James Chase - What's Better Than Money

This thing was between Rima and myself. No one could help me. I had to handle it myself.

It was then, as I lay on the bed, that I realised, that even when I did find her, I still had to think of a way of killing her in complete safety.

I didn’t flinch from the thought of killing her. It was Sarita’s and my future against Rima’s worthless and degenerate life. But it would have to be done so that it could never be traced back to me.

Had she confided in anyone that she was blackmailing me? Again that was something I had to find out. The whole thing now took on a nightmarish atmosphere: one difficulty led to another that led to another.

First, I had to find her.

Then I would have to be guided by circumstances as to how best to kill her.

Then I had to be quite, quite sure the murder couldn’t be traced to me.

The following morning I took the plane to Holland City and walked into my office soon after eleven o’clock.

Jack was talking on the telephone. When he saw me, he said, ‘I’ll call you back. Yeah. In ten minutes.

Something has come up…’ and he dropped the receiver onto its cradle.

He looked at me and I saw at once that something bad had happened. He was pale; there were shadows under his eyes as if he hadn’t had any sleep, and an expression on his usually cheerful face that sent a chill crawling up my spine.

‘Have you been home yet, Jeff?’

‘No. I’m just off a plane.’

I put down my suitcase and dropped my raincoat on a chair.

‘I’ve been trying to get you,’ Jack said, his voice husky and unsteady. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘What’s up?’

He hesitated, then got slowly to his feet.

‘It’s Sarita…’

I felt my heart miss a beat, then it began to thump violently.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s bad, Jeff. There’s been an accident… I tried everywhere I could think of to find you…’

I was cold and shaking now.

‘She’s not dead?’

‘No, but she’s pretty badly hurt. Some drunken driver hit her car. I’m afraid she is really badly hurt, Jeff.’

I stood there, staring at him, feeling empty and cold and very lonely.

‘When did it happen?’

‘The morning you left. She went shopping. This drunk was on his wrong side…’

‘Jack! Tell me! How bad is she?’

He came around the desk and put his hand on my arm.

‘They are doing their best. It’s a matter of waiting. You can’t see her. No one can see her. As soon as there’s news, they’ll telephone here. She stands a chance, but it’s a small one.’

‘Where is she?’

‘The State Hospital. But look…’

I ran out, past the white-faced Clara and down the corridor to the elevator. Somehow I got down onto the street and waved frantically to a taxi.

‘State Hospital,’ I said, jerking open the door, ‘and hurry!’

The driver took one look at my face, then he slammed the door shut, engaged gear and sent the cab racing down the side streets, missing the traffic while I sat rigid, my hands clenched on my knees.

I kept thinking that while I was hunting for Rima, the one person who meant everything in the world to me had been lying in a hospital bed. My hatred for Rima became a cold and deadly thing.

It took ten minutes of fast, reckless driving to get me to the hospital.

As I paid the driver, he said, ‘Your wife?’

‘Yes.’

I started up the steps, three at a time.

He shouted after me, ‘Good luck, bud. Good luck!’

Dr. Weinborg was a tall, stoop-shouldered man with a big hooked nose, a sensitive mouth and the dark, limpid eyes of a Jew who has known suffering.

As soon as I told the nurse at the reception desk my name, she had taken me immediately to Dr.

Weinborg’s office. Now I was sitting, facing him and listening to his guttural voice as he said, ‘It’s a matter of time, Mr. Halliday. I have done everything possible for your wife — anyway, for the immediate present. It was unfortunate that you were away when she was admitted. For twelve hours or so she was conscious and she was asking for you. She is now unconscious. It depends on a number of factors if she will regain consciousness. This is something I want to discuss with you. She has severe injuries to the brain. There is one good man who specialises in this kind of operation. It is dangerous and very difficult, but he has had a lot of success. I think he would give her a fifty-fifty chance. Dr. Goodyear’s fee would be three thousand dollars. There would, of course, be other expenses. You would have to reckon on at least five thousand dollars, and there would be no guarantee of success.’

‘I don’t care what it costs,’ I said. ‘Get Goodyear. Spend anything you like.’

He picked up the telephone receiver and called Goodyear’s residence.

It took some minutes to get a connection and some further minutes for Dr. Weinborg to convince Goodyear’s receptionist of the urgency of the case. It chilled my blood to hear him explain Sarita’s injuries. Half of what he said I didn’t understand, but some of it I did and that told me as nothing else could how bad she was.

The receptionist said she would call him back and he hung up.

‘It’ll be all right, Mr. Halliday. He has never refused an urgent appeal. He’ll come.’

‘Could I see her?’

‘There’s not much point. She’s unconscious.’

‘All the same I want to see her.’

He studied me, then nodded.

‘Come with me.’ He led me down corridors, through swing doors, up a flight of stairs to a door where a thick-set man sat on a chair, smoking.

The man, every inch a cop, looked at me without interest, but to Weinborg, he said, ‘As soon as she comes out of it, I want to talk to her. We can’t hold this punk for ever.’

‘It’ll be some time,’ Weinborg said, turned the door handle and opened the door.

I stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at Sarita. Her head was bandaged. The sheet was drawn up to her chin. She looked small and so white and waxy, she could have been dead.

There was a nurse sitting by the bed. She got to her feet and looked at Weinborg. She shook her head slightly at him: the secret signs between nurse and doctor.

This was the worst moment in my life. I stood there looking down at her and I had an instinctive feeling she would never speak to me again, never look at me again and never hold me in her arms again.

When I got to my apartment, and as I opened the front door, I heard the telephone bell ringing.

I picked up the receiver.

It was Mayor Mathison.

‘Jeff? I’ve been trying to get you. Jack told me you had gone to the hospital. How is she?’

‘The same. They are getting a brain specialist. There’s to be an operation.’

‘Hilda and I keep thinking of you. Is there anything we can do?’

In a flat, toneless voice I thanked him and said there was nothing he could do. I said it all depended now on the brain specialist.

‘You’ll want money, Jeff. I’ve already talked to the committee. They are advancing half your fee right away. You’ll have thirty thousand dollars in your bank by tomorrow. We’ve got to save her! She’s the sweetest, nicest…’

I couldn’t take much more of this.

‘Thank you,’ I said, breaking in on him and I hung up.

I began to pace up and down. I was still at it when I heard the front door bell ring.

It was Jack.

‘Well? What news?’

I told him about the brain specialist.

He dropped into an armchair and rubbed his fingers across his eyes.

‘You know how I feel about this. I don’t have to tell you. Now listen, let’s talk business for a moment. Hers, yours and my future depends on building this goddam bridge. Here’s what I suggest. I’ve found a young guy, just out of college, who can handle your work. You’ve set it up and he can follow it out. You’ll want to stay close to the hospital. This guy and I can cope with the office for at least a month. That will give you time to get your bearings and to be with Sarita. Okay?’