Believed Violent

by James Hadley Chase

  For the past five days, Olsen had been sitting by the bed in which Alec Sherman, star reporter of the Paradise Herald had been lying. The Paradise Herald had screamed its head off at the inefficiency of the police to allow any citizen ― especially their star reporter ― to have been so savagely beaten-up. Every day, they had nagged and nagged in their columns, demanding action. Under pressure, Terrell had planted Olsen by the unconscious man’s bed to satisfy the newspaper that the moment Sherman could talk, action would be taken.

  Seeing Lepski come striding across the lobby, Olsen sighed regretfully.

  “Later, babe,” he said to the nurse. “Here comes trouble. You and me will go somewhere, do something, some time soon.”

  The girl looked at Lepski as he approached and she gave him a sexy smile. Lepski ignored her. All he was thinking about was a two column picture of himself on the front page of the Herald.

  “Is he talking?” he asked, grabbing Olsen’s arm.

  “He’s come to the surface,” Olsen told him. “I didn’t want to spoil it for you. Doc says only five minutes . . . no more. The poor bastard is in a bad way.”

  Lepski patted his shoulder.

  “You did right. You get back to that nurse. You leave this to me,” and he took the elevator to the fourth floor.

  Lepski knew Alec Sherman. He made it his business to know all the newspaper reporters in the City. When he entered the small room, he was shocked to see the bandaged wreck that lay in the bed. Most of Sherman’s face was concealed by bandages. One eye peered out of the mask of white lint and Lepski felt a surge of angry indignation run through him.

  “Hello, pal,” he said quietly and drew up a chair. “The doc says you can only talk for five minutes . . . don’t let’s waste time. Did you see who did it?”

  “No . . . I got in my car and got hit on the head,” Sherman said, speaking with difficulty. His broken jaw was wired and every movement, when trying to speak, hurt him. “Look, Tom, I’m worried sick. I haven’t heard from Nona . . . she’s my girl. Will you check on her? The nurse tells me she hasn’t been here nor even telephoned. She must have heard what happened to me. For God’s sake, Tom . . . please check on her.”

  Lepski contained his impatience with an effort. He didn’t want to be bothered with Sherman’s girl . . . what he was after was a story that would put him on the front page of the Herald.

  “Sure, sure . . . I’ll check on her. Now, tell me . . . you never even saw who hit you?”

  Sherman’s visible eye closed. He lay still for a long moment, then making the effort, he said, “I saw nothing. Tom . . . please. Her name is Nona Jacey. She lives at 1890, Lexington Road. She works at the Rocket Research Station. Will you please find out why she hasn’t been asking after me?”

  Lepski stiffened. For a moment he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “The Rocket Research Station?” he repeated, awe in his voice.

  “That’s right. She was Paul Forrester’s assistant a couple of years back. I’m worried about her. We are going to be married.” Sherman was breathing heavily. The effort of talking was making him sweat.

  Lepski was already on his feet. His eyes alight with excitement.

  “1890, Lexington Road . . . right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take it easy . . . I’m on my way. I’ll let you know what’s happening,” and Lepski rushed out of the room.

  Paul Forrester’s assistant! he thought as he took the elevator down to the ground floor. Could he have stumbled on something? As the doors of the elevator swished open, he started across the lobby. Olsen was still talking to the nurse. Lepski swept past him, rushing down the steps to his car.

  Olsen stared after him.

  “Now that’s a fink who can’t take it easy,” he said, smiling at the nurse. “But I’m a guy with a big talent.”

  She giggled.

  “The bigger the better.” She gave him a long, inviting stare, then went on, “I must get back to work. Tonight?”

  Olsen grinned happily.

  “I’m signing off at eight. You and me will go places and I’ll show you something that’ll surprise you.”

  “I can imagine.” She turned and hip-swished her way along the corridor.

  Lepski pulled up outside 1890, Lexington Road. He got out of his car and hurried up the steps. He entered the lobby, examined the mail boxes, saw that Nona Jacey had an apartment on the third floor. He checked his watch. The time was twenty minutes to one p.m. The girl wouldn’t be in her apartment. If she was anywhere she would be at work. He looked around, saw the notice with the arrow, pointing to Mrs. Watson’s apartment. He crossed the lobby and rang the bell. There was a delay, then the door opened and Mrs. Watson regarded him with her cold hostility.

