Just Another Sucker (3 page)

I was plastered. I was not only plastered but I was demoralised. If this rich woman was so dumb as to leave the money right here, then she deserved to lose it.

Then far away, a faint voice that was my own said to me, ‘Have you gone crazy? It’s stealing! If they catch you with your record, you’ll go away for ten years. Put the goddam bag down and get the hell out of here! What’s the matter with you? Do you want ten more years in a cell?’

But the voice was too far away to make an impression. I wanted that money. It was easy. All I had to do was to take it out of the bag, put it in my pocket, close the bag, put it back on the shelf and fade away.

The barman couldn’t see me. There was a continual stream of people going in and out of the booth.

Anyone could have taken it – anyone.

The money was there – probably not two thousand dollars, but getting on that way.

I wanted it.

I needed it.

So I took it.

I dropped the roll into my pocket and shut the bag. My heart was thumping and I felt what I was – a 9

James Hadley Chase. Just Another Sucker. 1961

thief. There was a tiny mirror above the telephone. I saw a movement in it. I still had the bag in my hand. I looked in the mirror.

She was right there behind me, watching me. Her sun goggles reflected the light so they made two little green spots in the mirror.

But she was there.

How long had she been there I didn’t know.

But she was there.

10

James Hadley Chase. Just Another Sucker. 1961

I

When you get a shock that squeezes your heart, paralyses your brain and turns your body cold, you die a little.

I stood looking into the mirror on the wall of the booth, the handbag gripped in my hand, staring at the two enormous green pieces of glass that formed her sun goggles, and I died a little.

I became suddenly sober. The whisky fumes that had clouded my brain went away: it was like a razor, slitting through gauze.

She would call the barman and he would find the roll of money in my pocket, then he would call a cop. Once the cop arrived, I would be a parcel of meat to be handled safely and surely back into a cell, but not for four years: it would be a much, much longer sentence this time.

Fingers tapped lightly on the glass door of the booth. I put the handbag on the shelf and turned, then I opened the door.

The woman moved slightly to one side to let me have room to come out.

‘I think I left my handbag…’ she said.

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I was going to give it to the barman.’

Maybe the best thing I could do was to push past her and get onto the street before she had time to open the bag and find the money missing. Once I got on the street I could throw the money away, then it would be her word against mine.

I started to make the move, then stopped. The barman had come from behind the counter and was blocking the exit. He was looking puzzled, and he came forward, still keeping his vast bulk between me and the door.

‘Is this guy annoying you, lady?’ he said to the woman.

She turned her head slowly. I had a feeling that whatever the emergency she would always remain poised and unruffled.

‘Why, no. I stupidly left my handbag in the booth. This gentleman was going to give it to you to keep for me.’

The barman looked suspiciously at me.

‘Is that a fact?’ he said. ‘Well, okay, if that’s what he says.’

I just stood there like a dummy. My mouth was so dry I couldn’t have spoken even if I had known what to say.

‘Anything of value in the bag, lady?’ the barman asked.

‘Oh, yes. It was stupid of me to have forgotten it.’

She had a clear, hard voice. I wondered vaguely if her eyes, hidden behind the sun goggles, were as hard.

‘Hadn’t you better check to see if anything is missing?’ the barman said.

‘I suppose I’d better.’

I wondered if one quick punch would get me out of this. I decided it wouldn’t. The barman looked as if he had taken a lot of quick punches in his day, and he looked as if the diet had agreed with him.

She moved past me into the booth and picked up the bag.

I watched her, my heart scarcely beating. She stepped out of the booth, opened the bag and looked inside. With slim fingers, the nails painted silver, she moved the contents of the bag about, her face expressionless.

The barman breathed heavily. He kept glancing at me and then at her.

She looked up.

Here it comes, I thought. In half an hour from now, I’ll be in a cell.

‘No, there’s nothing missing,’ she said. She turned her head slowly to look directly at me. ‘Thank you for taking care of it for me. I’m afraid I am very careless with my things.’

I didn’t say anything.

The barman beamed.

‘Okay, lady?’

‘Yes, thank you. I think we might celebrate.’ She looked at me. The round green globes of her goggles told me nothing. ‘May I buy you a drink, Mr. Barber?’

