James Chase - I'll Get You for This

Little Louis’s place was the last building in a row of battered wooden ruins. I flipped my cigarette into a puddle, stood back, looked up at the house. The cat moved delicately towards the puddle, sniffed at the cigarette, howled dismally.

“Some joint, puss,” I said.

The building was a three-storey job; no lights showed, most of the windows had rotten planks nailed across them. It was a proper dump, the kind of building Hollywood favours when creating a chiller atmosphere.

I tried to get round the back of the building, but found it looked on to a kind of reservoir. The stillness and blackness of the water was deceptive. It looked solid.

I went back to the front of the building, tried the front door. It was locked. I prowled around, found a lower window, tried to move it, but it wouldn’t budge. I went to the next window, heaved. It creaked loudly. I cursed the plank, took out my gun, forced the barrel backwards and forwards until the plank broke away from its rusty nails. I made less noise than I expected. I hoped no one had heard the first creak, which had been something.

I worked on the next plank, got rid of it, and was ready to squeeze through. I looked into the room beyond, saw nothing but darkness, heard nothing. I fished out an electric torch from my hip pocket, turned the beam into the room. It was unfurnished, dirty; a rat scurried away from the light.

With my gun in my right fist, I stepped over the sill, down into the room.

The cat jumped up on the sill, peered at me. I shooed it away. It seemed reluctant to leave me, but it went eventually, jumping down into the darkness outside.

A full minute of breathless listening got me nowhere. Holding my gun-arm tight against my side, I began exploring the room. There were footprints in the dust on the floor; a hand-print by the door. The place smelt of decay, bad drains.

I reached the door, turned the handle, pulled the door gently towards me. I peeped into a dingy passage, lit by a naked gas-jet. I listened. Nothing.

Sliding my torch back into my pocket, I edged out of the room into the passage. Another door faced me. To my right was the front door; to my left a flight of stairs. They looked rotten and broken, and there were no banisters. It was some hide-out.

I crept across the passage to the opposite door, put my ear against the panel, listened. After a moment or so I heard feet scrape on the wooden floor.

I wondered if Bat was behind the door. My heart was beating steadily; I wasn’t excited. I had come to kill Bat, and I was going to kill him.

My hand slid over the brass door-knob. I squeezed it, turned slowly. It made no sound as it turned. When it wouldn’t turn any further, I pushed.

I looked into a narrow, dimly lit room full of wooden packing-cases stacked up along the unpapered walls. In the centre of the room was a table and chair. Near the rusty stove stood a truckle bed, covered with a grimy blanket.

Little Louis sat at the table. He had a deck of greasy playing-cards in his hand, and he was laying out a complicated patience game. He raised his head as I stepped into the room.

Little Louis was a hunchback. The complexion of his dried-up face looked as if it had been sand-blasted. His hard little eyes glinted under thick black eyebrows. His shapeless mouth, like a pale pink sausage split in two, hung open.

He stared at me, his right hand, hairy and dirty, edged off the table to his lap.

“Hold it,” I said, lifted the .38.

His mouth tightened, snarled, but his hand crept back on to the table again.

I moved further into the room, closed the door with my heel, advanced.

He watched me, puzzled, suspicious.

“What do you want ?” he asked. His voice was high-pitched, effeminate.

“Get away from the table,” I said, pausing within a few feet of him.

He hesitated, pushed back the wooden box on which he was sitting, stood up. Something fell to the floor off his lap. I glanced down. A broad, squat knife lay at his feet. It looked very sharp, deadly.

“Get back to the wall,” I said, advancing on him.

He retreated, his hands raised to his shoulders. There was no shock of fear in his eyes. As I passed the knife I picked it up, dropped it into my pocket.

“Where’s Bat Thompson?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed. “Who wants him?”

“You’d better talk,” I said. “I’m in a hurry.”

He grinned evilly. “You’ve made a mistake,” he said. “I don’t know any Bat Thompson.”

I edged towards him. “You’d better talk,” I said.

“Who are you? You’re new to the racket, ain’t you? Guys don’t threaten me. I’m everyone’s pal.”

“Not mine,” I said, smacked him across his face with the barrel of my gun.

His head jerked back. A red weal appeared on his harsh skin. His eyes glinted murderously.

“Where’s Bat?” I repeated.

He snarled at me so I hit him again.

“I can keep this up all night,” I told him pleasantly, grinned. “Where’s Bat?”

He pointed to the ceiling. “Top floor; the door facing the stairs.” He began to curse me softly, a mumbling flow of obscenity.

“Alone?” I said, lifting my hand, threatening him.

“Yeah,” he said.

I studied him. He was too dangerous to leave. I decided to provoke him into a fight. It turned out to be a dumb idea.

I nodded, shoved the .38 down the waist-band of my trousers. “Why couldn’t you have said so before?” I asked. “It’d’ve saved you a lot of grief.”

Two terrifying long arms shot out towards me; arms that seemed to stretch like elastic. I thought I was well out of his reach, and was waiting for him to jump me, but the arms came as a surprise. Two hands clamped on my wrists. They felt as if they had been welded to my flesh. He jerked me towards him.

He had twice my strength and the jerk nearly snapped my neck. I cannoned against him, felt his hands whip up to my throat. He was a shade too slow. I got my chin down, so he gripped that; before he could dig his claws into my neck, I sank a punch into his belly with all my weight behind it. He doubled up, snarling, and as I rushed him, he swung his fist, clouted me on the side of the head. It was like being hit with a hammer. I found myself lying on my side, bells ringing in my ears. I twisted over, saw through a red mist the misshapen legs moving towards the door. I grabbed at them, hung on, pulled him down. He fell close, squirmed around and uncorked another sledge-hammer blow. I ducked under it, felt it whizz past my head. My right hand yanked out the .38; holding it in my fist, I punched him in the face with it.

He gibbered with pain, got close, his evil-smelling head under my chin. He clawed at my body with steel fingers. I continued to hit him about his face and head with the gun butt. I couldn’t get much steam into the blows because he was lying on top of me, but I succeeded in making a mess of his face.

He got sick of it before I did, scrambled away, opened his mouth to yell. I rammed the gun barrel into his open mouth.

“Make a sound and I’ll blow your top,” I said.

The cold gun barrel in his mouth terrified him. He gagged, tried to wriggle away, but I forced the barrel further down his throat. He grabbed my wrists, yanked. The barrel shot out of his mouth, but the gun-sight caught his front teeth; they shot out too. He yammered in his throat, flung me off, raised himself up, half crazy with rage and pain, slammed down at me with both fists. If they had landed he would have flattened me, but I rolled against him, stabbed him in his belly with the gun barrel.

He gave a croaking howl, fell back, holding on to himself. Blood oozed between his fingers.

I knelt over him, panting, belted him between the eyes. He passed out.

Getting to my feet I fought to recover my breath. My legs felt weak, my heart thumped furiously. We had only fought for a couple of minutes, but it had been an experience. He had been as strong as an ape.