Believed Violent

by James Hadley Chase

  The fat little doctor sat on the edge of a chair, waving Nona to sit on the bed.

  “You are about to take part in a very delicate experiment,” he said as she sat down. “You are going to meet my patient after a period of some twenty-eight months.” Dr. Kuntz paused, looking at Nona who sat motionless, her pale face expressionless. “You must be completely natural with him. If by chance the sight of you puts him back on balance, it is possible he won’t remember being in the sanatorium . . . it is even possible that he will believe that today is twenty-eight months ago. Do you understand?”

  Nona nodded.

  “A lot depends on how you handle the situation. It is a big responsibility. Once you come face to face with him, you will have to talk and act according to his reactions. You mustn’t contradict anything he says. This is important. Since he has been in the sanatorium, he has acted like a zombie. If, by seeing you, you jolt his mind alive, you must be very careful how you behave. This is your responsibility. We will be listening to your conversation, but we can’t help you. Here is what you tell him . .

  The beady-eyed doctor talked on and on, his fat hands moving expressively as he talked while Nona, her chin in her hands, listened.

  The first tiny crack in the wall of security that Jonathan Lindsey had constructed to keep the Forrester operation secret came when Chief of Police Terrell parked outside his bungalow, ten minutes past midnight.

  He felt discouraged. So far there was no lead and Forrester had completely vanished. Troops, police and Federal Agents were even at this late hour still searching every likely hiding place in the city.

  Terrell had been at his desk for thirty-eight continuous hours. Beigler had relieved him, and now all he was thinking of as he got out of his car was his comfortable bed and sleep.

  He heard a horn tap . . . a single note, and pausing at his gate, he looked over his shoulder. A black Buick Wildcat was parked across the street. A man sat at the wheel, a cigarette glowing between his lips and as Terrell looked at him, the man waved.

  Terrell never carried a gun. He was Chief of Police and believed in his authority. He was completely fearless and walking slowly, without hesitation, he crossed to the car. He recognized the man behind the driving wheel. It was Shane O’Brien who Terrell knew ran the Go-Go Club on the Eastwide waterfront.

  Terrell came to rest by the car.

  “You wanted me?”

  “Evening, Chief,” O’Brien didn’t look at Terrell but stared through the windshield down the badly lit road, his eyes watchful. “Could we take a little ride? This street isn’t healthy for me.”

  Terrell knew immediately that O’Brien had information for him. He was surprised. Up to now, O’Brien had run his Club well, kept clear of the police and clear of trouble. He was the last man Terrell would expect to turn informer.

  Terrell got in beside O’Brien who set the car moving. He drove around the back streets, then slowed and pulled up by a vacant lot.

  “I read about Drena French,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “She wasn’t drunk. She didn’t fall into the wet. She was knocked off. I don’t know why, but I think I know who did it. I can’t prove it and I don’t want to prove it. I’m risking my neck and my Club talking this way, but I liked the girl.”

  Terrell sucked at his unlit pipe. He didn’t say anything. He waited.

  “A guy came to the Club the night before she kicked off,” O’Brien went on. “He said he wanted to talk to Drena. I know him. He’s dangerous. I warned Drena, but they talked together, then she came to me and asked if she could leave. This guy had a business proposition for her. He had already given her three-hundred bucks to get her interested. I told her to watch out. She left with him. The next night she was telling Tin-Tin she was going to buy The Seagull Restaurant. I think this guy must have offered her a big lump of money and double-crossed her. I think he was the one who knocked her off.”

  “Tell me about him,” Terrell said, no longer sleepy. He was sitting upright, looking at O’Brien’s lean profile.

  “His name is Chet Keegan,” O’Brien said. “He works with a guy called Lu Silk. They are deadly poison. I don’t know anything else about them. They always seem to have plenty of money . . . always well dressed. They’re not hooked up with the gangs around here. They work on their own, but they have a reputation of being dynamite.” He looked sharply at Terrell. This is a tip, Chief. This has to be strictly under the wraps. I’m tipping you because I liked the girl.”

  Terrell sighed.

  “Okay, O’Brien. Anything else?”

  “No.” O’Brien started the car. “I’ll take you home.”

