James Chase - What's Better Than Money

I was about to move on when a big man came out of the restaurant and ran down the wooden pier towards me, his head bent against the rain.

As he passed under one of the overhead lamps I recognised the cream sports coat and the bottle green slacks.

It was Rima’s boy friend!

If it hadn’t been raining and if he hadn’t been running with his head down, he must have seen me and possibly recognised me.

I turned quickly so my back was to him, took out a pack of cigarettes and went through the motions of pretending to get a light in the wind.

Then I half turned to watch him.

He was leaning into a Pontiac convertible, groping in the glove compartment.

I could hear him swearing under his breath. He found what he was looking for, swung round and ran back down the pier and into the restaurant.

I stood looking after him. Then I walked casually over to the Pontiac and looked it over. It was a 1957

job, and not in too good condition. I glanced to right and left. There was no one in sight. Quickly, I picked hold of the licence tag on the steering wheel and flicked my cigarette lighter alight. I read the neatly printed name and address:

Ed Vasari

The Bungalow

East Shore, Santa Barba.

I moved away from the car, then crossing over to a café opposite the restaurant, I pushed open the door and stepped in. There were only four teenagers sitting over cokes at one end of the room. I took a table by the window where I could see the Pontiac and sat down.

A tired looking waitress sauntered over and I ordered a coffee.

Was Rima with this man? Was she living with him at this address?

I sat there smoking and stirring my coffee, my eyes never off the Pontiac across the way. The rain increased and spattered against the window.

The four teenagers ordered another round of cokes. One of them, a blonde with a pert, knowing expression, wearing skin tight jeans and a sweater that showed off her immature childish shape, came over to where I was sitting and fed coins into the juke box.

The Platters began their soft moaning, and the teenagers joined in.

Then I saw them.

They came running out of the restaurant. Vasari was holding an umbrella over Rima. They dived into the Pontiac and drove off. If I hadn’t been watching closely I would have missed them. They had come and gone so quickly.

Without drinking the coffee, I paid the waitress and walked out into the wet and the dark.

I was coldly excited and determined not to waste any time.

I walked fast to an all-night garage I had spotted on my way from the hotel. I went in there, and after a brief talk with one of the staff, I hired a Studebaker, paid the deposit, and while he was filling the car with gas I asked him casually where East Shore was.

‘Turn right and keep going, following the sea,’ he told me. ‘It’s about three miles from here.’

I thanked him, then getting into the car, I drove out into the rain.

East Shore turned out to be a mile-long strip of beach with about thirty or forty wooden cabins dotted along the road.

Most of them were in darkness, but here and there lights showed.

I drove at a crawl along the road, staring at each cabin as I passed.

I could see nothing in the darkness that indicated any bungalow, and just as I was beginning to think I would have to leave the car and walk back, examining each cabin more closely, I saw ahead of me a light coming from a much more isolated building.

I drove towards it, then feeling sure this must be the place I pulled off the road, turned off the lights and got out of the car.

The rain, driven by the stiff sea breeze, beat against me, but I scarcely noticed it.

I approached the lighted window, and as I drew nearer I saw this place was a bungalow.

I paused at the double wooden gates. On the drive-in stood the Pontiac. I looked up and down the road, but as far as I could see there was no sign of life.

Cautiously, I opened the gate and walked up the drive-in.

There was a concrete path running around the bungalow and I followed it to the lighted window.

My heart was thumping hard now as I moved up to the window. I looked in.

The room was reasonably large and furnished reasonably well. There were comfortable, but shabby lounging chairs, and a few modern, bright prints on the walls. There was a television set in a corner and a well stocked bar in another corner.

All this I took in at a glance, then my eyes rested on Rima.

She was sprawling in a low armchair, a cigarette between her lips, a glass of Scotch and water in her hand. She was wearing a green wrap that gaped open so I could see her long, slim legs which were crossed. One of them swung nervously and irritably as she stared up at the ceiling.

So she did live here! She did live with Vasari!

I watched her.

Suddenly the door pushed open and Vasari came in.

He was wearing a pair of pyjama trousers and he was naked to the waist. His great barrel of a chest was covered with coarse black hair and his tremendously developed muscles moved under his tanned skin as he rubbed the back of his head with a towel.

He said something to her and she looked at him, her expression hostile. She finished her drink, put the glass down and got to her feet. She stood for a moment, stretching, then she walked past him out of the room.

He snapped off the light and I found myself staring at my faint reflection in the rain-soaked window.

I moved away.

Further along, another window had lit up, but a blind covered it.

I waited.

After some moments the light went out. The whole bungalow was now in darkness.

As silently as I had come, I returned to the Studebaker.

I got in and started the engine, then drove slowly back to my hotel.

While I drove, my mind was busy.

At last I had found her!

But there were still difficulties ahead. Did Vasari know she was blackmailing me? When I had got rid of her would I then have to deal with him?

It was while I was driving through the dark, wet night that I suddenly realised what I was planning to do. I was going to murder her. A cold feeling of fear took hold of me. It had been easy enough to tell myself she had to be silenced when I had found her, but now I had found her the thought of walking in on her and murdering her brought me out in a clammy sweat.

I pushed the thought out of my mind. It had to be done. First, I would have to get rid of Vasari. With him around I wouldn’t be able to silence Rima. I decided I would have to watch the bungalow for a couple of days: I would have to find out what they did, how they lived and if Vasari ever left her alone.

I didn’t sleep much that night.

The nightmare thought of what I had to do lay heavily on me.

A little after half past seven the following morning I was once again driving out to East Shore. I was confident I was safe to approach the bungalow in daylight at this hour. I couldn’t imagine either of them would be early risers.

I drove past the bungalow fast. The blinds were drawn and the Pontiac still stood on the drive-in.

In the hard light of the morning sun the bungalow looked shabby: a typical sea-side vacation place, let year after year by an owner who never bothered to look at the place nor spare any money for a coat of paint.

Beyond the bungalow were sand dunes. After driving a few hundred yards further up the beach road I left the car behind a screen of shrubs and walked back towards the bungalow.

Within a hundred yards of the place was a line of dunes that offered excellent cover. From behind them I could watch the bungalow without being seen.

I had brought with me a pair of powerful field glasses I had been lucky enough to borrow from the owner of my hotel.