Джеймс Чейз - You Never Know With Women

“I’m looking for Casy,” I said to the guard on the door when I arrived at Mick’s place. “The name’s Dexter.”

“Go right in. He’s waiting for you.”

Mick wasn’t taking any chances. The guard was new. I hadn’t seen him before, and he took no interest in me.

It was too early for anyone to be around. A couple of cleaners were in the bar, but after a casual glance at me, they went on with their work. I pushed open Mick’s door, glanced in. Mick was pacing up and down, his hands in his pockets, a dead cigar clamped between his teeth. He looked up, scowled at me.

“Beat it. Who told you to come in?”

“You did,” I said, and closed the door behind me.

He came over and grabbed my hand.

“That damned moustache! You look like a dago. Dammit, I’m glad to see you. Sit down. What the hell are you doing here? Why aren’t you in Mexico?”

“I’m back to find Brett’s killer. I think I know who he is. Look, Mick, I was crazy to run away. My place is here. I’m going to find Brett’s killer and I’m going to collect the reward.”

“You’re crazy! Redfern’s still looking for you. O’Readen has given up, but not Redfern. San Luis Beach is as hot as a stove. If you stick your nose in there you’ll get burned.”

“Give me a hand with this, Mick, and we’ll split the reward. It’s worth thirty grand. What do you say?”

“I’ll help you for nothing. I have all the money I can use.”

“No one has. You’ll do it for fifteen grand or I’ll count you out.”

“We haven’t got it yet. What do you want me to do?”

“I figure it’s Gorman. He knew I was going out to Brett’s place. I want to find out where he was when Brett was shot. If he hasn’t a cast-iron alibi — and he won’t have — I’ll call on him and beat the truth out of him.”

“Watch out. From what I hear that boy’s tough.”

“I’ll take care of him.”

“Well, all right.” He paced up and down. “I’ll turn Lu on to it. Okay?”

“Fine.”

He telephoned for Lu, but he hadn’t come in.

“He’s ditching the car,” I said.

“Tell him I want him as soon as he shows up,” Mick said into the receiver and hung up.

They didn’t trace the gun that shot Brett, did they?”

“Yes it was his.”

“Brett’s?”

“That’s right.”

I slid further down in the chair.

“Brett’s? That’s odd.”

“Why odd?”

“Odd Brett’s killer got hold of it. Almost looks as if Brett knew him. I wonder if Brett knew Gorman? You get what I’m driving at, don’t you? If the gun was Brett’s you can bet he was carrying it in case I started any tricks. He was expecting me, and he was taking care I didn’t double-cross him. Maybe he had the gun lying on the desk where he could reach it if he wanted it. His killer must have known him to have got close enough to grab the gun. See what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll have to find out if Gorman knew Brett. Gorman fixed up for Veda to do her act at Brett’s house, but I doubt if he fixed it with Brett personally: He’d work through Brett’s secretary.” Then I remembered the fair girl who had burst into the room as I was making my getaway. “Did they ever say who the girl was? The one who found Brett, and saw me? She was a blonde; a looker.”

“Sheila — Sheila — I forget: She was to be the future Mrs. Brett.”

Was she? Can’t you remember her name?”

“I’ve kept the cuttings: I’ll turn it up.”

While he was pawing through a mass of cuttings, I thought about the gun: I couldn’t imagine Brett letting Gorman get close enough to grab it. This was a disturbing thought. Of course Brett might have been off his guard, but it didn’t seem likely; not a smartie like Brett. The time factor was important, too. I reckoned it took about ten to fifteen minutes, no more, for the guard to escort me to the steps, for me to fool around looking for the compact, to the moment I’d heard the shot. In that time the murderer had to lull Brett’s suspicions to let him grab the gun, shoot him, take the money and beat it. Fast work — unless... Suppose, I said to myself, Gorman didn’t kill him. Suppose the future Mrs. Brett had done it. She could have gone into Brett’s room and picked up the gun without giving him the jitters. But why should she? Unless they’d fallen out and she knew I was on my way up and this was as good a way of picking up twenty-five grand as another.

“Sheila Kendrick,” Mick said, and tossed the cutting over to me. “That’s the name.”

There was a photograph of her: she looked cute in a Jantzen swim suit; not that she wouldn’t have looked cuter without it. There wasn’t much about her. She came from San Francisco; would have been the future Mrs. Brett had Brett lived; had been a dancer in the successful musical I Spy Strangers , and had won a couple of beauty prizes.

I threw the cutting on the desk as Lu came in.

Mick told him what was wanted.

“Get after him, and if he has an alibi, check it, and when I say check it, I mean check it. There’s five hundred bucks in this for you if you make a job of it.”

Lu fluttered his eyelashes.

“And find out if he knew Brett personally. That’s important,” I said.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Lu said, and sniffed at his cornflower. “I can use five hundred. I’ll make a job of this.”

“He kills me,” I said when he had gone.

“He kills most people, but he’s smart.”

“Well, there’s nothing I can do now until he comes back. I don’t want to get in your way, Mick. Shall I wait in your hideout?”

“No; stick around. No one comes here unless I say so. Make yourself at home. You’re not in the way.” He offered me a cigar, but I wasn’t feeling festive enough. “What happened to the frail?” He had been wanting to ask that question ever since I had arrived. Now his curiosity got the better of him.

“We parted.”

“You did? Well, that surprises me. I thought you and she—” He broke off and grinned. “But I guess I’m talking too much.”

“That’s all right. You know it is. We had a week together, but it didn’t work out.” I wasn’t telling anyone about Max, not even Mick.

“You never know with women.” He shook his head. “And she was a swell looker, too. Shows you, doesn’t it? You can’t tell by looks. I knew a twist once who was magazine cover stuff; but she was no good: colder than an iceberg. Then there was a dame who had a face like a hangover, and a figure like two planks nailed together.” He rolled his eyes. “But was she hot!”

I groped in my hip pocket for my cigarette-case and found Max’s wallet instead. I’d forgotten about it, and while I listened to Mick talking about the women he’d known — always a favourite subject of his — I thumbed through the contents of the wallet. There was a five-dollar bill, a couple of “bus tickets, a letter from his mother, and three obscene photographs. I tossed the pictures over to Mick. On the back of the letter was a pencilled scrawl that brought me to my feet.

I remembered the untidy handwriting of the letter Max had left under his pillow. This note was in the same fist.

It ran:

For Alma from Verne; “A man’s best friend is his wife.”

I felt in my vest pocket and took out the card Brett had given me. The same words. I stood thinking. Two guys write the same dozen words and get themselves knocked off. Did it mean anything? Was I missing anything?

I felt Mick’s eyes on my face.

“What’s biting you?”

“I don’t know... nothing, maybe.”

I folded the letter and put it and the card in my pocket.

“Getting kind of cagey, aren’t you?”

I grinned at him.