James Chase - Strictly For Cash

Riskin never said a word all the time I talked. He made notes, scratched his ear from time to time, but he didn’t interrupt.

“That’s a very comprehensive story,” he said when he was sure I hadn’t anything more to tell him. “Now you take it easy, boy. You’ve nothing to worry about. Maybe you’d better take a nap. You look tired: like me. I’m always tired, but the Chief never gives me any time for naps.” He stood up. “Well, so long. I’ll be in again in a day or two. If there’s anything else you remember, just let me know.”

“There isn’t anything else to remember,” I said. “You’ve got the lot.”

“That’s fine. Well, you take a nap. So long for now.”

I watched him tiptoe out of the ward. Up to now I hadn’t had any use for a cop, but that little guy was different. I decided he was the nicest cop of them all.

Two days went by. I was making progress. The doctor was pretty pleased with me.

“You keep on like this,” he told me, “and we’ll have you up in a couple of days. You have a constitution of an elephant, and a head like granite.”

I grinned at him, but I wasn’t all that easy. I was wondering what Riskin was up to, and if he were going to show up.

“I’m looking forward to seeing the town,” I said. “I’ve heard enough about Lincoln Beach, but I’ve never had a chance of looking it over.”

He looked surprised.

“This isn’t Lincoln Beach. What gave you that idea? This is Miami.”

“Miami?” I stared at him. “But they have a hospital at Lincoln Beach, haven’t they?”

“Of course. It’s a wonderful hospital.” He smiled. “Almost as good as this one.”

“Then why didn’t they take me there? What was the idea of driving me over two hundred miles to Miami?”

“It wasn’t two hundred miles,” he said patiently. “It was more like seventy. As you were nearer to Miami than Lincoln Beach, they brought you here.”

I began to get excited again.

“But I hadn’t even reached Lincoln Beach before the crash,” I said. “We were only a few miles outside Pelotta, on our way to Lincoln Beach, when that car hit us!”

“Don’t bother your brains about it,” he said, getting his bedside smile hitched to his face. “It’ll straighten out in a few days.”

And when he left me, I lay there, feeling cold, wondering if the bang on the head had affected my brain, wondering if I were going crazy. I began to long for Riskin to come and see me. Every time anyone came into the ward, I raised my head and looked eagerly to see if it were him. I got so my heart pounded every time that door opened.

The next morning they moved me out of the ward.

“What’s the idea?” I asked the nurses as they pushed the bed along a corridor. “Where are you taking me?”

“Doctor thought you’d like to have a room to yourself,” the fat nurse said. “He wants you to rest more than you’re doing.”

That wasn’t the reason, I told myself. Maybe they thought I was nuts and wouldn’t be safe with the others. I began to get excited.

“I don’t want to be alone!” I said. “Take me back! I’m fine as I am. I don’t want a room to myself!”

The doctor appeared from nowhere.

“There’s nothing to get excited about,” he said. “You’ll like this room. It’s got a wonderful view.”

I thought if I made too much commotion they’d put me in a strait-jacket: that’s the kind of state I had worked myself into.

It was a nice room, and the view was swell, but I hated it. I had a feeling I had been put in there for a purpose, and I wanted to know what that purpose was.

In the evening, around six, when I was lying there alone, looking out of the window at the ocean and the pleasure boats and people surf riding, the door pushed open and Riskin came in.

“Hello, boy,” he said, easing the door shut, “how are you coming?”

“Why have they put me in here?” I said, trying to sit up. “What’s the idea?”

He tiptoed across the room to the bed.

“Hey, hey, what’s biting you? Don’t you know a room like this costs dough?”

“Then what’s the idea?”

He reached for a chair and sat down.

“I don’t think that doc likes his other patients to see me coming in here,” he said. “Maybe it’s that. He’s a nice guy, that doc. Maybe it occurred to him it might be embarrassing for you to have policemen asking questions with everyone in the ward trying to listen in. That might be an idea, too.”

I looked at him for a long moment, then I drew in a deep breath, and ran my fingers over my face, feeling it was damp and hot.

“That angle didn’t strike me. Know what? I was beginning to think I was going nuts, and that’s why they had taken me out of the ward.”

He produced a packet of cigarettes.

“Like a smoke, boy?” he said. “You don’t want to get those ideas into your head.” He struck a match and lit the cigarette for me. Then he lit one for himself. “I bet if the nurse catches us she’ll raise blue murder,” he went on. “Still, that’s what nurses are for, aren’t they?”

I grinned at him. I was feeling much, much better.

“I wish you had come before. I was getting worried.”

“I’ve been busy.” He examined the end of his cigarette, then his pale, sharp eyes looked right into mine. “I’ve got a little shock for you. Think you can take it?”

I drew on the cigarette, aware my heart was beginning to pound.

“I guess so. What is it?”

“That car wasn’t a Bentley; it was a Buick convertible: a black job, with red-leather upholstery, disc wheels and built-in head and fog lamps. You were found in the driving seat. She was found wedged down in the back seat. They had to cut the front seats away to get her out. There was no third person found. There was no other car, either. I’ve been over the ground myself. I’ve seen all the photographs. I’ve seen the Buick. I’ve talked to the cop who found you.”

I lay still and stared at him. I wanted to tell him he was lying, but the words wouldn’t come. I felt the blood leave my face. The cigarette slipped out of my fingers and dropped on to the floor.

He bent and picked it up.

“Take it easy, boy,” he said. “I warned you it’d be a shock. There’s nothing to worry about. You don’t have to look so scared.”

“You’re lying!” I said in a voice I didn’t know was my own.

“Here, take your cigarette,” he said. “Relax. Let’s go over this thing together and see if we can make some sense of it.”

I wouldn’t take the cigarette. I was feeling sick. I had a sudden urge to jump out of bed and run before they could put me in a padded cell. I didn’t believe he was lying: and yet I had to believe it.

“You told me this car hit you on the night of July 29th,” he went on mildly. “The smash you were in took place on the night of September 6th. I’ve seen the cop’s notebook. The hospital records say the same thing. Well, now, what do you make of that?”

“I don’t make anything of it. All I know is we hit that car after my fight with the Miami Kid, and that was on July 29th. I’m telling you the truth!”

“You think you are. I’m sure of that, but it didn’t happen that way. I told you I’ve been busy. I have. I think I’ve got the key to this business. I’ve talked it over with the doc. He thinks I’m on the right track. Maybe it’s going to be difficult for you to accept the explanation, but let me put it to you. The doc says it may take weeks for you to get your memory back. You’ve had a brain injury, and until things settle down you are likely to get all kinds of odd ideas into your head. You mustn’t worry about them. The doc says so, and he knows what he’s talking about. Now will you try to accept what I’m going to tell you? Get your mind in a receptive mood if you can. It’ll make things easier for us both. Think you can?”