Джеймс Чейз - Do Me a Favour Drop Dead

As a woman in bed, she was the best ever, but I began to wonder about marrying her. I was sure she was a screwball, and she was also a loner, but if I didn’t marry her, I wouldn’t get the money. I began to realize I could have a problem on my hands.

I was so preoccupied with my thoughts I didn’t hear the train arrive, but the noise made by the commuters as they got in their cars alerted me.

Marshall, carrying his briefcase, was coming down the slope towards me. I started the motor and drove up to him.

He looked sober and pleased with himself as he got in beside me.

‘Did you have a good day, Frank?’ I asked as I drove out of the parking lot.

‘Yeah. And you... what did you do?’

‘I cut the lawn.’

He gave his bellowing laugh.

‘That’s Beth’s favourite job. What did she do?’

‘Made raspberry jam.’

‘That’s her. Who the hell wants jam?’ He shoved his hat to the back of his head. ‘Stop off at Olson’s office. I want a word with him.’

I parked outside Olson’s office block and Marshall, carrying his briefcase, went in. I lit a cigarette and waited.

It was a good half hour before Marshall joined me. As he dropped into the passenger’s seat, he gave a chortling laugh.

‘That’s fixed the old jerk,’ he said. ‘I’ve taken my business, including my aunt’s will, out of his hands. My man in Frisco will handle everything from now on. He’s a real live wire. Olson doesn’t know what action means.’

Alert, I said, ‘He’s a horse and buggy lawyer.’

‘You’re damn right. Harry Bernstein is the best.’

I registered the name.

‘Tomorrow, Keith, I want you to drive me to Frisco. I’ve got a lot cooking. We could be there three or four days and I’ll want you to drive me around.’

‘Anything you say, Frank.’

He patted my knee.

‘We could have a little night fun, huh? Have you any liquor on board?’

I opened the glove compartment and handed him the bottle of Scotch. He was still sucking at the bottle when I drove up to the house.

He screwed on the bottle cap and handed the bottle to me.

‘You know my trouble, Keith?’ He grinned owlishly. ‘I drink too much.’

I put the half empty bottle back into the glove compartment. I wasn’t going to tell him I hoped he would drink himself to death.

‘But you can take it, Frank.’

That seemed to please him. He laughed.

‘You’re right. I can drink any guy under any table.’

He heaved himself out of the car and went into the house. I put the Caddy away, then went up to my room.

I remained up there, lying on the bed, until Beth called up that dinner was ready.

The following morning, we left for Frisco. Marshall sat in the back of the car. He said he had reading to do. So we did the trip in silence. When we approached the city, he put his papers away and directed me to the Raven motel which was a couple of blocks from the Civic Centre. He booked in while I stood around, then we walked to the two cabins and he told me to take it easy as he had telephone calls to make, so I sat in the cabin, watching a Soap Opera on TV.

Around midday, he came into my cabin and dropped heavily into a chair. He had brought with him a bottle of whisky which he waved at me. I went to the refrigerator, got ice, found glasses and made him a heavy shot. I went light myself.

‘Keith... you said you once worked with Barton Sharman,’ he said, relaxing after a long pull at his glass. ‘Can you steer me to someone high up who can talk credit?’

I slopped my drink. If he talked to anyone at Barton Sharman and if he mentioned my name, he would be told fast enough that I had served a jail sentence and Barton Sharman regarded me as all kinds of a leper.

‘That was more than six years ago, Frank,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’d choose Merrill Lynch rather than Barton Sharman.’

‘You would?’ He finished his drink, blew out his cheeks, then shoved the glass at me for a refill. ‘I want credit, Keith. I thought you having worked with Barton Sharman, could swing something for me.’

‘Credit for what?’

‘This Charrington steel deal. I want to start buying right now. Do you think Merrill Lynch would give me credit?’

‘I don’t know, Frank, but I’ll tell you right away Barton Sharman never give credit. So you still want to go ahead with this steel deal?’

He accepted the refill, eyed me, drank, emptied his glass and got to his feet.

‘Let’s go. I’ve got a busy day ahead.’

‘Frank... this Charrington steel deal...’

He brushed by me and walked out into the sunshine and got in the Caddy.

All right, you stupid, drunken sonofabitch, I thought as I slid under the driving wheel, I’ll fix you before you can lose your money.

We stopped off at Ghirardelli square for lunch. The waiters beamed on Marshall as he swaggered in and they had a corner table for him. We had Cioppino, a cross between a soup and a stew, made of all kinds of seafood. I neither liked nor disliked it, but Marshall had a second helping, washing it down with whisky.

‘I’ve got to talk to Harry Bernstein,’ he said as he kept shovelling food into his mouth. ‘You stick around. I’ve got a lot to do. I’m selling out my real estate business.’

After coffee, he got the check, paid and we went out to the Caddy. He directed me and I was lucky to find parking.

‘Stick around. Maybe I’ll be an hour.’

I watched him, carrying his briefcase walk into a big complex. I turned on the radio and waited, my mind busy.

Worked right, he just might get credit with Merrill Lynch and if he did, he would buy Charrington steel. The sooner he was dead, the better for Beth and myself.

While I sat in the Caddy, half listening to the radio, I wondered what Beth was doing.

If we have to kill him, then we’ll kill him.

But time was now running out. If he bought those shares...!

Then I saw him with a short, fat man in a blue suit, a panama hat on the back of his head, a flowered tie and a cigar stuck in his mouth. They walked together down the sidewalk and approached the Caddy. I slid out and had the passenger’s door open as they arrived...

‘This is Keith Devery, Harry,’ Marshall said. ‘Keith, this is Harry Bernstein.’

A cold, dry hand gripped mine.

We looked at each other.

‘I’ve heard about you, Devery,’ he said. His voice was soft and husky.

A fat, flat face with eyes like glass beads, a small thin mouth, a sparrow hawk of a nose. A red light flashed up in my mind: this was a man to be handled with care.

‘Let’s go,’ Marshall said. ‘End of the street, second on the right, third on the left.’

They got in the back and I set the car moving. Following his directions we arrived outside a big complex.

‘Stick around Keith,’ Marshall said and the two men got out and entered the complex.

I lit a cigarette, turned on the radio and thought about Harry Bernstein. Just under the hour they came out and got in the car.

‘Take me back to the motel,’ Marshall said, ‘Then take Harry back to his office.’

‘Sure, Frank,’ I said, the perfect chauffeur.

I decanted Marshall at the motel. He shook hands with Bernstein, then went to his cabin. Bernstein slid into the passenger’s seat by my side and lit a cigar.

As I started the car, he said, ‘Frank was telling me about you, Devery. So you were with Barton Sharman?’

‘That’s right... some five years ago.’ The red light began to flash.

‘You have to be a smart cookie to work for that outfit.’

‘I guess that’s right.’

‘Tell me something, Devery.’ He blew rich smelling smoke. ‘I’ve never met Mrs. Marshall... you have. What kind of woman is she?’