So she knew who I was. It wasn’t all that surprising. The day I had been released, the
Herald
had run a photograph of me, saying that I had been released from jail after spending a four-year stretch for a manslaughter charge. They hadn’t forgotten to mention that I had been drunk at the time. It had been a good photograph and it had been on the front page where no one who read the
Herald
could miss it. Just a sweet trick that Cubitt would dream up.

There was a steely quality in her voice that told me it might be healthier for me to accept the invitation, so I said, ‘Well, it isn’t necessary, but thanks.’

She turned to the barman.

‘Two highballs with lots of ice.’

She moved past him to the table when I had been sitting and sat down.

I sat down opposite her.

She opened her handbag, took out the gold cigarette case, opened it and offered it to me.

I took a cigarette. She took one too. She lit mine with the gold lighter, then her own: by this time the barman had come back with two highballs. He put them on the table, then went away.

‘How does it feel, Mr. Barber, to be out of prison?’ she asked, letting smoke drift down her nostrils.

‘All right.’

‘I see you are no longer a newspaper man.’

‘That’s correct.’

She tilted the high glass, making the ice cubes tinkle and she regarded the glass as if it interested her more than I did.

‘I’ve seen you come in here quite often.’ She waved silver nails to the window. ‘I have a beach cabin across the way.’

‘That must be nice for you.’

She picked up her drink and sipped a little of the highball.

‘Do these frequent visits to this bar mean you haven’t fixed up a job yet?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you hope to get fixed up pretty soon?’

‘That’s right.’

‘It can’t be easy, of course.’

‘That’s right.’

‘If employment was offered to you, would you be interested?’

I frowned at her.

‘I don’t get this. Are you offering me employment?’

‘It is possible. Would you be interested?’

I reached for the highball, then changed my mind. I had had more than enough to drink.

‘Doing what?’

‘It would be very well paid, very confidential and with a small element of risk. Would that worry you?’

‘You mean it would be illegal?’

‘Oh no… it wouldn’t be illegal… nothing like that.’

‘That doesn’t tell me anything. Where does the risk come in? I’m ready to do any job so long as I know what I am doing.’

‘I understand.’ She took another sip from the highball. ‘You’re not drinking, Mr. Barber.’

‘I know. What’s this job you want done?’

‘I’m a little pressed for time right now, besides this is scarcely the place to discuss a confidential proposition, is it? Could I telephone you some time? We could meet somewhere more convenient.’

‘I’m in the book.’

‘Then I’ll do that. Tomorrow perhaps. Will you be in?’

‘I’ll make a point of it.’

‘I’ll settle the check.’ She opened her purse, then she paused, frowning. ‘Oh, I was forgetting.’

‘I wasn’t.’

I took the roll of money from my pocket and dropped it into her lap.

‘Thank you.’ She flicked the fifty off, drew a five from under it and put the five on the table, then she dropped the roll into her bag, closed it and stood up.

I stood up too.

‘Then tomorrow, Mr. Barber.’

She turned and walked out of the bar. I watched the heavy, sensual roll of her hips as she crossed the street. I went to the door and watched her walk leisurely to the car park. She got in a silver and grey Rolls Royce and she drove away, leaving me staring after her, but not so startled as to forget to memorise her car number.

I went back to the table and sat down. My knees felt weak. I drank a little of the highball, then I lit a cigarette.

The barman came over and collected the five-dollar bill.

‘Some dish,’ he said. ‘Looks loaded with dough. How did you make out with her? Did she give you a reward?’

I stared at him for a long moment, then I got up and walked out. Just for the record, that was the last time I ever went in there. Even when I had to pass it, the sight of the place gave me a cold, sick feeling.

Across the way was the branch office of the A.A.A. The clerk in charge was a guy I had known well while I had worked for the
Herald.
His name was Ed Marshall. I crossed the road and went into the office.

Marshall was sitting at a desk, reading a magazine.

‘Why, for the love of Mike!’ he exclaimed, starting to his feet. ‘How are you, Harry?’

