James Chase - Hit and Run

‘It’s time you had a little sleep now, Mr. Roger,’ she said with a I’m-standing-no-nonsense-fromyou expression in her eyes. ‘Dr. Schulberg said you had to be asleep by eleven, and it’s gone half past.’

I expected R.A. to tell her to go to hell, but he didn’t.

‘That damned quack,’ he grumbled, not looking at her as he pushed the collection of papers towards me. ‘Well, all right. Take this junk, will you, Scott?’

As I put the papers in the folder, he went on: ‘This is what I’ll have to put up with for the next four weeks. Give me a call as soon as the board meeting is over. Watch out for Templeman. He’s the trouble maker. Come and see me tomorrow night. I want to know how you’re handling the Wasserman account. That and Beauty Soap have got to be watched every second or we’ll lose them.’

I said I would take care of everything, hoped he would get a good sleep and eased myself out of the room.

I crossed to the elevator, pushed the call button, but nothing happened. Someone who had used the elevator must have left the grille gate open, I decided, and I moved along the corridor to the stairs.

Half-way down, I saw below me a landing with several doors opening on to it. One of the doors stood wide open, and a light came out and made a bright rectangular pattern on the green-and-white carpet.

The carpet on the stairs was thick and muffled my footfalls. I guess that was why she hadn’t heard me coming down.

She was standing before a full-length mirror, looking at herself, her hands lifting her long, chestnut-coloured hair off her shoulders, her head a little on one side. She had on one of those fancy things called shorties that reached only to within four inches of her knees. Her legs and feet were bare.

She was the loveliest thing I have ever seen in my life. Maybe she was twenty-two, but I doubted it, twenty would be nearer it. She was young and beautiful and fresh, and everything about her was exciting from her thick, long glossy hair to her small bare feet.

The sight of her touched off a spark inside me that had been waiting to be touched off ever since I had become what is technically known as a man, and which no woman had up to now succeeded in touching off.

The spark ignited with a flash that knocked me mentally backwards and sent a flame through me that dried my mouth, made my heart pound and left me breathless.

I stood motionless in the semi-darkness looking at her, aware that my blood was racing, my heart was thumping and aware that I had never seen a woman I wanted so badly as this one.

Maybe she had an instinctive feeling that she was being watched or maybe she had finished admiring herself in the mirror; anyway, she suddenly stepped back out of my sight, and the door was pushed to.

For perhaps ten seconds I stood motionless, staring at the half-closed door, then I went on down the stairs, down the next flight to the hall. It was only when I reached the hall that I paused to take out my handkerchief and wipe my sweating face.

Watkins came out of the lounge.

‘A warm night, sir,’ he said and his old shrewd eyes peered at me. ‘You had no hat?’

I put my handkerchief back into my pocket.

‘No.’

‘You have a car, sir?’

‘Yes.’

I made a move to the front door. He opened it for me.

‘Good night, sir.’

I said good night and walked out into the warm, silent darkness. I was glad to get into the car and sit behind the driving wheel.

Although she must have been thirty-five years younger than Aitken, I was sure she wasn’t his daughter nor his mistress. I felt in my bones she was his wife, and that knowledge turned me sick to my stomach.

I didn’t sleep much that night.

I had a lot on my mind. There was this business of the New York partnership which I knew was a chance in a lifetime. There was tomorrow’s board meeting that could be tricky.

There were five directors of the International and Pacific Agency. Four of them were bankers and they were co-operative and admirers of Aitken. The fifth member was an attorney, Selwyn Templeman, a know-all and a nuisance and the thought I had to handle him bothered me.

Then there was the Wasserman account. Joe Wasserman was the biggest manufacturer of TV sets on the Pacific coast. He was one of our most important clients and our biggest spender, and he knew it. Every so often he’d threaten to take the account away and give it to some other agency, but so far we had managed to hold on to him. Aitken always dealt direct with him: one of the very few accounts Aitken handled himself. Now I had it in my lap and that bothered me too.

Then there was the thought that from tomorrow for a possible four weeks I would be boss of the International with a hundred and fifteen men and women working under me, and two hundred and three clients who were liable to write or telephone about their problems any hour of the working day and expect me to have the answers at my finger-tips. Up to now this thought hadn’t bothered me because I knew if the going got tough I could always go to R .A. and drop the sticky end into his lap. I could still do that, of course, but if I did, I knew he wouldn’t think much of me. A man with a broken leg doesn’t want to deal with anything except an emergency, so that bothered me too.

As I lay in bed with the moonlight coming through the window and hearing the sound of the sea breaking on the shore, all these problems seemed pretty overpowering until I took a look at them. It was then that I realized the real reason why I was sweating it out in the semi-darkness was because my mind was obsessed with the picture of Roger Aitken’s wife as I had seen her standing before the mirror.

That was the thing that kept me from sleeping: the picture of her lifting her thick, chestnutcoloured hair off her white shoulders, the shape of her breasts under the frilly shortie, the young, fresh beauty of her, and the realization that she was Aitken’s wife and the burning need I felt for her. It was that picture that kept my mind feverish and stopped me from sleeping. Why had Aitken married her: a girl young enough to be his daughter? I kept asking myself. More important still: why had she married him? Surely no young girl could fall in love with a man like R.A.?

Don’t imagine I didn’t try to snap out of this mood. I did my best to stop thinking about her. I told myself she was R.A.’s wife and therefore sacrosanct. She wasn’t for me. She couldn’t possibly be for me. I was crazy to think of her the way I was thinking of her, but it didn’t help. I didn’t sleep much that night. I just couldn’t get her out of my mind.

I got to the office after nine o’clock the following morning. I arrived as Pat was entering the express elevator and I joined her. We were huddled against the wall, surrounded by other workers, and we smiled at each other, but we didn’t speak because there were ears all around us.

It wasn’t until we were in my office that I told her about the New York project.

‘Oh, Ches, how wonderful!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve always wondered why he didn’t set up on his own and in New York. To think you’ll be in charge!’

‘It’s not certain. I could make a hash here, and then I’m out.’

‘You won’t make a hash here. You’ll handle it. You mustn’t even think you could make a hash of it.’

‘I’ll want you in New York, Pat. I couldn’t handle the job without you.’

Her eyes sparkled as she said, ‘You couldn’t keep me away from New York. I’ve always wanted to work there.’

It was while I was going through the mail that Joe Fellowes wandered in.

‘Hey, boss,’ he said, grinning at me. ‘How was the old man?’

‘The only difference was he was lying in bed and not pacing up and down,’ I said. ‘Look Joe, I’m busy. I’ve got this board meeting in a few minutes. What do you want?’