  They drove in silence until they reached Terrell’s bungalow. Then O’Brien said, “I hope you nail those two bastards.”

  Terrell got out of the car.

  “So long,” he said and walked over to his car. O’Brien drove rapidly away. Terrell hesitated. He longed for his bed, but now there was work to do. He got in his car and lifted the telephone receiver that gave him direct contact with Beigler’s desk.

  Beigler said: “Sergeant’s desk . . . City Police.”

  “Listen, Joe,” Terrell said. “I want everything that you can dig up about two men: Chet Keegan and Lu Silk. This is top priority. I’m now going to bed. I’ll be at headquarters at eight o’clock. I want the dope right there on my desk.”

  “Nothing but names?” Beigler asked. “Nothing but names,” Terrell returned and hung up.

  Wearily he got out of the car, locked the doors, then plodded up the garden path to his front door. He saw with relief there was a light on in the sitting-room. Carrie was waiting up for him.

  At headquarters, Beigler replaced the telephone receiver, drank some coffee and lit a cigarette. While he was doing this, his brain was in top gear. There was one man he was sure could give him quick information about these two the Chief was interested in. A man named Carl Hegger who was Beigler’s own stool pigeon: a man who knew everything there was to know about the underworld.

  Beigler looked at Lepski who was reading the comic strips, yawning and mussing his hair and every now and then looking at his watch. In ten minutes he would be off duty and going back to his wife. Since he and Carroll had only been married for two months, the return to his marriage bed was something he looked forward to with relish.

  “Tom,” Beigler said, getting to his feet. “You’re promoted. Take over the desk. I have outside business,” and before Lepski could scream a protest, Beigler was gone.

  Beigler drove fast to Hegger’s apartment. Leaving the car, he took the shaky elevator to the third floor and rang the doorbell. As he waited, he looked at his strap watch. The time was twenty-five minutes to one.

  The door opened and Hegger stood in the doorway: a short, heavily built man, balding with a broad fleshy face and deepset black eyes. He was wearing a pair of bottle green pyjamas and his hair was mussed. He looked as if he had just got out of bed.

  “You alone?” Beigler asked, pushing his way into the small but tidy sitting-room.

  “Me and the cat,” Hegger said. “What a time to call! What’s up?”

  “Has the cat got two or four legs?” Beigler demanded, knowing Hegger’s weakness for blondes.

  Heger hesitated and then shrugged.

  “Okay . . . if it’s business, let’s go for a little ride.” He looked uneasily at his bedroom door. “I’ve just got this cat thawed out . . . she’s been an iceberg for weeks. Let’s hurry it up. She could freeze up again.”

  “I’ll wait down on the street,” Beigler said and left the apartment.

  Ten minutes later, he and Hegger were driving around the block. Beigler was asking questions.

  “Poison,” Hegger said when he heard the names. “Don’t kid yourself for one second . . . they are sheer poison. They have plenty of protection. I could give you a breakdown on them, but what’s it worth?”

  “I’ll spring twenty bucks,” Beigler said.

  Hegger sniggered.

  “Let me
out. I’ll walk back. The exercise will do me good.”

  Beigler pulled up. He turned and tapped Hegger on his fat chest.

  “I said twenty bucks.” His voice was cop hard. “If you don’t put up, buster, I’ll take you in right now. I’m not fooling. This is important. I’ll throw you to Olsen. Have you forgotten that you laid his daughter some months ago? He doesn’t know, but I could tell him.”

  Hegger flinched.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” he said feverishly. “She practically raped me!”

  “You tell Olsen that . . . he’ll love it.” Beigler took two ten dollar bills from his wallet. “Now talk.”

  Hegger took the money and stowed it away in his pocket.

  “These two are pros. They murder for money. Keegan was a pimp. Silk is the real dangerous one. They have an apartment on Belleview Avenue . . . No. 196, top floor. They’re working for someone who pays big money. There’s a whisper that the guy’s name is Jonathan Lindsey. I wouldn’t swear to it, but the whisper came from the right direction.”

  “Know anything about Jonathan Lindsey?” Beigler asked.

  Hegger shook his head.

