James Chase - Hit and Run

There was a strong smell of cordite fumes drifting out of Nutley’s room. His door stood half open and the light was on.

I moved to the door and looked into the room.

Nutley sat on the floor, huddled in a corner. He was wearing a pair of soiled pyjamas and his feet were bare. Just below the pocket of his pyjama jacket was a splash of blood.

As I stood staring at him, the red stain slowly began to expand.

There was nothing I could do for him: there was nothing anyone could do for him. He was on his own now.

Somewhere down the passage a woman began to scream. I felt like screaming myself.

I SEEMED to have moved into a nightmare world where I was spending my time running away from dead bodies.

As I stood there in the open doorway, staring at Nutley, I realized I must not be found in this hotel, and I must get away before the police arrived.

The woman was still screaming somewhere along the passage, and another woman on the next floor now added to the din.

The grey, vacant, lost look on Nutley’s face told me he was dead. I was so tired it was an effort to force myself to turn and plod down the passage and to start down the stairs.

The screaming woman began to yell: ‘Police! Murder! Police!’ out of a window. Panic forced me into a run, and I arrived in the reception hall, my nerves crawling, my breath coming in laboured gasps, and there, another shock awaited me.

Lying by the desk, face down, his head resting in a pool of blood, was the night clerk. Someone had hit him viciously on his right temple, killing him as Dolores Lane had been killed.

By now I was getting used to the sight of violent death, and I paused to look at the body, my senses too numbed to care. As I looked at it, I heard the sound of a distant police siren and I stiffened, listening. The sound grew louder and menacing.

With my heart thumping, I started towards the double glass doors that led on to the street, then stopped as I realized that if I went that way I would walk right into the approaching police car.

Behind the reception desk was a door marked Servic e.

I ran around the counter, opened the door and stepped into a dimly lit passage. Ahead of me were stairs leading down into a basement. I didn’t hesitate. I went down them quickly, arrived in another passage that led to the kitchens. I paused to look into the vast underground cellar with its clutter of pots and pans and plates and dishes. There was no sign of life in there and, moving quickly, I went over to a door marked Fire Ex it.

I had some trouble in pulling back the bolts at the head and foot of the door, but finally got them back. I eased open the door and looked out into a dark alley.

I pulled the door shut behind and then walked quickly down the alley to the main street. At the end of the alley, I paused to I look cautiously up and down the street.

A police car stood outside the hotel entrance, but there was I no sign of any policeman.

Keeping to the shadows, I started off in the opposite direction, running with dragging feet, but at least running.

I had gone the length of two streets and had been forced into a walk when I saw a taxi crawling towards me. I realized I would be asking for trouble to stop the taxi, that once the alarm went out, the driver was certain to remember me and give the police a description of me, but I was too tired to care.

I waved and the taxi pulled up beside me. I told the driver to take me to Maddox Avenue fast.

He gave me a hard stare, then opened the cab door and I got in. We reached Maddox Avenue within ten minutes, and as we drove past Maddox Arms, I peered cautiously out of the cab window.

Three police cars stood at the entrance. There were five patrolmen standing by the cars and a plainclothes man. I had an idea the plain-clothes man was Lieutenant West, but as he was in the shadows, I could have been mistaken. At the corner of the next intersection, I told the driver to stop and I paid him off. When the cab had driven away, I walked down the street to where I had left the Buick.

As I edged away from the kerb, I heard a clock strike half past three. It had been a hell of a night, I thought, as I headed back to my bungalow. I was now mixed up not only in the accidental death of a cop, but I was also mixed up in three murders. It was the kind of situation one only encounters in a nightmare, but I was too tired to accept its full impact.

All I could think of now was to get home and get to bed.

I eventually arrived outside the bungalow as the hands of the Buick’s clock shifted to five minutes to four.

Leaving the car parked outside, I walked stiffly up the path, unlocked the front door and walked into the dark hall. I didn’t bother to turn on the lights. Crossing the hall, I made my way down the passage to my bedroom. I opened the bedroom door and stepped into darkness.

I paused there, a creepy sensation suddenly crawling up my spine. There was a faint smell of perfume in the still air, and that was something I had never smelt in my bedroom before.

I reached out and turned on the light. I felt my heart give a sudden sharp kick against my ribs.

Lying in bed, her chestnut hair half hiding her face, her bare arms outside the sheet, either dead or asleep, was Lucille.

I slumped against the wall while I stared at her. I couldn’t see any movement nor could I see if she were breathing. The shock of finding her in my bed was bad enough, but inside me began to grow a sick feeling of fear that she was dead.

Three people had died this night, and she could be the fourth. I had been able to walk out and lose myself after finding three bodies, but I knew if she were dead, I couldn’t walk away and forget her. She was in my bed and in my bungalow.

I made the effort. Pushing myself away from the wall, I crossed the room until I reached the bed. With a shaking hand, I very gently touched her arm.

She moved, giving a little sigh, and she turned slightly, pushing her face into the pillow as if to screen her eyes from the light.

I stepped back, drawing in a deep breath of relief. Then I saw her clothes scattered on the floor: a pair of lemon-coloured slacks, a white shirt, a pair of white panties and a brassiere on a chair.

I was beyond caring why she should be in my bed, and of the consequences if she were found here. So long as she was alive I didn’t care what happened.

All I wanted was sleep.

I went into the spare bedroom, stripped of my clothes, jerked the cover off the bed and slid under the sheet.

As my head dropped back on to the pillow, I began to drift off. The dead bodies, Lucille in my bed, the damaged Cadillac, the fear of the police and the menace of Oscar Ross dissolved into a heavy, dreamless sleep, and while I slept my problems and my fears sat at the foot of the bed, waiting to greet me when I awoke.

The hands of the bedside clock stood at five minutes past eleven when I opened my eyes. Hot sunshine was coming through the slats in the wooden shutters, making sharp patterns on the carpet.

For some moments I lay still, staring up at the ceiling, not quite convinced that I had been experiencing a horrible dream or if the events that now suddenly jumped into my mind had actually happened. Then as I became more awake, I realized this was no nightmare, and I threw off the sheet and slid out of bed. I took the spare bathrobe from the cupboard and put it on, then I went down the passage to the bathroom.

After I had shaved, I felt a little more capable of coping with the situation. As I came out of the bathroom, I heard movements in my bedroom, then the door jerked open and Lucille paused in the doorway.

We stared at each other.