  “What is it?” she demanded.

  In his time, Lepski had interviewed hundreds of landladies. He knew just how to handle them. This old bag, he told himself, had to be handled carefully. He lifted his hat, then produced his badge.

  “Police, madam,” he said. “I think you can help me.”

  Mrs. Watson examined the badge, then she scowled at Lepski.

  “I’ve no trouble here, mister,” she said and began to close the door.

  “It’s not trouble, madam,” Lepski said. “I’m looking for Miss Jacey.”

  Mrs. Watson’s face turned sour.

  “That little thief! She left a week ago! Good riddance!”

  Lepski leaned his frame against the door post making it impossible for Mrs. Watson to close the door.

  “Thief? I didn’t know. What makes you say that?”

  “You, the police, and don’t know?” Mrs. Watson’s tone was scathing.

  “If I kept tabs on everyone in this city, madam, I’d never do any work,” Lepski said. “What happened?”

  Mrs. Watson told him with relish. Lepski listened.

  “Her cousin from Texas came four days ago and took her things . . . good riddance,” Mrs. Watson concluded.

  “Her cousin?”

  “That’s right . . . a chit of a girl. She said she was taking Jacey back with her to Texas.”

  “Did she give her name?”

  Mrs. Watson screwed up her face as she thought.

  “Sheila Mason,” she said finally. “Yes . . . Sheila Mason.”

  “Did she give an address?”

  “No . . . why should I want her address?”

  “Can you give me a description of her?” Lepski asked, taking out his notebook.

  “She was blonde . . . blues eyes . . . a chit . . . no better than she should be. Those mini-skirts. If I had a daughter who dared to wear one of those skirts I’d fill her bottom with shoe leather!” Mrs. Watson declared, folding her arms and looking righteous.

  Lepski, a great fan of mini-skirts, grunted.

  “Age?”

  “I don’t know . . . twenty-three . . . twenty-four . . .”

  Lepski asked further questions, then satisfied that he had all the information he would get from the woman, he raised his hat and went back to his car. He drove to the nearest drugstore and telephoned the State Hospital. After some delay, he got through to Detective Olsen.

  “Listen, hunk-head,” Lepski said once he had Olsen on the line, “ask Sherman if he knows anything about Nona Jacey’s cousin from Texas. Her name’s Sheila Mason. You listening?”

  He could hear Olsen’s laboured breathing over the line. Olsen said he was listening.

  “You haven’t got your hand up that nurse’s skirt?” Lepski demanded suspiciously.

  “What are you talking about?” Olsen said indignantly. “She’s nowhere near me!”

  “Your bad luck . . . now, listen . . . go up to Sherman and ask him . . . Nona Jacey’s cousin . . . what does he know about her.”

  Lepski had to repeat the names three times before he was sure Olsen had got them right, then Olsen told him to hold on.

  Lepski smoked three cigarettes and was half out of his mind with impatience before Olsen came back
on the line.

  “Sherman says this Nona dame hasn’t a cousin . . . she hasn’t any relations. You stringing me or something?”

  “You’re sure he said that?” Lepski demanded.

  “That’s what the guy said . . . no cousin . . . no relations. I guess she’s lucky.”

  Lepski hung up. He went back to his car and drove fast to the Court House. It took him a good half hour to get all the details of Nona’s arrest, her trial and her sentence. By now he had been out of touch with headquarters for two hours. He knew Beigler would be wondering what he was doing. Reluctantly, he went to a phone booth and called headquarters.

  “Listen, Joe,” he said when Beigler came on the line. “I’m on to something big. I want a couple of hours and then I’ll stand the Chief on both his ears!”

  “You come right back!” Beigler growled. “I’ve no one here and I’ve got a flock of work lined up for you. You come back here . . . hear me?”

  “No,” Lepski said recklessly. “I’ve bust my ear-drum,” and he hung up.

