James Chase - He Won't Need It Now

“Listen, baby,” he said patiently, “this is going to be a quick journey. Leave all this junk. Just pack a bag. I’ll buy you the world when we’re out of this.”

She made a little face. “They’re so lovely.” She turned and looked at the things lying about.

“Come on,” he urged, “time’s moving.”

Together, they packed two large grips. Then Duffy went downstairs. He went into the kitchen and found a full bottle of Scotch. Taking two glasses, he went upstairs again. Putting the bottle on the small table by the bed he said, “Let’s have a drink.”

Olga came over and tore off the tissue wrapping round the bottle and flipped up the patent stopper. She splashed three inches of whisky into each glass.

Duffy said, “To us,” and they drank.

“We’re feeding at the ‘Red Ribbon’ tonight.”

She added some ginger ale to the whisky.

“And then…?”

“Gleason might bring the dough. I think he will. If he does, we get in the Buick and get out of town quick.”

“And the lists?”

He nodded. “Sure, I ain’t forgotten them. I’m going to collect right now. I’ll be gone about half an hour. You change. Put on something you can travel in.”

She came over to him and put her arms tightly round his neck.

“What’s this?” he asked.

She raised herself on her toes and whispered urgently in his ear.

He looked at the clock, then he shook his head. “Not now,” he said gently.

Her cool arms tightened, pulling his head down. “Please…” she said, very low. “Now.”

He put his lips gently on hers and pressed her to him, but his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking of Gleason, of Morgan, of the money, of how he was going to slip out of town. He was surprised at her. He thought this was a hell of a time to start a thing like this.

Then he put up his hands and took her arms from his neck, and pushed her away, still holding her arms.

“Tonight,” he said firmly. “Look at the time. I’ve gotta get to the bank.”

A faint colour came to her face, and she didn’t look at him. She turned away. “The bank will be shut, won’t it?” she said, still keeping her back to him. He noticed how toneless her voice was.

“Yeah, but I fixed that. There’s an audit that’s keeping ’em late. The teller there’s a pal of mine. I warned him I might want the list late.”

He wandered over to her. “You ain’t sore with me?” he said gently, putting his arms round her.

She turned her head. She was still flushed. “No. I’m not sore.” Then she said fiercely, “If only it were all over. If only we were out of this with the money, and safe.”

Duffy said, “Now don’t go into a spin. It’s going to work out okay, you see.”

“But you don’t know,” she said, her breasts suddenly rising and falling. “Bill, you don’t know. I’ve been through so much… and—and now I’ve found you. I’m frightened it won’t be all right.”

Duffy said, “Hey! You don’t want to get worked up. I tell you, we’ll get away with it. We’re going to have a fine time. We’re going to be in the dough. You and me. We’re going to have dough to burn… you see.”

She said quite quietly, “I feel something horrible’s going to happen.”

Duffy said, “Skip it, honey. The Scotch’s got hold of you.” He kissed her and he had to push her gently from him. Then he walked to the door. “I shan’t be long,” he said over his shoulder, and shut the door behind him.

She stood motionless where he had left her, then she suddenly said in a low voice, “Come back, I’m scared. Bill, come back….”

Out in the street, Duffy paused to light a cigarette. He threw the match from him and climbed into the Buick. As he started the engine he saw in his driving-mirror a big Packard turn into the street and drive slowly towards him. He glanced at it and then engaged his gear. His mind was still brooding on his future plans.

Pushing the pedal down, he drove the Buick fast. The Packard vanished from his mirror, and he thought no more about it.

At the bank there was a slight delay. Duffy had trouble in convincing the watchman that he had arranged to speak to the teller. The watchman was a stolid Irishman, with a big, beefy face, and not much brain.

Duffy took him through the explanation slowly again.

“Sure,” the watchman nodded his head, “but this joint’s closed see?” He said the last word with obvious triumph.

Duffy said bleakly, “Listen, punk, get going and tell Anscombe I’m here, or I’ll get you fired.”

The watchman blinked at him, then thinking it wouldn’t hurt him to inquire, he grumblingly left Duffy to cool his heels in the street. He came back again, after a delay that infuriated Duffy, and opened the iron-studded door.

“Come in,” he said shortly. “This is mighty irregular.”

Duffy stepped in and stood waiting. A flustered clerk came over to him and Duffy nodded at him. “I want that note-book I deposited,” he said shortly.

“Sure,” the clerk said. “Mr. Anscombe’s getting it for you.”

Anscombe came out of his office at the end of the hall and waved. He walked towards Duffy with a springy step. In his hand was the note-book.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” he said. “I got it out as soon as the janitor brought me your name. Take it and give me a receipt. I’m doing you a favour. We oughtn’t to do business as late as this.”

Duffy took the note-book, glanced at it, put it in his pocket and scribbled his name on the slip of paper Anscombe held out to him.

“Much obliged,” he said. “I want this in a hurry, and it’s worth something.”

Anscombe came with him to the door. He seemed in a hurry to get rid of him. Duffy stepped into the street. The air was very close. He cocked his eye at the sky. “Looks like a storm,” he said.

Anscombe said it did; then he said good night, and shut the door. Duffy grinned a little, found that he was sweating, and blotted his face with his handkerchief. Then he walked over to the Buick and climbed in. He pressed the spring in the panel that held the guns, took one of the automatics out, glanced at the clip and shoved it down the waist of his trousers. He took out the note-book and put it in the panel. Then he pressed the spring and snapped it shut. It would be safe there, he thought.

The clock on the dashboard stood at seven twenty-five when he pulled up again at Olga’s villa. He got out of the car and noticed that the light was still burning in her bedroom.

He said, “I bet she’s fretting over those dresses still.” He walked up the path, feeling the gravel through his thin soles. Then he opened the door with the key she had given him and entered the hall, shutting the door behind him.

He said, raising his voice, “You dressed yet?” He didn’t wait for her reply, but went into the sitting-room to get some cigarettes. He stopped at the doorway, feeling suddenly cold. Then he said, “For God’s sake…”

The room had been torn to pieces in the same way as his apartment had been. He just took one quick glance, then he blundered up the stairs, his legs curiously weak. At the top of the stairs he hesitated, then he called, “Honey!” The sound of his voice quite startled him. It was hoarse and quavering.

“If those lugs have touched her,” he thought. He took a step forward, then stopped again. “Honey,” he shouted. “You there?”

The silence in the house mocked him. He put his hand or the gun butt and pulled the gun out. Then he began to slide forward silently, his feet making no sound on the carpet. He reached the bedroom door and put his hand on the knob. Then he gently turned the handle, holding the gun waist-high. He walked in.