior considered this, decided it was pretty funny and began to laugh.

  Realizing no one was paying any attention to her hysterics, Zelda stopped crying and turned over. She glared at Moe and Carrie who continued to pay no attention to her.

  “I like babies,” Moe said. “They like me.” He put Junior back into Carrie's arms and walked to the door. “You and me and the bambino together, huh? You watch her. If she gets troublesome, call me. I'll slap her.”

  He went out on to the verandah and sat down. From where he sat he could see the cabin and he could watch the windows that led out on to the veranda. He felt very uneasy. He was pretty sure he could trust Carrie, but the Cranes were like snakes. He couldn't remain awake for three nights. Riff had put his finger right on the weak spot of Moe's plans. He could only hope that Kramer would telephone and he could alert him to what was happening. Maybe Kramer would send someone or come himself. He looked across at the cabin. The shutters were closed. The door too was closed. He wondered what the Cranes were doing in there.

  In the cabin, Riff was bent over the toilet basin, sopping cold water on his ear and cursing. The experience of being shot at had unnerved him.

  Chita lolled in an armchair in the small sitting room.

  From where she sat she could watch her brother. She made no effort to help him.

  “Can't you do something?” Riff snarled as the blood continued to drip into the basin. “Don't just sit there! Can't you stop this bleeding?”

  Chita didn't say anything. For the first time in her life she had no desire to help her brother. That he should have even contemplated marrying this rich little bitch had raised such a hatred and jealousy in her that she felt that the binding link that had always held them together had been severed with the force of an executioner's axe.

  She knew Riff as she knew herself. She knew that when he had said he was going to marry Zelda that this was no cynical lie: he really meant to marry the girl. Already, he was planning how he would live on her money, how he was going to quit the rut of their tough, drab lives that Chita so much enjoyed. How he was going to wallow in the softness of riches. Chita knew that sooner or later he would drop her. He wouldn't want her continually tagging along.

  She would be in the way. He would give her money . . . she was sure he would do that, but he would want to be rid of her to absorb himself into the soft, futile, aimless life of the rich that would sap the guts out of him and he would become just another of the hundreds of playboys Chita had bedded with: spineless, gutless and useless.

  Still cursing, Riff went into the bedroom, tore a strip off one of the sheets, made a pad and fixed it to his ear. He tied another strip of sheet around his head and finally stopped the flow of blood.

  By the time he had finished, it was growing dark. He came into the sitting room, his leather jacket bloodstained, his face pale, his eyes vicious with fury.

  “What's eating you?” he snarled. “Couldn't you have helped me?”

  Chita said nothing. She stared down at her long, slender legs, her face expressionless.

  “That Wop!” Riff exploded. “Who'd have imagined he could shoot like that! He could have killed me!”

  He might just as well be talking to himself for all the notice Chita took of him.

  He stared at her for a long moment, feeling uneasy. She had never behaved this way to him before. Then because his pride wouldn't allow him to persuade her to talk to him, he went over to the window. He peered through the slits in the shutter. He could see Moe sitting on the veranda. If he had a gun, he could have picked Moe off. The range was nothing. From where he was standing, he couldn't have missed Moe. Then suddenly he remembered the mystery of the missing gun. He had put Dermott's gun in the hip pocket of his trousers. When he had gone to fetch the gun . . . it had gone! Someone must have taken it! It wasn't Moe because Moe hadn't been in the ranch house at the time the gun disappeared. So it had to be one of the three women who had taken it.

  He turned and stared suspiciously at Chita who was lighting a cigarette.

  “Did you take my gun?” he demanded.

  She looked indifferently at him, her eyes cold and hostile.

  “Gun? What gun?”

  Well, at least she was now talking to him, Riff thought.

  “Dermott's gun!” he snarled. “I had it in my pants pocket. It's gone!”

  “What do you expect if you're in such a hurry to throw off your pants?” Chita said with a sneer.

  “Did you take it?” Riff shouted, his face darkening with fury.

