Джеймс Чейз - There’s Always A Price Tag

I pushed my door to without shutting it and groped my way back to the bed and stretched out on it.

I lay in the darkness and waited, and for the first time since I was a kid, I prayed.

The clock in the hall chimed the quarter after one o’clock. For the past two hours I had been lying on the bed, sweating it out and listening to the violent rain storm that lashed against the bedroom windows: a storm that had blanketed every other sound in the house. It had lasted half an hour and as quickly had died out. I swung my legs off the bed and sat up. I remained motionless, listening. Only the busy ticking of the bedside clock and the violent thumping of my heart came to me as I sat in the darkness.

I reached out and turned on the bedside lamp. Then I stood up, slid my feet into slippers and moved to my bedroom door to look out into the darkness of the passage. No light showed from Lewis’s door. I listened for another long minute, then, satisfied he was asleep, I went over to the chest of drawers and picked up my flashlight. I turned it on and then put out the bedside light.

Moving silently I reached the hall and moved down the passage and into Dester’s study. I closed the door, turned on the light and picked up the gloves that were lying on the desk. I put them on. My hands were shaking so badly that I had trouble in getting the confession note from under the pile of typing paper. I nearly stripped off the gloves as I fiddled to pick up the sheet, but stopped myself in time. I fed the sheet of paper into the machine, being careful to line up the last word with the guide line of the machine.

I went over to the window, unlatched it and opened it a few inches.

Turning off the light, I opened the door and stood listening. There was no sound to alarm me, and bracing myself I went silently along the passage, lighting my way with my flashlight, into the kitchen. I shut and locked the door, then I turned on the light and looked across at the deep-freeze cabinet.

I was in a pretty bad state of nerves by then. My heart was beating so violently that I felt suffocated and my gloved hands were shaking. I started to remove the three dozen bottles of whisky that were piled on top of the cabinet. I was careful not to let the bottles clash together and I stood them in neat rows to one side of the cabinet. It was when I was taking the last of the bottles off that I very nearly ran into disaster. As I picked up two of the bottles, the remaining bottle toppled over and began to roll towards the edge of the cabinet top. I hurriedly set down the two bottles as the third bottle reached the edge, toppled over and fell. Somehow I got my hand under it when it was inches from the floor and held it. I stood for a long moment, sweat on my face and my body trembling, then I set down the bottle and straightened up. It had been a close call.

I crossed over to the door, turned the key and opened the door a few inches and listened.

This was the moment. Once I got him out of the cabinet I would have to hurry. If Lewis came down before I could get Dester into the study and before I could fire the shot, all this agony of nerves, my careful planning, the risk I was taking would be for nothing.

I went back into the kitchen, closed and locked the door again, and then walked over to the cabinet. As I put my hands on the lid to lift it, my nerve failed. I stepped back, wiping the sweat off my face with the sleeve of my dressing gown. I crossed to a cupboard, opened it and took out a drinking glass. I just couldn’t open the cabinet without a shot of whisky. I opened one of the bottles, fumbling at it with my gloved fingers, but I got it open, splashed three inches of whisky into the glass and shot it down my throat. I felt the whisky hit my stomach and felt my nerves tighten under the impact. It did the trick. Although I was tempted to repeat the dose, I resisted the temptation. I put the glass down and, leaving the opened bottle of whisky on the table, I turned back to the cabinet. As I was lifting the lid, I suddenly stiffened. My heart jumped, then raced. Had I heard something? Had the stairs creaked as if stealthy feet were moving down them? I lowered the lid hurriedly, walked swiftly to the door, turned off the light, unlocked the door and opened it an inch or so. I listened, holding my breath, trying to hear any sound above the thudding of my heartbeats. I stood there for what must have been five agonizing minutes, but I heard nothing, and finally, convinced my imagination had been playing me tricks, I closed and locked the door again, turned on the light and leaned against the door, trying to control my shaking limbs.

I went back to the cabinet, lifted the lid, and with my breath whistling between my clenched teeth, I looked down at him.

He lay on his side, the wound in his head away from me. He looked quite natural, as if he were asleep. I bent down and touched the side of his neck. He was scarcely cold. There was less moisture in the cabinet than I had thought: most of it had been absorbed by his clothes which felt wet to the touch. This didn’t worry me as it had rained heavily and I thought it would be a fair risk to assume the police wouldn’t be suspicious since Dester had no top coat with him.

I caught hold of him under his armpits and heaved upwards. He was much heavier than I thought. He came out slowly, and I saw then a small pool of blood on the floor of the cabinet. The wound was beginning to bleed again now that the freezing process had worn off.

It took me three or four hellish minutes to get him from the cabinet on to the kitchen floor, and by the time I had done it, I was completely bushed. I had to lean against the cabinet while I fought for my breath. I didn’t dare wait too long. He had to bleed in the study: that was essential, otherwise they would know he hadn’t shot himself there.

I crossed over to the kitchen door, unlocked it, opened it and listened, but I heard nothing. I went swiftly along to the study, pushed the door wide open and turned on the light. I didn’t dare attempt to carry Dester along the passage in the dark. I might knock against the wall or make some sound that would alert Lewis.

I returned to the kitchen, lifted Dester across my shoulder and set off down the passage to the study. My knees sagged under his dead weight, my breath came in soft, strangled gasps, my heart pounded, sweat blinded me. But I got him into the study without making any noise, and very carefully I slid him off my shoulder on to the floor by the desk chair. Blood ran from his wound on to the carpet.

I snatched up the flashlight, and slowly retracing my steps to the kitchen, I examined the carpet carefully to make sure there were no blood stains to give me away. I found a small one halfway down the passage. I knew I was lucky there weren’t more. I got a wet cloth from the kitchen and rubbed out the stain. Unless the police examined the carpet minutely they wouldn’t find it. Then I returned to the kitchen and, working feverishly, I cleaned out the cabinet, making sure that I got rid of every trace of blood. Then I cleaned the kitchen floor, washed out the cloth and hid it in a saucepan. I would get rid of it in the morning, I told myself. Then I closed the lid of the cabinet and began to put the bottles back into position. I was feeling better now. I had more control over my nerves. Three-quarters of the job was done. I now had to fire the gun out of the window, close the window and get out of the room before Lewis came from his room. I felt I could do it. Then as I put the last bottle in place I heard a sound that turned me into a rigid, terrified statue.

This time there was no mistake in the sound. A board had creaked loudly. The banister rail also creaked. Moving like an automaton, I stepped to the light switch and turned it off. I opened the kitchen door and peered out into the darkness: more frightened than I had ever been before in my life.