What's Better Than Money

by James Hadley Chase

  I wrote the cheque and pushed it across the table to her.

  ‘There it is,’ I said, and I was surprised how steady my voice sounded. ‘Now I’ll give you a warning.

  You are right that I plan to kill you. One of these days I will find and kill you. Remember that.’

  She giggled.

  ‘Stop talking like a movie script, and don’t forget I want thirty thousand on the first of the month. If I don’t get it, you won’t hear from me, but you will hear from the cops.’

  I got to my feet. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her boy friend had also stood up.

  ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ I said, and turning I crossed the bar to a row of telephone booths. I called the hospital and told the receptionist I was now on my way home.

  ‘Oh, Mr. Halliday, will you hold on a moment…?’

  I was feeling pretty flat, but the sharp note in her voice brought me alert.

  I heard her say something as if talking in an undertone to someone near by, then she said, ‘Mr.

  Halliday? Dr. Weinborg would like you to come in. There’s nothing to be alarmed about, but he would like to see you as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ I said, and hung up.

  I left the bar and in the street I waved to a cruising taxi. I told the driver to take me to the hospital fast.

  As the cab drew away from the kerb, I caught sight of Rima and her boy friend walking towards the car park. She was looking up at him and smiling and he was staring hungrily down at her.

  I reached the hospital in under seven minutes and I was shown straight into Dr. Weinborg’s office.

  He came around his desk and shook hands with me.

  ‘Mr. Halliday, I’m not too satisfied with your wife’s progress,’ he said. ‘She should be showing some improvement by now, but frankly, she isn’t. Don’t misunderstand me. Her condition hasn’t deteriorated, but it hasn’t improved, and in a case like this we look for improvement within three or four days of the operation.’

  I began to say something but found my lips so dry I couldn’t get the words out. I just stared at him, waiting.

  ‘I’ve talked to Dr. Goodyear. He suggests that Dr. Zimmerman should see your wife.’

  ‘What makes him imagine Dr. Zimmerman whoever he is can do anything better than he has done?’ I asked.

  Weinberg moved a letter opener around on his desk.

  ‘Dr. Zimmerman is the most able specialist to do with the nerves of the brain, Mr. Halliday. He…’

  ‘I thought Goodyear was that.’

  ‘Dr. Goodyear is a brain surgeon,’ Weinborg said patiently. ‘He doesn’t handle post-operative cases.

  Dr. Zimmerman usually takes over from him in complicated cases.’

  ‘One clearing up the other’s messes?’

  Dr. Weinborg frowned.

  ‘I understand how you must be feeling, but that is scarcely a fair thing to say.’

  ‘I suppose it isn’t.’ I sat down abruptly. I was suddenly deadly tired and felt defeated. ‘Well, all right, let’s get Dr. Zimmerman.’

  ‘It’s a little more involved than just that,’ Weinborg said. ‘Dr. Zimmerman will only treat a patient if the patient is at his sanatorium out at Holland Heights. I’m afraid this will be an expensive business, Mr.

  Halliday, but I have every confidence that if your wife went to Dr. Zimmerman’s place she would have the very best chance of recovery.’

  ‘Which is another way of saying if she remains here she doesn’t stand such a good chance.’

  ‘That is correct. Dr. Zimmerman…’

  ‘What will it cost?’

  ‘That’s something you will have to discuss with Dr. Zimmerman. At a guess about three hundred dollars a week. She would be under Dr. Zimmerman’s personal supervision.’

  I lifted my hands despairingly. This thing seemed to be going on and on, making inroads into my money.

  ‘Okay, let Dr. Zimmerman see her,’ I said. ‘When he’s here I’ll talk to him.’

  ‘He’ll be here at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  Before I returned home, I looked in on Sarita. She was still unconscious. I took away with me a picture of her that crushed me.

  When I got home I made a check on my financial position. With more expense ahead of me, it would be impossible to pay Rima any more money. I had four weeks ahead of me to find and silence her. Even if it meant leaving Sarita for a few days, I would have to do it.

  The next morning I met Dr. Zimmerman. He was a middle-aged man with a lean face and keen eyes and a quiet, confidential manner. I liked him on sight.

  ‘I’ve examined your wife, Mr. Halliday,’ he said. ‘There can be no question but she must come to my sanatorium. I am sure I can start good progress moving. The operation has been successful, but certain nerves have been damaged. However, these I think I can fix. In three or four months’ time, when she is stronger, I’m going to talk to Dr. Goodyear and I’m going to suggest another operation. I think between the two of us we can certainly save her memory and we might even get her walking again, but she must be moved to my place immediately.’

  ‘What’s it going to cost?’

  ‘Three hundred a week for a private room. There will be nursing fees: say three hundred and seventy a week?’

  ‘How about the second operation?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, Mr. Halliday. To be on the safe side, perhaps three thousand, possibly four.’

  I was beyond caring now.

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said, paused and then went on, ‘I need to leave town for four or five days. When do you think my wife will be safe for me to leave?’

  He looked a little surprised.

  ‘It’s too early for that. I’ll be better able to tell in a couple of weeks. She won’t he off the danger list until then.’

