Джеймс Чейз - You Never Know With Women

“Never mind that — it’s the note that matters.”

“Yes.”

I went over to him and shook him. It took a little while to bring him round. I had hit him a lot harder than I intended. Finally he began to groan. After a minute or so he opened his eyes. When he saw me bending over him he went the colour of a dirty sheet.

“All right, Max,” I said. “You’ve played your hand. It’s our turn now. Where do you live?”

“I’m not talking!”

“Yes, you are. I don’t want to beat you, but you’re talking. We’ve got to get that note of yours. If we get that we can keep you here for a week or so, then when the heat’s off us we’ll turn you loose.”

“I’m not talking!”

I stood him up and began to hit him with my fists. Every so often I asked him where he lived and he told me to go to hell. He had a lot of pluck, and I didn’t get any fun out of wading into him. He passed out after I’d clipped him a shade too hard, and I drew back, blew on my knuckles and glared down at him in disgust.

Veda stood against the wall, her face empty and as white as chalk.

“You’re wasting time, Floyd.”

I threw water into his face, shook him alive.

“Where do you live?” I got set to sock him again.

He mumbled curses at me.

“Wait!” Veda said.

I drew away from him, turned to look at her. She had snatched up the poker, and as I watched she pushed it into the fire.

“We’re wasting time,” she said, and again that awful little smile flickered at the corners of her mouth.

We stood there staring at the poker until it turned red-hot, then she pulled it out.

“Hold him,” she said.

“Look, Veda...”

“Hold him!”

I grabbed Max and he screamed. She came slowly towards him, her lips off her teeth.

His head was rigid with horror. Looking over his shoulder, I had a sudden cold, empty feeling inside me.

“I’ll talk,” he said suddenly, and his knees sagged so I was holding his weight. He nearly pulled me over. “Don’t touch me. It’s the fourth house on the Altadena road on the left as you go in. The house with the white gate. The note is under my pillow.”

She dropped the poker and turned away. I saw a shudder run through her. I shoved him into a chair, snatched up the poker as it began to burn a hole in the wooden floor.

“I’ll go now,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Watch him. Don’t take any chances with him.”

“He’ll be here when you get back. Hurry, Floyd.”

I touched her shoulder, but she shrank away.

“I’ll huffy, kid. Don’t go near him. Just watch him.”

I picked up his .45 and shoved it into my hip pocket, put the .25 on the mantel. As I reached the door, I glanced back. Max was huddled up in his chair, staring at Veda, who stared back at him.

Then I remembered something, came back, opened the store cupboard and took out two bottles of whisky. Max gave a strangled sob, but I went quickly to the door without looking at him.

Outside it was starlight and cold. The moon was only just coming up above the foothills. I stood for a moment, rubbing my aching knuckles. I thought about the expression on Veda’s face. I hadn’t any doubt that she would have burned him as she said she would. The thought sent a chill up my spine. I shrugged it off, and went quickly around the shack to the Buick.

I got on to the Altadena road after twenty minutes fast driving. The clock on the dashboard showed ten-twenty as I drew up outside a house with a white gate. It wasn’t much of a place, but then I didn’t expect a palace. The moonlight lit up the burned patch of garden, the rickety gate and the fence that looked like a giant saw with half its teeth missing. I was scared the gate would fall to pieces if I touched it, so I stepped over it, and walked up the hard mud that made a path to the door. There was a light showing through tattered blinds that covered the downstairs window. I climbed the three wooden steps, fumbled for the bell and rang it.

The smell of garbage and wet clothes drifted from the yard in the rear and made me wrinkle my nose. I thought of Veda alone up there in the hills, and the cringing horror that had been in Max’s face. I thought of the Buick cluttering up the road outside this house. If a prowl car passed they’d know I was in there and they’d surround the place silently and then yell for me to come out. There was nothing I could do about that. It was one of those things.

Shuffling feet came down the passage, the door opened. I couldn’t see anyone, but guessed by the smell of stale gin that she was there somewhere in the dark.

“Is Max in?”

“Who wants him?” The thick, clogged voice came from a throat like oil from a bottle.

“The name’s Dexter. Are you Mrs. Otis?”

“That’s right.”

“Max told me about you. I understand he’s looking for work. I have something in his line.”

“Well, he ain’t in.”

I tried to see her, but it was too dark. It was an odd feeling to lie to this voice and not see who owned it.

“That’s too bad. I came late hoping he’d be in. When will he be back?”

“I dunno. Maybe soon. I dunno.”

“I’m paying good money. He said if ever I had anything to let him know. Can I wait? I won’t be this way again.”

“I’m going to bed.” There was a surly note in the voice now. “I dunno when he’ll be back.”

“I have a couple of bottles of Scotch in the car. It wouldn’t be hard to pass the time.”

“You have?” The voice became alive. “Well, think of that! You come in. There’s nothing to drink in this damned house. Max’s always promising to bring in a bottle, but he never does. You come in, mister.”

“I’ll get the Scotch.”

I went down the steps, climbed over the gate, collected the two bottles and came back. She had opened the living-room door and light from an oil-lamp filtered into the passage. I walked into a smell of dirt, stale food, cats and unwashed clothes.

Ma Otis stood behind the oil-lamp and stared at me with bright black eyes. She was short and fat and dirty. She had the same hooked nose as Max had, but there the resemblance ended. There was nothing sad about her eyes, although they were moist. A straggle of grey hair fell over one eye and she kept blowing it away. She could have pinned it back without much effort, but I guess she preferred to blow at it.

“Let’s sit down,” I said. “This is an aristocratic liquor. It must be: it says so on the label.”

She giggled at that and licked her lips. Max had called her a rum-dum, and a rum-dum she was. She fetched a couple of dirty glasses and poured herself a drink that would have floated the hat off my head if I had drunk it. She didn’t bother to be polite or make conversation, and as soon as I was sure she had no other interest except to empty the two bottles I kept feeding her the stuff, and waited for her to pass out.

When she had reached the half-way line of the second bottle I began to wonder if I’d brought enough supplies. There was only one small drink left in the second bottle when she suddenly lost interest in things. It was only because she stopped lifting her glass that I knew she’d gone over the edge. She sat there, staring at me with blank eyes and blowing at the strand of hair.

I got up and moved around the room, but she didn’t attempt to follow me with her eyes. I guessed it was safe enough, and went into the passage and up the stairs. There were only three rooms upstairs. One of them belonged to Ma Otis. I could tell that by the pile of empty bottles in a corner.

The next room I went into was neat and clean, and by the blue serge suit hanging on the back of the door and the rubber slicker on the bed, I guessed Max slept there. Under the pillow I found an envelope. I sat on the bed and read what he had written. In a way, it was a pathetic letter. He said if she found it he would be dead or in trouble, and he gave a detailed description where he would be found. He kept repeating about the reward and how she must collect it. He knew he had to deal with a mind ruined by gin, and he made it as simple and clear as he could. He covered six pages driving it into her head what she had to do, and not to let Kate (who was the sister, I guessed) get her hands on the money.