  Twenty minutes later, he pulled up outside the Women’s House of Correction. He had roared along the highway at ninety-five miles an hour, his siren wailing and he was sweating slightly as he got out of the car. He had had two horribly close escapes from a smash-up which had shaken him.

  He knew the gate-man of the prison who in the past had pounded a beat with him. He talked to him. He was lucky that the bus that took released prisoners to the city was parked nearby and he talked to the bus driver. He heard about Lu-Lu Dodge. He got her address from the prison records. He drove back to the city, again at a break-neck speed. He found Lu-Lu Dodge after an hour’s exasperating search. She was in a downtown bar, hopefully looking around for trade. He talked to her. She not only gave him an accurate description of the two men who had taken Nona Jacey away, but she also found in her bag, scribbled on the back of an old bill, the number of the car.

  He got back to headquarters a little after four o’clock to find Beigler coping with the routine work with the aid of three rookie patrolmen he had called off their beats.

  “All right . . . all right,” Lepski said, rushing into the Detectives’ room. “I know . . . you don’t have to tell me. Boy! Have I something! Where’s the Chief?”

  Beigler clenched his massive fists.

  “You’re on your way out, Lepski,” he snarled. “I’ve reported you. If you’re not busted right off the Force, I’ll . . .”

  “Don’t say it,” Lepski said. “You’ll regret it. Where’s the Chief?”

  Beigler pointed to Captain Terrell’s door.

  “It might surprise you to hear that the Chief is asking for you,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “Go in there and get busted!”

  Lepski grinned.

  “You wait . . . Sherlock Lepski is really behind the whole doonooant!”

  “Denouement . . . hunk-head!” Beigler snarled. “Get in there!”

  The rented beach bungalow in which Thea Forrester lived had two bedrooms and a large living-room. It was set in a protective screen of palm trees and flowering shrubs. It was a love nest typical of those that abound along the shore of the west side of Paradise City. Each bungalow had access to the beach and the sea and no one could look to see what went on or was able to lift a disapproving eyebrow.

  Since Paul Forrester had been locked away, and once over her terror of her near murder, Thea had decided to remain in Paradise City. She had many friends in the City. She had a reasonable pension from the U.S. Government, and there were many men around who were more than willing to supplement this income for favours received.

  Thea was a slut. She could never understand how she had come to marry Forrester, but she had. Perhaps she had thought he would eventually become the top scientist and would make a fortune. She was the first to admit that money was the most important thing in her life. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for money. She knew men thirsted for her kind of beauty. This was merchandise she knew well how to sell. She was sensationally beautiful, and she spent hours grooming herself, visiting the best hairdresser in the City every day, taking Sauna baths, exercising, swimming and sun bathing . . . devoting most of her time to the perfection of her thirty-year-old body.

  She was slightly above average height. Her hair, sable tinted, made a perfect contrast to her large, emerald green eyes. Her features were perfect: her body a sculptor’s dream. She knew exactly the right clothes to wear. She was never brash: never thought of wearing a mini-skirt. The smouldering sexual invitation that glowed in her green eyes was much more exciting to men than any show of knees and thighs.

  She had said often enough to her girl-friends when they had asked her advice whether to go mini-skirt or not: “Well, honey, if you think they like to see all that fat . . . that expanse of flesh from the top of your stockings to your pants . . . the sight of your hams if you sit in a too low chair . . . your fanny if you bend to pick something up . . . if you really think men ― I’m not talking about randy boys ― find that attractive, then go ahead. From the knee to the ankle is the really sexy thing. From your knees to your arse is just woman’s fat.”

  Her friends had listened, grimaced and went out and bought mini-skirts. There were times, they decided, that Thea was square.

  Detective 3rd Grade Max Jacoby arrived at the beach cabin soon after 11.15 a.m. With him he had Dick Harper and Phil Bates: two young detectives who had just changed out of uniform into plain clothes. Jacoby got out of the car.

  “Take a look around. You’ll be here, out of sight, for the next seven hours.” He had already instilled into them the importance of the assignment. “If Forrester shows up, take care of him. Watch it! This guy’s V.I.P. He could be violent. He even could be armed. You’ve got to smother him . . . understand? He’s not to be hurt. You’ve got to remember he is a nut.”

