James Chase - What's Better Than Money

She was gaining strength every day, and on her fourth day home, Dr. Zimmerman who had come out to see her, said she could get into a wheel chair.

‘She has made tremendous progress, Mr. Halliday,’ he said as I walked with him to his car. ‘I thought once she was home she would pick up, but not as fast as this. I wouldn’t be surprised if in a few months, she won’t be walking.’

The next day the wheel chair arrived, and the nurse and I put Sarita into it.

‘Now there’ll be no holding me,’ Sarita said. ‘We must celebrate. Let’s ask Jack and the Mathisons to lunch. Let’s have a thanksgiving lunch.’

So we threw a party.

There was turkey and champagne, and after lunch, when the nurse had insisted that Sarita should go back to bed for a rest and after the Mathisons had gone, Jack and I sat outside on the terrace, overlooking the river, where in the distance we could see the men working on the bridge while we finished our cigars.

We were both feeling relaxed and good. We talked of this and that, then as Jack got lazily to his feet, he said, ‘So they finally caught the Santa Barba killer. I was beginning to think they would never get to him.’

I felt as if a mailed fist had slammed a punch under my heart. For a moment or so I couldn’t even speak, then I said, ‘What was that?’

He was stretching and yawning in the hot sunshine, and he said indifferently, ‘You know: the guy who killed the woman in the bungalow. They cornered him in a New York night club. There was a gun battle and he got hurt. They say he won’t live. I picked it up on the car radio as I came out here.’

Somehow I kept my face expressionless. Somehow I kept my voice steady.

‘Is that a fact?’ I said. It didn’t sound like me speaking. ‘Well, that’s his bad luck. I guess I’ll get back to the grindstone. It’s been swell having you, Jack.’

‘Thanks for the lunch.’ He put his hand on my arm. ‘And just for the record, Jeff: I’m terribly glad Sarita pulled through. She’s a wonderful girl, and you’re a damn lucky guy.’

I watched him drive down the hill in his black and white Thunderbird.

A damn lucky guy!

‘I was shaking, and there was sweat on my face.

So they had finally caught Vasari!

There was a gun fight, and he got hurt. They say he won’t live.

That would be lucky too — too lucky.

I had to know the details.

I told the nurse I was going down town. She said Sarita was sleeping, and she would stay around.

I drove fast to the nearest news stand. I bought a paper, but there was no news of Vasari’s arrest. I might have known I would have to wait for the final night edition.

I drove over to the office. My mind was aflame with panic.

Would he die? If he didn’t die he would go for trial for a murder I knew he hadn’t committed. I couldn’t let him go to the gas chamber.

There was work waiting for me in the office but I found it almost impossible to concentrate. I had an interview with a contractor, and my mind wandered so badly I saw he was looking at me, puzzled. I apologised.

‘My wife’s just out of hospital,’ I said. ‘We’ve been celebrating. I guess I’ve had too much champagne.’

Later, Ted Watson came in from the bridge site. He was carrying an evening paper which he dropped on the desk. I was still working with the contractor. The sight of that paper blew my concentration sky high.

We were getting out figures, and I began to make so many mistakes, the contractor said sharply,

‘Look, Mr. Halliday, let’s call this off. That champagne certainly must have been dynamite. Suppose I call around tomorrow?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, but I have a hell of a head. Yes, let’s make it tomorrow…’

As soon as he had gone, I leaned over and grabbed the paper.

‘May I borrow this, Ted?’

‘Sure, Mr. Halliday, help yourself.’

On the front page was a photograph of Vasari and a pretty dark girl who didn’t look more than eighteen years of age. He had his arm around her and was smiling at her.

The caption under the photograph read: Jinx Mandon marries torch singer on the day of his capture.

The account of Vasari’s capture was scrappy.

While celebrating his marriage with Pauline Terry, a night club singer, at the Hole in the Corner Club, Vasari had been recognised by a detective who happened to be in the club at the time. When the detective had approached the table where Vasari and his wife were dining, Vasari had pulled a gun. The detective had shot him before he had had a chance of firing. Dangerously wounded, Vasari had been rushed to hospital. Doctors were now fighting to save his life.

That was all, but it was enough. I couldn’t do any more work. I told Weston I was going home, but I didn’t go directly home. I went to a nearby bar and drank two double Scotches.

The doctors were now fighting to save his life.

The irony of it! They were trying to save his life so that he could be executed! Why couldn’t they let him die?

What was I going to do?

If he lived, I would have to come forward. I had now no excuse not to. Sarita was no longer helpless.

Soon she would be walking again.

Maybe he wouldn’t live. There was nothing I could do now but to wait. If he died, then I would be out of this mess for good.

But if he lived…

The next six days were nightmare days for me.

The press was quick to recognise the drama of the doctors’ fight to save Vasari’s life. There was a bulletin printed every day. One day the headline would read: Gangster Sinking , and I would relax a little.

The next day it would be Jinx Mandon lives on. Doctors hopeful.

On the sixth day, the headlines read: Ninety-nine to one chance operation to save gangster’s life.

The paper stated that an operation by one of New York’s most eminent surgeons was to be performed on Mandon in a final effort to save his life. The surgeon, interviewed by the press, said that Mandon had only the slightest chance of survival. The operation was so delicate that it would attract the attention of the medical profession throughout the world.

It was while I was reading this that I heard Sarita say, ‘Jeff! I’ve spoken to you twice. What is it?’

I put down the paper.

‘Sorry, darling. I was reading. What did you say?’

I had trouble in meeting her puzzled eyes.

‘Is something wrong, Jeff?’

She was seated opposite me at the breakfast table in her wheel chair. We were alone. She looked well, and she was already restless to try to walk.

‘Wrong? Why no, of course there’s nothing wrong.’

Her cool grey eyes searched my face.

‘Are you sure, Jeff? You have been so nervy these past days. You worry me.’

‘I’m sorry. I was preoccupied with the bridge. There’s a lot to think about.’ I got to my feet. ‘I must get down to the office. I’ll be back about seven.’

I had a date with Jack at the bridge site. The first girder was to be put in place.

While we were waiting, Jack said, ‘Is there anything on your mind, Jeff? You’ve been looking like hell these last few days.’

‘I guess I take all this a bit harder than you,’ I said. ‘I’m really worked up about this bridge.’

‘You don’t have to be. It’s working out like a charm.’

‘Yes. Well, I guess I’m the worrying type.’

He saw the foreman was handling the girder clumsily, and with a muttered expletive, he left me and went down to where the men were working.

I would have to watch myself, I thought uneasily. The strain was beginning to show.

Two days later, it happened.

The headlines of the paper said Mandon’s operation had been successful and he was now out of danger. In another week he would be flown to Santa Barba jail. As soon as he was strong enough, he would go for trial for the murder of Rima Marshall.