You Never Know With Women

by James Hadley Chase

  “You’re a swell guy, Mick. I don’t know what I’d’ve done without you. I’ll square accounts if I ever get out of this jam.”

  He laughed.

  “You’ll get out of it all right. They won’t spot you. Don’t worry. It’s a cinch now. I’ll be back in a while.”

  The moon was getting up above Ocean Rise when we left the hide-out and walked along an alley that led from the back of the gambling joint to a dirt road. It was a hot night, and the stars were like points of steel through blue velvet.

  I carried Veda’s bags and Mick brought mine. The Road-master Buick looked as big as a house as we came upon it. It wasn’t a new job, but we didn’t want anything too showy.

  “You’ve got food and drink in the back,” Mick told me as he stowed the bags in the boot. “This job was built in Chicago, where they know how to build a car. There’s a couple of panels you might like to know about. One’s under the driving-seat and contains a .45. I’ve cleaned and oiled her and she’s loaded. There’s another panel under the dashboard. There’s a Sten gun in there with ammunition, and two hand grenades that might come in useful.”

  “For Pete’s sake,” I exclaimed, “what do you think this is? The beginning of another war?”

  “It might be — for you,” he said grimly. “Don’t let them catch you, Floyd.”

  “Okay, Mick, and thanks again.”

  We shook hands.

  “Keep your eye on him,” Mick said to Veda. “He’s a good guy. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

  “I’ve found that out for myself,” Veda said, “and you’re a good guy too.”

  I engaged gear. Before we all burst into tears, I moved the Buick slowly on its way.

  Mick jumped on the running-board.

  “There’s a barricade across the bottom of the Main Street as you go out and another at Pasadena. Watch out — and luck.”

  He dropped off as I trod on the gas and sent the big car leaping forward along the dirt road.

  “Well, we’ve started,” I said. “I’ll be a lot happier when I’ve crossed the border.

  “If we’re questioned, you’re my brother John,” Veda said. “You better let me do the talking. I’ll sex them into letting us through.”

  “You’ve got a nerve, kid. Aren’t you scared?”

  “A little; not much. I’m trying to get a kick out of this, I can’t really believe it’s happening to us.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “every now and then it sneaks up on me, then I get the shakes.”

  I swung the car off the dirt road on to Main street, and drove along at a steady thirty miles an hour. I could feel an atmosphere of suppressed excitement as we passed through the town. There were groups of men outside every beer saloon. They all looked at us intently. Several of the men carried rifles, and not a few swung pick-handles.

  “Looks like the beginning of a lynch mob,” I said. “I’m glad we’re getting out.”

  “Lights ahead,” Veda said with a slight catch in her voice. “They’re stopping the traffic.”

  I slowed down. Two cars ahead of me had come to a stand-still. I drew up behind them. A big truck had been manoeuvred across the road to prevent traffic passing. A group of men with lanterns and flashlights and armed with guns stood around the truck while two policemen and a State Trooper talked to the drivers of the cars in front of me. They waved the cars on, and came strolling towards me.

  I found I was sweating slightly, but there was nothing I could do about that. I was lighting a cigarette as one of the policemen threw a beam on me.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded roughly.

  “Pasadena,” I said.

  The beam slipped over me and on to Veda.

  “They must be looking for the Brett killer,” she said brightly. “That’s right, isn’t it, officer?” She gave him a smile that rocked him back on his heels.

  “That’s right, miss,” he said, almost human now, “and who are you?”

  “Rux is the name. Veda and John. He’s my brother.”

  The beam came on to me again.

  “Brother, huh? Lucky guy.”

  “I’d as soon be her husband,” I said, but my grin was a little stiff.

  “Don’t listen to him, officer,” Veda giggled. “He always says the most terrible things.”

  “That’s not so terrible,” the policeman said and laughed. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “He’s got something there.”

  The State Trooper came up. He looked as hard and as un-friendly as a concrete sidewalk.

  “Checked their licence tag?” he demanded.

