James Chase - He Won't Need It Now

She turned to face him.

“Who was that guy that tried to get tough with you?”

“Max Weidmer. He and Cattley used to work together.”

Duffy nodded. “Okay; put her to bed, Alice, and be nice to her.”

As Alice led her from the room, Olga said, “But his face? How did he get so knocked about?”

Sam jerked his head. “She was talking about you.”

“Know where this Weidmer hangs out?”

Sam frowned. “Now what?” he asked.

“Come on.” Duffy’s face was set.

Sam went to the telephone and spun the dial. While he ’phoned Duffy went into the bathroom and washed his face and hands. Sam came in a moment later. “He’s got a room at the Lexingham Hotel.”

Duffy said, “Thanks,” then he walked into the sitting-room again.

Sam came in looking lost. “What’s breaking now?”

Duffy said, “Lend me your rod.”

“Hey! You ain’t going to mess around with a heater, for God’s sake.”

“Don’t talk; I’m getting action. Come on, give me the gun. I want to get going.”

Sam sighed and began taking off his dressing-gown. “Okay,” he said, “but I’m coming with you.”

Duffy touched his arm. “You ain’t,” he said. “Things might happen round this burg. You gotta stay and keep an eye on things.”

Sam screwed up his eyes. “What is this?” he demanded.

“Weidmer tried to twist that dame’s neck. He thinks she knows too much. I fancy he might try and get at her here. That’s why you stay put.”

Sam’s eyes grew big. “You want to take my gun?” he said. “What about me?”

“Get going,” Duffy said impatiently, “give me the gun before Alice starts on me. If you drink enough of that panther’s breath, you won’t need any gun.”

Sam went over to the hall table and came back with a .38 automatic. Duffy took it, looked at the magazine, then stuck it down the waist-band of his trousers. He adjusted the points of his vest to hide the butt.

“I may be late,” he said.

Alice came out just as he stepped into the hall. She just caught a glimpse of him. “Where’s that crazy coon going now?” she asked.

Sam put down the apple-jack hastily. “He’s going to get another dame,” he said wildly. “He’s going to fill the whole goddam house with ’em.”

Alice took his arm. “You come along,” she said. “What you need is a good night’s sleep.”

She didn’t see the worried look in his eyes, as he followed her into the bedroom.

Outside in the street, Duffy flagged a taxi. He gave the driver instructions and then got in the cab. He thought he was spending his life in taxis.

The drive was a long one, and it was just after twelve o’clock when the driver pulled up outside a shabby building.

Duffy paid him off and walked up the steps. The place looked more like a boarding-house than a hotel. He saw a row of letter-boxes and he examined them carefully. Weidmer’s name was on the fourth one. Duffy rang the bell at the top of the row, furthest away from Weidmer’s. A moment later he heard the catch being pulled on the front door and he walked in. The hall was lighted by a small gas-burner, and he had just enough light to grope his way upstairs.

On the second floor, he found Weidmer’s rooms. He put his hand on the butt of the gun, and then turned the handle. He was surprised to feel the door give. He looked carefully over his shoulder to right and left,, then drawing the gun, he stepped quietly into the dark room. He stood in the darkness, listening. There was no sound, except the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room. He just stood, holding his breath, listening. Then, when he was satisfied that the room was empty, he struck a match and lit the gas-burner.

It was a large room, full of shabby furniture. Across the far end stood a bed. Duffy jerked up his gun. There was someone lying face downward across the sheets; it was Weidmer. Duffy moved across the room, his gun steady. But Weidmer was dead. Duffy guessed that before he touched him. He turned him over, and then caught his breath; a big, gaping wound showed in Weidmer’s throat. Someone had certainly made a job of it, Duffy thought. He released Weidmer, and let him slump back on the bed.

For several minutes, he stood there thinking furiously. Then he began a systematic search of the room. He guessed it would be useless, but he made his search just the same. He couldn’t find the camera anywhere. He found one thing that made him blink his eyes. At the bottom of a drawer, he dug out a large glossy photograph. At first glance he thought it was some movie star, then he recognized Annabel English.

“Well, by God,” he said.

Across the photo, scrawled in large sprawling writing, was: “To dear Max, from Annabel.”

Duffy folded the photo and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he slipped the gun once more down the front of his trousers, and quietly let himself out of the room.

Once more out in the street, he again flagged a taxi and gave Annabel’s address. Lying back against the hard seat of the cab, his eyes closed a little wearily, but his mouth was hard and set. He was going to bust the business right on the chin, he told himself.

With the key Morgan had given him, he entered the door leading to the organ loft, and quietly walked up the spiral staircase. When he reached the loft, he found the sitting-room was brightly lit, although no one was visible. He swung his leg over the balcony and lowered himself quietly to the floor.

From across the room he could hear the sound of running water. He thought maybe she was taking a bath. Quietly he began to circulate round the room, opening and shutting drawers. When he came to the wine cupboard he had to kneel down to examine inside. At the back of the cupboard, behind a row of sherry bottles, he found his camera. He took it out and examined it carefully. The first thing he noticed was that the film had been removed. He put the camera in his pocket and shut the cupboard doors carefully.

The bath water had ceased to run, and there was a heavy silence in the apartment. Walking across to the door, he put his hand on the knob and gently turned it, then he walked in.

Annabel was lying in the bath, her eyes closed, smoking a cigarette. Duffy thought she looked swell. He shut the door very gently, and put his back against the panels.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. The only surprise she showed was the way the cigarette slipped out of her mouth. It fell into the water with an angry hiss, then floated down the bath until it rested on her knee. It lay on her knee, looking like some peculiar birthmark. Duffy eyed it with interest.

She shifted one of her feet, causing the water to ripple. “This calls for a foam bath, don’t it?” Duffy said. He went over and sat on the bath stool, that was quite close to the bath. From there he could see the small bruise where he had hit her.

“Get out of here,” she whispered.

He said, “We’re going to have a little talk.” He took from his pocket the camera and showed it to her. Then he produced the photo and showed that to her as well. She lay quite still, her eyes black with hate.

“I know who killed Cattley now,” he said. “Whoever had the camera rubbed Cattley, I knew that. I had only to find the camera to burst this open. You played your hand very badly, didn’t you?”

She said, “Get out of here, you sonofabitch.”

Duffy’s mouth set in a hard grin. “When I do,” he said, “the cops are moving in.”

She sat up suddenly in the bath, slopping the water, over the edge with her violence. “You can’t pin this on me,” she said; her breathless voice was shrill. “Find Cattley and see.”

Duffy raised his eyebrows. “So you shifted him, have you?” he said.