James Chase - Strictly For Cash

“Stay here,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’ll see if I can get someone to help us.”

“Are you sure he’s dead?” Her voice sounded hard and cold. “He’s dead all right. His neck’s broken.”

She stood up and moved away from me and leaned against a twisted palmetto tree. Her sleek black hair was dishevelled; there was a six-inch rip in her skirt, and one stocking was down to her ankle. The moonlight, coming through the tangle of overhead branches, fell on her face. There was a smear of blood down the side of her nose. Her eyes seemed to have sunk deep into her head, and she was staring sightlessly at me as if her mind were furiously preoccupied with some urgent decision.

“The other car’s across the road, Johnny,” she said. “See what’s happened to the driver.”

“And Pepi’s car?”

“No sign of it. Maybe they thought we were killed. But go and find out what’s happened to the other car.”

Moving slowly, still dazed, I made my way on to the highway. Away from the palmetto thicket the moonlight lit up the white road brilliantly, but even in that light it took me several minutes before I found the car. It had crashed into the thicket on the other side of the road, and lay on its side: a big Packard, now fit only for the scrap-heap.

I peered through the shattered window. The driver still sat behind the wheel: a young fellow with a set, fixed grin on his face and horror in his wide, staring eyes. The steering-column had been driven into his body like a grotesque spear: from his neck to his waist he was pulp.

I stepped back. There was no one else in the car, and there was nothing I could do for him. I crossed the road again and went back to the thicket where she was waiting.

“Well?” she asked, her eyes searching my face.

“He’s dead.”

“Anyone else in the car?”

“No.”

“You’re sure he’s dead?”

“Yes.”

She gave a funny little strangled gulp.

“What a marvellously lucky break!”

I stared at her. It suddenly occurred to me that the smash, the death of her husband and the death of the other driver were utterly remote to her. She wasn’t thinking of them at all. There was something else occupying her mind: something so urgent and important to her that even the shock of being thrown out of a car at over sixty miles an hour had made no impression on her.

“What’s the matter with you?” I demanded.

“I want my handbag, Johnny.”

“To hell with your handbag! Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She moved unsteadily towards the smashed Bentley. “Help me find my handbag.”

“There are more important things to do than look for your bag,” I said sharply. “I’ve got to fetch the police.”

“The police?” She paused, turned and stared at me. “What good will they do?”

“We’ve got to get them here,” I said impatiently. “What’s the matter with you?” My head was pounding, my nerves were flayed and I was shouting at her. “We’ve got two bodies on our hands! We’ve got to report this...”

“I must have my bag, Johnny,” she said with an obstinacy that infuriated me. “There’s something very valuable in it. I must find it before we worry about the police.”

“All right! All right! We’ll find it!” I said, and went over to the Bentley and wrenched open the door.

“Let me look,” she said, pushing me aside, and began groping about on the floor of the car.

I went around to the offside, but the door was jammed and wouldn’t open.

“I can’t see a thing!” she exclaimed. “Haven’t you a match?”

I struck a match and held the flame through the shattered window. She found the bag wedged between the brake and clutch pedals.

“Okay, now you have it, you’d better sit down and take it easy,” I said, stepping away from the car. “I’ll hunt up a phone.” She came around the car to where I was standing.

“No, Johnny. We won’t bother about the police. No one must know he’s dead.”

“They’ll find him sooner or later. They’ll identify the car...” I stopped and stared at her. “What is all this? Why shouldn’t they know he’s dead?”

“I can’t explain now; later, Johnny. Don’t look so worried. It’s all right. I’ll tell you later.”

“You’re suffering from shock,” I said sharply. “Sit down. I’m going for the police.”

She dipped her hand into the bag and brought out a .38 automatic.

“You’ll stay where you are,” she said softly, and pointed the gun at me.

The headlights of an approaching car lit up the sky as it climbed the long, sloping hill from Pelotta. A moment or so later the car swept into sight: headlamps blazing. It was going fast, and roared past us with a snarl and a rush of wind.

Neither she nor I moved. The moonlight fell directly on the glittering barrel of the automatic: the gun looked menacing and large in her hand.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she said, and her voice was as hard and as cold as a chunk of ice.

“Have you gone crazy?” I said, not moving. “Put it down!”

“I believe this is the most important moment in my life,” she said. “You and I are the only two who know Paul is dead. You don’t realize yet how essential it is that no one else should know. Now listen, Johnny, you can either come in with me or I’m going to kill you. There’s no other way I can be certain you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

I thought she had taken leave of her senses, but that didn’t alter the fact that she meant what she was saying. I felt a little prickle run up my spine.

“There isn’t time to tell you what it’s all about,” she went on. “But if you come in with me you’ll make money: big money, Johnny. What’s it to be?”

“What do you want me to do?” I said, and my voice was husky as yours would have been if you had seen those glittering eyes and the hard, ruthless line of her mouth.

“Take his clothes off and put yours on him,” she said. “They’ve got to think it was you who died in the car.”

“Me? They know me in Pelotta. They’ll identify me.”

“No, they won’t. You’re going to put him back in the car and set fire to it.”

“I can’t do that! Now wait...”

“You’ll do it or I’ll have to get rid of you, Johnny. There’s no other alternative.”

The bang I had taken on my head when I was thrown out of the car made clear thinking impossible. If I hadn’t been so punch-drunk I might have tried to get the gun from her. As it was, I knew I hadn’t a chance to reach her before she fired, and she would fire, the look in her eyes told me that.

“Get going,” she said softly. “We’ve wasted enough time already.”

“But tell me why!”

“Later. Are you going to change clothes with him?” There was a fixed, awful little smile on her lips now, and her knuckle showed white as she took in the slack of the trigger. I was one heart-beat away from being shot. I knew it, and she could see I knew it.

“Yes.”

She relaxed, and the smile went away.

“Hurry, Johnny.”

With cold sweat on my face I walked over to where he was lying and began to strip him. Apart from his broken neck he wasn’t hurt and hadn’t bled. I changed into his clothes while she watched me, the gun covering me. Then I got my clothes on him. It was a gruesome job, but I did it. But when I came to put my shoes on his feet, I gave up.

“I can’t do it.”

“Throw them in the car,” she said, and her voice was as unsteady as mine. “It’s all right. They’ll think they came off in the crash. Get him in and put him behind the steering-wheel.”

I dragged him over to the car. He was no light weight, and it was all I could do to get him into the car. I propped him up against the driver’s door. He fell forward across the wheel.