James Chase - Just Another Sucker

When I reached the cabin, I took the recorder into the bedroom and put it in the closet. The machine ran pretty silently, but there was just a chance one of them on the alert might hear it if it was in the sitting-room. I bored a small hole in the back of the closet through which I passed the mains lead. This I took into the sitting-room and plugged into a two-way adaptor that was controlled by the switch at the door. I satisfied myself that when I entered the cabin and turned on the light, the recorder and the light in the sitting-room would be switched on simultaneously.

I spent some minutes trying to make up my mind where to conceal the microphone. I finally decided to fix it under a small occasional table that stood in a corner, out of the way, but with an uninterrupted field of sound.

All this took time. By seven o’clock, I had had a practice run and I was satisfied the recorder worked as I wanted it to work, and the microphone picked up the sound of my voice from any part of the room.

The only two snags I could think of were if the two women wouldn’t go into the cabin, and if they didn’t want the light on. I thought I would be able to persuade them to enter the cabin. I could point out someone might be out for an evening stroll and might spot us if we didn’t keep out of sight. If they wanted the light out, I could turn the lamp off by the switch on the lamp and not by the switch at the door.

There were still a number of people on the beach, but the crowd was thinning. In another hour, the beach would be deserted.

I was just gathering up my tools when there came a knock on the door. I had been so preoccupied with what I had been doing the sharp rap made me start. For a moment I stood staring at the door. Then I shoved my tool kit under a cushion and went to the door. I opened it.

Bill Holden stood there.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Barber,’ he said. ‘I wanted to know if you’re keeping the cabin on for tomorrow. I have had an inquiry for it.’

‘I want to keep it for a week, Bill,’ I said. ‘I’m writing a few articles and it is a good place for me to work. I’ll settle with you at the end of the week, if that’s okay with you.’

‘Sure thing, Mr. Barber. It’s yours until the end of the week.’

When he had gone, I collected my tool kit, locked up and went over to the Packard. I didn’t feel like going home so I drove to a sea food restaurant about half a mile down the road. By the time I had eaten, the hands of my watch showed twenty minutes to nine.

It was getting dark.

I drove back to the cabin. The beach was now deserted. I remembered not to turn on the light. I could just see my way to the air-conditioner which I put on. I wanted the cabin to be invitingly cool when they arrived. Out on the veranda it was hot: too hot for comfort, but I loosened my tie and sat out there in a lounging chair.

I was pretty tense, and I wondered if Rhea would be late again, and what the stepdaughter, Odette, would be like.

I wondered too, after they had listened to what I was going to say, if they would have the nerve to go ahead with this plan.

A few minutes after nine, I heard a sound and looking quickly to my left, I saw Rhea Malroux coming up the three steps to the veranda. She was alone.

I got to my feet.

‘Good evening, Mr. Barber,’ she said, moving towards one of the chairs.

‘Let’s go inside,’ I said. ‘Someone passed just now. We shouldn’t be seen together.’ I opened the cabin door and turned on the light. ‘Where’s your stepdaughter?’

She followed me into the cabin and I closed the door.

‘She’ll be along, I suppose,’ she said, indifferently. She sat down in one of the lounging chairs. She was wearing a pale blue, sleeveless dress. Her slim legs were bare and she had on flat-heeled sandals.

She took off the scarf that covered her head and shook free her sable-dyed hair with a quick jerk of her head. She still wore the green sun goggles and these she kept on.

‘I’m not touching this job until I’ve talked to her,’ I said. ‘I want to be sure, Mrs. Malroux, that she knows about this kidnapping idea, and she agrees to it.’

Rhea looked sharply at me.

‘Of course she agrees to it,’ she said curtly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I want to hear her say it herself,’ I said and sat down. Then speaking entirely for the benefit of the tape recorder, I went on, ‘It’s not an unreasonable request. You tell me you and your stepdaughter have concocted a plan where your stepdaughter pretends to be kidnapped. You two are urgently in need of four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The only way you can get this sum from your husband is to fake a kidnapping. If I help you, you will pay me fifty thousand dollars.’ I paused, then went on, ‘Kidnapping is a capital offence. I want to be absolutely sure your stepdaughter knows what she is doing.’

Rhea said impatiently, ‘Of course she knows what she is doing… she isn’t a child.’

‘And you are satisfied your husband won’t call in the police?’ I said.

She began to drum on the arm of her chair.

‘You seem to have a natural talent for wasting time,’ she said. ‘We’ve been all over this before, haven’t we?’

I was satisfied. With that short conversation on tape, she now couldn’t deny being implicated if we hit trouble.

I looked at my watch: the time was half past nine.

‘I’m not discussing this job nor am I touching it until I can talk to your stepdaughter,’ I said.

Rhea lit a cigarette.

‘I told her to come,’ she said, ‘but she seldom does what she is told. You don’t expect me to drag her here, do you?’

I heard the sound of someone moving about outside.

‘Maybe this is her now,’ I said. ‘I’ll see.’

I went to the door and opened it.

A girl stood on the bottom of the steps, looking up at me.

For a long moment, we stared at each other.

‘Hello,’ she said and she smiled at me.

Odette Malroux was small and finely made. She was wearing a feather-weight cashmere white sweater and a pair of leopard skin patterned jeans. Her outfit was calculated to show off the shape of her body. She had raven black hair, like Nina’s, which was parted in the centre and fell to her shoulders in a careless but effective way. Her face was heart shaped and her complexion pallid. She could be any age from sixteen to twenty-five. Her eyes were slate grey. Her nose was pinched and small. Her mouth was a careless crimson gash of lipstick. She gave out an over-all picture of corrupt youth. You can find girls exactly like her in any juvenile court: defiant, rebellious, frustrated, sexually blasé, heading nowhere: one of the legion of the young lost.

‘Miss Malroux?’

She giggled, then came up the steps, slowly.

‘You must be Ali Baba — how are all the thieves?’

‘Oh, come on in, Odette,’ Rhea called impatiently. ‘Save your wit for your moronic friends.’

The girl wrinkled her nose, making a grimace, then she winked at me. She moved past me into the cabin. She had a deliberately cultivated duck-tail walk. Her neat little behind moved as if on a swivel.

I closed the door.

I was thinking of the recorder. The tape had about forty minutes to run. I would have to hurry this up if I was to get the whole conversation recorded.

‘Hello, darling Rhea,’ Odette said, dropping into a lounging chair near the chair where I had been sitting. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’

‘Oh, shut up!’ Rhea snapped. ‘Be quiet and listen. Mr. Barber wants to talk to you.’

The girl looked at me and fluttered her eyelids. She drew up her legs under her, put one hand on her hip and the other to support her face and became mockingly grave.

‘Please do talk to me. Mr. Baba.’