Hit and Run (16 page)
Authors: James Hadley Chase
I stubbed out my cigarette and then lit another. There is only one thing to do, I said to myself. You are going to get off this hook. You're not only going to get off it, but you're going to fix Oscar Ross so he can't fix you. You have no alternative. You either fix him or you're sunk.
At least I had six days' grace before I had to cope with him. My first move was to make the Cadillac safe.
The time was now half past nine. I went to the telephone and called Sam Lowther, who ran the garage that handled my repairs.
'Sam,' I said when he came on the line, 'I'm sorry to call you so late but I've had a hell of a pile-up with the Caddy. I rammed it into a tree. I want a quick repair job done. How are you fixed?'
'I can take her in right away, Mr. Scott,' he said, 'if that suits you. I have a couple of men here who haven't anything much to do and they can get on with it as soon as you bring it in. If it's not all that bad I can let you have it back Wednesday, but I'd like to see the extent of the damage before making a promise.'
'Thanks a lot, Sam,' I said. Although my head was throbbing now like mad, I was determined to get the Cadillac into his hands this night. 'I'll bring it around in half an hour.'
'Okay, Mr. Scott, but there's just one thing. You'll have to report the damage to the police. It's this hit-and-run case. I've had instructions not to take in any damaged car without a clearance certificate. I expect you've read about the business the papers. Can you get a certificate?'
'I've already got it. As soon as I had the pile-up I reported to the police and they fixed it.'
'That's fine, Mr. Scott, then you bring her in and I'll get my boys working on her.'
I thanked him and hung up.
There was a slight chance he would spot the changed number plates, but I decided I would have to take that risk. He had dozens of cars through his hands during a working week, and it wasn't likely he would spot I had changed the plates. By going to him rather than a garage that didn't know me, I was much less likely to run into a barrage of awkward questions.
I locked up the bungalow, then walked the three-quarters of a mile to Seaborne's house. I found the Pontiac parked outside as I had left it. I was feeling pretty bad, my head aching as I; walked up the drive to the garage.
Everything was as I had left it when giving chase to Ross. I shut myself in and completed fixing the front number plate. Then I went around to the rear of the car and took a look at the dried blood on the fender and the tyre. I had to get rid of it. I couldn't risk Sam seeing it. I had a feeling that I was destroying evidence that might react in my favour if ever I came up for trial, but I just couldn't leave the bloodstains there. I fetched a bucket of water and washed the bloodstains off. Then I drove the Cadillac out on to the road and put the Pontiac into the garage. When the job was done I locked the garage and drove the Cadillac fast along the beach road to the highway.
I had no alternative but to drive with one light. It so happened the highway was practically deserted. The few cars that passed me appeared to take no notice of the single headlight, and I arrived at Sam's garage without meeting a patrol officer.
As I drove into the big, dimly lit shed, I saw Sam in his office, talking to two of his mechanics.
He came out and shook hands with me: a big, powerfully built man with a fleshy sunburned face and humorous eyes.
'Evening, Mr. Scott,' he said and looked at the Cadillac.
'Phew! You've certainly given her a knock.'
'Yeah. I guess that comes of having an arm around a girl and driving too fast,' I said, sure this sort of explanation would be right for him.
He grinned.
'I know. You don't have to tell me. I've done it myself. Women can be hell at times. Well, this isn't anything that can't be fixed, but I don't think I can get it done before the end of the week.'
The mechanics came over and stared gloomily at the car.
'These two scratches have gone deep,' Sam went on, examining the side panel. 'You boys had getter get busy. Get the door off and fix that first.' He turned to me. 'Got the police certificate, Mr. Scott?'
As I put my hand in my pocket to get out my wallet, I heard the sound of an approaching motorcycle, and looking around, I saw a patrol cop pull up outside the garage.
My heart stood still for a second and then began to race. Somehow I managed to keep my face expressionless as the cop stalked into the garage.
'Just a second,' Sam said to me and went across to meet the cop whom he appeared to know. 'Hey, Tim. What do you want?' he asked the cop.
