James Chase - Not My Thing

Would he? Could he?

Ng again looked at Shannon. She now appeared to be sleeping.

He got to his feet and, for the first time in his life, he did something that set the blood moving through him and his heart pounding.

He gently lifted her hand and kissed it.

As Kling drove up to his motel cabin, Lucan came rushing out of his cabin. He caught hold of Kling’s arm as Kling got out of his car.

‘What happened?’ he demanded. There was sweat on his face and his eyes looked wild.

Kling regarded him with contempt.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, relax!’ he said. ‘It went as planned: as smooth as silk. She is now safely in the knocking-shop, and the kid is looking after her.’

Lucan moaned with relief.

‘I’ve been waiting and flipping my lid,’ he said. ‘Anything could have gone wrong!’

‘Not with me handling it,’ Kling said. ‘I’ll see Jamison tonight, and get the money out of him.’

‘Suppose he won’t pay?’

Kling gave a sneering laugh.

‘He will. I have him over a barrel. Take it easy, Lucky. I’m taking a swim.’

Lucan began to unwind.

‘You really mean this is going to work? I’ll get half a million?’

‘That’s it, Lucky. It’s really going to work.’

‘Have you fixed this Swiss account for me?’

Kling gave Lucan his evil smile.

‘I can’t do anything like that until Jamison pays up. Take it easy. I’ll fix it.’ Then shoving by Lucan, he went into his cabin and slammed the door.

Lucan returned to his own cabin.

A half a million dollars! he thought. Could he trust Kling? Once the money was in Switzerland, he would pack up and leave America. He would settle probably in Monte Carlo. He paced the room, thinking. God! How he wished he could go now!

He paused by the window to watch Kling, wearing swim-shorts, running down to the sea: his tall, lean body moving with perfect rhythm.

The time was nearly 09.00. Lucan went into the kitchenette and heated up coffee. Kling had said he wouldn’t be seeing Jamison until tonight. As he sipped the coffee, he thought of the long hours ahead. Kling seemed so sure he could handle Jamison. Could he? Jamison was a tough, ruthless sonofabitch!

Then he became aware that someone was knocking on his cabin door. Frowning, he put down his coffee-cup, went to the door and opened it. He was shocked to find himself facing the fat, balding Sydney Drysdale of The Paradise City Herald. The last person he wanted to see!

‘Hi, Lucky,’ Drysdale said with his fat, oily smile. ‘I was passing so I thought I would look in.’

‘Sorry, Syd,’ Lucan said, his voice shaking. ‘I – I’ve got a date. Some other time, huh?’

‘Who was that tall, lean tough you were talking to?’

Lucan felt sweat start out on his face.

‘Oh, that guy? I don’t even know his name. He lives down the way.’

‘Is that right?’ Drysdale was watching Lucan sweat. ‘Tell me, Lucky, how did you make out with Mrs Sherman Jamison?’

If Drysdale had punched him in the face, Lucan’s reaction couldn’t be more evident. He started back, his face turning a waxy white.

‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ he gasped. ‘See you sometime, Syd,’ and he tried to close the door, but Drysdale’s enormous bulk held the door open.

‘Oh, come on, Lucky,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep it under the wraps. Have you screwed her yet?’

‘Get out!’ Lucan screamed hysterically. ‘Get out!’

Drysdale smiled.

‘A little disturbed, Lucky. Unlike you. See you,’ and he moved back allowing Lucan to slam the door.

Heavily, Drysdale plodded back to his car. He settled himself, lit a cigarette and did some thinking.

Something was cooking, he told himself. Years of experience to smell out scandal sent red lights flashing in his shrewd, cunning brain.

Why was this stupid gigolo in such a panic? Why had he reacted so violently when Shannon Jamison’s name was mentioned? Who was this tough-looking man Lucan had been talking with?

Loose threads, but Drysdale was an expert at knitting loose threads together.

He started his car and drove back to his office.

Jamison arrived at his villa in Paradise City at 17.45. He had been met at the airport by Conklin. Jamison, his face hard and set, got into the Rolls and snapped to Conklin to get him home fast. He wasn’t talking to a bird-brain like Conklin.

Smyth was waiting in the lobby and, with a jerk of his head, Jamison indicated he was to follow him into the study.

Jamison sat behind his desk while Smyth, looking old and pale, stood before him.

‘Give me this kidnap note!’ Jamison barked.

‘It is on your desk, sir.’

Jamison looked around, found a scrap of paper, studied it, then pushed it aside.

‘You have followed my instructions? You have said and done nothing?’

‘Yes, sir. I have said nothing about this terrible kidnapping,’ Smyth said, his voice trembling. ‘I have had six telephone calls from Mrs Jamison’s friends. They were all asking if she was going to the concert tonight. I told them she had migraine, and couldn’t be disturbed.’

Jamison nodded.

‘That was efficient of you, Smyth.’

‘Thank you, sir, but Mrs Clayton has been twice on the telephone. She wanted to come here, but I managed to persuade her that Mrs Jamison didn’t want to be disturbed.’

Jamison scowled.

Meg Clayton, Shannon’s best friend! Always a bloody nuisance!

‘These kidnappers could be amateurs, Smyth,’ he said. ‘They could panic and murder Mrs Jamison. They say their ransom demand will be made at eight o’clock tonight. In the meantime, I will handle any telephone calls for Mrs Jamison, and there is to be no leak about this damnable situation. Understand?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Can Conklin be relied to keep his mouth shut?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well. Leave me!’

‘Sir, I am very sorry about this. You can rely on me…’ Smyth began, but Jamison waved him away with a savage gesture of impatience.

When Smyth had left the room, Jamison sat at his desk for the next twenty minutes, staring into space, his mind active. He kept thinking of Tarnia. Not for a moment did he think of his wife. He couldn’t be bothered about her. She had been kidnapped. Well, people, these days, did get kidnapped. Even if he had to pay and pay, he must be rid of her.

The soft buzz of his telephone bell on his desk disrupted his thoughts.

He lifted the receiver.

‘Yes?’ he snapped.

‘Sherry? This is Meg.’ A woman’s voice.

Jesus! Jamison thought. This bloody woman again!

Softening his voice, he said, ‘How are you, Meg?’

‘What’s this about Shannon suffering from migraine? She’s never had migraine before. What is this, Sherry? Shannon is the guest of honour at the Mozart recital tonight.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Jamison said, who didn’t. ‘I’m sorry, Meg. She won’t be able to attend. I am worried. The doctor has given her a sedation, and right now she is asleep. She developed this blinding headache while I was in New York. The doctor assures me she will be all right in a few days.’

‘Is that Doctor Macklin?’

Knowing that Macklin was Meg Clayton’s doctor, he avoided the trap.

‘No. I had my own specialist to take care of her. I’m sorry, Meg, but I am desperately busy. As soon as Shannon feels well enough, she will call you. My best to you and Jay,’ and he hung up.

By tonight, the news that Shannon wasn’t well would be all over the goddamn musical circles of the city, he thought. He had forgotten that Shannon was not only popular, but a talented cellist.