I said I was fine and shook hands with him. I was pleased to get such a welcome: most of my so-called friends had given me the brush off when I had looked them up, but Marshall was a decent little guy: we had always got along together.

I sat on the edge of his desk and offered him a cigarette.

‘I’ve given them up,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘This lung cancer has me scared. How’s it feel to be out?’

‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘You can get used to anything, even living out of jail.’

We talked of this and that for ten minutes or so, then I got around to the real reason why I had called on him.

‘Tell me, Ed, who owns a grey and black Rolls. The number is SAX1?’

‘You mean Mr. Malroux’s car.’

‘Do I? Is that his number?’

‘That’s right: a honey of a car.’

Then the nickel dropped like a chunk of lead.

‘You don’t mean
Felix
Malroux?’ I said, staring at him.

‘That’s him.’

‘You mean he lives in Palm Bay? I thought he lived in Paris.’

‘He bought a place here about two years ago. He came here for his health.’

I was now aware that my heart was thumping, and I had trouble in keeping and looking calm.

‘We are talking about the same man? Malroux: the zinc and copper millionaire? He must be one of the richest men in the world.’

Marshall nodded.

‘He is. He’s a pretty sick man from what I hear. I wouldn’t swop places with him for all his dough.’

‘What’s the matter with him?’

Marshall grimaced.

‘He’s a lung cancer case. There’s nothing anyone can do for him.’

I looked at my cigarette, then stubbed it out.

‘That’s tough. So he’s bought a place here?’

‘Yep. He’s bought East Shore: Ira Cranleigh’s place. He’s had it practically rebuilt. It’s a wonderful situation: own harbour, own beach, own bathing pool, own everything.’

I well remembered Ira Cranleigh’s house. He had been a big oil operator and had built the house at the far end of the bay. He had got into a financial mess and had had to sell. The sale was being negotiated at the time of my trial. I never had heard who had bought it.

I lit another cigarette while my brain jumped over hurdles and darted through hoops.

‘So the Rolls is his?’

‘Just one of about ten cars he owns.’

‘It’s a beaut. I’d like to own it myself.’

Marshall nodded his balding head.

‘Me too.’

‘Who would be the woman, driving it? I couldn’t see much of her. She was a blonde, wearing big sun goggles.’

‘That’d be Mrs. Malroux.’

‘His wife? She didn’t look old… I’d say she was around thirty-two or three. Malroux must be getting on. I seem to have been hearing about him ever since I was a kid. He must be pushing seventy or more.’

‘About that. He married again: some woman he fell for in Paris. I forget who she was: a movie star or something. There was quite a write up about her in the
Herald
.’

‘What happened to his first wife?’

‘She had a car accident about three years ago.’

‘So Malroux’s here for his health?’

‘That’s it. His wife and daughter like living in California anyway, and the climate is supposed to be good for his health. That’s the way the quacks talk: from what I hear, nothing now will be any good for him.’

‘So he has a daughter?’

Marshall flicked his thumb, then stuck it in the air.

‘He certainly has. From the first marriage: she’s only a kid: eighteen, but some chicken.’ He winked at me. ‘I’d rather have her than the Rolls.’

‘Hey! Hey! I thought you were a respectably married man.’

‘So I am, but you want to see Odette Malroux. She’d make a corpse have wicked thoughts.’

‘So long as you keep it to thoughts,’ I said and slid off the desk. ‘I’d better get moving. I’m late as it is.’ ‘What’s the interest in Malroux, Harry?’

‘You know me: I saw the car and the woman. I was just curious.’

I could see I hadn’t convinced him, but he didn’t press it.

‘If you happen to want a temporary job, Harry,’ he said awkwardly, ‘we’re hiring guys to take a traffic count, starting from tomorrow. It pays fifty a week and lasts ten days. Any good to you?’

I didn’t hesitate one second.

‘That’s nice of you, Ed, but I’ve got something lined up.’ I grinned at him. ‘Thanks all the same.’

In the bus, on the way home, I turned over in my mind the information I had got from Marshall. It excited me.

The wife of one of the richest men in the world had a job for me. I had no doubt about it. She would telephone tomorrow. An element of risk, she had said. Well, okay, I was willing to take risks if the money was big enough, and it would be.