James Chase - He Won't Need It Now

English said, “Sure, tomorrow. When they got Morgan I’ll do that.”

Duffy said, “’Bye,” and hung up. He walked across to the window and looked out, lifting the blue blind away from the window and peering round the side. The rain ran down the window. He could only see faintly the street light. He dropped the blind and went once more to the telephone. It began to ring. Its sudden violence startled him. He sat on edge of the bed and pulled the receiver towards him.

Alice’s voice said, “Oh, Bill.”

He said, “Why, for God’s sake! It’s nearly two o’clock. What makes you call at this time?”

She said, her voice uneven, “Sam just heard. They say there’s been shooting at the Bronx. I was so frightened. I thought something had happened to you.”

“Where’s Sam?”

“They called him up. He’s gone down to headquarters. You are all right?”

“Sure, I’m all right. There’s nothing to worry about.” He paused and then went on, “Listen, honey, you’re right. This is getting me nowhere. I’m quitting. I got nineteen grand salted away, and another little packet tomorrow, then I’m through. English is taking the heat off, and it’s going to turn out swell.”

She said, “I’m… I’m glad. It is all right, isn’t it, Bill?” He thought she was crying.

“You see,” he said, “tomorrow we’ll have a party. You and Sam and me. It’s going to be fine. And listen, I’m coming round in the afternoon, and you and me will go shopping. You can buy yourself the world. Doll yourself up and surprise Sam. How do you like that?”

She said, her voice still anxious, “I shan’t rest until you’re with us.”

“Good night,” he said. “You’re worrying about nothing.”

When he hung up, he sat on the edge of the bed thinking. A little shiver ran through him suddenly, and he got up impatiently. “Hell,” he said. “I guess my feet are damp.”

DUFFY WOKE WITH A start. Across the room, the sun leaked round the side of the blind, throwing ragged lines of light on the walls.

The telephone was ringing, grinding shrilly.

He said, “Goddam it,” and turned over in the bed. Pulling the blanket over his ears, he tried to ignore the jarring noise, but the bell went on ringing, insistently.

He turned over again and climbed stiffly out of the bed. Scooping up the telephone, he shouted, “What the hell is it?”

Sam was yelling at the other end. He was so excited that Duffy couldn’t understand a word. He said, “I can’t hear you. What is it?”

Sam choked, then came over quieter. “For God’s sake, Bill,” he said. “Hell’s broken loose this end. English’s double-crossing you. He’s slapped every rap he can lay hold of on you.”

Duffy stiffened. “Tell me,” he said.

“They arrested Morgan on some counterfeit charge. Then English got on to headquarters and withdrew his protection. I was there when he did it. He’s thrown you to the wolves. They’re indicting you for Olga’s, Gleason’s and Annabel’s murder.”

Duffy sat limply on the bed, still holding the telephone. “The lousy rat,” he said.

Sam said urgently, “You’ve got to go carefully. They can’t hope to make all those raps stick.”

Duffy’s mouth twisted. “They’ll carry me to the station, that it?”

Sam said, “English is pulling wires. They’re waiting for you to run, then they’ll come after you with gunpowder.”

“That’ll let English right out of this, won’t it? Me stiff, he can pin all his lousy scandal to my tombstone.”

“What the hell are you going to do?”

Duffy said, “Skip. I guess I might make it in the Buick.”

Sam said, “They’ll be watching your joint by now. The news came over ten minutes ago. They started right away.”

Duffy said, “Do they know you’re in this?”

“No. They don’t even know I know you.”

“If I can’t make it, can I hide up at your place?”

“Sure,” Sam spoke without hesitation. “Why not come on over and lay up, until the heat’s cooled?”

“’I’ll try a getaway first.” Duffy said gently, “Thanks, soldier, you’ve been a swell help. My love to Alice. Don’t tell her more than you need.” He hung up and looked quickly at the clock. It was just after ten o’clock.

He dressed with cold unhurried haste. He made sure that he had his money safely distributed in his pockets, then picking up his hat he walked to the door, shot the bolt and stepped quietly into the passage.

As he walked into the deserted bar, he heard the faint wail of a siren, approaching rapidly. He smiled, without being amused, turned back and ran to the front door. He stepped into the street and walked across the road fast, but without any panic. He walked like a man about to start a day’s work, who knows he’s a little behind the clock.

He could see a long closed car swinging round the bend at the far end of the road. The siren was silent. He stepped hastily into the shadow of the garage and walked over to the Buick.

Schultz said, “Wait!” His voice had an edge to it.

Duffy peered and saw him standing in the dim light, half hidden by a big Packard.

“The cops are moving in,” Duffy said in a low voice. “I’m skipping. Want to come?”

Schultz shook his head. He was standing very still. Duffy looked again, then stiffened. Schultz was holding a shotgun in his hands; he was pointing it directly at Duffy.

Duffy said with stiff lips, “What’s the idea?”

“Put that dough on the floor,” Schultz said, “then you can skip.”

Duffy said, “The cops are just across the road. You can’t start anything.”

Schultz’s face was white, beads of sweat stood out on the backs of his hands. He said, “Don’t talk. Put the dough down quick.”

Duffy slowly put his hand inside his coat. The Colt-butt felt cold under his touch. Something was forcing him to pull that gun. A hidden instinct to keep what was his. His fingers closed over the butt and he braced himself. Then he jerked at the butt, at the same time he threw himself to one side.

There was a sharp choked roar from the shotgun, and something bit into Duffy’s side, sending him over on the oily concrete. White-hot wires of pain shot to his brain, making him feel sick and dizzy. He couldn’t think of anything, just the jagged pain eating at his chest.

Faintly he heard someone cursing him, and then hands roughly jerked him this way and that. When the blinding light went away from his eyes, he saw Schultz run out of the garage, holding a gun tightly in his hand.

Duffy pulled himself to his feet by holding on to the wing of the Packard. He heard Schultz fire once, then twice. The noise of Schultz’s gun was followed by a sharper report, as the cop in the car began shooting. The other cops were still in the Bronx.

Walking unsteadily over to the Buick, Duffy got in and started the engine. He tasted blood on his tongue, and he began to cough. Hard, tearing cough, that made his brain rattle in his skull. He could feel the blood running down his side, down his leg, into his shoe. Holding hard on to the wheel, he started the engine, slammed in the gear and shot out into the road. Schultz was still firing carefully at the cop from behind a stationary car. As Duffy swept past, both the cop and Schultz fired at him. The bullets made a cobweb on the window, but that was all. In his driving-mirror, he saw Schultz suddenly throw up his hands, and go over, like the felling of a tree. He had no time to see anything else, as the main road was ahead of him.

He drove fast, holding the wheel in both hands very hard, and sitting forward, his back clear of the seat. Hammers beat inside his head, and his chest seemed as if someone were stripping the flesh off his bones. He bit on to his underlip, and drove. His one fixed thought was to get to Sam’s place. It wasn’t far and it was safe. He thought if he held on a little longer, he’d make it.