  “Not a thing . . . I just heard the name mentioned.”

  “Keep going. What else?”

  “Nothing else. When I hear guys are poison, I keep my nose out of their business. I like to remain strong and healthy. That’s the lot, sergeant. Nothing else.”

  From past experience when dealing with Hegger, Beigler knew there was nothing more he could get out of him, but at least, he had a name: something to move the investigation forward.

  “Not much for my money,” he said as he drove Hegger back to his apartment.

  “Wait and see,” Hegger said with a sly grin. “I’ve never cheated you yet, have I?”

  As he got out of the car, Beigler said, “Mind that cat doesn’t scratch you.”

  “I like being scratched,” Hegger returned and crossed the sidewalk to his front door as fast as his short legs could carry him.

  Nona Jacey stood at the entrance to the L-shaped cave that was lit by four powerful electric lamps high in the roof. Dr. Kuntz and Lindsey stood by her side.

  “Go ahead, Miss Jacey,” Lindsey said. “Don’t be nervous. We are right here. Just do what you have been told, and don’t forget we are listening to what is being said.”

  Nona braced herself, then urged on by a slight push by Dr. Kuntz’s hot, fat hand, she walked into the cave.

  The size of the cave surprised her. It was the last of the series and seemed to her to be immense. At the far end of the cave, as she turned the corner, she could see a bed, a table, four upright chairs and a lounging chair. As she walked slowly forward, her shadow became long and thin, advancing before her.

  Paul Forrester was sitting in the lounging chair. She was frightened of this man who was sitting so still. She had heard the behind-the-hand gossip about him. There had been rumours that he had caught Jack Leadbeater, his Chief Assistant, in bed with that awful wife of his and had killed him savagely with a knife. The rumours also said that five men had been needed to subdue him as they came on him, battering down the bathroom door where his wife was cowering and screaming.

  Dr. Kuntz had explained Forrester’s condition to her. She knew she was approaching a man who could suddenly turn violent. Although she knew Dr. Kuntz and Lindsey were just out of sight, she wondered a little fearfully if they could reach her in time should Forrester attack her.

  Forrester sat in the full light. His long legs were crossed, his hands rested in his lap. His black hair now had a few streaks of white at the temples and his face was thinner, otherwise he still looked as she had last seen him when he left for Washington some twenty-nine months ago. He was a distinguished looking man in his late thirties with blunt features, heavy black eyebrows and a cleft chin: a man she had always admired for his patience, his kindness and his tremendous enthusiasm for work.

  She paused within ten feet of him and looked steadily at him, aware her heart was pounding.

  He peered at her. His face was expressionless; his eyes blank.

  “Dr. Forrester . . . it’s Nona,” she said.

  Again he peered at her. Then suddenly his eyes became alive.

  “Nona . . . is it really you?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled, then got to his feet.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I’m glad to see you . . . at last, a friendly face. I seem to be living in a nightmare.” He looked around. This cave . . . how did I get here? Do you know where we are?”

  Nona realized from what she had been told by Dr. Kuntz that the sight of her had put Forrester back on balance. She couldn’t quite believe it, but his sudden animation reduced her feeling of fear.

  “You have been seriously ill, Dr. Forrester,” she said unsteadily. She was saying that Kuntz had told her to say. “Air. Warren has moved us here. It is for security reasons.”

  “It’s a cave, isn’t it? How extraordinary,” Forrester said. “But sit down. Tell me about it, Nona. Warren has put us here?”

  Nona sat on the edge of one of the upright chairs. Forrester resumed his seat, looking curiously at her.

  “Yes,” Nona said. “Don’t you remember? You were taken ill. You ― you had a blackout. Mr. Warren wants you to continue to work on the formula. That’s why we are here.”

  Forrester frowned. He rubbed his forehead.

  “Formula . . . what formula?” he asked finally.

  “Formula ZCX,” Nona said, watching him.

  “Oh, that.” He regarded her, his eyebrows lifting. “Did you tell Warren about that?” There was a hint of reproach in his voice.

  “I had to . . . you have been seriously ill. You perhaps don’t understand. You’ve been ill for some time. They kept asking me questions . . . I had to tell them.”

