James Chase - I'll Get You for This

“You’ll know,” I said. “I have one chance to get into that jail, and I’m taking it. That’s why

we’ve come here.”

“You’ll come here after you’ve been to the jail,” Davis pointed out. “Maxison will give you a swell funeral.”

“Quiet!” I said, then turned to look at Tim. “Maxison live over the premises?”

“Yep,” Tim said. “He’s lived there for years.”

“Come on,” Davis pleaded. “Don’t be mysterious. Tell me. I want to know.”

“This is a long chance,” I said, fishing out a packet of cigarettes and lighting one. I offered them round. The others lit up. “You heard what Mitchell said. No one can get near the jail unless he’s an official. He also told us a woman prisoner died this morning, and she’s to be posted tomorrow morning. Then she’ll be buried. Tim tells me Maxison is the only mortician in town. He does all the official burials, and that includes prison burials. I’m going to be his assistant. In that way I hope to get into the jail.”

Davis’s mouth fell open.

“For crying out loud!” he gasped. “Now that’s what I call a damn smart idea. How did you think of it?”

“I thought of it,” I said.

He took out his comb, lifted his hat, combed his hair.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “What makes you think Maxison will play, and suppose they recognize you at the jail?”

“Maxison will play,” I said quietly. “Tim tells me he has a daughter. I don’t want to do this, but I have to. We’re going to hold his daughter as hostage. If he tries to double-cross me, we’ll threaten to knock the girl off.”

Davis’s small eyes popped.

“We’re gangsters now, eh?” he said. “Jeeze! I don’t think I like this much.”

“You can duck out whenever you like,” I said, shrugging. “Hetty will look after the girl. It’s just a threat. I must have some hold on him.”

“Don’t be a sissy,” Tim said to Davis. “You’ve always looked like a gangster. It’s time you acted like one.”

Davis grunted. “Well, okay,” he said. “Kidnapping carries the death sentence now. Who cares?”

I opened the car, got out.

“Hey,” he went on, leaning out of the car. “Suppose they recognize you in the jail? What happens then?”

“Let’s wait and see,” I said. “You stay with the heep. Tim and I’ll handle this. If a copper shows, sound your horn and beat it. We don’t want them to get a line on you just yet.”

He wrinkled his fat nose. “We don’t want them ever to get a line on me,” he pointed out. “Well, go ahead, I’ll sit here and pray. I’m good at that.”

Tim and I went to the side door near the display window. I rang the bell. We waited.

There was a short delay, then we heard someone coming along the passage. The door opened and a thin, narrow-shouldered girl stood in the doorway.

I tipped my hat.

“I wanted to see Mr. Maxison,” I said.

She stared at me, then at Tim. “It’s very late,” she said. “Couldn’t you see him tomorrow?”

“Well, no,” I said. “It’s something I would like him to handle and it’s urgent.”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“If you’ll wait,” she said, and turned away. She got half-way down the passage, then came back. “What is the name, I please?”

“He wouldn’t know my name,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, looking at me again, and went away.

“That’s Laura Maxison,” Tim said. “Maxison thinks a lot of her. Odd little thing, ain’t she?”

I shrugged. “I guess if you had a daughter you’d think a lot of her whichever way she looked.”

“I guess you’re right,” he said.

The door opened again, and a lean, elderly man with a stoop peered at us.

“Good evening,” he said. “Was there something?”

“Yeah,” I said, eyeing him over. He was bald, with a great dome of a forehead, and his eyes were small and close set. He looked what he was, and foxy as well. “Can we come in?”

“I suppose so,” he said doubtfully, standing to one side. “It’s very late for business.”

“Better late than never,” Tim said for something to say.

We entered the passage and followed Maxison into the green-carpeted reception-room. The air in there smelt musty. There was also an odour of floor polish and embalming fluid, aromatic, sweet and sickening.

Maxison turned on a few more lights, and took up his stand by a large glass showcase full of miniature coffins.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said, pulling nervously at his faded purple and white tie. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m Chester Cain,” I said.

He took an abrupt step back, his hand jumped to his mouth. Fear made him look old and stupid. His thin, almost skull-like face turned the colour of ripe cheese.

“You don’t have to worry,” I said, watching him closely. “I’m here on profitable business… profitable business to you.”

His teeth began to chatter. “Please,” he stuttered, “you mustn’t stay here. I can’t do business with you…”

I jerked a straight-back chair towards him. “Sit down,” I said.

He seemed glad to.

“You and I are doing business whether you like it or not,” I told him. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll answer them. You’re burying a woman prisoner at the jail tomorrow?”

He cracked his finger-joints, his limbs trembled, but he obstinately shook his head. “I can’t talk to you,” he mumbled. “I hold an official position at the jail, and it’d be a breach of faith.”

“You’ll talk,” I said, standing over him, “or I’ll take you for a ride.” Jerking out the .38, I rammed it into his chest. For a moment I thought he was going to faint, but he managed to control himself.

“Don’t…” he began, in a husky whisper.

“You talking?”

He nodded wildly.

I put the .38 away.

“Okay. We’ll try again. This time get your answers out quick.”

He nodded again. His breathing had a rattle in it that added to the spooky atmosphere of the room.

“You’re burying a woman prisoner at the jail tomorrow morning,” I repeated. “Right?”

“Yes,” he said.

“What time?”

“Ten o’clock.”

“What time will you arrive at the prison?”

“Nine-fifty.”

“What’s the procedure ?”

He blinked, hesitated, then blurted out, “I and my assistant will prepare the body after the post-mortem, put it in the coffin and bring it back here for the relatives to claim.”

“You load the body into the coffin in the P.M. room or the woman’s cell?”

“In the P.M. room.”

I grimaced. That was what I had expected, but not what I had hoped to hear. It meant I should have to get Miss Wonderly from her cell down to the P.M. room. That wasn’t going to be easy.

“The coffin ready?”

He nodded.

“Show me.”

As he got to his feet, a bell tinkled faintly somewhere in the house. The sound took me like a flash to the door.

“Watch him,” I said to Tim, and shoved the .38 into his hand. I darted out into the passage.

As I moved towards a door at the far end of the passage, I heard a telephone dial whirring. I ran on tip-toe to the door, jerked it open and went in.

The thin, narrow-shouldered Laura was feverishly dialling the telephone. She looked up with a gasp as I entered. I cross the room, gently took the receiver out of her hand, hung up.

“I’d forgotten about you,” I said, smiling at her. “Call the police?”

She jumped back against the wall, her pale, plain little face terrified. She clasped her hands to her flat chest and shaped mouth for a scream.

“Don’t do that,” I said, “I want to talk to you.”