James Chase - Not My Thing

‘Morning, Mr Jamison,’ the man said, in a soft, low voice. ‘I’m Ernie Kling. We have business together… right?’

Jamison sat motionless, but his mind worked swiftly. So Lucan and this killer knew who he was. Well, all right, he couldn’t have hoped to remain anonymous for long.

Still feeling his heart fluttering, Jamison said, ‘I told Lucan I did not want to deal directly with you, Kling.’

‘Yeah, he told me, but I don’t work that way. If I do a perfect job, I deal with the top shot, not a creep like Lucan. Look, Mr Jamison, if that’s not the way you want it, I’ll take off. I’ll leave regretfully because I have a perfect plan. You want to get rid of your wife. I want your money. This is business, Mr Jamison.’

Jamison thought of being free of Shannon. This man had said: I have a perfect plan. He stared thoughtfully at Kling. He had an instinctive feeling this man could deliver the goods.

He said, ‘Very well, Kling, tell me your perfect plan.’

Kling smiled.

‘Not that easy, Mr Jamison. I don’t give away secrets of my trade for nothing. It is understood you and I are now in business? I get rid of your wife without any blow-back, and you pay me three hundred thousand dollars. Right?’

Jamison hesitated, then nodded.

‘Yes, that’s agreed.’

‘Fine. Now how will I be paid?’

‘As you like,’ Jamison said. ‘Cash, gold, you name it, you can have it.’

‘I have a Swiss numbered account,’ Kling said, taking out a pack of cigarettes. ‘How about transferring the money to Switzerland?’

Jamison shrugged.

‘That presents no problem.’

Kling nodded. He realized he was dealing with Mr Big who would certainly have banking accounts all over the world.

‘Fine. I will want a hundred thousand dollars in my Swiss account before I begin the operation.’

Jamison moved restlessly.

‘That’s no problem if you can satisfy me you have a perfect plan.’

Kling relaxed back in the car seat and lit a cigarette.

‘Okay. I got information about your wife from Lucan. There are several possibilities, but none of them are a hundred per cent safe. For instance, I could fix it she drowned on her morning swim. I could fix it she fell off her horse on her afternoon ride, but these thoughts didn’t jell with me. There could be witnesses. You want a perfect lethal death with no blow-back, no cops, so I’ve dug up another solution.’

Jamison listened to this quiet, hard voice. It came into his mind that he and this professional killer were actually planning to murder Shannon! For a very brief moment, he felt a qualm, then his mind shifted to Tarnia. With Shannon out of the way forever, he would be able to marry Tarnia and have a son.

‘What solution?’ he asked, aware his voice was unsteady.

‘People who have regular routines, Mr Jamison, are easy targets. Probably you don’t know that Mr O’Neil, the Irish rep at the United Nations, attends Mass every morning and Mrs Jamison also attends. It seems a regular thing.’

Jamison’s fingers began to drum on the car’s steering-wheel.

‘What has this man to do with your thinking?’ he demanded, impatiently.

‘Well, Mr Jamison, here is the perfect solution you want,’ Kling said. ‘At the end of the service, the priest goes to the church’s entrance to shake hands. Mr O’Neil, being the snob he is, goes with your wife. They pause to shake hands with this fat, old priest. At this moment a member of the Irish Republican Army will throw a bomb. Goodbye Mr O’Neil and, more important, goodbye Mrs Jamison. She appears to be an innocent bystander to a political killing. The cops will hunt the bomb-thrower, but won’t find him. A nice, clean job, Mr Jamison, with no blow-back. Like the idea?’

‘A bomb?’ Jamison said, feeling his heart give a lurch.

‘Let me explain that, Mr Jamison,’ Kling said, lighting another cigarette. ‘I am a professional. I’ve done bomb jobs before. I have access to the new US army’s hand-grenade which is completely lethal. All I have to do is to stand across the street, and when I see your wife and O’Neil come out of church I lob the grenade, and that’s it.’

Jamison sat back in the car seat as he considered this shocking suggestion.

‘But this will be mass murder,’ he said, not caring, but for face-saving, making a minor protest. ‘A bomb! Some of the congregation and certainly the priest will be killed.’

‘Oh, sure,’ Kling said, tossing his cigarette butt out of the open car window. ‘You want a perfect job, Mr Jamison, so why worry about a fat priest and a few old has-beens who should be dead anyway?’

Jamison thought about the priest, and his fingers tightened on the steering-wheel. This priest was the man who had persuaded Shannon that divorce was against her religion. This priest had poured his slimy, sanctimonious poison into Shannon’s ears. Who cared if he died?

He sat still, thinking, while Kling, relaxed and in no hurry, smoked another cigarette.

A political murder! Shannon unlucky to have been among the dead. What an idea! What a perfect plan! Jamison thought of the consternation this bomb outrage would cause among his many friends. How they would rush to send their condolences. He thought of Tarnia, safely in Rome. She would never suspect that he could possibly have had anything to do with this mass murder in which Shannon had died. He would at last be free!

He hesitated no further.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I agree to your plan. When?’

Kling regarded him. In his evil eyes there was a slight light of admiration. This was a man after his own heart, he was thinking. Some man! Tough, utterly ruthless, not caring a goddamn about how many people died so long as he got his own way.

‘As soon as I get a hundred thousand dollars in my Swiss account, Mr Jamison. I’ve already got the grenade. I just want to hear from my bank that the money has arrived, and on the following morning the job will be done.’ He took from his wallet a card. ‘That’s my account number and the address of my Swiss bank.’

Jamison took the card, glanced at it, then said, ‘The money will be in your account the day after tomorrow.’

‘That’s nice news. Okay, Mr Jamison, you can now leave it to me. On Friday morning, at eight thirty in the morning, you will be a widower.’ Kling smiled, opened the car door and got out. Leaning forward, and staring hard at Jamison, he went on, ‘You will send the other two hundred thousand dollars to my Swiss bank when you’ve read the newspapers…’

‘Agreed,’ Jamison said, and started the car engine.

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, then Jamison engaged gear and drove up the sandy lane to the highway.

At midday, Lepski stormed into the Detectives’ room and flung himself down at his desk. He tore off his hat and rumpled his hair, then glared at Beigler who had just come on duty and was about to read the night’s crime sheet.

Beigler, sensing trouble, regarded Lepski uneasily.

‘Hi, Tom,’ he said. ‘You’re early. How did it go?’

‘Listen, Joe,’ Lepski snarled, ‘when next you offer advice, I’ll spit in your right eye! Flowers! Perfume! Candy! When I got home, Carroll actually apologized to me! She said she had told her girl friends and they had split their sides, and she was all over me in the sack! Then when we went down to get lunch, she saw the flowers, the perfume and the candy. Okay, I forgot to put water in the vase and the roses looked terrible. She said the perfume was fit only for a hustler and she didn’t eat candy as she was weight-watching. Then she flew in a rage and accused me of being drunk last night and squandering money! So, okay, I blew my stack, and we had a row that brought the goddamn neighbours into their gardens to listen. So, from now on, keep your big mouth shut!’