  “Naw, but that guy ain’t him. Use your eyes, and don’t try to make work.”

  “Check it,” the trooper snapped. “This ain’t a picnic; it’s a man-hunt.”

  Muttering under his breath, the policeman read the licence tag on the wheel, grunted.

  “Okay, move along,” he said to me, winked at Veda. “I wouldn’t want to be your brother either,” he told her.

  I drove around the truck, aware of a couple of dozen eyes on me. Some of those guys certainly looked hungry to earn them-selves thirty grand. Once clear of the truck, I gave the Buick its head.

  “That was easy enough, wasn’t it?” Veda said, but there was a little quiver in her voice.

  I wiped my face with my handkerchief.

  “It was all right while it lasted,” I said. “But I don’t want any more of it.”

  We licked along the road at a steady sixty miles an hour. I didn’t feel much like talking. I kept thinking of the other barricade at Pasadena.

  We went through Glendale without being stopped. There was a big crowd of men at one street comer. A guy in a Stetson hat was standing on the back seat of a car, talking to them. He kept waving his arms and seemed excited. A number of men had pick-handles, and I didn’t have to wonder who he was talking about.

  One of the men in the crowd turned and stared at us. He shouted suddenly, but he was too far away for us to hear what he was yelling. I drove on. It needed a little effort not to in-crease our speed.

  Veda, looking back through the rear window, said the crowd were looking after us.

  We got on to the Pasadena road, and after driving for eight or nine miles I saw a red light flickering in the distance. “There’s a light ahead,” Veda said sharply.

  “Yeah,” I said, and tried to make up my mind whether to stop or not. There were no other cars coming, and this was a lonely stretch: too lonely.

  “Act natural,” she said sharply as if sensing my hesitation. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Who said I was worrying?” I snapped back.

  I guess our nerves were sticking out a foot.

  The head-lights of the Buick picked out a bunch of men standing in the middle of the road. I couldn’t see a policeman or a trooper amongst them, and I felt a chill run up my spine. They looked a tough mob.

  “Watch out,” I said to Veda and reached down and slid back the panel at my feet.

  “Don’t start anything,” she whispered fiercely. “Please, Floyd . . .”

  I let go of the butt of the .45 and straightened up.

  “I don’t like the look of them,” I said out of the corner of my mouth.

  As the Buick stopped, a fat guy, carrying the red lantern, came up. He was big, and his dungarees were ragged and dirty. Four of the others levelled their rifles at the windshield and blinked with intent eyes into the head-lights. They also wore ragged dungarees. They looked like a bunch from a milling camp.

  “Road up or something?” I said leaning out of the window. “Or is this a hold-up?”

  “Come out of it,” the fat guy said, “and make it snappy.”

  “Do what he says,” Veda whispered. “We don’t want to make them mad.”

  “Not damn likely,” I returned. “Once out there they could do what they liked with us. We’re safer in here.” I leaned farther out of the window. “What’s the idea?” I demanded.

  Someone flashe
d a beam on us.

  “Taint him, Jud,” a voice said. “This punk’s dark.”

  The fat guy sneered. He came closer and I could smell beer on his breath.

  “Come on out when I tell you,” he snarled and pushed the rifle into my face.

  I heard Veda’s door open and glanced round. She had slid out and was standing in the road. I cursed softly, flipped open the panel under the dashboard and my hand closed around a cold hard object. Very cautiously I lifted it and slipped it into my side pocket. Then I opened the car door and got out.

  The fat guy pushed me into the glare of the headlights.

  “Take care of him,” he said to a little guy with a face like a weasel.

  They were all looking at Veda, who smiled at them. They were very still and intent. The little guy pointed a shotgun at me.

  “We’re looking for the Brett killer,” the fat guy said to me. “How do we know you ain’t him?” While he was speaking he didn’t take his eyes off Veda.

  “You have a description of him, haven’t you?” I said and laughed as if I thought he’d made a joke.

