Hit and Run (20 page)
Authors: James Hadley Chase
I thought for a moment, then asked: 'What's his room number?'
The night clerk put his finger on the bill and very slowly, very gently, began to draw it towards him.
'Room 28,' he said, 'but don't get any wild ideas. No one goes upstairs without they hire a room first.'
'Room 27 or 29 vacant?'
He looked over his shoulder at the line of keys hanging on the keyboard, then without taking his finger off the bill, he reached out his left hand and took the key of room 29 off its hook.
He laid it down before me, and then with a movement as fast as a lizard nailing a fly, he whipped the ten-dollar bill out of sight.
'Two bucks for the night,' he said. 'It's not a bad room: anyway, it's better than his.'
I shelled out the two bucks, then I picked up the key.
'Just in case I oversleep,' I said, 'give me a call at half past six.'
'Okay,' he said. 'Up the stairs, first floor, turn left at the head of the stairs.'
I thanked him, crossed the lobby and climbed the stairs to the first floor.
The passage lights were dim. The carpet I walked on felt paper thin; the doors I passed were shabby and the paint faded. A faint smell of cabbage water, bad plumbing and unwashed bodies hung over the passage. The Washington was obviously not one of the class hotels of Palm City.
As I approached room 27, I stepped lightly and paused outside room 28 to listen. I didn't hear anything, so I moved on to room 29, slid the key into the lock, turned it gently and eased open the door. I groped for the light switch, found it and turned on the light.
I entered a rabbit hutch of a room, careful to tread softly. I shut the door and then looked around.
There was a bed, a toilet basin, a strip of carpet and two upright chairs. On the wall, over the bed, was an engraving of a woman with wings and a wisp of tulle across her fat behind. She was hammering with clenched fists on an iron-studded door. She probably represented love locked out and if love was anything like her, it was a good thing the door looked so impregnable.
I crossed the room and sank on to the bed.
The time by my strap watch was ten minutes to three and I suddenly felt completely bushed. It had been the most eventful and disturbing Saturday of my life and I wondered uneasily where I was going from here.
I was tempted to stretch out on the bed, dressed as I was, and catch up with some sleep. I was actually giving way to the temptation when I heard the ping of a telephone bell: the ping you hear when you lift the receiver. It came from the room next door.
I was immediately wide awake and listening.
The man who had signed himself in the register as Turner, said: 'Send up a bottle of Scotch and some ice, and let's have some service.'
There was a pause, then he growled: 'I don't give a damn. Just let's have it without a lot of argument,' and he hung up.
For several moments I sat staring down at the dusty carpet, then, with an effort, I pushed myself off the bed and tiptoed to the door, cased it open and then turned off the light in the room. I supported myself against the door post and waited.
Maybe ten minutes crawled by: it seemed like an hour. Then I heard slow dragging footsteps on the stairs. I fumbled in my wallet and took out a five-dollar bill. This seemed to be a money-spending night, but at least I was getting some return for the outlay.
The night clerk came along the corridor carrying a tray on which stood a bottle of whisky and a container of ice. He walked as if he were having trouble with his feet.
When he got to within touching distance of door 25, I moved out into the corridor and blocked his progress. I held up the five dollar bill so he could see it, then I pushed it towards him. At the same time I took the tray out of his hand.
He accepted the bill the way a hungry tiger accepts a chunk of meat, then he stared blankly at me, shifted his gaze to door 28, then softly backed away.
I watched him walk down the passage to the head of the stairs. He looked back, stared at me again, then went quietly down the stairs and out of sight.
I lowered the tray to the floor, just outside room 28, and then rapped on the door.
'Who is it?' the man who called himself Turner demanded.
'Room service,' I said and braced myself, leaning against the door panel.
I heard him cross the room, turn the key and then he opened the door.
I heaved my weight against it.
The door slammed open and Turner or Ed or whoever he was staggered back and was in the room.
For a man nudging sixty his reflexes were surprisingly good. He recovered himself, spun around and dived for the bed where a Colt .45 was lying.