'Got a damaged car here?' the cop growled.
'Why, sure. Mr. Scott has just brought in his Caddy. He's had a pile-up against a tree.'
The cop shot me a hard stare, then stalked over to the Cadillac. He looked at the smashed headlamp.
By now I had pulled myself together and had got the certificate out of my wallet.
I walked over to him.
'I have a certificate for the damage, officer,' I said. 'Lieutenant West gave it to me.'
The cop turned slowly and deliberately and held out his hand, while his small, hard eyes moved over my face. It needed an effort of will to meet those probing eyes, but I did it.
He studied the certificate.
If he checked the licence tag with the number plates I was sunk. There was nothing I could do but stand there and wait, and the next few minutes were about the worst I have lived through.
He looked at the number plates, then again at the certificate, then he pushed his cap to the back of his head and blew out his cheeks.
'When did you see the Lieutenant?' he demanded.
'He was out at Mr. Aitken's place. I work for Mr. Aitken,' I said. 'The Lieutenant cleared Mr. Aitken's cars and mine.' I was aware my voice didn't sound too steady. 'Sam knows me. He's handled my car often enough.'
'How did you do this?'
'I rammed it into a tree.'
Sam joined us.
'Mr. Scott was cuddling a girl,' he said, his face one vast expansive grin. 'Done it myself when I was his age, but I went clean through a shop window.'
The cop didn't seem amused. He shoved the certificate at me.
'I have a mind to take you in,' he growled, glaring at me.
'You might have killed someone.'
'I know. That's what the Lieutenant said.' I tried to sound humble. 'I told him I wouldn't do it again.'
The cop hesitated. I could see he wanted badly to make something of this, but I felt sure that by mentioning West's name I would block him off and I was right.
'You'd better not do it again,' he said, then turning his back to me he went on to Sam: 'I thought I'd caught up with that joker who killed O'Brien. I had a report from a driver who had seen this car. Well, okay. I'll get on,' and he stalked out of the garage.
When he had driven away, Sam winked at me.
'You were smart to mention Lieutenant West, otherwise that big-head would have run you in. He's a guy who looks for trouble.'
I gave him the certificate.
'You'll want this.'
'That's right.' Sam put the certificate in his pocket. 'Can I lend you a car, Mr. Scott?'
'I'd be glad if you would.'
'Take the Buick over there. I'll get the Caddy fixed by Friday. You bring the Buick on your way home and the Caddy'll be ready for you.'
I thanked him, got in the Buick and drove out on to the highway.
I didn't feel like returning to my bungalow. The time now was twenty minutes to eleven. I was still feeling pretty shaky from my encounter with the patrol cop and the thought of sitting in my lonely lounge with so much on my mind was something I just couldn't face up to. So I drove into town.
I parked the Buick and went into a little bar Joe and I used sometimes when we felt a drink might help us get a few new ideas.
The barman, an elderly, fat humorist we called Slim, nodded to me as I came up to the bar.
'A double Scotch,' I said, climbing up on the stool.
There were only four men in the bar and they were at the far end, shooting crap.
'Right away, Mr. Scott,' Slim said. 'You're late tonight.'
'Yeah,' I said, 'still, tomorrow's Sunday.'
'That's a fact: my favourite day.' He poured the Scotch, dropped ice into the glass and placed it before me. 'Heard the latest on the hit-and-run case?'
The muscles in my stomach suddenly cramped up.
'No. What's new?'
'On the radio: ten minutes ago. A man and woman were seen driving off the highway and going down the beach road where the cop was killed about the time of the accident. The police are asking them to come forward. They seem to think they might have seen the car that killed O'Brien or maybe they did it themselves.'
I took a long pull at my whisky.
'Is that right?' I said, not looking at him.
'I bet they don't come forward. A man and woman don't go down that kind of road to admire the view.' He winked at me. 'I bet those two aren't going to get themselves on the front pages of the papers.'
'That's a fact. Well, they're certainly making an effort to catch the guy who did it,' I said, trying hard to sound casual.
