Джеймс Чейз - Have a Change of Scene

‘Yes.’ A pause, then I went on, ‘I’m taking over the penthouse, Harry. Have you the keys?’

‘Yes, sir. I saw about it in the papers. I said then as I say now: good luck to you, Mr. Carr. The staff here are very pleased you will be living here.’

‘Thank you, Harry.’

‘No one’s been up there since the police left it. It’ll need cleaning before you move in.’

‘Do you have Claude’s address, Harry? I was wondering if he would work for me.’

‘I don’t see why not. Yeah, I’ve got his telephone number. Just a moment.’ He went into his office and after searching through a desk drawer he came out with a slip of paper. ‘I heard he was pretty upset.’

‘He hasn’t been here since?’

‘No, sir. He went to stay with his old mother for a couple of weeks, but I guess he could be back by now.’

‘I’ll call him.’ Taking the slip of paper and the keys of the penthouse, I went on, ‘Thanks, Harry. I’m just taking a quick look around. I won’t be long.’

As the elevator took me up to the penthouse my thoughts went back to that fatal night. I flinched at the thought of entering Sydney’s home for the first time since his death.

As I paused outside the front door, I hesitated. I had a feeling of sick uneasiness, but this was crazy, I told myself. Sydney was dead. This marvellous penthouse now belonged to me... it was to be my future home! I must rid myself of this guilt complex. I was not responsible for his death! I had told myself that over and over again during my long hours of loneliness. I had to get this feeling of guilt out of my mind.

I sank the key into the lock and moved into the lobby. I could hear the faint whirring of the air conditioner and I paused, listening. Had the police left the air conditioner on? Hadn’t anyone been up here to make sure the lights and the air conditioner had been turned off?

Puzzled, I pushed open the door.

Facing me, gun in hand, was Fel Morgan.

On the floor below came the sound of a dog yapping, then the murmur of voices, then the dog yapped again.

I stood motionless, staring at the gun that could produce death.

Faintly through the double-glazing I could hear the siren of an ambulance. Far below and away from me, Paradise City was living its life.

I shifted my eyes from the gun to Fel’s face. As I did so, he lowered the gun and said in a shuddering, terrified voice, ‘Jesus God! I thought you were the fuzz!’

I saw then that he was more frightened than I was and this steadied me, although my heart was pounding and my mouth was dry. I stared at him.

What a god-awful wreck he looked!

He was dirty and emaciated; his face covered with red stubble. I could smell his dirt. He wore the red jacket with the black patch pockets but it was scarcely recognisable under its layer of filth. His shoes were mud encrusted as if he had been walking in a swamp. His eyes were sunken and frightened. His mouth twitched. His breath came in quick short gasps through his dirty teeth.

‘When I heard the lock turn,’ he said in a quavering voice, ‘it scared the crap out of me. I thought I’d be safe here for a few days.’ He turned away from me and dropped like a dead body into one of the lounging chairs. The gun slipped out of his fingers and thudded on to Sydney’s two-hundred year old Persian carpet. Fel put a filthy hand across his eyes and began to weep.

I closed the door, then walked unsteadily across to the liquor cabinet. With shaking hands I poured two stiff whiskies.

‘Take it easy,’ I said and put one of the glasses on the occasional table by his side. ‘Pull yourself together. Drink this.’

He looked up at me, rubbing his face with the back of his hand. There was a desperate, animal expression in his eyes that warned me how dangerous he was.

‘You bastard!’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘You got me into this with your smooth talk! You’re damn well going to get me out of it!’

I drank half the whisky, then walking to a chair near his, I sat down.

‘Where’s Rhea?’ I asked.

He clenched his fists and banged the sides of his head. I could see he was hysterical with fear and this gave me confidence.

‘Fel! Pull yourself together! Where’s Rhea?’

‘Don’t talk to me about that bitch!’ He now began to pound his fist on his knees. ‘You’ve got to help me! You got me into this! I saw the papers... they want me for murder!’

Seeing his panic, hearing him talk, seeing he was way-out with fear, I felt I could handle him.

‘I’ll help you, but I must know what happened. Where’s Rhea?’

He began crying again: sobs shaking him. I took a long pull at the whisky, then sat back, watching him. His craven fear and his filth disgusted me.

I let him sob on. Finally, he couldn’t squeeze out any more tears and wiping his eyes on the heel of his wrist, he looked blearily at me.

‘If they catch me, they’ll put me away for twenty years,’ he gasped, each word jerking out of him. ‘I couldn’t stand that! I’m not built like that! Twenty years behind bars! They’ll never take me alive!’

‘Stop thinking about yourself,’ I said, ‘where’s Rhea?’

‘The bitch! My goddamn sister.’ He stood up, shook his fists above his head, then sat down again. He was behaving like a crazy man. ‘The guns weren’t loaded! I swear it! She must have loaded them! You said not to load them and I didn’t load them! She did it! She killed the queer! She tried to kill you! You know it! You must tell the fuzz I hadn’t anything to do with it!’

‘Where’s Rhea?’ I said.

‘You don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m as bad as she is, don’t you? I’m not! She’s always been a curse to me! I should never have taken her back! I should never have listened to your smooth talk! Twenty years behind bars! I couldn’t take it!’

‘What are you doing here?’ I said quietly, hoping the sound of my voice might calm him.

He leaned back in the chair, holding his head in his hands.

‘Don’t ask goddamn questions! I want to get out of here! I want money! I want a car! I’ve got to get out of this goddamn place!’

‘I’ll give you money,’ I said. ‘I’ll help you get away. I’ll get you a car.’

He stared at me. He was shivering, but now there was a gleam of hope in his eyes.

‘You’d better!’ he said huskily. ‘You and your goddamn millions! This has been a sweet thing for you, hasn’t it?’

That was his mistake. I was beginning to feel sorry for him, but by saying that, he killed any feeling of pity I might have had for him.

‘I said I would help you,’ I said.

‘How could she have killed that queer?’ he said, staring down at his dirty hands. ‘She’s rotten! You know what she did to me... me... her brother?’ He looked up, his eyes loaded with misery. ‘We chased out of this goddamn place. She had the necklace. We got in the car. She drove. We went like bats out of hell to the highway. I was cursing her for shooting, but she didn’t even look at me. I thought we were heading for Miami. I left it all to her: all I could do was to curse her. When we got on to the swamp road through the mangrove forest — you know? — just outside the city, she stood on the brakes. I was pissing myself, looking back to see if the fuzz were after us. I yelled at her to keep going. I can see her now.’ Again he thumped his knees with his clenched fists. ‘Her goddamn eyes were like ice chips. “Rear tyre, offside is flat,” she said. “Get out and check.” So I got out and checked. Okay, so I’m a dope: so I buy anything, like I bought your smooth talk. I hadn’t even reached the back of the car before the bitch was away with all those diamonds... not caring a goddamn what happened... to me.’ His voice broke and he began to cry again, rocking himself to and fro in his misery.