  She knew this was not what Dr. Kuntz had told her to say, but he had given her a free hand. Both he and Lindsey had told her she must play the cards as they came to her.

  “So Warren knows about the formula.” Forrester’s face became suddenly remote. “He has it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then why should they worry me about it? If he has it, then let someone else handle it.”

  “But they can’t break the code, Dr. Forrester,” Nona said in a small voice.

  Forrester smiled.

  “No . . . I don’t suppose they can. You know, Nona, I’m not interested any more in formulas . . . ideas . . . codes . . . they bore me. I’m quite happy to remain as I am. Have you seen Thea recently? Has she inquired after me?”

  Listening to all this, Lindsey looked inquiringly at Dr. Kuntz who nodded. Leaning close to Lindsey, he whispered, “I believe it has worked. He is talking rationally . . . something he hasn’t done before. We will have to rebrief the girl. Shall I go in?”

  Lindsey hesitated, then nodded.

  “All right. I leave it to you.”

  Dr. Kuntz moved forward, turned the corner of the cave as Nona was saying, “I don’t know, Dr. Forrester. I haven’t seen her.”

  Forrester said, “Do you know where she is? I would . . .” He paused as he saw Dr. Kuntz coming towards him. His face immediately became a blank mask. It was as if a shutter had fallen behind his eyes.

  Dr. Kuntz forced a genial smile on his fat face.

  “You may remember me, Dr. Forrester. I am Dr. Kuntz. I have been looking after you. I am glad to see you are making such a splendid recovery.”

  The blank, cold eyes showed no sign of hearing what Kuntz was saying. Forrester was back in his zombie state.

  Kuntz signalled to Nona to leave. She got to her feet, looked at the still figure that had lost all animation, her heart pounding, then she walked unsteadily out of the cave.

  Lindsey had been watching all this. He smiled at her as she approached him.

  “A very good try, Miss Jacey,” he said. “You got through to him. Let’s go back to your room ― if I may call it that ― and we’ll discus
s the next move.”

  He walked with her along the dimly lit tunnel back to the small cave. He sat down and waved her to sit on the bed. He took a folded newspaper from his pocket, shook it open and handed it to her.

  “Did you see he did this?” he asked quietly. “He killed his nurse. I want you to tell him tomorrow what he has done and to show him this newspaper. It is important now for him to realize he has reached the point of no return. He must either work with us, Miss Jacey or he will go back to the sanatorium for good. We can get him out of the country in a little while. There could be a big future for him in Moscow. They treat men like Dr. Forrester very well.”

  Nona was scarcely listening. She was reading with horror of Fred Lewis’s murder. Then abruptly, he looked at Lindsey, her eyes flashing.

  “I don’t believe it! I’m sure Dr. Forrester . . .”

  Lindsey raised his hand, shaking his head at her.

  “It’s not what you believe, Miss Jacey, but what the police and public opinion believe that counts,” he said. “Now, listen carefully to what I have to say.”

  Captain Terrell breezed into his office just after eight a.m, He was a man who needed very little sleep. He had had six hours of dreamless rest, a big breakfast and he was raring to go. Not so Joe Beigler. As soon as he heard Terrell enter his office, he got wearily to his feet and left the Detectives’ room.

  Lepski who was still coping with the routine work, called after him: “Ask him if his bed was nice and comfy, Joe.” His voice was loaded with sarcasm. Beigler ignored him. He tapped on Terrell’s door, then entered the small office.

  Terrell regarded him sympathetically.

  “Had a rough night, Joe?” he asked, waving to a chair.

  “Rough enough, Chief. You want some coffee?”

  “Not right now. Sit down. What’s cooking?”

  Beigler lowered his bulk on to the hard upright chair. He told Terrell what he had learned from Carl Hegger.

  “That didn’t get me far, but a tip is a tip,” he went on. “I checked on this guy Hegger mentioned: Jonathan Lindsey. I couldn’t find him in the telephone book so I called the big hotels. I found him at the Belevedere. He was occupying the most expensive suite in the hotel until yesterday morning. The suite is on a yearly rental to a guy called Herman Radnitz. He’s away and Lindsey is expected back any time.”