James Chase - Shock Treatment

He leaned forward to pick up the screwdriver, but he wasn’t within reaching distance of it. The chair, with its high wheels, made it impossible for him to pick up the tool.

He looked at me.

“You know this guy must have had indiarubber arms.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. To cover up, I lit a cigarette. I waited for his next move.

He got out of the chair and pushed it back into the lounge, humming gently under his breath.

I followed him and I felt pretty bad.

He sat down in one of the lounging chairs.

“I’d like to get the scene fixed in my mind,” he said. “You found him. When you walked into the room — what did you see?”

“The chair was within a few feet of the TV set and he was lying face down on the floor in front of the set. There was this screwdriver by his hand.”

“So he had fallen out of the chair onto the floor?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

“I saw the back was off the set, and I realized he had electrocuted himself. I pulled the mains plug out and then examined him to see if there was anything I could do to help him, but he was dead.”

“How did you know that?”

“He was turning stiff and he was cold.”

“You’re sure he was cold?”

“Yes: that’s how I knew he was dead.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I called Sheriff Jefferson and he came out with Doc Mallard. Doc said Delaney had died around nine fifteen.”

“He judged that from the rigor and the temperature of the body?”

“I guess so!”

“Okay.” He got to his feet. “I guess I’ve seen all I want here for the moment. Leave the set as it is, will you? I’ll want to take another look at it.” He walked over to the window and stared at the view. “It’s a damn funny thing, but Maddox never seems to be wrong. There’s something about this setup that doesn’t jell. You can see that for yourself. That guy, Maddox! Come the time when I prove him wrong!”

I didn’t say anything. My heart was beating sluggishly, and I felt scared.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to poke around a little.” He held out his hand. “I’ll be seeing you. Where can I contact you?”

I gave him my telephone number and watched him write it down on the back of an envelope.

I said, “You think there’s something wrong with the claim?”

He grinned cheerfully at me.

“You think about it. You know as much as I do. The guy was paralysed. He couldn’t have reached those screws. He couldn’t have picked up that screwdriver. He was stone cold when you found him, and yet he had been dead only for three hours on a hot day, after getting a boosted electric shock through him. He had taken out an insurance policy a few days before he died. By dying the way he did, his wife cashed in for five thousand bucks. Maybe it all happened the way it seems to have happened. I don’t know.” He tapped me gently on my chest. “We guys in the insurance racket are suspicious of anything that doesn’t jell. I’m going to dig around and see if I can find anything else that doesn’t jell. Then I’ll know if this claim is a phoney or not. Maybe I’m wasting my time, but ^ that’s what I’m getting paid for. Be seeing you,” and nodding, he walked down to his smart, sleek Packard.

I watched him drive away, then slowly I walked back into the lounge.

This was a bad start, I told myself, but it didn’t mean he could prove Delaney had been murdered. He would have to go a long way before he proved that. My plan hadn’t been one hundred per. cent foolproof, but at least, it hadn’t entirely come apart.

I sat for some minutes, smoking and thinking.

I saw that much depended on Harmas not finding out that Gilda and I were lovers. If he found that out, he would have the motive: the wife, the crippled husband, the lover and five thousand dollars of insurance money. It was the perfect setup for murder.

I had to warn Gilda again to stick to the story I had given her: that she had gone down to Glyn Camp, that, on the way, she had had a flat, and she had been delayed while she had changed the tyre.

I decided I would go down to Los Angeles and call her from a pay booth.

I drove into Los Angeles soon after four o’clock. I went to a pay booth and rang her number, but there was no answer. I guessed she was out looking for a job. I hung around, killing time and I kept ringing the number. It wasn’t until nearly seven that I got an answer.

I wasn’t taking any chances. For all I knew they might have already tapped her line.

“Gilda: don’t mention my name,” I said. “Listen carefully, I’m calling from a pay booth. The number is 55781. I want you to go out to a pay booth and call this number. I’ll be waiting. It’s urgent.”

“But why can’t we talk now?”

“Not on your line. Please hurry. Have you the number?”

“I have it.”

“I’ll be waiting,” and I hung up.

I waited in the pay booth, smoking and sweating in the stuffy atmosphere for ten minutes. Then the bell rang and I lifted the receiver.

“Gilda?”

“Yes. What is all this, Terry? What is happening?”

“The insurance people are probing as I thought they would,” I said. “They don’t appear satisfied the way he died. We’ve got to be careful. I think they are watching you, Gilda. Now listen...”

“Terry! What are you talking about? Why should I care if they are watching me? I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of! You’re keeping something from me! I’ve had that feeling ever since he died. I must know what it is!”

“It’s just that we’ve got to be careful they don’t find out about us, Gilda... that’s all.”

“I must see you, Terry!”

“No! I have an idea they are watching you. If they see us together, it will be the give away. We can’t meet yet.”

“I’m going to see you, Terry! I’m going to see you tonight!”

“They may be watching you, Gilda,” I said. “If they see us together...”

“Where are you now?”

“The drugstore on Figuroa and Florence.”

“Wait for me outside. I’ll be along in the Buick in about an hour’s time.”

“But listen, Gilda...”

“Oh, it’ll be all right,” she said impatiently. “I’ll make sure no one is following me,” and she hung up.

It was a long wait.

A little before half-past seven, I left the drugstore and stood in the shadows. It was dark now. I wanted to go home, but I had an idea that if I didn’t meet her now, she would come to my cabin and I knew that could be fatal.

Ten minutes later, the Buick Estate Wagon edged to the kerb. I ran across, opened the door and slid in beside her. She forced the Buick back into the stream of traffic and drove on down the busy thoroughfare.

Neither of us said anything.

After a few moments, I looked back at the line of headlights behind us.

“No one is following us,” Gilda said. “I made sure.”

“They’re experts...”

“No one is following us!”

There was a curt snap to her voice I hadn’t heard before, and I looked quickly at her.

In the lights of the passing street lamps, she looked pale and her expression set. She stared ahead, driving well, moving the big car through the gaps in the traffic, her foot touching the gas pedal every now and then to shoot us forward, ahead of the car in front of us.

We drove like that for twenty minutes or so, then we were clear of Los Angeles and we were heading into the open country, along the fast highway.

Still we said nothing.

Another twenty minutes driving brought us to a side road. She pulled off the highway onto the road, accelerated, driving fast, climbing the steep hill, and then, in a few minutes, she pulled onto one of those laybys, constructed specially for courting couples or for tourists who wish to see Los Angeles from the heights.