Джеймс Чейз - Believe This... You’ll Believe Anything

‘You mean everything literally comes to a standstill?’

‘That’s what I’m telling you. According to the weather bureau, Hermes is going to be a real sonofabitch. Your best bet is to stay home.’

‘What is going to happen to Mrs. Vidal?’

He shrugged.

‘That’s for Tiny to decide. If he thinks she shouldn’t be moved then I’ll have to stay here. When he arrives tomorrow I’m hoping he’ll have her shifted to Dallas. I want to know where you will be. As soon as Hermes blows itself out, I’ll have to recall the staff. I have your home address, haven’t I?’

I didn’t hesitate.

‘I’ll stick around here,’ I said. ‘If things get rugged I might be of help, but if Vidal goes to Dallas, I’ll go home.’

He looked surprised.

‘Please yourself. You won’t have anything to do, but if you want to stay, it’ll be company for me. Bring an overnight bag with you tomorrow. After tomorrow no one will be happy on the streets.’

A trash of thunder rattled the windows.

‘It’s building up.’ He reached for the telephone. ‘Have a word with Mrs. Clements. She’ll fix your room here.’

It was now raining so violently I had to borrow an umbrella from the receptioness before returning to the house. I told Connie not to come in tomorrow and I would call her when the hurricane had blown itself out. I then called Mrs. Clements on the intercom.

‘Mr. Dyer suggests I have a room here until the hurricane is over,’ I said. ‘Can that be arranged?’

‘Yes, Mr. Burden. Room 2, next to your office.’

That put me thirty yards from Val’s room.

There was very little work now to keep us occupied.

Around 16.00, as there was a lull in the rain, I sent Connie home.

When she had gone, I lit a cigarette and leaned back in my chair. So Vidal was returning tomorrow. Val was supposed to be having a nervous breakdown. I was going to spend the following night here, close to her and close to Vidal.

I took the gun from my hip pocket and examined it. The old Negro had explained about the safety catch, had shown me how to load and unload it. It was now unloaded. I had six cartridges in my pocket. I raised the gun, sighted along the short barrel and squeezed the trigger. The hammer made a sharp snapping sound. I wondered if when the time came I could bring myself to shoot. I put the gun in my brief case and lit another cigarette. Now was the time to think of a safe and foolproof method to kill Vidal. No one must suspect Val nor me. I sat in the stillness of the room with the sound of the storm for the next two hours while I racked my brains but no foolproof idea presented itself. I tried to assure myself that an opportunity would arrive. I had a gun. When the opportunity did arrive, I would use the gun. That was as far as I got with my thinking: a pretty feeble effort which depressed me.

Finally I quit thinking and left the office. The wind was now screaming through the palm trees. Driving towards home, I found the traffic was bad. All cars seemed to be heading out of the city. There were many buses crammed with old people. As Dyer had said the migration had begun.

Along the main shopping street, men were busy removing electric signs and boarding up shop windows. A string of trucks piled high with bedding and cooking utensils held me up, and impatiently I took a side road that would take me in a circular route to my complex.

In the residential quarter I saw men standing on bungalow roofs capping chimneys and others plugging windows and door crevices.

The wind was so violent I had trouble in steering my car in a straight course. Every now and then a gust forced the Plymouth half across the street.

I was glad to drive down the ramp of the communal garage and get out of the wind. As I locked the car, torrential rain began to fall.

Leaving the elevator, I walked into the apartment. Rhoda was standing by the window, looking out at the rain and the wind lashed palms.

‘So the hurricane is going to arrive after all.’ I said as I put my briefcase, containing the gun, in my desk drawer. ‘Did you see all the preparations going on?’

She didn’t turn nor speak. I frowned at her back, then shrugging, I went into the bedroom.

A suitcase lay on the bed. I paused, then crossing to the bed, I lifted the lid of the suitcase. The case contained a jumble of Rhoda’s clothes. She was the most godawful packer and when we went away, I packed for her.

I returned to the living room.

‘What’s the idea of the suitcase, honey?’ I asked, feeling suddenly uneasy.

‘I’m staying at the hotel until the hurricane is over.’ Her voice was flat and cold and she didn’t turn around. ‘Daphne (she was Rhoda’s boss) says we shall be busy as the old cows will have nothing to do except buy things. She says the streets won’t be safe, so I’m moving in, if it’s of any interest to you.’

The stiff way she was holding herself, the tone of her voice increased my uneasiness.

‘Is something biting you, honey?’

She turned. Her face was flushed and her eyes were snapping.

‘I have something to show you, you two faced jerk!’ she exclaimed. She ran to the table and picked up a copy of Vogue, turned back at a full page coloured photograph. She thrust it at me. Even upside down as she held it in her shaking hand I could see it was a photograph of Val.

I kept my face expressionless.

‘What’s so unusual about that?’ I said.

‘Don’t try to con me, you sonofabitch!’ Rhoda screamed. ‘I showed this to Bill Olson and who do you think he said it was: your gorgeous, efficient Val Dart! The tart you have been mooning about for six goddamn years! The whore you went away with, getting what she wouldn’t give you six years ago! You and your cheap diamond and emerald ring!’

She threw something at me. It struck my face and fell to the floor. I saw it was the box containing the engagement ring I had so hopefully bought Val so many years ago and which I had kept as I had thought safely at the back of my shirt drawer. With the ring, I had kept Val’s letters.

I picked up the box and put it in my pocket. A crash of thunder rattled the windows.

‘You dared to hit me, you stinker, when I said you were screwing that whore and you were screwing her all the time! You pick nose bastard! You... you...’ She rushed at me, her fingers like claws. I caught her wrists and pushed her gently but firmly into a chair.

‘All right, Rhoda, relax. Let’s talk about it. Let’s cut out the screaming and the name calling,’ I said quietly. ‘I want a divorce.’

She was struggling to get up, but when I said that she went limp and stared up at me.

‘You want... what?’

‘A divorce. Let’s be civilised about this, Rhoda. You must admit we don’t get along. We shouldn’t have married. You know as well as I do that this is a fact. You are young. You’ll find someone who will make you much happier than I do.’

She drew in a shuddering breath.

‘Are you planning to marry that bitch once you get rid of me?’ she demanded, her voice thick with rage.

‘I have no plans, Rhoda. I just want to be free, and I think you should also be free.’

‘Do you?’ Her lips twisted into a sneer. ‘How very considerate of you! So you divorce me and you’ll be free to screw that bitch whenever she feels like it. That’s the idea, isn’t it?’

‘Rhoda. Can’t we discuss this reasonably? I am asking you for a divorce for the good of both of us. Right now you are upset, but when this hurricane is over, when you are in a calmer mood, think about it. I am sure you will realise that it is as much to your advantage as it is to mine.’

‘Is that right? How nice to know! Let me tell you, Mr. Hot — pants, I don’t have to think about it! I’ve already thought about it!’ She got to her feet and marched into the bedroom.