James Chase - Strictly For Cash

Mr. Evesham, with another bow, said he would be happy to be of service.

“Do you wish to rent one of our strong rooms?”

I said I did.

“Will you come with me?”

We took the elevator to the fifth floor, walked along a corridor to a steel-mesh gate. A guard opened it and saluted.

“Let me have the key to room 46,” Evesham said. He sounded like a prince when he was giving orders.

The guard produced a key, and a door was unlocked and opened. We entered a small room, steel lined, about the size of a prison cell, and furnished with two easy chairs, a table and a fitted grey carpet. Facing us was a wall safe.

“Good enough to sleep in,” I said.

“Some of our clients like to consult their papers without taking them away,” Evesham explained. “We try to make them as comfortable as possible.” He turned to the safe. “The letters of the combination make up the word ‘economic’. Will you remember that?”

I said I would remember it.

“Perhaps you would care to open the safe yourself? All you have to do...”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “I’ve handled a job like this before.”

I spun the knob, pausing at each letter. When I had spelt out the complete word, there was a click and the door swung open.

“When you shut the door, the combination is automatically scrambled,” Evesham went on, “And the safe is self-locking.”

“That’s fine,” I said.

“The key to this vault is kept with the guard. Our clients are not allowed to take keys off the premises. Have you any special instructions for us? Do you wish anyone to come here, or only yourself?”

“No one is to touch the safe unless I’m with them,” I said. “Will your guard know me?”

He allowed himself a princely smile.

“When you opened the safe your photograph was automatically taken. It will be lodged in the guard-house and checked when you apply for the key.”

“You certainly have thought this thing out.”

“Perhaps you will come downstairs now and complete the formalities, sir?”

“I’d like to get the hang of the safe and check through the contents of my bag before I leave,” I said. “Would it be all right if I joined you in a few minutes?”

“Certainly. You know where to find me. The guard will direct you to the elevator.”

When he had gone I opened the suitcase and took from it ten one-hundred-dollar bills. That amount would hold me for a few days. As I tucked the roll into my hip pocket I felt the butt of the .22. I had the .38 in my coat pocket, and I didn’t figure I’d need two guns, so I dropped the .22 into the suitcase. Then I put the case into the safe and shut the door.

Twenty minutes later I was on my way to 3945, Apartment 4, Franklin Boulevard.

I hummed under my breath as I drove. For the first time since the suitcase had come into my possession I was relaxed and at ease. The money was safe. Neither Ricca nor Benno nor Pepi could possibly get their hands on it.

A mile or so along Franklin Boulevard I spotted the house: a big place set in its own grounds: a little run to seed, unpretentious and far from gaudy. I kept straight on.

At the next intersection I saw a filling-station. I swung the car into the circular drive-in and pulled up.

An attendant came over.

“Okay for me to leave this heap for a while?”

“As long as you like.”

I walked back along the boulevard and paused at the double gates of 3945. There was a short drive leading directly to the house. No one appeared to be watching at the windows or hiding in the shrubbery. I knew I was taking a risk coming here, but if I could get into the apartment I was hoping I’d find something that would jog my memory to life again. There might be letters, a photograph or even a diary. I figured it was worth the risk.

I walked up the steps into the lobby. The stairs faced me. On the fourth floor I found Apartment 4.

I pulled out the .38 and held it down by my side, then sank my thumb into the bell-push.

There was a long silence. I stood waiting, not expecting anyone to answer the door, but ready if they did. I rang again. I could hear the bell. Then I heard something else that brought me to a stiff, alert attention. I heard the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door.

I waited, the gun ready. The door opened.

A girl stood in the doorway: a girl with thick, short hair like burnished copper, whose big, startled eyes were as blue as the sky on a hot summer’s day.

It was Ginny!

I stood there, transfixed, staring at her. The sight of her ripped away the blanket of fog that had hung over my mind. It was like a blind man suddenly being able to see.

“Oh, Johnny,” she cried. “You’ve come back!”

Then everything seemed to happen at once. Terror jumped into her eyes. Her mouth opened to scream. I heard the swish of a descending cosh, and then a dazzling white light exploded inside my head. I groped wildly for her as I began to fall, but she was no longer there. I went on falling, down and down, out of the present into the past.

A woman screamed, but it wasn’t Ginny.

I lifted a hand that felt as heavy as lead and groped into space, but found nothing. I tried to sit up, but the effort was too much for me.

The woman suddenly stopped screaming. The only sound I now heard was my own breathing. Each breath came very lightly as if it were going to be the last.

“Johnny!”

I knew that voice: a voice out of the past; Della’s voice.

My mind groped to remember. I felt again the crushing punch the Kid had given me. I saw Della again, her black eyes twin explosions as she screamed: “Get up and fight, you quitter!”

Somehow I got my eyes open. The darkness bothered me. There should have been blazing lights coming down on me from the stadium batteries. I found myself thinking the Kid must have hit me with a hammer; that maybe he had blinded me. I struggled up in a sitting position.

“Johnny! Say something! Are you badly hurt?”

Della was bending over me. Beyond her I could see the outlines of trees against the night sky. Then I remembered the car coming at us like a bat out of hell, heard again the grinding, crunching noise as it sideswiped us, and felt again the sensation of flying through space.

“I’m all right,” I said. “Let me alone.” I put my hand to my face. It felt wet and sticky. “What happened?”

“You must get up and help me,” she said, her voice urgent. “I think he’s dead.”

“Dead? Who?”

“Paul! Come on, Johnny, don’t just sit there. Help me!”

“Okay, okay; give me a minute.”

My head began to pound and ache as I struggled to my knees. I waited a moment or so, then got to my feet. If she hadn’t steadied me I would have fallen flat on my face.

“Pull yourself together!” she exclaimed, and the hard, impatient note in her voice startled me. “He’s lying over there. He doesn’t seem to be breathing.”

I staggered over the sandy ground. Each step I took sent a stab of pain through my head, but I kept on until I reached him. He was lying on his side by the smashed Bentley, his head resting on his arm, one leg drawn up almost to his chin.

I knelt by his side. It was too dark to see much of him, but when I turned him and he flopped over on his back, his head remained on his arm. That told me his neck was broken. I touched his hand, felt his pulse, but it was a waste of time.

She dropped down on her knees beside me, her hand on my arm. I could feel her trembling.

“He’s dead,” I told her.

She didn’t say anything, but her fingers closed on my arm, her nails digging into my flesh.