Джеймс Чейз - Do Me a Favour Drop Dead

She gave me a small, wan smile.

‘Thank you for all you have done,’ she said, her voice quavering. ‘Mr. Bernstein is so kind and understanding.’

Bernstein and I watched her walk slowly to the front door. He picked up Marshall’s locked briefcase.

‘See you at the inquest,’ he said curtly, then nodding, he picked up the holdall and went out to his car.

I stood in the doorway of the front door. Beth was huddling up in the passenger’s seat, the sodden handkerchief held to her eyes. Bernstein gunned the engine and drove away.

That left me on my own.

From that moment, I had an instinctive feeling I was being edged out. It was a feeling I wouldn’t accept, but it was there.

Beth had said she could handle Bernstein and she certainly had. I supposed our next meeting would be at the inquest. I would have to ask her where I could contact her. It would be dangerous for me to leave Wicksteed immediately after the inquest. I would have to stay around until the house was sold before moving to Frisco.

I spent a dreary, lonely day in the big, lonely house, trying to kill time. No one telephoned. No one came near. Finally, around 18.00, I got so sick of my own company, I drove into Wicksteed.

Parking, I went into Joe’s saloon.

They were all there in a huddle: Pinner, Olson, Mason and a tall, lean bird I hadn’t seen before. As soon as they saw me, they waved, and Pinner heaved himself out of his chair to cross the saloon to shake hands.

He signalled to Joe who brought a beer which he set on the table, nodding and smiling at me.

‘Well, Keith, this is something, isn’t it?’ Pinner said. ‘Meet Luke Brewer.’ He waved to the tall, lean bird. ‘He’s our coroner.’

Brewer gave me a thin smile as he shook hands.

‘What’s been going on, Keith?’ Pinner asked, leaning forward. ‘You’ve been right in the middle of it.’

I sipped the beer, then sitting back, I gave them the photo. With the coroner listening, it was a perfect opportunity.

I told them what I had told McQueen. Sure McQueen had already given Brewer the facts, I was careful, but my story had more colour than the story I had given McQueen. I finished by saying Bernstein had taken Mrs. Marshall to Frisco and he was representing her.

This item of news brought Pinner, Olson and Mason stiff in their chairs.

‘She’s gone to Frisco?’

‘That’s it. The house is going to be sold.’ I paused. ‘My guess is Bernstein is tricky. He has a way about him. He was very close to Frank.’ I sat back and looked slowly at the four of them, then went on, ‘I did have a chance to talk to Mrs. Marshall about the amusement park idea before Frank died and she seemed interested. I think she could be persuaded now she has Frank’s money, but this is my guess.’

Pinner thought about this, then looked at Brewer.

‘We wouldn’t want to submit Mrs. Marshall to an ordeal at the inquest, would we, Luke?’

Brewer chewed his thumbnail as he got the message.

‘There’s no question of that. Mr. Devery’s evidence will do. I don’t think I’ll even have to call Mrs. Marshall. It’s a straightforward verdict: accidental death.’

We all nodded.

And that was how it was.

The inquest went smoothly and fast. I was the principal witness: in fact the only witness. Brewer said it wasn’t necessary to call Mrs. Marshall who sat at the back of the courtroom with Bernstein. He expressed sympathy of the court and sympathy of the citizens of Wicksteed. It was all over in thirty minutes.

Pinner shoved his way through the crowd to shake Beth’s hand and murmur condolences. Bernstein whisked her away. I didn’t have a chance to get near her. I didn’t even catch her eye. She was pale, weepy and she looked nowhere... a great performance.

I watched Bernstein drive her away.

Pinner came up to me.

‘What do you think, Keith?’ he asked anxiously.

‘If she doesn’t play now, you can’t blame yourself.’

‘But do you think she will?’

I had enough of him and Wicksteed’s greed.

‘How the hell should I know?’ I said and leaving him, I got in the Caddy and drove back to the big, lonely house.

The funeral was two days later. Practically all the citizens of Wicksteed turned up, but Beth didn’t. Bernstein was there to represent her. He explained to Pinner who was leading the Wicksteed mob that Mrs. Marshall had collapsed. She had desperately wanted to be there, but her doctor had refused to let her attend.

Marshall’s body, in an expensive coffin, was tucked away in the Wicksteed’s burial ground next to his aunt’s grave. I stood with the hypocritical mourners. Pinner stood by my side. Olson, Mason and the rest of them, all wearing black ties and looking mournful, flanked Bernstein who looked bored. The press took photographs.

After the burial, Pinner tried to talk to Bernstein, but he got nowhere. Bernstein bulldozed his way through the crowd to me.

‘You’ll be hearing from me, Devery,’ he said. ‘Look after the house.’ Then he shoved his way to his car and drove off.

That seemed to be that.

Two days later, the local real estate agent came with a fat man and his fatter wife. They tramped over the house and decided to buy it as it stood. The price was right, and they were a couple who liked being on their own.

The following day while I was cooking a steak for lunch, the telephone bell rang.

It was Bernstein.

‘I’m depositing seven hundred dollars in your bank, Devery,’ he said curtly. I could tell from the tone of his voice he had no time for me. ‘The house is sold. From now on, you’re not needed. One other thing I’ll get you to do: sell the Caddy. Get the best for it and send the cheque to me.’

‘Okay, Mr. Bernstein.’ I paused, then said, ‘I would like to speak to Mrs. Marshall. Could you tell me where I can contact her?’

‘She’s right here. Hold on.’

A long pause, then Beth said, ‘Hello, Keith?’ Her voice sounded wooden and I could imagine the deadpan expression on her face.

‘When can we meet?’ I said, gripping the telephone receiver so tightly my knuckles turned white.

‘Thank you for all you did for Frank.’ There was a slight shake in her voice. ‘I am very grateful. I hope you will be successful in finding another job,’ and she hung up.

Holding the receiver in my hand, I stared at it, feeling the cold dead finger creep up my spine, then I replaced the receiver.

Getting to my feet, I moved around the big room, feeling distrust and suspicion nibbling at my mind. After a minute or so, I told myself that she was playing the cards right. With Bernstein listening, she couldn’t make a date with me — the hired hand. She was now a millionairess and important people. But how to contact her?

Bernstein had said she would be staying at his house. I had his home number. Sometime during the day, I would call and ask for her, then she would tell me her plans.

While waiting, I decided to do what Bernstein had told me to do: sell the Caddy. I had around a thousand dollars: three hundred which I had saved and the seven hundred Bernstein had given me. I was going to get another seven hundred from him in a day or so, so I wasn’t short of cash.

I drove the Caddy to the Cadillac showroom, and after a lot of talk, got them to buy it back. I bought a VW secondhand at a knock down price. At least I was mobile. I had the cheque for the Caddy made out to Bernstein and mailed the cheque to him.

All this took time and I arrived back at the house around 17.00. Bernstein would still be at his office. Sweating a little, I called his home number.

A woman answered: ‘This is Mr. Bernstein’s residence.’

I drew in a long, slow breath.

‘I would like to speak to Mrs. Frank Marshall.’