James Chase: Fast Buck

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Olin snarled, recovering himself. ‘Come on, you guys, get after that girl!’

Baird, lying on his side, his head on his arm, his back against the wall, was suddenly galvanised from his coma by the sound of a police siren.

He lifted his head, listening. The wailing note of the siren floated up the stairs like the vanguard of death. With an effort that made him feel faint and sick, he dragged himself to a sitting position. His right hand went out and pulled the Thompson gun towards him. He rested the butt against his chest, the barrel covering the stairs.

How had they found him? he wondered. He had a vague idea that he had come in a car, but his mind was too dazed and sick with fever to remember what he had done with the car. Surely he couldn’t have been so crazy as to have left it outside the house?

He looked over his shoulder along the passage. He could see the faint light of the moon coming through the skylight. If he remained in the passage, they would take him in the rear. Some of them would come up the stairs, the others would come through the skylight.

Slowly he dragged himself to Anita’s door. He reached up and turned the handle, but the door was locked. The effort sent him into a half-conscious stupor, and he lay on his side, against the door, fighting off the feeling that he was about to slip off the edge of the world.

More sirens brought him alert again. He caught hold of the door handle and dragged himself to his feet. He set his back against the door. From this position he could watch both the skylight and the stairs.

He got the Thompson under his arm with the butt against the door, his finger curled around the trigger. It wouldn’t last long, he told himself, but he’d take some of them with him. He remembered with startling clearness the same thing had happened to him in this very passage some five weeks ago. Then he had given himself up for lost, but she had saved him. It was still possible she might save him again.

Time hung in space. He waited with the patience of a wounded and trapped animal. Every now and then his head dropped to his chest, and his legs sagged, but each time he made the effort and stopped himself from sliding to the floor.

It was a long time before he heard footsteps on the stairs. He raised the gun, and waited.

Then he saw her. She was coming up the stairs, her hand on the banister rail, a red and blue scarf on her head, and her shabby overcoat dark with rain. She looked at him, white-faced, and her eyes big and frightened.

‘Hel o,’ he said huskily. ‘This is where we came in, isn’t it?’

She didn’t say anything. He saw her eyes shift from him to the gun. He realised he was still pointing it at her, and he hurriedly lowered the barrel.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, not moving.

‘My arm’s bad,’ he said. It was extraordinary how her presence had suddenly given him a new lease in life. The sight of her seemed to lift him above the fever that was devouring him. ‘Are the cops outside?’

‘There’s been an accident,’ she said, ‘A man died.’

‘Aren’t they looking for me?’

‘It’s the accident,’ she repeated, and began to move slowly and warily up the stairs. ‘Do you want me to look at your arm?’

He tried to grin.

‘It’s past being looked at. It’l have to come off.’

‘Perhaps I can do something.’ She came within a yard of him and stopped, her eyes on the gun.

‘Your door’s locked. I tried to get in.’

‘I always keep it locked. Do you want to lie on the bed?’

‘Maybe I’d better not. I don’t want to get you into trouble. I may die on you.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Are you sure the cops aren’t looking for me?’

‘There was an accident,’ she said, refusing to lie to him. ‘They found a dead man in a car outside.’

‘A dead man? You’re sure he’s dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s Hater,’ he said. ‘I remember now. He’s dead, is he?’

She didn’t say anything.

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ he said, his mind groping vaguely into the past. ‘I forgot about him. We tied him and hid him under a blanket, then my arm got bad and I forgot about him. I forgot about everything except you. I’ve driven over five hundred miles to see you.’

Still she didn’t say anything.

‘Hater was quite a guy,’ Baird went on, half to himself. ‘You wouldn’t believe it to look at him. He hid four million bucks worth of jewellery somewhere. Think of that! Now he’s dead, and no one will ever find the stuff.’

‘You killed him,’ she said, in a cold, flat voice.

‘No. If he’s dead it’s because it was coming to him. I forgot about him, that’s al . You can’t cal that killing a man.’ He put his hand on the door knob. ‘Aren’t you going to open up?’

‘Yes,’ she said, and moved closer to him. She touched the gun. ‘Shal I take this? You won’t need it.’

His fingers tightened on the gun.

‘I might,’ he said. ‘I guess I can manage. Open the door, won’t you?’

She put a key in the lock and pushed open the door.

‘Remember the last time?’ he asked, looking into the shadowy room, lit by the moonlight coming in through the window. ‘Take it.’ He pushed the Thompson into her hands. ‘When I woke up last time you had put my rod by my side. I haven’t forgot en that. You’re the only one I’ve ever met who I can trust.’

He sank down on the bed. ‘I’ve often thought about you and what you did for me. I’ve often thought what you said about kindness isn’t something you buy from a grocery store. I guess you were right.

You’ve got to have kindness in you.’

She held the gun stiffly, the barrel pointing down at the floor.

‘Paul Hater was my father,’ she said.

Baird rubbed his ravaged face with the back of his hand.

‘What’s that?’

‘I said Paul Hater was my father.’

He looked at her, then at the gun.

‘Would you have told me that if I hadn’t given you the gun?’

She shook her head.

‘No.’

‘But he can’t mean anything to you. You can’t have seen him for fifteen years. You must have been about five when they took him away.’

‘My mother told me about him,’ she said quietly. ‘She told me how they tortured him. The only thing that kept him alive was the knowledge I’d be waiting for him when he came out.’

‘The only thing that kept him alive,’ Baird said, ‘was the thought of that stuff he had hidden away, and what he was going to do with it.’

‘No, that’s what everyone thought,’ she said, coming to the foot of the bed and looking down at him.

‘When he was arrested, my mother took the col ection. No one knew he was married. It was easy for her to get out of the country. The ship struck a reef. Only she and five others were rescued. The collection went down with the ship. For fifteen years my father suffered so my mother could go free. I never told him she found someone else. Then you had to come along and kill him when his suffering was nearly ended.’

‘I didn’t kill him,’ Baird said obstinately.

‘But you did. If you had left him alone, he would be alive now.’

‘You’re feeling pret y bad about it, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘I guess I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known. I want you to believe that. I stil owe you a lot. I could have squared our debt if I had known.’

‘I shouldn’t have helped you the first time,’ she said. ‘That’s where I went wrong. I only did it because I remembered what they did to him. If I had let them find you here, he would be alive now.’

‘I guess that’s right,’ he said, and lay back on the pillow. ‘There’s not much of me left. They can have what there is. Go ahead and call them.’