James Chase - I Would Rather Stay Poor

He stubbed out his cigarette, frowning. He was rushing this thing, he warned himself. First, he had to get his hands on the money which was now in the vault, only twenty yards from where he was sitting.

He glanced at his strap watch, noticing the fair, thick hairs on his wrist were shiny with sweat. It was now eight minutes past six.

He lifted the telephone receiver and dialled the number of the rooming-house. With the receiver screwed against his ear, he listened to the burr-burr-burr on the line, then abruptly, Kit’s voice came to him.

‘What is it? Who is that?’

From the slurring note in her voice, he knew she was drunk and his eyes gleamed viciously.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, keeping his voice low, mindful that Alice might hear him.

‘What… what did you say? Who is it?’

His fleshy, sweating hand gripped the telephone receiver more tightly.

‘Are you all right?’ he said, raising his voice slightly.

‘All right? Of course, I’m all right. Why shouldn’t I be?’ She spoke loudly and violently.

‘Keep your voice down,’ he snarled. ‘I’ll be expecting you in an hour. Leave at half past six. Do you understand?’

‘What do you imagine I am…an idiot? You’ve said this over and over again until I’m sick of hearing it. I’ll be there.’

‘Lay off drinking, will you? I don’t want you down here drunk.’

‘You’re lucky to have me any way,’ she shrilled and hung up.

He replaced the receiver on its cradle and then stared into space. He sat there for some moments, then he pulled open the top drawer of his desk and took from it one of his worn out socks filled tightly with sand.

He balanced the home-made weapon in his hand, his face expressionless, then he shoved the sand-filled sock into his hip pocket. Again he looked at his watch. He had still forty minutes before he could murder Alice.

With an effort of will, he began to work on the monthly statements. He soon found he was making mistakes, and cursing, he tore up the statement he was working on and dropped the pieces into the trash basket. He pushed back his chair and stood up. He went silently to the door. Opening it, he looked at Alice who was perched on her stool, her feet twined around the rung of the stool, her head bent as she worked swiftly and as he knew by now, accurately. He watched her. In less than half an hour she would be dead, and by his hand. He suddenly wished he could get some support from whisky as Kit seemed to be doing, but he had never been a drinking man. As he stood there, watching, Alice must have felt his presence for she suddenly turned and looked at him through the glittering lenses of her glasses.

With an effort he managed to switch on his charm.

‘Going all right?’ he asked, his voice casual.

She regarded him. He could see she was a little puzzled and perhaps startled.

‘Yes, Mr. Calvin.’

‘Good… I won’t disturb you.’ He moved back into his office. He stood just inside the door, his mind plagued by uncertainty. Would Kit come? he asked himself. He looked towards the telephone, hesitating. If she had drunk too much, it was possible she might collapse on her bed and go to sleep, then he would be stuck with Alice’s body.

He still had time. At half past six he would ring again to make sure Kit had left for the bank.

He forced himself to sit at his desk. His mind now concentrated on the money in the vault: three hundred thousand dollars! With Kit out of the way, every dollar would be his!

He struggled to work. The hands of the desk clock moved on to half past six. Every statement he made out was smudged by his sweating hands, and suddenly and viciously he screwed up the papers he had been working on and threw them into the trash basket.

He lit yet another cigarette, and as the minute hand of the desk clock moved to the half hour, he reached for the telephone receiver and called the rooming-house.

Flo answered.

‘This is Mr. Calvin. Is Mrs. Loring there, Flo?’

‘No, sir. Mrs. Loring’s just this moment gone out.’

‘Thanks… it’s nothing important. Miss Craig and I will be back soon after eight.’

He hung up. So she was on her way. There was no point wasting any more time. His hand moved to his hip pocket and his thick fingers closed around the neck of the sand-filed sock. He stood up and walked to the office door.

‘Oh, Alice…’

‘Yes, Mr. Calvin?’

‘Just a moment…’

He waited, aware he was breathing heavily, aware too of that same odd feeling he had experienced during his combat days when he used to slaughter Japs who he first had had tied to trees. Those moments, as he approached the line of helpless little yellow apes, bayonet in hand, had given him a sexual excitement he was never to forget. Now as he waited for this thin, spinsterish girl in her glasses and shapeless dress to come in, he again experienced this same sexual excitement.

Alice came to the door and peered short-sightedly at him.

‘Yes, Mr. Calvin?’

His smile was a grimace as he waved towards his desk.

‘I’d be glad if you’d check those figures. I don’t seem to get them to balance.’

She looked towards the pile of papers lying on his desk and then moved forward, passing him. He pulled the sand-filed sock from his hip pocket and balanced it in his hand. He watched her approach the desk, put both her hands on the desk and lean forward over the papers he had laid out for her to look at.

He began to move slowly towards her, his eyes glittering, his breathing quick and light. As he was within striking distance of her, as he was about to swing up his arm to deal the back of her head a crashing blow, the telephone bell began to ring.

The sound of the bell went through him like a sword thrust. He remained paralysed with shock as Alice picked up the receiver, saying, ‘Yes?’ She listened, then, ‘Why of course, Mrs. Rason. Yes, he is here. Will you hold on please?’

Calvin stuffed the sand-filled sock back into his hip pocket as Alice turned.

‘Mrs. Rason is asking for you,’ she said and he saw her stiffen and stare at his white, sweating face. ‘Is — is there something wrong?’

He moved around her without answering and taking up the receiver, he sat down at the desk.

‘Yes, Mrs. Rason?’ he said, his voice strangled and unsteady.

Mrs. Rason was one of the wealthiest clients of the bank. She had taken a fancy to Calvin and he had been re-investing her money. She launched into a long conversation about a merger she had been told about. What did Calvin think? Should she buy? If she did, Calvin would have to hurry.

Calvin watched Alice take up the papers on his desk and go out of the office. He scarcely heard what Mrs. Rason was saying. He suddenly remembered he had forgotten to unlock the back entrance to the bank. Any moment now Kit would be arriving. If she found the door still locked, what would she do? Go away? Do something stupid? A drop of sweat fell on to the blotter as the high-pitched voice yammered against his ear.

‘Look,’ he said, trying to keep his voice under control, ‘right now, Mrs. Rason, I can’t talk to you. I’m sorry. We’re closed. Could we discuss this tomorrow?’

‘Well, for heaven’s sake!’ Mrs. Rason said sharply. ‘I don’t know what I’ll be doing tomorrow. If I buy, you’ll have to do something fast first thing tomorrow morning.’

Calvin could have strangled her. The startled expression on Alice’s face had warned him she had noticed something was wrong. What was she doing out there? He controlled himself with an effort.

‘Yes, I understand. Well, I think you should buy. I think…’ Gently he pressed down the cradle of the telephone, breaking the connection. He replaced the receiver, knowing in a few moments she would be calling back.