Ричард Деминг - Hit and Run

Harry Cushman arrived first, coming by taxi shortly after four P.M.

When Calhoun opened the door, Cushman inquired curtly, “You’re Bernard Calhoun?”

“Yeah,” the private detective said. “Come on in.”

Cushman didn’t offer his hand. He followed Calhoun into a small and not particularly well-furnished front room, looked around superciliously, and finally chose a straight-backed chair as the piece of furniture least likely to be contaminated.

“Helena said it was urgent,” he said. “I hope you can make it fast. I have a five-thirty cocktail date.”

It was the first time Calhoun had heard Mrs. Powers’ first name. Helena Powers. Somehow the name seemed to suit her calm and expressionless beauty.

He said, “Depends on how fast Helena gets here. What I have to say won’t take long.”

The buzzer sounded at that moment and Calhoun went to let Helena Powers in. Glancing past her at the curb, he saw she had come in the station wagon.

Harry Cushman rose when she came into the room, crossed and bent to kiss her. She turned her cheek, then moved away from him and sank into an easy chair that had a broken spring. She was wearing a bright sun dress that left her shoulders bare, open-toed pumps, and no stockings. Her jet-black hair was tied back with a red ribbon, and she looked about sixteen years old.

Cushman returned to his chair.

Without preliminary Calhoun said, “John Lischer’s dead.”

Cushman stared at him with his mouth open. As usual, Helena Powers’ face showed no expression.

“But you told Helena you’d been checking the hospital and his condition was listed as fair,” Cushman said stupidly.

“His heart gave out. All he had was a fractured hip, but he was nearly eighty.”

Helena asked in a calm voice, “How does this affect our arrangements?”

“It changes the whole picture,” Calhoun told her. “You can’t settle with a dead man. If you get caught now, you may be charged with criminal negligence. Possibly even manslaughter.”

Harry Cushman’s face was gray. “Listen,” he said. “I know a little bit about the law. The fact that it was hit-and-run doesn’t have any bearing on a criminal-negligence or manslaughter charge. There’d be two separate charges. And a hit-and-run charge is only a misdemeanor no matter how many people get killed.”

“Sure,” Calhoun told him. “But you can bank on it that with a death resulting from the accident, the judge will give the maximum possible sentence for hit-and-run. And while under the law, the mere act of running isn’t supposed to be considered a factor in a charge of criminal negligence or manslaughter, juries do consider it despite judicial instructions to disregard it. Theoretically the prosecution has to prove blatant disregard on the part of the driver for the safety of the injured person. But believe me, it’s a lot easier to convince a jury that excessive speed and reckless driving constitute ‘blatant disregard’ in a hit-and-run case than in one where the driver stopped and tried to help the injured party. My opinion is that after all this time Mrs. Powers would be charged with at least criminal negligence even if she voluntarily turned herself in now.”

Harry Cushman ran his tongue over the underside of his mustache. “What are we going to do?” he asked. “I can’t afford to be accessory to a felony charge.”

“You already are,” Calhoun informed him. “You were in the car that killed Lischer. If you didn’t want to be an accessory, you should have reported to the cops at once.” He let a little contempt creep into his voice. “Of course if you go to them right now, they’ll probably let you off the hook because they’ll be more interested in the driver. Mrs. Powers will take the rap — up to five years and a thousand-dollar fine if she’s convicted of criminal negligence, up to fifteen years and a fine if they make it manslaughter — and all you’ll get is a little bad publicity.”

Cushman licked at his mustache again and flicked his eyes at Helena, who stared back at him expressionlessly.

“Naturally we have to protect Helena,” he said with an effort to sound protective. “What’s your suggestion?”

“They know it was a green Buick.” Calhoun looked at Helena. “Your belief that you hadn’t knocked anything loose was a little wrong. You left a bumper guard at the accident scene.”

He turned his attention back to Harry Cushman. “Now that it’s classified as a felony instead of just a misdemeanor, every repair garage in the state, in upper Pennsylvania, and halfway across Canada will be alerted. The risk of getting the car fixed has at least tripled. And so has my fee. I want another ten thousand dollars.”

“Ten thousand!” Cushman squeaked. “You agreed to five!”

“Not to help cover a felony, I didn’t. Make up your mind fast. Either it’s fifteen grand or nothing. If you don’t want to play, I’ll hand back your five right now and call the police.”

Both of them stared at him, Cushman with petulant belligerence and Helena with mild curiosity, as she might have examined an interesting bug on a flower.

Finally Helena’s husky voice said, “I don’t see what there is to argue about, Harry. Mr. Calhoun seems to be in a perfect bargaining position. He always seems to be in a perfect bargaining position.”

“You said he wouldn’t ask for any more,” Cushman accused her. “You said he’d perform exactly the service he agreed to for exactly the fee he agreed to. You and your ability to judge character. I told you we’d end up paying blackmail.”

Calhoun’s face became very still. With a lithe movement that was startling in so big a man, he stepped forward, gathered a handful of Cushman’s shirt front, and effortlessly lifted him to his feet. The dangerous glitter in his eyes caused Cushman to raise both palms defensively.

After a moment in which the private detective teetered on the brink of violence, the anger in his eyes faded to contempt. Almost with indifference he thrust Cushman back into his chair. Then he swung around, crossed the room to a stationery desk, and unlocked a small drawer. He lifted from it the banded sheaf of fifties he had received from Helena only a few hours previously, and tossed it into Cushman’s lap.

“Blackmail’s a word I don’t like,” he growled. “Get the hell out of here while you can still walk.”

Cushman gaped up at the bigger man. In a shaken voice he said, “Now wait a minute, Calhoun. You can’t leave us in this spot.”

“I said get out,” Calhoun rasped. He started toward Cushman’s chair again.

“Hold it,” Cushman said, raising one hand, palm out. “I’ll withdraw the word and apologize, if you’re so touchy. Don’t go off half-cocked. We need your help.”

Calhoun stopped before the chair and looked down coldly at the seated man. “Then pay for it. The fee is fifteen grand, and I don’t haggle. Take it or leave it.”

“We’re going to take it,” Cushman said in a placating tone. “You can’t blame a man for fussing a little over an extra ten thousand. I’ll bring it here at noon tomorrow.”

Tentatively he held up the sheaf of fifties. After staring down at him for a moment, Calhoun ungraciously jerked it from his hand and returned it to the desk drawer.

Cushman looked relieved. After his original reaction, the man’s expression of relief bemused Calhoun. He wondered why Cushman had put up such a fuss in the first place. The amount couldn’t be important to him; he had been left more money than he could possibly spend in a lifetime. Glancing at the beautiful Helena, Calhoun suspected the man was beginning to wish he’d never heard of her. He could tell by the way Cushman looked at her that she held a terrific fascination for him, but his expression suggested he was beginning to wonder if she was worth the complications she was bringing into his life.