  “Why should I take it?” Chita got to her feet. “I'm hungry.” She started to cross the sitting room towards the tiny kitchen.

  Riff grabbed her arm.

  “Did you take it?” he yelled.

  She threw his hand off with a strength that always surprised him.

  “Keep your paws off me! I haven't got it! I don't care who's got it!”

  She went into the kitchen and he heard her open the door of the refrigerator.

  He went back to the window, cursing and worried. He continued to stare through the shutter at Moe.

  * * *

  It was a little after one o'clock in the morning when Dennison walked into the reception lobby of the Mount Crescent Hotel, Los Angeles.

  The day clerk was about to go home. Dennison was lucky. Usually, the day clerk left much earlier than this, but it so happened his girlfriend had stood him up and because he didn't want to return alone to his dismal bedsitter, he had hung around the hotel talking to the night clerk.

  Dennison identified himself, then he asked about the new arrivals at the hotel. The clerk showed him the register. After some talk, Dennison said, “and this guy, Jack Howard . . . remember him?”

  “Why, sure,” the clerk said. “He's tall, dark and well-dressed. He has a bad bruise on the left side of his face . . . a hell of a bruise.”

  Dennison grunted.

  “Let me have a passkey,” he said. “He's the guy I want to talk to.”

  The clerk hesitated, then went around the counter, took a key off a hook and handed it to Dennison.

  “We don't want any trouble here, Inspector,” he said without much hope. “You'll know that.”

  “Sure, sure,” Dennison said. “Who wants trouble?”

  Vic had been unable to sleep. He lay in the darkness, thinking of Carrie. He had been lying, worrying for the past two hours. He kept trying to assure himself that so long as he carried out his part of the bargain. Carrie and Junior would be safe, but he couldn't get the image of the Cranes out of his mind. Those two really scared him. They were capable of anything. Suddenly, he heard a faint sound that brought him alert, his heart thumping.

  Dennison had gently pushed the door key out of the lock.

  The key fell to the floor. He then inserted the passkey, turned it and opened the door. As he did so, Vic snapped on the light.

  The two men looked at each othe
r. Dennison came in and shut the door.

  “Inspector Dennison,” he said. “Federal Bureau. You're Mr. Victor Dermott, I believe?”

  Vic hesitated, then he said, “That's my name.” He sat up in bed. “Just what is all this? Why have you . . .?”

  “It's all right, Mr. Dermott,” Dennison said with his fatherly smile he kept for special occasions. “I'm here to help you. We know what's going on.” He sat on the bed. “We know the spot you're in. Now look, let's cooperate. We want to catch these thugs, but at the same time, we don't want to cause any trouble for Mrs. Dermott and your baby. I give you my word we won't make any move until the ransom is paid and Mrs. Dermott is freed. Maybe it will give you some assurance to know I have three of my men watching Wastelands right now. If anything bad should start, they'll be within reach where they will help your wife.”

  Vic felt cold, and there was a sick fear growing in him.

  “Why couldn't you have kept out of this?” he said angrily. “What's four million dollars to a man like Van Wylie? These devils are deadly! They won't hesitate to kill everyone in the house! They've already murdered my servant. They . . .”

  “Just a moment,” Dennison broke in sharply. “You said they've killed your servant?”

  Vic pulled himself together.

  “I'm not absolutely sure, but there was blood in the cabin where my servant sleeps. He's disappeared.”

  “They could have hit him hard the way you were hit,” Dennison said soothingly. “Now look, Mr. Dermott, try to relax. I would feel the same way if I were in your position, but you mustn't get too excited. No one knows you and I are meeting. Right now, all I want from you is information. I want a description of these people. I give you my word we won't make a move until your wife and baby are safe. We won't even make a move without your approval.”

  Vic lay back. His face still ached. He remembered Kramer's warning.

  “I can't tell you a thing,” he said. “I'm not interested in anything except keeping my wife and baby safe.”