  So I waited two weeks.

  I went back to the office and slaved to get ahead with the work so when the all-clear came I would be free to go on my hunt for Rima.

  Ted Weston, the new man Jack had found to work with me, was keen and reliable. I had no misgivings once I had set him a programme that he wouldn’t be able to carry it out.

  Very slowly Sarita began to make progress. Each week I parted with three hundred and seventy dollars. My bank balance shrank. But I didn’t regret the money because I now felt if anyone could pull her through it would be Zimmerman.

  Finally I got a telephone call.

  Zimmerman himself came on the line.

  ‘You want to get off on business, Mr. Halliday? I think I can let you go now. There is a definite improvement in your wife’s condition. She is not conscious yet, but she is much stronger, and I think you can go without any need to worry. It would be wiser to let me know where I can contact you just in case of a setback. This I don’t anticipate, but it is well to be on the safe side.’

  I said I would let him know how to reach me, then after a few more words I hung up.

  I sat staring in front of me, my heart thumping, and there came a cold feeling of triumph rising in me.

  At last after all these horrible, endless weeks, I could go after Rima.

  I had thirteen days in which to find her before the thirty thousand had to be paid.

  I was well ahead with my work. I could leave without throwing any extra work on Jack.

  I caught a plane to Santa Barba the following morning.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I

  The fat woman at the hotel opposite the Pacific & Union Bank recognised me as I walked up to the reception desk.

  She gave me her dismal smile of welcome, saying, ‘It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Masters. If you want your old room, it’s free.’

  I said I wanted it, passed a remark about the weather, added casually that I had a lot of work to do and wouldn’t be leaving my room all day during my three-day stay, and then humped my bag up to the room.

  The time was twenty minutes past one. I had brought a pack of sandwiches with me and a half bott
le of Scotch, and I settled down at the window.

  This seemed the bank’s busiest time. Several people went in and out, but I didn’t see Rima. I knew I was gambling on a long chance. It might be that she only came to the bank once a week or even once a month, but there was just no other way I could think of to get at her.

  When the bank closed, still without my seeing Rima, I went down to the lobby and put through a long distance call to Zimmerman’s sanatorium. I gave the receptionist there the telephone number of the hotel. I told her as I was almost certain to be out most of the time would she ask for Mr. Masters, who was a friend of mine, and who would pass on any message.

  She said she would and then went on to say Sarita was still gaining strength although she was still unconscious.

  It was a cold, blustery evening with a hint of rain in the air. I put on my raincoat, turned up the collar, pulled my hat down over my face and went out onto the streets.

  I knew this was a risky thing to do, but the thought of spending the rest of the evening in this depressing hotel was more than my taut nerves could stand.

  I hadn’t gone far before it began to rain. I went into a movie house and sat through a dreary, fourth rate Western before returning to the hotel for dinner. I then went up to bed.

  The next day followed exactly the same pattern. I spent all day at the window, not seeing Rima; the evening in a movie house.

  That night, when I returned to the hotel, I felt a prick of panic. Was the trip going to fail? Time was moving on. I now had only eleven more days to find her, and these days could easily be the same as the previous days.

  Although I went to bed, I found it impossible to sleep, and around twenty to one in the morning, unable to lie any longer in this box of a room, I got up, dressed and went down into the dimly lit lobby.

  The old negro night watchman blinked sleepily at me when I told him I was going for a walk in the rain.

  Grumbling under his breath, he unlocked the door and let me out.

  There were a few café bars still open, and one or two dance halls, their red and blue neon lights making patterns on the sidewalk.

  Young couples moved along in their plastic slickers, arm in arm, oblivious of the rain. A solitary cop balanced himself on the edge of the kerb, resting his aching feet.

  I walked down to the sea, my hands thrust deep into the pockets of my raincoat, feeling a slight relaxing of my nerves in the chilly wind and rain.

  I came upon one of the many sea food restaurants, built on piles over the sea. There was a long line of parked cars outside, and I could hear the strains of dance music. I paused to look down the long walk-in that led to swing doors and into the restaurant.

  I was about to move on when a big man came out of the restaurant and ran down the wooden pier towards me, his head bent against the rain.

  As he passed under one of the overhead lamps I recognised the cream sports coat and the bottle green slacks.

  It was Rima’s boy friend!

  If it hadn’t been raining and if he hadn’t been running with his head down, he must have seen me and possibly recognised me.

  I turned quickly so my back was to him, took out a pack of cigarettes and went through the motions of pretending to get a light in the wind.

  Then I half turned to watch him.

  He was leaning into a Pontiac convertible, groping in the glove compartment.

  I could hear him swearing under his breath. He found what he was looking for, swung round and ran back down the pier and into the restaurant.

  I stood looking after him. Then I walked casually over to the Pontiac and looked it over. It was a 1957

  job, and not in too good condition. I glanced to right and left. There was no one in sight. Quickly, I picked hold of the licence tag on the steering wheel and flicked my cigarette lighter alight. I read the neatly printed name and address:

  Ed Vasari

  The Bungalow

  East Shore, Santa Barba.

