James Chase - Get a Load of This

He had been drinking heavily and was slightly unsteady on his feet. The reek of whisky on his breath was so strong that I turned my head with a slight grimace of disgust. He said with a grin: “Sorry, ol’ man, but we’ve been cel-cel—you know. Come on in, an’ get tight. I warn you, you’ve got to get tight an’ stay tight if you’re staying in this dump.”

He took me into a large lounge. At the far end, through open double doors, I could see a number of people sitting or standing with glasses in their hands. They all looked in our direction. One of the girls came to the door, then moved towards us.

George said, “This is Myra,” and introduced me.

Myra Luckton’s name was familiar to me as frequent references to her parties appeared in the Press, but I don’t remember ever seeing a photograph of her, and, consequently, it came as a considerable shock meeting her for the first time. It was entirely due to a habit of wearing a poker face that I did not openly reveal my dismay.

It is exceedingly difficult to describe Myra. She was above the average height, small-featured, silky platinum hair, and, of course, she was perfectly groomed. So much for what God and money had given her, but her expression took away everything that could have counted in her favour. To be brutally frank, she looked like a very expensive street-walker. Her eyes were cold, calculating and vicious, and her mouth was hard. She gave me the impression that she was utterly brazen, and there was nothing she would hesitate to do to satisfy a lust for sensation.

I’m afraid I must have betrayed a little of my dismay, or else she was very shrewd, because, as she took my hand, she gave me a little jeering laugh and said: “What a lovely man. I do believe I’ve shocked him already.”

George was watching me too. “Take no notice of her,” he said, “she’s as tight as a tick.”

She laughed as he said that and put one slim white arm round his neck. “Do come in and meet the others,” she said. “They’ve all read your books and they think they’re too marvellous.”

Later, when I escaped to my room, I was very thankful to sit by the window and look across at the beautiful bay. I had quite made up my mind that I could not stay in this house long.

I proceeded to change for dinner. As I wandered around the large airy room, shedding my clothes about the floor, I turned over in my mind the tragedy of George’s wedding.

It was quite obvious to me that he detested Myra. She was obviously thrilled to have married someone so famous, but there was no question of her having any true affection for him. It was a thoroughly unpleasant marriage.

A tap sounded on the door, and George came in. He sat on the bed. I saw that he was still rather high, but his face was very serious and lined as he stared at me. “What do you think of her?” he asked abruptly.

That was the one question I never thought he would ask me. It annoyed me to think that he was forcing me into a lie, as I could not tell him the truth.

He saw my hesitation. “Say it. Speak your mind. You’re the one guy I’ve met who has been on the level with me. So tell me.”

“I’m afraid you are not very happy,” I said. “I’m sorry, George.”

“My God! You don’t want to be sorry for me. I’ve brought it on myself, haven’t I? I knew what I was doing. No, I’m a heel. I’ve sold myself to that woman for the stacks of dollars she’s got. You know that, don’t you?”

I lit a cigarette and wandered over to the window. “I must tell you that there is a rumour that your firm, Hemingway, Sawyer & Curtis, are in a bad way.”

George stared at me. “You know that?” he asked, his face going very white. “Who else knows?”

“It’s not common talk yet, but I’m afraid it will be very soon.”

“You think I’m a heel, don’t you?” he said. “You think I’m marrying this girl to save my own skin. Well, you’re wrong. I’m trying to save all those little guys who put their money into the oil-fields because I told them they couldn’t go wrong. I thought it was a good thing. We all did. We let the little man in and kept the big speculator out. It was to be the small man’s dream. It was my idea; it is my responsibility. I was the fool who thought the idea up. My partners didn’t care a damn so long as they got the backing. I said: ‘We’ll give the little guy a chance,’ and then the wells went dry—”

I went over and sat by his side. “What’s Myra going to do about this?”

“She wants her pound of flesh. She’ll give me enough capital to pay out the shareholders if—” He got up and began to wander round the room.

“Well, go on. If—what?”

“There’s a big race at Miami next week. The trophy is for the fastest speed on land. You don’t just have to beat the other guy, you’ve got to beat your own previous best record. She says if I get that, I can have the dough.”

“Why are you drinking again?” I asked.

“Because I’m so scared that I’ve got to drink. I hate this house and everyone in it; I hate the sound of her voice and her laugh. If I don’t drink I shall crack up.”

“I’m sorry about this, George,” I said. “Is there anything I can do?”

He made a little grimace. “Yes, you can. I’m afraid it isn’t a pleasant job. You see, I don’t trust Myra. I want to get it down on paper. I want you to witness it and see that, in the event of an accident, she carries out her bargain.”

“Don’t talk like that. There mustn’t be an accident. Besides, the whole thing falls down if you don’t win the race.”

He shook his head. “No, as a matter of fact she would be more thrilled if I was killed. You see, it would give her a lot more fun being a widow of a racing-ace, and she is quite prepared to pay for that.”

What could I say? The whole business was, from the very start, fantastic, but now it was rapidly developing into a nightmare.

He was quite right about the week being grim. Myra seemed to find me amusing, and took special pains in keeping me away from George. We did not get one day’s fishing during the whole week. In fact, I took refuge in my room as much as possible with the excuse that I was polishing the last chapter of my book.

The topic of conversation was entirely about the coming race. George was seldom sober, and joined in with the crowd as if he had nothing on his mind. Myra and he were never alone together, and the rest of the party seemed to find nothing odd in this. Myra came in for an enormous amount of admiration as George’s wife, and I could see how she revelled in being the centre of attraction.

During the week I had the opportunity of studying her, and I came to the conclusion that she was an exceedingly dangerous woman. Sometimes, I would catch her watching George, and I could see a smouldering suppressed hatred in her eyes which made me extremely uneasy.

On the Sunday before the race, George asked me to come into the library. “I’ve got a draft drawn up. I want you to look it over, and then witness her signature.”

We went into the library. Myra was sitting in an easy chair. She smiled at me as I came in. “So George has let you into our little secret,” she said. There was a tigerish look in her eyes as she spoke. “What do you think of him? Do you think it is awfully nice to marry a girl for her money?”

“Surely, Mrs. Hemingway,” I said quietly, “it is not so one-sided as that. I believe you have struck a bargain as well.”

She laughed. “Why, of course, and I always get the best of a bargain. I’m not so stupid as you think.”

George said abruptly: “Shall we get this over, and join the others?”

She shrugged. “Poor little George. He is so anxious to save his silly investors.”