James Chase - Tell It to the Birds

Impatiently, he tossed off the blanket and sheet and got out of bed. He crossed to the mirror above the dressing-table and stared at himself. The shock of black hair, the white drawn ill-tempered face made him grimace. He turned away and walked over to a cupboard on the wall. He hesitated, listened, then took a key from his pyjama pocket. He unlocked the cupboard and looked at the .38 automatic revolver that lay on the shelf.

By the gun was a white bathing cap. He picked up the cap; stretching it, he drew it down over his head. From the shelf he took two small rubber pads. These he fitted between his gums and the inside of his cheeks… they filled out his face, altering his appearance in a startling way. He moved over to the mirror and stared again at himself. The ill-tempered, thin-faced Barlowe had disappeared. Instead, there was a fat-faced nightmarish looking creature: the white bathing cap making him look completely bald. He picked up the gun. His fingers curled lovingly around the trigger, and he smiled.

Not so far in the future, he told himself, this gun would explode into sound. Not so far into the future… someone would die.

He put the gun back on to the shelf. He took off the bathing cap. He took,the rubber pads from his mouth and replaced them on the shelf. Then he carefully locked the cupboard door. He paused for a long moment staring into space, then whistling tunelessly, he went into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, he returned to his room. He dressed, again opened the cupboard and put the bathing cap and the rubber pads into his hip pocket. For a long moment he stared at the gun, hesitated then decided to leave it where it was.

He stepped into the corridor. He paused outside Meg’s bedroom door. He put his ear against the locked door panel and listened. He could hear nothing. He stood there for several moments, then with a frustrated grimace, he went down the stairs to prepare his routine breakfast of eggs and bacon.

Unaware of what had been going on, Meg continued to sleep restlessly.

Jason’s Glen was a favourite place for young couples who were lucky enough to have a car, but unfortunate enough to have no room, little money, and no facilities in which to make love. No matter what the weather offered, Jason’s Glen always had at least two or three cars in which couples made desperate and natural love.

This Thursday night, rain was falling. There were only two cars parked under the trees. One of them was a smal British sports car: the other a battered, aged Buick.

From under the heavy overgrown shrubs, Barlowe watched the two cars. They were separated by some fifty yards.

Suddenly a girl exclaimed: “Jeff! No! What do you think you’re doing? Jeff!… No!”

The voice came from the Buick.

Crouching like a black crab, the white bathing helmet pulled down over his thick black hair, Barlowe crept out into the rain towards the parked Buick.

The man in the sports car called out, “Don’t let her take no for an answer, pal,” and the girl with him gave a squeal of hysterical laughter.

Barlowe suddenly had a furious, frustrated desire to have his gun in his hand. With a gun… he could teach these young, filthy animals a lesson.

He moved up to the Buick, unaware of the rain that was beating down on his crouched body. When the girl in the car began to moan, Barlowe suddenly fell on his knees. His hands clawed into the wet, soft soil. He remained like that, his body arched, and when the girl suddenly cried out, he dug his fingers deeper into the soil.

Anson was flicking through a pile of coupon inquiries when the telephone bell rang.

Anna picked up the receiver.

Looking across at her from his desk, Anson saw her usual placid expression change to alertness and he had a sudden feeling of danger.

“Yes… yes, he’s here. I’ll put you through.”

Anna looked at Anson and waved the telephone receiver warningly. Then she flicked down the key and hissed, “It’s Mr. Maddox.”

His face wooden, his heart suddenly thumping, Anson picked up his receiver and said, “Anson here.”

A hard, curt voice barked, “1 want you out here. How are you fixed for tomorrow?”

“I can manage that,” Anson said, “anything special?”

“You don’t imagine I’d pull you off your territory just to look at you, do you?” Maddox snapped. “Okay, then ten o’clock tomorrow,” and he hung up.

Anson replaced his receiver, pushed back his chair and walked to the window so Anna couldn’t see how white he had gone.

Barlowe’s policy for $50,000, signed and completed, had gone to Head Office three days ago. Why had Maddox got on to it so quickly? Anson dug his sweating hands into his trouser pockets as he wondered.

“What does he want?” Anna asked curiously.

Making an effort, Anson returned to his desk. He sat down.

“I don’t know,” he said, picking up another batch of coupons. “Why should I worry?”

Anna lifted her fat shoulders.

“Well, if you’re not worrying, why should I?” Anson went on sorting through the coupons. There was a chill around his heart. Maddox! Even before Barlowe was dead this jinx of a man was suspicious… or was he?

Anson lit a cigarette. Better now than after Barlowe was dead. If it looked too dangerous, he wouldn’t go ahead with his plan. It was better now to know the worst before he was so far out on a limb he couldn’t scramble back.

Maddox!

Patty Shaw, Maddox’s secretary, was typing busily when Anson entered the small outer office.

She looked up, took her hands off the keys and smiled a welcome.

“Hello, John, nice to see you again. How’s it out in the back of the beyond?”

Anson returned her smile. All the National Fidelity salesmen were fond of Patty: apart from her blonde prettiness, she was smart and helpful. She understood a salesman’s difficulties and she knew how discouraging Maddox could be.

“Not so bad. What’s he want?” Anson jerked his head to the door that led into Maddox’s office.

“The Vodex car smash,” Patty said, rolling her blue eyes. “He’s trying to get out of paying the claim. He wants your angle on it.”

Anson drew in a long, slow breath of relief. And he had been thinking it was the Barlowe policy Maddox was going to gripe about.

“He can’t get out of paying it!” he exclaimed angrily. “What’s the matter with the man? Vodex was drunker than a skunk! We’ve got to pay!”

“You know how he is,” Patty said, lifting her shoulders. “He’ll try anything to get out of paying a claim.” She flicked down a key on her intercom. “Mr. Anson’s here, Mr. Maddox.”

A hard curt voice barked, “Shoot him right in.”

“Go ahead,” Patty said, waving to the door. “Remember Daniel in the lion’s den. Daniel didn’t give a damn for the lions, and the lions didn’t give a damn for Daniel.”

Anson forced a grin and then went into Maddox’s office.

Maddox was sitting behind a vast desk, smothered in papers. There were papers on the floor, papers on most of the chairs and papers everywhere.

Maddox was glaring at a policy he held in his thick freckled fingers. His thinning grey hair was rumpled and his red face was screwed into a scowl. Maddox wasn’t a big man although he looked big from behind the shelter of his desk. He had the shoulders of a boxer and the legs of a midget. His eyes were restless, alert and bleak. He wore his well-cut clothes anyhow. Cigarette ash rained on his sleeves, his tie and his lap. He had a habit of running his stubby fingers constantly through his hair which added to his dishevelled appearance.

He leaned back in the chair and glared at Anson.

“Well, come on in,” he said. “Sit down. This sonofa bitch, Vodex…” and as Anson sat down, Maddox launched into a steady invective against their client.