'Yeah. Seems a lot of fuss to me. People get killed every second of the day, but when it's a cop, it's got to be special.'
I sat and listened to views about the police for several minutes, then I asked him suddenly: 'Would you know a guy who calls himself Oscar Ross?'
Slim looked surprised.
'Why, sure. He's a barman at the Little Tavern nightclub out at Mount Cresta. You know him, Mr. Scott?'
'No, but someone was saying he was the best barman in town.' I was careful to keep my face expressionless although this unexpected information had me seething with excitement. 'I just wondered what was so special about him.'
'I bet a lady told you that,' Slim said, his face registering contempt. 'The best barman in town! That's rich. Why, he's just an amateur. The martinis he throws together would make a cat puke. I tell you what he's got: he's got looks. I'll say that for him. The dames go for him in a big way. He really gives them the works when they come into the bar: you know the stuff: the steady stare, looks up and down them, strokes their behinds when he helps them up on the stools. They love it, but he hasn't any talent as a barman. I wouldn't have him in this bar, not if he offered to work here for nothing.'
'The Little Tavern? Isn't that where Dolores Lane sings?'
'That's the joint.' Slim picked up a cloth and began to polish the bar. 'You ain't missed a thing by not going there. She's nothing to lose sleep over either.'
'Wasn't she supposed to be engaged to this cop who was killed?'
Slim scratched the back of his neck and stared blankly at me.
'Yeah, I believe you're right, but maybe it's just a newspaper story. What would a nightclub singer want to marry a cop for?'
I finished my whisky.
'You're right. I only believe half of what I read in the newspapers,' I said as I slid off the stool. 'Well, I've got to be getting home. So long, Slim.'
'Always glad to have you in here, Mr. Scott. Have a nice weekend.'
I went out to the Buick. Getting in, I lit a cigarette.
By the merest chance I had picked up a piece of information that had to be important. So Ross and Dolores Lane worked at the same nightclub. Dolores had told me she was going to marry O'Brien. As Slim had said why should a nightclub singer hook up with a cop? It didn't make sense. It certainly deserved to be investigated.
On the spur of the moment, I decided to take a look at the Little Tavern nightclub.
I thumbed the starter, moved the Buick into the evening traffic, and headed out to Mount Cresta.
CHAPTER NINE
I
The Little Tavern nightclub was a typical roadside joint with a circular drive-in, a lot of coloured neon lights, a gaudy doorman and a big parking lot crammed with the less expensive cars.
I found space in one of the rows, cut my engine and turned off my lights.
Then I walked back between the alley of cars to the entrance of the nightclub.
The doorman turned the revolving door for me, touching his cap as he did so.
I entered a large ornate vestibule. A hat-check girl, clad in a frilly thing that showed her knees, hipswayed towards me, showing her even white teeth in a smile of welcome. The smile slipped a little when she saw I had no hat and had nothing to leave with her for her to earn a possible dollar tip.
I moved around her, giving her one of nay boyish smiles, but for the impression it made on her, I might be offering a beggar the time of day. She turned and hip-swayed back to her station. For build, she and Marilyn Monroe had a lot in common.
I went up the red-carpeted stairs to a passage lit by ceiling lights and headed towards a pale-blue neon light that flashed Bar at me.
I paused in the doorway and surveyed the scene.
The room was big, with a horseshoe-shaped bar at the far end, and a lot of tables and chairs to cope with the hundred odd people who were getting liquored up for the night.
It wasn't what I would call a smart crowd. None of the men were in tuxedos. The women were a mixed lot: some of them looked like businessmen's secretaries out for the night in return for past services rendered; some of them looked like slightly soiled young ladies from the back row of unsuccessful musicals; some of them were obviously professionals, and they sat alone at various tables, discreetly distant from each other, and there were a few elderly women waiting impatiently for their gigolos: the usual crowd you can see any night of the week in the less smart nightclubs of Palm City.
I looked over the bar. There were two barmen coping with the rush: neither of them was Ross: two small men, Mexicans to judge by their sleek, black hair, their dark oily skins and their servile, flashing smiles.
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