  “Okay, so you’re not Jackson,” he returned. “So we ain’t collecting the thirty grand reward, but we’re having a lotta fun this night. You’re the third guy with a dame we’ve stopped. You don’t object if we have a little fun with your girl friend, do you, pal?”

  “I wouldn’t start anything I couldn’t finish if I were you,” I said.

  “Haw! Haw!” The fat guy slapped his thigh. “That’s pretty good. You’re the punk who’d better not start anything. If he makes a move, Tim, let him have both barrels.”

  “You bet,” the weasel-faced man said and tittered.

  The fat guy went up to Veda.

  “Hello, sugar,” he said. “You and me are going for a little walk.”

  Veda looked at him. Her eyes were steady.

  “Why?” she said in a hard, flat voice.

  “That’s a secret,” the fat guy said. “But you’ll find out quick enough.” He grabbed hold of her by her shirt.

  She didn’t try to get away, but continued to stare up at him, her eyes hardening.

  “Come on,” he said.

  “Wait!” I shouted. “Leave her alone.”

  The shot gun barrel slammed into my chest, sending me staggering back.

  The fat guy lifted Veda by her shirt and walked off with her into the bushes. She didn’t struggle or cry out. The others turned to watch. The weasel-faced man began to shiver. He glared at me murderously, then suddenly as Veda gave a choking little scream he looked over his shoulder. That gave me the chance I’d been waiting for. I took a leap to one side, jumped forward as the shotgun exploded, smashed my fist into the thin, vicious face. I had the hand grenade out now and I drew the pin.

  One of the men took a pot-shot at me with his rifle. I felt the slug fan my face. I lobbed the grenade into the darkness away from them and threw myself down behind the car. The night was split open by a violent explosion. The car rocked in the blast and the darkness was lit by a blinding white flash. I was up on my feet again and running towards where Veda had screamed. The grenade had scared the daylights out of that bunch of toughs. They went rushing into the darkness, yelling at each other, and falling over themselves to get away.

  I found Veda and the fat guy in the bushes. He was holding her against him, staring towards the car, his face blank with surprise. He was so startled by the noise of the grenade that he let me pull Veda out of his grip.

  “What was that?” he mouthed at me. “Did you do that?”

  I hit him in the middle of his fat face and as he staggered back I snatched up his rifle and smashed it down across his shoulders, beating him to the ground.

  “Nor Veda screamed and caught my arm. “You mustn’t!”

  I tried to push her away, but she clung to me. I struggled to free myself, a red curtain of rage before my eyes, but she wouldn’t let go. After a moment or so I got a grip on myself.

  “All right, kid,” I said, and she let go of me.

  The fat guy lay flat on his back. He was breathing, but that was about all.

  “Come on,” Veda gasped. “Quickly, Floyd! Please . . .”

  She had her clothes in a bundle that she hugged to her. I snatched her up and carried her to the car. The whole business hadn’t taken ten minutes.

  “Are you all right?” I asked as I sent the car flying forward.

  “Don’t talk to me for a bit,” she said. “Just let me get over it. What beasts men are!”

  She was crying to herself. I didn’t look at her but kept driving, and I cursed softly. She shrugged into her clothes, and after a while she lit a cigarette.

  “I’m all right now, Floyd. Why didn’t you keep your head? What did it matter? We can’t go through Pasadena now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The bomb . . . they’ll telephone to Pasadena to stop us. The police will want to have a look at a guy who carries bombs in his car.”

  I thought for a moment. She was right, of course.

  “All right, it was a mistake to use it, but what else could I have done?”

  “You could have kept your head. He wouldn’t have killed me.”

  I knew she didn’t mean it.

  “All right, I should have kept my head. So we don’t go through Pasadena.”

  She opened the map and studied it. Her hands were trembling.

  “We’ll have to take the long way round by Altadena and down into Monrovia.”

  “We’ll do that.” I put my arm round her and held her close.

  “I’m glad you lost your head,” she said in a small voice.

  After driving the best part of a mile I said suddenly: “Put on the radio. Tune it to ten: that’s K.G.P.L., police reports to radio cars. I want to hear how the boys are getting on.”

