Джеймс Чейз - Safer Dead [= Dead Ringer]

I moved silently across the room to the window, drew the drapes and looked out on to the moonlit clearing. I could see only the dark trees and darker shadows: shadows deep enough for someone to be lurking there unseen.

I fumbled in my hip pocket for Juan’s gun, pulled it out and slid back the safety catch. I didn’t think anyone was out there, but I had an uneasy feeling there might be.

I stood still, leaning against the wall, looking out into the darkness. Minutes ticked by and still nothing happened. I neither saw nor heard anything.

Then just as I was deciding to take a chance and climb out of the window on to the verandah, a pheasant gave a frightened squawk and rose out of a nearby tree with a great flapping of wings that scared me silly.

I peered through the window, my heart thumping, my gun thrust forward. Someone was out there, I thought. Someone who was sneaking towards the cabin and who had disturbed the bird.

Then my attention shifted from the dark shadows outside to a faint sound that seemed close to me. I felt the hair on the nape of my neck rise as I listened. It was as if someone near me had put their weight on a loose board and the board had given slightly.

I was so scared I couldn’t bring myself to look over my shoulder. If someone was in the room, whoever it was could see me outlined against the window. I made a sweet target for a shot in the back.

I imagined now I could hear someone breathing, but maybe that was only my scared imagination scaring me still more. Close to me was a big settee. A quick jump would get me under cover, but I had left it too late. As I tensed myself to dive, Cornelia Van Blake said out of the darkness, ‘Don’t move and drop that gun!’

There was a bite in her voice that warned me to obey. Sliding the safety catch up, I let the gun drop on to the carpet, then the light clicked on and I slowly turned my head.

She stood against the wall, a .22 automatic in her hand, her face ivory white, her scarlet lips too vivid against her pallor. She had on a black silk shirt, black slacks and crepe soled sandals.

For a long moment we looked at each other.

I had no doubt now that she had murdered her husband and Dillon, and I could see no reason why she shouldn’t murder me. How she had got into the cabin without my hearing her foxed me, but here she was, gun in hand, and if she recognized me, my chances of survival were slight. My life depended on her not knowing who I was.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, not moving, her eyes wary and watchful.

I tried to loosen the muscles in my face. I gave her what I hoped was a simpering smile.

‘Lady, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t be here. I know it, but I heard there was liquor in here and with all your money, I didn’t think you’d miss a bottle.’

I could see that wasn’t the story she was expecting and I went on, driving it home.

‘Maybe you don’t know what it means to crave for a drink,’ I said, wiping my hand across my mouth. ‘I gave my wife my word of honour that I wouldn’t buy the stuff, but I didn’t promise her I wouldn’t steal it. I had to have a drink tonight. I didn’t think anyone came here. It’s when the craving gets me.’

I stopped there. If this act jelled, there was no need to drive it into the ground.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

She didn’t seem quite so hostile, but the gun remained pointing at me.

‘You don’t want my name, do you?’ I said, trying to look ashamed of myself. ‘If you’ll forget it this time, I promise I won’t come here again.’

‘Did you come here by car?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Give me your licence.’

‘I haven’t got it with me. I left it in the car.’

She studied me, then a puzzled look came into her eye that told me she was wondering where she had seen me before.

I knew then I had either to rush her into letting me go or I’d lose the trick.

‘Sit down,’ she said curtly.

‘Now look,’ I said hurriedly, ‘I promise you I won’t come back. I haven’t touched anything. Let me go, won’t you?’

‘Sit down! I’m going to call the police.’

I moved towards her. I had a wild idea that if I could get close enough, I might grab the gun, but she moved away from me, sliding along the wall, the gun steady in her hand.

‘Sit down!’

I saw her knuckle turn white as her finger tightened on the trigger. I sat down.

I couldn’t let her call the police. Once I was in Lassiter’s hands I’d be in permanent trouble.

She backed away to the bar where the telephone was, and lifted the receiver.

I knew I had lost that trick. I had still one more to play.

‘I wouldn’t do it,’ I said quietly. ‘Even if Lassiter is on your payroll, he couldn’t do anything for you once he’s looked under the floor.’

Slowly she replaced the receiver. Her eyes turned into dark, expressionless holes in her face.

‘It’s Mr. Sladen, isn’t it?’ she asked in a polite, brittle voice.

‘That’s right. We’re both in a jam, aren’t we?’

‘I don’t think I am,’ she said, leaning against the bar, the barrel of the gun turned slightly away from me. ‘But you are, Mr. Sladen.’

‘I think we both are.’

‘You’re wanted for murder. I have only to call the police.’

‘You’re forgetting Dillon.’

Her lips came off her teeth in a mirthless smile.

‘No, I’m not. No one knows except you that he is here. My story will be that I saw a light here. I took my gun and came out to see who had broken in. I found you hiding here: a man wanted for murder. You attacked me, and I was forced to shoot you. Why should Sergeant Lassiter think to pick up the floor boards? He will be too occupied with your body to think of looking for another.’

‘You don’t imagine I was so crazy as to come here alone, do you?’ I asked, trying to sound more confident than I felt. ‘You’re through, Mrs. Van Blake. I’ve all the evidence I want. The case is written up, and if anything happens to me, my colleague will send the stuff to Crime Facts who will print it.’

She gave a harsh little laugh.

‘You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?’

‘I can convince you. We could make a deal. I’m not kidding myself you wouldn’t shoot me as you shot Dillon. It wouldn’t be difficult for you to lift the floor boards and drop me in alongside him for company.’

‘I don’t make deals.’

‘I can prove you killed your husband. Like to hear about it?’

‘You can’t prove it.’ A little white ring appeared around her mouth. I saw her finger tighten on the trigger of the gun. I had a sick feeling she was likely to shoot at any second.

‘But I can,’ I said, words spilling out of my mouth. ‘Get a load of this: Royce wanted the Golden Apple club, but your husband wouldn’t sell. You and Royce were lovers, and you wanted to help him. You also wanted to get your hands on your husband’s money. You thought it might be an idea to kill him: the old story of two birds with one shot.’

Her finger on the trigger relaxed. She was listening.

‘You knew you’d be the first to be suspected if your husband died violently,’ I went on. ‘You had the motive: five million dollars of motive. So you plotted and planned to kill him and yet be in the clear. It wasn’t until Lennox Hartley brought Frances Bennett to your house to stand in for your portrait that you saw the way you could do it. Frances was like you in size and colouring. In a few days you were going to Paris. You couldn’t swing it on your own so you told your plan to Royce. His pay-off was the club, so he came in with you. It is probable you had already tried to persuade him to do the job himself, but he hadn’t yet arrived in the murder class and he funked it. If it was to be done, you were the one to do it because your alibi would be watertight.’ I paused to ask, ‘How am I doing, Mrs. Van Blake? Do you like it so far?’