James Chase - Figure It Out for Yourself

There were six pumps, two air- and water-towers in a row before a large steel and corrugated shed that acted as a repair shop. To the right was a dilapidated rest-room and snack bar, and behind the shed, almost out of sight, was a squat, ugly looking bungalow with a flat roof.

At one time the station might have looked smart. You could still see signs of a blue-and-white check pattern on the build-ings, but the salt air, the sand from the desert, the winds and the rain had caught up with the smartness, and no one had bothered to take on an unequal battle.

Before one of the gas pumps was a low-slung Bentley coupé; black and glittering in the sunshine. At the far end of the ramp leading to the repair shop was a four-ton truck.

There seemed no one about, and I drove slowly up to one of the pumps and stopped; my bumpers about a couple of yard from the Bentley’s rear.

I tapped on the horn and waited; using my eyes, seeing nothing to excite my interest.

After a while a boy in a blue, greasy overall came out of the repair shop as if he had the whole day still on his hands, and wasn’t sure what he was going to do with it now he had it. He lounged past the Bentley, and raised eyebrows at me without any show of interest.

At a guess he was about sixteen, but old in sin and cunning. His oil-smudged face was thin and hard, and his small green eyes were shifty.

‘Ten,’ I said, took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘Don’t exhaust yourself. I don’t have to be in bed until midnight.’

He gave me a cold, blank stare, and went around to the back of the car. I kept my eye on the spinning dial just to be sure he didn’t short-change me.

After a while he reappeared and shoved out a grubby paw. I paid.

‘Where’s Ferris?’

The green eyes shifted to my face and away.

‘Out of town.’

‘When will he be back?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Mrs. Ferris about?’

‘She’s busy.’

I jerked my thumb towards the bungalow.

‘In there?’

‘Wherever she is, she’s still busy,’ the boy said and moved off.

I was about to yell after him when from behind the repair shop came a tall, immaculate figure in a light check lounge suit, a snap-brimmed brown hat well over one eye and a blood-red carnation in his buttonhole: Jeff Barratt.

I sat still and watched him, knowing he couldn’t see me through the dark blue sunshield.

He gave the Buick a casual stare before climbing into the Bentley. He drove off towards Beechwood Avenue.

The boy had gone into the repair shop. I had an idea he was watching me, although I couldn’t see him. I waited a moment or so, thinking. Was it a coincidence that Barratt had appeared here? I didn’t think so. Then I remembered Mifflin had told me Lute Ferris was a suspected marijuana smuggler. I knew Barratt smoked the stuff. Was that the hook-up between them? Was it also a coincidence that Mary Jerome should have picked on his out-of-the-way garage from which to hire a car? Again I didn’t think so. I suddenly realized I was making discoveries and progress for the first time since I started on this case. I decided to take a look at Mrs. Ferris.

I got out of the Buick, and set off along the concrete path that led past the repair shop to the bungalow.

The boy was standing in the shadows, just inside the door of repair shop. He stared at me woodenly as I passed. I stared right back at him.

He didn’t move or say anything, so I went on, turned the comer of the shed and marched up the path to the bungalow.

There was a line of washed clothes across the unkept garden: a man’s singlet, a woman’s vest, socks, stockings and a pair of ancient dungarees. I ducked under the stockings, and rapped on the shabby, blistered front door.

There was a lengthy pause, and as I was going to rap again the door opened.

The girl who stood in the doorway was small and Compact and blowsy. Even at a guess I couldn’t have put her age within five years either side of twenty-five. She looked as if life hadn’t been fun for a long time; so long she had ceased to care about fun, anyway. Her badly bleached hair was stringy and limp. Her face was puffy and her eyes red with recent weeping. Only the cold, hard set to her mouth showed she had a little spirit left, not much, but enough.

‘Yes?’ She looked at me suspiciously. ‘What do you want?’

I tipped my hat at her.

‘Mr. Ferris in?’

‘No. Who wants him?’

‘I understand he rented a car to Miss Jerome. I wanted to talk to him about her.’

She took a slow step back and her hand moved up to rest on the doorknob. In a second or so she was going to slam the door in my face.

‘He’s not here, and I’ve nothing to tell you.’

‘I’ve been authorized to pay for any information I get,’ I said hurriedly as the door began to move.

‘How much?’

She was looking now like a hungry dog looking at a bone.

‘Depends on what I get. I might spring a hundred bucks.’

The tip of a whitish tongue ran the length of her lips.

‘What sort of information?’

‘Could I step inside? I won’t keep you long.’

She hesitated. I could see suspicion, fear and money-hunger wrestling in her mind. Money won, as it usually does. She stood aside.

‘Well, come in. It’s not over-tidy, but I’ve been busy.’

She led me into a back room. It was shabby and dirty and sordid. The furniture looked as if it had come from the junk- man’s barrow; the threadbare carpet sent out little puffs of dust when I trod on it. There were greasy black finger-prints on the overmantel and the walls. The least one could say of it was, it was not over-tidy.

She sat down in an easy chair that sagged under her weight and stared at me, uneasy and suspicious.

‘The boy said your husband is out of town. I didn’t believe him,’ I said.

‘I don’t know where he is.’ Her eyes suddenly filled with tears and she turned her head. ‘I think he’s skipped.’

I felt a prickle run up my spine.

‘What makes you think that?’

She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.

‘What about this money? I haven’t a damn cent. He went off, owing money everywhere. I haven’t enough even to buy food.’

‘You’ll get it if you have anything worth while to tell me.’

Her face hardened.

‘I could tell you plenty. They think I don’t know anything, but I do. I keep my ears and eyes open. I know all about them. I’ve had enough of this hole. I’ll sell them out if you give me enough to get away from here.’

‘Sell who out?’

‘Lute and Barratt.’

I took out my bill-fold. It felt very lean. I had only thirty dollars left. I took out a twentydollar bill and dangled it before her.

‘There’s more where this comes from. How much do you want?’

She leaned forward and snatched the bill out of my hand.

‘Five hundred and I’ll give you the works.’

‘What do you think I am—made of money? A hundred.’

She gave me a cold, fixed stare.

‘That’s my price; take it or leave it. I’m going to get out of here. I’ll give you a signed statement. It’ll blow the lid off their racket. Take it or leave it.’

‘I’ve got to know what I’m buying. You’ll get your five hun-dred if what you’ve got is what I want. Tell me.’

She hesitated, staring at me.

Who are you working for?’

‘Perelli. Let’s have it.’

‘I’ll give you a little of it,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll give you the whole of it when I have the money. Lute, Barratt and Dedrick are running the biggest smuggling racket on the coast. They’re supplying millions of reefers all over the country and to Paris, London, and Berlin. Lute looks after Los Angeles and San Francisco. Barratt takes care of London and New York. Ded- rick supplies Paris and Berlin. How’s that for a sample?’