James Chase - Hit and Run

I repeated the question.

‘He said he had lost the last train out and was catching the first one in the morning. He has a call in for seven o’clock.’

‘A train to where?’

He shook his head regretfully.

‘He didn’t say. It wouldn’t be Frisco. There isn’t a train to Frisco tomorrow at half past seven. Could be San Diego. The last train to San Diego left at half past two this morning, and the first one out leaves at half past seven.’

I thought for a moment, then asked: ‘What’s his room number?’

The night clerk put his finger on the bill and very slowly, very gently, began to draw it towards him.

‘Room 28,’ he said, ‘but don’t get any wild ideas. No one goes upstairs without they hire a room first.’

‘Room 27 or 29 vacant?’

He looked over his shoulder at the line of keys hanging on the keyboard, then without taking his finger off the bill, he reached out his left hand and took the key of room 29 off its hook.

He laid it down before me, and then with a movement as fast as a lizard nailing a fly, he whipped the ten-dollar bill out of sight.

‘Two bucks for the night,’ he said. ‘It’s not a bad room: anyway, it’s better than his.’

I shelled out the two bucks, then I picked up the key.

‘Just in case I oversleep,’ I said, ‘give me a call at half past six.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Up the stairs, first floor, turn left at the head of the stairs.’

I thanked him, crossed the lobby and climbed the stairs to the first floor.

The passage lights were dim. The carpet I walked on felt paper thin; the doors I passed were shabby and the paint faded. A faint smell of cabbage water, bad plumbing and unwashed bodies hung over the passage. The Washington was obviously not one of the class hotels of Palm City.

As I approached room 27, I stepped lightly and paused outside room 28 to listen. I didn’t hear anything, so I moved on to room 29, slid the key into the lock, turned it gently and eased open the door. I groped for the light switch, found it and turned on the light.

I entered a rabbit hutch of a room, careful to tread softly. I shut the door and then looked around.

There was a bed, a toilet basin, a strip of carpet and two upright chairs. On the wall, over the bed, was an engraving of a woman with wings and a wisp of tulle across her fat behind. She was hammering with clenched fists on an iron-studded door. She probably represented love locked out and if love was anything like her, it was a good thing the door looked so impregnable.

I crossed the room and sank on to the bed.

The time by my strap watch was ten minutes to three and I suddenly felt completely bushed. It had been the most eventful and disturbing Saturday of my life and I wondered uneasily where I was going from here.

I was tempted to stretch out on the bed, dressed as I was, and catch up with some sleep. I was actually giving way to the temptation when I heard the ping of a telephone bell: the ping you hear when you lift the receiver. It came from the room next door.

I was immediately wide awake and listening.

The man who had signed himself in the register as Turner, said: ‘Send up a bottle of Scotch and some ice, and let’s have some service.’

There was a pause, then he growled: ‘I don’t give a damn. Just let’s have it without a lot of argument,’ and he hung up.

For several moments I sat staring down at the dusty carpet, then, with an effort, I pushed myself off the bed and tiptoed to the door, cased it open and then turned off the light in the room. I supported myself against the door post and waited.

Maybe ten minutes crawled by: it seemed like an hour. Then I heard slow dragging footsteps on the stairs. I fumbled in my wallet and took out a five-dollar bill. This seemed to be a money-spending night, but at least I was getting some return for the outlay.

The night clerk came along the corridor carrying a tray on which stood a bottle of whisky and a container of ice. He walked as if he were having trouble with his feet.

When he got to within touching distance of door 25, I moved out into the corridor and blocked his progress. I held up the five dollar bill so he could see it, then I pushed it towards him. At the same time I took the tray out of his hand.

He accepted the bill the way a hungry tiger accepts a chunk of meat, then he stared blankly at me, shifted his gaze to door 28, then softly backed away.

I watched him walk down the passage to the head of the stairs. He looked back, stared at me again, then went quietly down the stairs and out of sight.

I lowered the tray to the floor, just outside room 28, and then rapped on the door.

‘Who is it?’ the man who called himself Turner demanded.

‘Room service,’ I said and braced myself, leaning against the door panel.

I heard him cross the room, turn the key and then he opened the door.

I heaved my weight against it.

The door slammed open and Turner or Ed or whoever he was staggered back and was in the room.

For a man nudging sixty his reflexes were surprisingly good. He recovered himself, spun around and dived for the bed where a Colt .45 was lying.

I charged him, flattening him across the bed.

His hand closed over the gun. My hand closed over his. For a brief moment we exerted our individual strengths, but age was on my side.

I twisted the gun out of his grip, heaved myself off the bed and on to my feet before he could sit up.

When he did sit up he found himself looking down the barrel of the gun: something I’d rather he experienced than me.

He stared at me, his red-veined, broken complexion turning a dusty purple.

‘Relax,’ I said, trying to breathe normally but without much success. ‘I want to talk to you.’

His tongue that looked like a strip of leather dyed purple moistened his lips.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded, his voice thick and unsteady.

‘Never mind who I am,’ I said. ‘There’s the makings of a drink outside the door: suppose you fetch it in and we can have a conference.’

He must have needed a drink badly, for he shot off the bed and grabbed the tray as if his life depended on it. He carried the tray tenderly into the room and set it on the bed.

While he was pouring Scotch into a glass, I moved around, closed the door and turned the key in the lock.

He shot the Scotch down his throat in one long swallow, then he made a second drink.

‘I have mine with ice,’ I said gently.

He stared glassily at me.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’ he growled, clutching on his glass, his eyes going over me. From the puzzled expression on his face, he could make nothing of me.

‘I’ll ask the questions and you supply the answers,’ I said, making my voice sound tough. ‘Why didn’t you call the police when you found her?’

The colour went out of his face, leaving only the red broken veins against a tallow background.

‘You know what happened to her?’ he croaked.

‘I know. I saw you go in and I saw you come out. Why didn’t you call the police?’

‘What good would that have done?’ he said, shifting his eyes from me.

‘What’s your name?’

Again the purple tongue came out and moved over his dry lips.

‘Turner: John Turner.’

‘Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it,’ I said and picked up the gun. It felt heavy and awkward in my hand. I had read about .45’s in detective stories, but this was the first time I had actually handled one. I was surprised to find it this big and this heavy. ‘Get up and stand against the wall. I’m going to call the police.’

Some whisky jumped out of his glass and splashed on his knees.

‘Now, wait a minute,’ he said huskily. ‘I don’t know a thing about it. I found her. Someone had hit her on the head.’