James Chase - Get a Load of This

George gave me a sheet of paper. It contained very few words:

I promise to pay the sum of one million dollars to my husband if he wins the Morgan Golden Road Trophy. In the event of an accident resulting in his death during the race, I will pay that sum to Hemingway, Sawyer & Curtis. My cheque to be given immediately the race has been won.

I looked at her. “Have you seen this?” I asked her.

She laughed. “My dear man,” she said, “I drew it up myself. Are you satisfied? Here, give it to me. I will sign it.”

I re-read it and, finding no fault with it, I passed it over to her and she signed it. I witnessed her signature and handed the paper to George.

He shook his head. “You keep it,” he said, “it will be safer with you.”

She looked at him with her jeering smile. “Run away, George. I want to talk to Mr. Arden for a few minutes.”

When he had left us she lit a cigarette and stood up. There was no doubt she was very beautiful. “You must think my behaviour is very odd,” she said.

“The whole thing is so utterly preposterous that I would rather not discuss it,” I said tartly.

“George is afraid, isn’t he?” she said. “No one but you and I know that. He’s horribly scared. I’ve been watching him for several weeks now. The last time he raced he was nearly killed because he lost his nerve. I don’t think he’ll win this race, do you?”

I faced her. “Are you telling me that you think he will be killed.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t think he would win.”

“Does he mean anything to you?”

Her eyes flashed. “Why do you ask that? Has he been talking?”

“If he does mean anything to you, why don’t you let him have the money and tell him you don’t want him to race?”

“Are you mad?” She burst out laughing. “Think of the thrill I’m going to have. I’m gambling with a million dollars. I shall watch every yard of the race. Think of George, scared stiff, knowing that if he doesn’t win, hundreds of his little suckers will be ruined. Suppose others get ahead of him. Think how he will feel then. Suppose he finds he just can’t win, then his only chance is to kill himself. By God! What a sensation! Will he value his little suckers more than his life?” Her eyes looked a little mad. “I don’t care what it costs me, I wouldn’t miss this race for anything in the world.”

I went to the door. “Your attitude is incredible,” I said. “I don’t think we have anything further to say to each other. Good night.”

She ran over to me. “Wait,” she said. “You write novels, don’t you? What a wonderful story this will make for you. It only wants that little twist that all good stories have. Just wait for that.” She laughed in my face. “Oh, it’s such a lovely little twist. You’ll be so very thrilled when you know about it.”

I went out of the room and left her there. I was sure that she was a little insane, and the thought of George getting himself involved with such a woman made me sick at heart.

The race was due to start at eleven o’clock. George and I went off early together. We left the house quietly without saying good-bye to Myra.

George said that he didn’t want to see her until the race was over. He looked very ill as he sat at the wheel of the Bugatti, and he drove at a steady twenty-five miles an hour the whole way to the aerodrome. It took us a very short while to reach the Florida course, where the race was being held. He asked me to come to the pits just before the race was to start. “I’d like to have your good wishes,” he said.

I hung about watching the bustle and activity that inevitably precedes a big race. I watched the vast crowd slowly arriving. I thought I saw Myra and her party arrive and take seats in the grandstand, but I wasn’t sure. I had made up my mind to watch the race from the pits.

Finally, a mechanic came running towards me and I went to meet him. “Mr. Hemingway is about ready now, sir,” he said.

I saw he was looking worried. And as we walked towards the pits, where I could see about two dozen cars lining up, I asked him what he thought of George’s chances.

“He’s got a load on, sir,” the mechanic said, shaking his head. “No guy can drive if he’s plastered.”

I quickened my pace. George was already sitting in his car. His reputation had brought him a stiff handicap, and he was going to be the last off the starting post.

I ran up to him. “All right, George?” I asked.

He nodded. “Sure, I’m all right. There’s nothing on four wheels that’s going to catch me today.”

His face was very white and his eyes were glassy. He had certainly been drinking, and he looked completely reckless.

“Don’t take chances,” I said, shaking his hand, “I’ll look after things for you. Good luck, old man.”

The noise of the engine made it difficult for us to hear each other. “Good-bye,” George shouted, “look after my little investors, won’t you?” and at that moment the flag fell and he roared away.

I hurried to the pits and stood near a group of mechanics. They were talking in low voices, but I overheard what they were saying. They all seemed worried about George. “Nearly a whole bottle of Scotch went down his throat,” one of them said; “he must be crazy.”

“Yeah, well, look at him now. Look at the speed he’s going.”

All eyes were on the small red car as it flashed round the course. George had already overtaken three of his competitors, and as he came into the straight he opened up and with a snarling roar the car shot forward. All the other cars had opened up, but the leading cars were slowing down for the bend. George came on, took the bend at full speed, tore up the bank, and for a moment we thought his wheels had left the track, but with a few feet to spare he was down into the straight again.

There was a terrific burst of cheering as he nosed his way into the first three.

“What do you call that?” a mechanic demanded. “Do you call that driving?”

“Do you think he’ll last?” Myra asked.

I turned abruptly and found her at my elbow. Her eyes were fixed on the red car, and I could see she was quivering with excitement.

I said rather bitterly: “Don’t you think you’ll see better if you go to the stand?”

“I want to be with you. I want to see his face if he wins,” she said. “Look, he’s coming round again. He’s getting in front. Really, isn’t he marvellous? Oh, God! Look, they’re trying to squeeze him. They’ve cornered him! Look, look, if he loses his head… he’s finished.”

The three cars flashed past us. George was in the middle. The other two were trying to crowd him, but as he didn’t fall back they were beginning to lose their nerve. There couldn’t have been more than a foot between each car.

I shouted suddenly: “He’ll beat them on the bend. You see, they’ll slow down for the bend. Come on, George, come on, for the love of Mike!”

I was right. Suddenly the red car shot clear and whizzed round the bend at a sickening speed. The others fell back and George was in the lead.

I heard Myra scream suddenly: “Blast him! He’s going to win after all.”

George was coming up for the last lap. The noise of the cars and the shouting was deafening. Round he came into the straight. It was like watching a red smudge. I don’t know how it happened; no one knew. It was not as if he were taking a corner. It looked as if he knew he had won and then suddenly thrown in his hand. The car swerved right across the track, turned over, bounced in the air like a huge ball and then burst into flames.

Myra screamed and I ran forward. It was no use. Other cars were still thundering past and no one could get across the track. When at last we did get there, it was too late. George had been strapped in, and one look at the blackened, twisted car told me it was useless to stay.