James Chase - Strictly For Cash

I picked up his gun. Holding it by the barrel I bent over him. We stared at each other. There was a film forming over his eyes, but by the way his mouth twisted into a snarl I knew he could still see me. I hit him very hard in the centre of his forehead. The heavy butt of the gun crashed down, breaking the skin and driving a little hollow into the broad expanse of bone.

He stopped squirming and stiffened out. For perhaps a second or so I stood over him, then sure I had taken care of him I straightened up and stepped away from him.

I wiped the sweat from my face, dropped his gun by his side and shoved the .22 into my hip pocket. I shut the suitcase and snapped down the locks. Then without looking at him, I stepped to the door and opened it. The corridor was still empty. I locked the door, dropped the key into my pocket and walked quickly to the guard room.

The guard appeared.

“I’m checking out,” I said. “My partner’s going through some papers. He may be some time. Don’t disturb him, will you?”

“That’s all right, sir.”

“He has the key. He’ll give it to you when he leaves. What time do you shut?”

“Six-thirty, sir.”

I looked at my wrist-watch. It was now a quarter to four. I had nearly three hours in which to get clear.

“He’ll be through by then.”

I rode down in the elevator. Mr. Evesham was waiting for me.

“My partner’s working up there. I’ve fixed it with the guard.”

“Quite all right, sir.”

“I’m taking the case. Do you want me to sign anything?”

He gave me a couple of forms. I signed where he indicated.

“I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

“You are very welcome, sir,” he returned with a stately bow.

A guard opened the door of Ricca’s car as I came down the steps. I slung the suitcase in the back and got in under the steering-wheel.

“Thanks,” I said as he closed the door.

I drove fast to Franklin Boulevard.

I parked the car outside the back entrance of 3945 in a narrow alley that ran parallel with Franklin Boulevard. I put the suitcase in the boot of the car, then pushed open the garden gate and entered a wilderness of trees, shrubs and overgrown flower-beds. I made my way from tree to tree until I was within sight of the back of the house.

Against the wall, built between two steel shafts, was an outside dumb-waiter, which tradesmen used to haul up the groceries to the various apartments. I planned to haul myself up to my apartment in it, and take Benno by surprise.

The chances were he was still in the front room with Ginny. If he was, and I could get into the apartment without him knowing, I was sure I could take him. There could be no shooting in that house unless I wanted a hoard of policemen swarming around me, and I didn’t.

As I stood looking up at the windows, a big white cat came out of the shrubbery and rubbed itself against my leg. It belonged to the janitor, and used to come up to my apartment when Ginny and I were there, and Ginny would feed it.

I had too much on my mind to bother with it, and I gave it a little nudge with my foot, but it didn’t take the hint. When I began to dodge from shrub to shrub, working my way to the dumb-waiter, it followed me.

I squeezed myself into the box. It was a tight fit, and I wondered if the rope would be strong enough to take my weight.

The cat jumped on to my lap, and rubbed its face against mine. I was about to push it off when an idea struck me. It might be useful in the apartment to create a diversion, and I decided to take it up with me.

I caught hold of the rope and began to haul. The box moved creakily upward. In spite of the system of pulleys I had a lot of weight on my arms, and my progress was slow.

I was panting by the time I reached the third floor, and I stopped to get some breath back. The cat kept bumping its face into mine. It didn’t seem at all perturbed that we were hanging in space. After a minute or so I began to haul again. Inch by inch the box crawled upwards until finally it came to the wooden trap leading to my kitchen. I jammed on the brake and thankfully let go of the rope.

I sat with my legs dangling while I massaged my aching arms. As soon as my heart had stopped jumping like a freshly landed fish, I turned my attention to the trap. I pressed gently, and it swung open. I looked into an empty kitchen. The cat jumped from my lap on to the floor and started twining itself around the table leg looking up at me hopefully.

I took off my shoes, then slid soundlessly to the floor, crept over to the door and opened it half an inch. For some seconds I heard nothing. Then I heard Benno humming to himself.

He was in the front room.

I closed the door again, then I picked up the cat and holding it under my arm, I opened the china cupboard and took out a couple of plates. I pitched them into the air. The crash they made when they hit on the floor was enough to raise the dead.

Still holding the cat I stepped back and flattened myself against the wall by the door. I waited. Nothing happened. All I could hear was my quick, light breathing and the faint purring of the cat.

Minutes ticked by, and I began to wonder if Benno was coming. Then suddenly I noticed the door was opening.

I bent down and gently put the cat on the floor. I gave it a little shove sending it away from me. Then I straightened up, every muscle in my body tense.

The door continued to open inch by inch. The cat stood still, staring at the door. Suddenly it growled, and its tail bushed out. The door swung wide open.

“Goddamn it!” I heard Benno mutter. “A cat!”

I held my breath, praying he would come in, but he didn’t. He remained just outside the door. I could hear his breath whistling down his nose.

The cat backed away.

“How did you get in here?” Benno demanded. “Here, come here.”

But the cat didn’t seem to like the look of him. It spat at him, continuing to back away.

Benno wandered into the kitchen. He had a gun in his right hand. He came in slowly, snapping his fingers at the cat.

“Here, pooch, come here,” he said.

He was within three feet of me before some instinct warned him of his danger. He swung around as I struck at him. That quick, unexpected movement spoilt my aim, and instead of landing on his jaw, my fist caught the top of his shoulder. The force of the punch sent him flying. He crashed against the wall, made a frantic effort to regain his balance, and at the same time aim his gun at me.

I flung myself at him, my right hand clamping down on his gun hand. I crushed his fingers against the gun butt and pinned him against the wall.

His fat, vicious face was only inches away from mine. He tried to grab my throat, but I slammed over a punch that caught him on the side of his head, stunning him.

I tore the gun out of his hand and threw it away, then my fingers sank into the fat flesh of his neck, my thumbs digging into his windpipe. As I exerted pressure, his face turned blue and his eyes started out of his head. I held him against the wall and throttled him.

Only the whites of his eyes were showing when I stepped away from him and let him slide limply to the floor. My hands ached, and my heart thumped as I bent over him. I put a finger on his eye: it didn’t flicker. I touched the artery in his neck: no pulse answered me.

I straightened up, flexing my aching fingers and then with an unsteady hand I lit a cigarette. Reisner, Della, Ricca and now Benno, I thought. I could feel no pity for any of them. If I hadn’t killed them, they would have killed me.

The cat came over and sniffed delicately at Benno’s dead face. It put out a paw and patted his nose. I took two or three hurried drags at the cigarette, then dropped it and put my heel in it. Time was running out. There was still much to do.