Джеймс Чейз - Do Me a Favour Drop Dead

If this fat Jew thought I was going to discuss Beth with him, he had another think coming.

‘Ask Mr. Marshall,’ I said.

‘Yeah, but you know Frank’s a smart drunk and he doesn’t talk. She interests me.’

‘I may not be smart, Mr. Bernstein and I’m no drunk,’ I said woodenly. ‘Your interest in Mrs. Marshall is no business of mine and that’s the way I like to keep it.’

‘That makes you smart,’ Bernstein said and laughed.

I didn’t say anything. We drove down the street leading to his office and I parked outside his office block. He seemed in no hurry to get out of the car. He twisted around in his seat and regarded me.

‘I like Frank,’ he said, rolling his cigar around in his mouth. ‘He drinks a hell of a lot too much, but he has financial flair. Do me a favour, will you?’

Surprised, I stared at him.

‘What favour?’

‘He has taken to you. I get the idea he isn’t happy with his wife. You’re living with them. You can see the photo. I also have an idea she would be glad to be rid of him... I could be wrong, but watch him, Devery. If something that looks like trouble starts, let me know... huh?’

I felt a cold creepy feeling run up my spine.

‘Trouble? What do you mean?’

He stared thoughtfully at me.

‘If he could keep sober, he could turn his million into three million and more. He has a flair. Suppose you try to stop him from drinking? Suppose you keep his wife out of his hair? He told me he wants you to grow with him. If you want to grow, and you could grow with him, look after him. He needs looking after.’

Giving me a curt nod, he got out of the car and walked across the sidewalk to his office block.

Did he suspect something? He had never seen Beth. So why had he said he had an idea she would be glad to be rid of Marshall? Something Marshall had said? Did Marshall suspect something?

With a growing feeling of uneasiness, I drove back to the motel.

‘What did you think of Bernstein?’ Marshall asked as I looked into his cabin. He was working at a table, papers spread out, the inevitable bottle of whisky at hand.

‘Smart,’ I said, lingering in the doorway.

‘You’re right... dead smart. He’s going to swing this credit deal for me with Merrill Lynch.’ He grinned. ‘I start buying tomorrow.’

Although my heart skipped a beat, I kept my face expressionless.

‘What does Mr. Bernstein think of this deal, Frank?’

He laughed.

‘Harry knows as much about making money as you do. I don’t need his advice.’

‘Well, it’s your money. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Frank.’

‘Take time off.’ He waved me away. ‘See you around eight o’clock.’ He winked. ‘We might have some night fun. Let’s look at the whores, huh?’

‘Fine,’ I said and left him.

Shutting myself in my cabin, I telephoned Merrill Lynch’s branch office and asked to speak to a broker.

‘Sanderstead,’ a voice said. ‘Can I help you?’

‘My name is Tom Jackson,’ I said. ‘I’m thinking of investing thirty thousand dollars. I had a tip to buy Charrington steel for a big rise. There’s talk of a merger with Pittsburgh. What do you think?’

A pause, then he said, ‘We have no information about a merger, Mr. Jackson, and we regard Charrington steel as highly speculative. In fact, we wouldn’t recommend this stock. Can I interest you...’

I had heard all I wanted to hear. If Merrill Lynch considered Charrington steel as highly speculative and didn’t know of any merger, my own opinion was confirmed. I replaced the receiver.

I sat still, asking myself how I was going to stop this drunken fool from throwing away the money that was to come to Beth and to me.

The idea of spending a night with him and whores sickened me. I decided I would beg off, tell him I had a stomach upset. If he didn’t like it, he could go to hell.

I lay on the bed, my mind seething. I began to wonder if I could kill him right now before he bought the stock, but no safe ideas came to me. Finally, around 18.00, I went into his cabin ready to tell him I was sick, but as I entered the cabin, I saw there was no need.

He lay on the bed, the whisky bottle empty by his side and he was dead to the world: so dead looking I wondered, with a surge of hope, if he had died.

Going over to him, I shook him. He muttered something, groaned, then became unconscious again. I dragged open his collar, then stood back, staring at him. He looked bad. I had him at my mercy, but this wasn’t the time. Crossing to the telephone, I asked the booking clerk to get a doctor.

‘Mr. Marshall isn’t well.’

The word had reached Frisco that Marshall was now worth a million dollars so I got service. After a while a doctor arrived: lean, alert, youngish.

‘There’s nothing I can do for him,’ he said after a careful examination. ‘Get him undressed. He will sleep it off. Would you like me to send a nurse?’

‘I can manage,’ I said. ‘I look after him.’

He produced some pills.

‘Give him these tomorrow.’ A pause, then he went on, ‘If he continues to drink like this, he will kill himself.’

‘I’ll tell him,’ I said woodenly.

When he had gone, I decided it would be smart to call Harry Bernstein. When I got him on the line, I told him what had happened and what the doctor had said.

‘Do you want me to come over, Devery?’ he asked. He sounded worried.

‘No, there’s no need. He usually pulls out of it,’ I said. ‘He could be as bright as a goddamn cricket by tomorrow morning. I’ll watch him.’

‘I hope he is. We have two important business meetings to handle tomorrow. Telephone my home around eight tomorrow morning will you?’ and he gave me a number.

I said I would and hung up. I took another look at Marshall. He was still dead to the world. I looked around the cabin, saw his big briefcase and crossed over to it, but it had a substantial lock. Nothing short of busting the lock would open it without a key and I didn’t feel like going through his pockets.

I spent the rest of the evening watching TV with the sound turned down and with half an eye on the unconscious man. Around nine o’clock his breathing settled to a heavy snore and I reckoned he would be all right if I left him.

I went along to the restaurant, had a prawn salad, then after looking at him and finding him still sleeping, I went to bed.

I had been asleep for three or four hours when the sound of my door opening brought me awake. I flicked on the light.

Marshall was standing in the doorway. He looked like hell, his hair mussed, his face enflamed, his eyes watering.

‘Get me a drink,’ he snarled. ‘Don’t lie there, staring. I want a shot.’

I remembered Bernstein’s words. Suppose you try to stop him drinking. If you want to grow with him, and you could grow with him, look after him .

But I knew I could grow much, much faster without him.

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a bottle in the car. I’ll get it.’

‘Get it and get it fast,’ he growled, then staggered away back to his cabin.

I put on my shoes and in pyjamas, went to the car park and got the Scotch from the glove compartment. It was a hot, still night, and the only light showing came from Marshall’s cabin.

He was standing in the doorway as I reached him. He grabbed the bottle, then slammed the door in my face.

Go ahead, you sonofabitch, I thought, drink yourself to death.

At 07.45 the following morning, I went to his cabin, knocked and walked in.

I was half expecting to find him up and dressed, but he was still in bed and he looked bad. The bottle of whisky, half empty, stood on the bedside table.

‘Are you okay, Frank?’ I asked, pausing in the doorway.