James Chase - Hit and Run

‘What’s your name?’

‘Ed Nutley. I’m her agent.’

That made sense. I remembered Dolores had mentioned an agent.

‘Why didn’t you call the police?’

He drank some more whisky. The spirit seemed to stiffen his nerve. He scowled at me.

‘What’s it to you?’ he growled. ‘Come to that: who are you? You’re not a cop, you’re not a newspaper man, and I’ll be damned if you are a shamus—just who the hell are you?’

‘Look, if you don’t want to answer my questions, we’ll call the police and maybe you’ll answer theirs.’

He wilted.

‘I was going to call them,’ he muttered. ‘As soon as I had got over the shock, I was going to call them.’

‘Go ahead and call them now, then,’ I said, hoping the whisky hadn’t made him reckless enough to do just that thing.

He put the glass down, and for an uncomfortable moment I thought he was going to reach for the telephone, but instead he took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, stuck one on his lower lip and set fire to it.

‘I know you,’ he said suddenly. ‘I must be losing my grip not to have tumbled to you before. You’re the guy who was to have sprung her rail fare.’

I put the .45 back on the dressing-table, then I moved around him, picked up the second glass on the tray and made myself a small drink, I felt I needed it. I carried the drink across the room, then sat down on an upright chair by the window.

‘Suppose I am?’ I said.

He stared at me.

‘Well, for crying out loud! Did you give her the money?’

‘You’re getting away from the subject,’ I said. ‘I want to know why you didn’t call the police when you found her murdered. You’ll either tell me or we’ll go down to headquarters and you can tell them.’

He hesitated, then lifted his shoulders.

‘I didn’t want to get mixed up in anything,’ he said, and took out a soiled handkerchief and wiped his sweating face. ‘They might think I knocked her off.’ He put his handkerchief carefully away. ‘It wasn’t as if I hadn’t warned her…’ He stopped abruptly and frowned, ‘I just didn’t want to get mixed up in anything.’ he concluded lamely.

‘What did you warn her about?’ I asked.

Again he hesitated, then he picked up his glass and finished his drink. He poured more whisky into his glass before saying: ‘I don’t know why I’m talking to you. Maybe I’m drunk, but if you’re all that interested, I told her she was crazy to think of marrying this cop.’

‘Why did you tell her that?’

He sucked down half the whisky, then stared at me with bleary eyes.

‘Because he was no good, but she wouldn’t listen.’ He scowled, turning the glass in his soft dirty hands. ‘She never would listen to anything I said. I warned her she was getting involved in some dirty racket, but she laughed at me. A cop couldn’t live the way he did unless he was up to his ears in slime. She didn’t give a damn. She thought by marrying him she could quit show business, and that’s all she thought about.’ He took another gulp at his drink. ‘Now she’s landed up with a broken head.’

‘Just what was O’Brien’s racket?’ I asked, sitting forward on the edge of my chair.

He looked slyly at me.

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Why did she want to leave town?’

He blew out his cheeks.

‘Well, there wasn’t anything more here for her. She wanted to have a look at Mexico.’

‘She was anxious to get out. There was more to it than that. What was it?’

He sloshed more whisky into his glass.

‘Did you give her the dough?’

‘I gave it to her but whoever killed her took it,’ I said.

He rubbed his hand over his sweating face, his eyes still trying to focus.

‘I guess I’m getting drunk. Let me think about this.’ He again rubbed his hand over his face. After a moment he said: ‘If you know what’s happened to her, you must have seen her before I did. That means you knew she was dead before I did. She had a hook into you for five hundred bucks and you’ve just told me you gave the dough to her.’ He belched softly, putting his hand over his mouth. ‘I may be half cut, but I’m not stupid. Maybe it was you who killed her.’ He sat back, staring at me. ‘Yeah… could be. Maybe it mightn’t be such a lousy idea I talk to the cops. They might be more interested in you than in me. I haven’t a motive for killing her, but you damn well have.’

I kept my face expressionless although my heart began to thump.

‘I didn’t kill her,’ I said, looking straight at him, ‘and I don’t think you killed her either, but if you’re so set about it, we’ll go down to headquarters and let them decide.’

He gave a weak grin.

‘Okay, pal, I believe you,’ he said. ‘I don’t want any trouble. She’s dead. Nothing I can do can bring her back to life. Between you and me, I don’t care who killed her.’ He sat forward, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. ‘I’ve been in trouble with the cops in the past. If they don’t hang this on you, they’ll try to hang it on me. It’s safer to keep clear of it. Suppose you get out of here and let me go to bed? I have an early train to catch and I feel like hell.’

I decided to jump a fast one on him.

‘You know this fellow Ross?’ I asked.

His reaction was disappointing. He just stared.

‘I don’t know anyone,’ he said, picking his words carefully. ‘Take my tip: if you want to stay alive, you won’t know anyone either in this lousy town. Now suppose you let me some sleep?’

‘Do you think he killed her?’

His loose mouth curved into a grin.

‘Ross? You kidding? He wouldn’t have the nerve to kill a fly.’

So I tried another fast one.

‘Then you think Art Galgano killed her?’

That scored a bull.

He stiffened, his hands turned into fists and he went white. For a long moment he just sat there, staring at me, then he said in a husky voice: ‘I don’t know who killed her. Now get out of here!’

I had a feeling I wasn’t going to get anything more out of him. I was too tired now to care. I told myself I’d waylay him in the morning and have another crack at him. Right now I just had to get some sleep.

I got to my feet.

‘I’ll see you before you leave here,’ I said as I plodded over to the door. ‘I’m not through with you, so don’t imagine I am.’

‘Aw, forget it,’ he mumbled and let the glass of whisky slip out of his hand. It propped to the floor, making a little dark puddle on the carpet. ‘I’ve had enough of this lousy town. I’ll be glad to get out.’

I looked at him as he sat there, sweat glistening on his face, dark rings of fatigue around his eyes, the whisky bottle clutched in his hand. He didn’t make a pretty picture.

I went out into the dimly lit corridor and shut the door. Although I didn’t want to spend the rest of the night in this sordid, smelly hotel, I just couldn’t face the long drive back to my bungalow.

I went into room 29, turned on the light and moved over to the bed. I took off my jacket and shoes, then I flopped on the bed, my bones aching for some comfort.

I tried to think of the events of the day. I tried to analyse what I had learned from Nutley, but I was too tired to care.

In a minute or so I was in a heavy, dreamless sleep.

The crash of gunfire brought me awake with a start that nearly threw me off the bed.

I sat upright, my heart slamming against my ribs, staring into the darkness, knowing that someone had fired a gun.

Then I heard quick, soft footfalls going along the passage. I slid off the bed, crossed the room without turning on the light, gently unlocked the door and opened it.

I peered out into the empty passage.