I charged him, flattening him across the bed.
His hand closed over the gun. My hand closed over his. For a brief moment we exerted our individual strengths, but age was on my side.
I twisted the gun out of his grip, heaved myself off the bed and on to my feet before he could sit up.
When he did sit up he found himself looking down the barrel of the gun: something I'd rather he experienced than me.
He stared at me, his red-veined, broken complexion turning a dusty purple.
'Relax,' I said, trying to breathe normally but without much success. 'I want to talk to you.'
His tongue that looked like a strip of leather dyed purple moistened his lips.
'Who the hell are you?' he demanded, his voice thick and unsteady.
'Never mind who I am,' I said. 'There's the makings of a drink outside the door: suppose you fetch it in and we can have a conference.'
He must have needed a drink badly, for he shot off the bed and grabbed the tray as if his life depended on it. He carried the tray tenderly into the room and set it on the bed.
While he was pouring Scotch into a glass, I moved around, closed the door and turned the key in the lock.
He shot the Scotch down his throat in one long swallow, then he made a second drink.
'I have mine with ice,' I said gently.
He stared glassily at me.
'Who are you? What do you want?' he growled, clutching on his glass, his eyes going over me. From the puzzled expression on his face, he could make nothing of me.
'I'll ask the questions and you supply the answers,' I said, making my voice sound tough. 'Why didn't you call the police when you found her?'
The colour went out of his face, leaving only the red broken veins against a tallow background.
'You know what happened to her?' he croaked.
'I know. I saw you go in and I saw you come out. Why didn't you call the police?'
'What good would that have done?' he said, shifting his eyes from me.
'What's your name?'
Again the purple tongue came out and moved over his dry lips.
'Turner: John Turner.'
'Okay, if that's the way you want to play it,' I said and picked up the gun. It felt heavy and awkward in my hand. I had read about .45's in detective stories, but this was the first time I had actually handled one. I was surprised to find it this big and this heavy. 'Get up and stand against the wall. I'm going to call the police.'
Some whisky jumped out of his glass and splashed on his knees.
'Now, wait a minute,' he said huskily. 'I don't know a thing about it. I found her. Someone had hit her on the head.'
'What's your name?'
'Ed Nutley. I'm her agent.'
That made sense. I remembered Dolores had mentioned an agent.
'Why didn't you call the police?'
He drank some more whisky. The spirit seemed to stiffen his nerve. He scowled at me.
'What's it to you?' he growled. 'Come to that: who are you? You're not a cop, you're not a newspaper man, and I'll be damned if you are a shamus – just who the hell are you?'
'Look, if you don't want to answer my questions, we'll call the police and maybe you'll answer theirs.'
He wilted.
'I was going to call them,' he muttered. 'As soon as I had got over the shock, I was going to call them.'
'Go ahead and call them now, then,' I said, hoping the whisky hadn't made him reckless enough to do just that thing.
He put the glass down, and for an uncomfortable moment I thought he was going to reach for the telephone, but instead he took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, stuck one on his lower lip and set fire to it.
'I know you,' he said suddenly. 'I must be losing my grip not to have tumbled to you before. You're the guy who was to have sprung her rail fare.'
I put the .45 back on the dressing-table, then I moved around him, picked up the second glass on the tray and made myself a small drink, I felt I needed it. I carried the drink across the room, then sat down on an upright chair by the window.
'Suppose I am?' I said.
He stared at me.
'Well, for crying out loud! Did you give her the money?'
'You're getting away from the subject,' I said. 'I want to know why you didn't call the police when you found her murdered. You'll either tell me or we'll go down to headquarters and you can tell them.'
He hesitated, then lifted his shoulders.
'I didn't want to get mixed up in anything,' he said, and took out a soiled handkerchief and wiped his sweating face. 'They might think I knocked her off.' He put his handkerchief carefully away. 'It wasn't as if I hadn't warned her ...' He stopped abruptly and frowned, 'I just didn't want to get mixed up in anything.' he concluded lamely.