  Her hand was steady enough as she switched on and spun the tuning dial. The radio hummed, then buzzed into life.

  We drove along as we listened to a lot of stuff about a street accident on Sunset Boulevard. A few minutes later we got another flash about a car bandit holding up a gas station.

  “Nothing in it for us,” I said. “That’s Altadena right ahead. No reception committee waiting by the look of things. We won’t stop, though.”

  The mechanical voice coming from the radio suddenly barked: “K.G.P.L. — Los Angeles Police Department. Attention all cars. Repeat as of nine-ten Brett killing. Look out for black Roadmaster Buick believed to be Floyd Jackson’s get-away car.” Here followed the licence number and a detailed description. “The driver of this car may be Jackson, wanted for the murder of Lindsay Brett. With him is a slim, dark girl, wearing slacks and shirt. The car, when last seen, was heading for Pasadena. Stand by for more information now coming in.”

  Neither of us said anything. I kept driving. No one seemed to have heard of Floyd Jackson in Altadena. No one seemed to care. We went through the main street at a steady twenty-five miles an hour. The time was a little after ten-twenty, and only a few cars and a few men loitered under the street lights. None of the men had guns. None of them even looked at us.

  We sat very stiff and still while we waited. The radio crack-led and hummed. I thought of all the dozens of prowl cops in their fast cars waiting, as we were waiting, for further information before they swung into action and converged on us. My hands ached as I gripped the steering-wheel. I could see Veda’s profile as we drove past the street lamps. She was white and tense.

  “Attention all cars . . . attention all cars. Brett killing. Persons wanted for questioning are: number one; John Rux, thought to be Floyd Jackson. Description: six foot one, a hundred and eighty pounds, about thirty-three, dark hair, believed dyed, tanned complexion, powerfully built; wearing light suit, soft grey hat. Number two; Veda Rux. Description: five foot six, a hundred and twenty pounds, about twenty-four, dark hair, blue eyes, wearing black slacks and a dark-red shirt. These people were heading for Pasadena, but are believed to have changed their rout
e. Particular attention to all cars on High-ways 2, 66, 70 and 99. Don’t take any chances. When last stopped Rux broke through the cordon by using what is believed to be a hand grenade. Intercepting cars should arrest Rux for questioning. That is all.”

  I slammed on the brakes, threw out the gear and stopped the car.

  “Well, that’s it, Veda. That puts you right in the middle of this jam too.”

  “They’re clever, aren’t they?” she said in a small, strained voice. “I didn’t think they’d ever get on to us, did you? If only you hadn’t dropped that bomb.”

  I was so rattled I couldn’t keep my voice steady.

  “We’re going into the foothills. There’s nothing else we can do.” I put my hand on hers. “Don’t get scared. I won’t let them do anything to you.”

  They were empty words and they couldn’t mean anything, but they seemed to please her.

  “I’m not scared. Let’s go into the foothills. They’ll never think to look for us there.”

  I started the car again and we drove off the tarmac road on to a dirt road.

  It was dark and silent and lonely when we reached the foothills, and as black as a Homburg hat. I had no idea where I was going or what I was going to do: no idea at all. I kept thinking of all those prowl cars converging on us, packed with tough coppers with guns. If they caught me, no amount of talking would get me out of this jam. It would be done legally, and it would take time, but they’d kill me in the end. If they caught me . . .

  I put my arm around Veda.

  “We’ll beat them, kid,” I said. “Maybe they are smart but we’re smarter. You’ll see; we’ll beat them.”

  More empty words.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE SMELL of coffee woke me. It was still dark, and as I sat up I felt the wind cold against my face.

  Veda was squatting over the primus stove. The bluish flame showed a hard, bleak expression on her face, and she looked remote and withdrawn into herself. She was very neat in her canary-coloured slacks and thick sweater. Her hair was looped back with a red ribbon.

  “That smells good,” I said, yawned and threw off the blanket. I looked at my watch. It was a few minutes after five. “Couldn’t you sleep?”