  Harper, the taller of the two detectives, said, “We’ve got it. Come on, Phil,” and they moved away across the sand to a nearby clump of shrubs.

  Jacoby went to the front door and pressed the bell. He waited several minutes before the door opened. He caught his breath sharply, as most men did at the first sight of Thea Forrester. She was wearing a pink wrap which she held close to her curves. The colour set off her hair. She regarded Jacoby; her eyes running over his athletic body, and then she smiled. Her teeth were dazzlingly white. Her hip was slightly cocked against the door post. Her slim fingers let the wrap slip a little to reveal the golden curve of a breast.

  Jacoby was a dedicated cop. He got back on balance quickly. He showed his badge.

  “Excuse me, madam, I’ve come from headquarters. I’ve been instructed to guard your bungalow.”

  Thea’s smile faded. The green eyes hardened. She lifted an eyebrow. “Police? Guard? What do you mean?”

  “The news hasn’t broken yet,” Jacoby said quietly. “Dr. Forrester has escaped from the sanatorium.”

  He was shocked to see the abrupt change in this glamorous looking woman. She seemed to shrivel; her green eyes went dull. Blood drained from behind the tan, leaving her skin blotchy and mottled.

  “Paul?” Her voice was suddenly husky. “He ― he’s escaped?”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, madam,” Jacoby said. “You will have constant guards. I—”

  “Oh, shut up!” She looked beyond him at the lonely expanse of sand and sea. “Come in!” She turned and led the way into the big lounge.

  Jacoby followed her and stood in the doorway of the lounge, looking around at the confusion that reigned in the room. It was obvious there had been a drinking party the previous evening. Empty glasses and bottles, ashtrays spilling over with butts and ash, a pink bra hanging over a chair back, playing cards scattered on the carpet and the stale smell of drink and sweat made up the picture.

  Although Thea was immaculate in herself, she lived like the slut she was, not caring how her home looked. She had a Negro woman who came in in the afternoons to clean up and this woman soon realized that Thea had no standards a
nd worked accordingly.

  “How did he get out?” Thea demanded, swinging around and glaring at Jacoby.

  “I don’t know,” Jacoby said, having been warned by Beigler to give away no information. “But he’s out.”

  “Can’t anyone do right?” Thea’s voice was shrill. She was now slowly recovering from the shock, and the colour was back in her face. “They had him . . . why the hell couldn’t they have kept him? He’s dangerous! He’s mad! Why haven’t they caught up with him?”

  “We are searching for him, madam,” Jacoby said. “We’ll find him, but Captain Terrell thought, as long as he is free, you should be guarded.”

  Thea walked slowly around the lounge while she thought. She snatched up the pink bra and pushed it under a chair cushion.

  “What happens if he comes here?” she asked, pausing to look at Jacoby.

  “He will be caught. You will be guarded night and day. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “But how could he know I am here?”

  “Captain Terrell thought we shouldn’t take any chances.” Thea made an impatient movement.

  “So I’m to have two snoopers watching me?” She suddenly realized what this could mean and her eyes flashed angrily.

  “They won’t interfere with your privacy, madam,” Jacoby assured her. “They are only here to guard you.”

  “God!” Thea struck her hands together with exasperation. She had now recovered from her fright and was furious. “Well, get on with it. Leave me alone!”

  “Could I look over the bungalow, madam?” Jacoby asked. “I would like to check the windows and the doors.”

  “Not now . . . later,” Thea said. “For heaven’s sake, get out!”

  “Very well, madam,” Jacoby said, slightly startled, and he left the bungalow.

  Thea moved to the window and watched him through the grubby nylon curtains. She saw him walk off across the sand towards a clump of shrubs. Turning, she went quickly into the bedroom.

  She found Bruce Adkin sitting on the edge of the double bed, struggling into a shortie dressing-gown. His tanned handsome face with its thin straight nose, its pencil-lined moustache and its thin sensual mouth wore an expression of alarm.