  I moved away from the car, then crossing over to a café opposite the restaurant, I pushed open the door and stepped in. There were only four teenagers sitting over cokes at one end of the room. I took a table by the window where I could see the Pontiac and sat down.

  A tired looking waitress sauntered over and I ordered a coffee.

  Was Rima with this man? Was she living with him at this address?

  I sat there smoking and stirring my coffee, my eyes never off the Pontiac across the way. The rain increased and spattered against the window.

  The four teenagers ordered another round of cokes. One of them, a blonde with a pert, knowing expression, wearing skin tight jeans and a sweater that showed off her immature childish shape, came over to where I was sitting and fed coins into the juke box.

  The Platters began their soft moaning, and the teenagers joined in.

  Then I saw them.

  They came running out of the restaurant. Vasari was holding an umbrella over Rima. They dived into the Pontiac and drove off. If I hadn’t been watching closely I would have missed them. They had come and gone so quickly.

  Without drinking the coffee, I paid the waitress and walked out into the wet and the dark.

  I was coldly excited and determined not to waste any time.

  I walked fast to an all-night garage I had spotted on my way from the hotel. I went in there, and after a brief talk with one of the staff, I hired a Studebaker, paid the deposit, and while he was filling the car with gas I asked him casually where East Shore was.

  ‘Turn right and keep going, following the sea,’ he told me. ‘It’s about three miles from here.’

  I thanked him, then getting into the car, I drove out into the rain.

  East Shore turned out to be a mile-long strip of beach with about thirty or forty wooden cabins dotted along the road.

  Most of them were in darkness, but here and there lights showed.

  I drove at a crawl along the road, staring at each cabin as I passed.

  I could see nothing in the darkness that indicated any bungalow, and just as I was beginning to think I would have to leave the car and walk back, examining each cabin more closely, I saw ahead of me a light coming from a much more isolated building.

  I drove towards it, then feeling sure this must be the place I pulled off the road, turned off the lights and got out of the car.

  The rain, driven by the stiff sea breeze, beat against me, but I scarcely noticed it.

  I approached the lighted window, and as I drew nearer I saw this place was a bungalow.

  I paused at the double wooden gates. On the drive-in stood the Pontiac. I looked up and down the road, but as far as I could see there was no sign of life.

  Cautiously, I opened the gate and walked up the drive-in.

  There was a concrete path running around the bungalow and I followed it to the lighted window.

  My heart was thumping hard now as I moved up to the window. I looked in.

  The room was reasonably large and furnished reasonably well. There were comfortable, but shabby lounging chairs, and a few modern, bright prints on the walls. There was a television set in a corner and a well stocked bar in another corner.

  All this I took in at a glance, then my eyes rested on Rima.

  She was sprawling in a low armchair, a cigarette between her lips, a glass of Scotch and water in her hand. She was wearing a green wrap that gaped open so I could see her long, slim legs which were crossed. One of them swung nervously and irritably as she stared up at the ceiling.

  So she did live here! She did live with Vasari!

  I watched her.

  Suddenly the door pushed open and Vasari came in.

  He was wearing a pair of pyjama trousers and he was naked to the waist. His great barrel of a chest was covered with coarse black hair and his tremendously developed muscles moved under his tanned skin as he rubbed the back of his head with a towel.

  He said something to her and she looked at him, her expression hostile. She finished her drink, put th
e glass down and got to her feet. She stood for a moment, stretching, then she walked past him out of the room.

  He snapped off the light and I found myself staring at my faint reflection in the rain-soaked window.

  I moved away.

  Further along, another window had lit up, but a blind covered it.

  I waited.

  After some moments the light went out. The whole bungalow was now in darkness.

  As silently as I had come, I returned to the Studebaker.

  I got in and started the engine, then drove slowly back to my hotel.

  While I drove, my mind was busy.

  At last I had found her!

  But there were still difficulties ahead. Did Vasari know she was blackmailing me? When I had got rid of her would I then have to deal with him?

  It was while I was driving through the dark, wet night that I suddenly realised what I was planning to do. I was going to murder her. A cold feeling of fear took hold of me. It had been easy enough to tell myself she had to be silenced when I had found her, but now I had found her the thought of walking in on her and murdering her brought me out in a clammy sweat.

  I pushed the thought out of my mind. It had to be done. First, I would have to get rid of Vasari. With him around I wouldn’t be able to silence Rima. I decided I would have to watch the bungalow for a couple of days: I would have to find out what they did, how they lived and if Vasari ever left her alone.

  I didn’t sleep much that night.

  The nightmare thought of what I had to do lay heavily on me.

  II

  A little after half past seven the following morning I was once again driving out to East Shore. I was confident I was safe to approach the bungalow in daylight at this hour. I couldn’t imagine either of them would be early risers.

  I drove past the bungalow fast. The blinds were drawn and the Pontiac still stood on the drive-in.

  In the hard light of the morning sun the bungalow looked shabby: a typical sea-side vacation place, let year after year by an owner who never bothered to look at the place nor spare any money for a coat of paint.