James Chase - Hit and Run

I parked the Buick, got out and ran back to the intersection, then I started down Maddox Avenue, walking slowly.

When I was within fifty yards or so of the entrance to the Maddox Arms I stopped, and stepping into the shadows, I waited.

Five or six minutes crawled by, then I saw the man with the suitcase come hurriedly from the apartment block.

I moved out of the shadows and started down the street towards him, walking briskly like a man returning from a late party and anxious to get home.

The man with the suitcase paused as he reached the sidewalk and looked towards me. I saw him give a violent start at the sight of me, then turning quickly, he set off fast down the street.

I kept on behind him, slightly increasing my stride so as not to lose sight of him, but not going so fast that he could think I was following him.

He reached the intersection, looked back at me, and then he turned left.

As soon as he was out of sight, I broke into a run, running on my toes, and I was just able to spot him as he crossed the main street and turned down a dark side street.

As soon as he was out of sight, I ran across the street, then paused at the corner to look cautiously around.

I spotted him heading for a taxi rank where three taxis were in line, and I saw him get into the first taxi that moved off.

I raced down the street, jerked open the door of the second taxi and scrambled in.

‘Follow that taxi,’ I said to the driver. ‘There’s five bucks in it for you if you can keep it in sight. Don’t get too close. I don’t want the fare to know we are following him.’

The driver had the taxi moving before I had shut the cab door.

‘Not much chance he won’t spot us, boss,’ he said. ‘There’s no traffic for us to hide behind. I heard him tell my pal to take him to the Washington Hotel.’

‘He may change his mind.’ said. ‘I don’t want to lose him.’

‘Alf will tell me where he goes,’ the driver said. ‘The best thing is for me to drive straight to the Washington Hotel, otherwise he’s certain to spot us.’

I decided he was probably right.

‘Okay. Get me to the Washington first then.’

‘That’s the boy,’ the driver said approvingly and swung off down a side street and increased his speed. ‘You a private dick?’

‘Yes,’ I said, knowing that if I said no I would have to explain why I wanted to follow the taxi. ‘If I lose this guy, I’ll lose my job.’

‘You won’t lose him, pal,’ the driver said as he flung the cab around a comer so the tyres screamed in protest. ‘You sit tight. I’ll get you there.’

It took us less than five minutes to reach the hotel. The driver stopped his taxi within fifty yards of the entrance and then turned and grinned at me.

‘Well, he hasn’t arrived yet, but he will. Want me to wait?’

‘Yes.’

I took out my cigarettes and offered him one. We both lit up.

I remained in the cab, peering through the windscreen at the hotel entrance.

The Washington was a fourth-rate hotel, used mainly by travelling salesmen visiting Palm City. Its only asset was that it was close to the railroad station.

We waited in silence for five or six minutes, then just as I was beginning to think I had lost my man, I saw the taxi come down the street and pull up outside the hotel.

The man with the suitcase got out, paid the driver and then walked quickly into the hotel.

‘There you are,’ my driver said, turning to grin at me. ‘What did I tell you?’

I gave him five dollars.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll go and talk to this joker.’

‘Want any help?’

‘That’s okay.’

I got out of the cab, waved to him and then walked to the entrance of the hotel. I climbed the steps and paused just outside the double glass doors leading into the lobby.

The man with the suitcase was talking to the night clerk, an elderly, bald-headed man who was listening to what he was saying with a look of bored indifference on his face.

They stood either side of the reception desk. There was an overhead light that fell directly on the man with the suitcase. I took a good look at him.

He wasn’t the type of man I would expect Dolores to make a journey with. He was short and thickset and nudging sixty. His fleshy face was covered with tiny, broken veins of a heavy drinker. Now I could get a good view of him in the light, I could see his clothes were shabby and looked as if he had had them for a long time. His blue suit was shiny at the elbows; his grey felt hat was dirty and greasy. The only thing new about his attire was his tie: a gaudy thing of pale blue with horses’ heads in yellow.

As he talked to the night clerk, he kept wiping his face with a soiled handkerchief, and even at the distance from where I was standing, I could see he was nervous and upset.

Finally he gave the night clerk some money and the night clerk pushed the register towards him. The man signed the book, took the room key the night clerk dropped on the counter, then, picking up his suitcase, he crossed the lobby and disappeared up a flight of dimly lit stairs.

I stood there hesitating, then I pushed open the double glass doors and walked into the lobby.

The night clerk watched me come, his old, jaded face expressionless.

I arrived at the counter and leaned on it. There could be only one way to handle a man like this, I told myself after I had a close-up of him. His threadbare suit and his frayed cuffs told of his poverty. ‘I want information about the man who’s just gone upstairs,’ I said briskly.

Taking out my wallet, I produced a ten-dollar bill, let him get a good look at it before I began to fold it into a neat spill. Then I put it between the first and second knuckles of my left hand so it stuck up like a flag and rested my hand on the counter within three feet of him.

The night clerk’s eyes shifted from me to the folded bill. He began to breathe heavily through his pinched nostrils and his face showed slight animation.

‘We don’t reckon to give information about our clients,’ he said, a hesitant note in his voice. ‘Who might you be, mister?’

‘A man who buys information with a ten-dollar bill,’ I said.

He hunched his shoulders and closed his eyes while he appeared to think. Like that, he reminded me of a scraggy, broody hen. Then he opened his eyes and looked once more at the bill.

‘You’re not a cop,’ he said as if speaking to himself. ‘And you’re not a private dick.’

His jaded eyes shifted from the bill to my face and he searched earnestly for a clue, but it didn’t get him anywhere.

‘Never mind who I am,’ I said. ‘What’s his name?’

His hand that looked as if he had forgotten to wash it for several days, moved timidly towards the bill. I let him get to within a few inches of it, then I moved it out of his reach.

‘What’s his name?’ I repeated.

He sighed.

‘I don’t know. I bet it isn’t what he has written in the book,’ and he pushed the register towards me.

I read: J ohn Turner, San Francisco. The name was written in a tiny, badly formed handwriting.

‘Turner,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘If I had a dollar for every John Turner in this book, I’d be rich enough to quit this lousy job.’

‘Did he say why he was this late and how long he was staying?’

The night clerk hunched his shoulders again.

‘If I held the money, mister, it would help my memory. When you reach my age, you’ll be surprised how bad your memory gets.’

I dropped the bill on the counter.

‘Let it lie there,’ I said. ‘You keep an eye on it.’

He leaned over the bill and breathed gently on it, then he looked up and asked, ‘What was that you wanted to know, mister?’