'What did you warn her about?' I asked.
Again he hesitated, then he picked up his glass and finished his drink. He poured more whisky into his glass before saying: 'I don't know why I'm talking to you. Maybe I'm drunk, but if you're all that interested, I told her she was crazy to think of marrying this cop.'
'Why did you tell her that?'
He sucked down half the whisky, then stared at me with bleary eyes.
'Because he was no good, but she wouldn't listen.' He scowled, turning the glass in his soft dirty hands. 'She never would listen to anything I said. I warned her she was getting involved in some dirty racket, but she laughed at me. A cop couldn't live the way he did unless he was up to his ears in slime. She didn't give a damn. She thought by marrying him she could quit show business, and that's all she thought about.' He took another gulp at his drink. 'Now she's landed up with a broken head.'
'Just what was O'Brien's racket?' I asked, sitting forward on the edge of my chair.
He looked slyly at me.
'I wouldn't know.'
'Why did she want to leave town?'
He blew out his cheeks.
'Well, there wasn't anything more here for her. She wanted to have a look at Mexico.'
'She was anxious to get out. There was more to it than that. What was it?'
He sloshed more whisky into his glass.
'Did you give her the dough?'
'I gave it to her but whoever killed her took it,' I said.
He rubbed his hand over his sweating face, his eyes still trying to focus.
'I guess I'm getting drunk. Let me think about this.' He again rubbed his hand over his face. After a moment he said: 'If you know what's happened to her, you must have seen her before I did. That means you knew she was dead before I did. She had a hook into you for five hundred bucks and you've just told me you gave the dough to her.' He belched softly, putting his hand over his mouth. 'I may be half cut, but I'm not stupid. Maybe it was you who killed her.' He sat back, staring at me. 'Yeah ... could be. Maybe it mightn't be such a lousy idea I talk to the cops. They might be more interested in you than in me. I haven't a motive for killing her, but you damn well have.'
I kept my face expressionless although my heart began to thump.
'I didn't kill her,' I said, looking straight at him, 'and I don't think you killed her either, but if you're so set about it, we'll go down to headquarters and let them decide.'
He gave a weak grin.
'Okay, pal, I believe you,' he said. 'I don't want any trouble. She's dead. Nothing I can do can bring her back to life. Between you and me, I don't care who killed her.' He sat forward, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. 'I've been in trouble with the cops in the past. If they don't hang this on you, they'll try to hang it on me. It's safer to keep clear of it. Suppose you get out of here and let me go to bed? I have an early train to catch and I feel like hell.'
I decided to jump a fast one on him.
'You know this fellow Ross?' I asked.
His reaction was disappointing. He just stared.
'I don't know anyone,' he said, picking his words carefully. 'Take my tip: if you want to stay alive, you won't know anyone either in this lousy town. Now suppose you let me some sleep?'
'Do you think he killed her?'
His loose mouth curved into a grin.
'Ross? You kidding? He wouldn't have the nerve to kill a fly.'
So I tried another fast one.
'Then you think Art Galgano killed her?'
That scored a bull.
He stiffened, his hands turned into fists and he went white. For a long moment he just sat there, staring at me, then he said in a husky voice: 'I don't know who killed her. Now get out of here!'
I had a feeling I wasn't going to get anything more out of him. I was too tired now to care. I told myself I'd waylay him in the morning and have another crack at him. Right now I just had to get some sleep.
I got to my feet.
'I'll see you before you leave here,' I said as I plodded over to the door. 'I'm not through with you, so don't imagine I am.'
'Aw, forget it,' he mumbled and let the glass of whisky slip out of his hand. It propped to the floor, making a little dark puddle on the carpet. 'I've had enough of this lousy town. I'll be glad to get out.'
I looked at him as he sat there, sweat glistening on his face, dark rings of fatigue around his eyes, the whisky bottle clutched in his hand. He didn't make a pretty picture.
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