James Chase - This Way for a Shroud

He swept her off her feet, holding her against him as she struggled and kicked.

“Let me down this minute!”

“We’re going upstairs.”

He carried her into the hall and started up the stairs.

“Louis! You’re not to! I’ll get angry. You must put me down!”

“All in good time.”

He reached the head of the stairs, spotted a light coming under a door, pushed the door open with his foot and walked into a big, airy bedroom with twin beds, one of which was cluttered up with dresses, coats and underwear.

He set her down, his arm still around her, holding her against him.

“You get out of here!” Janey said angrily. “I’m not standing any more of this nonsense!”

Seigel had trouble in keeping his temper. He never allowed his women to talk to him like this, but he decided it was too soon to get tough with her.

“I must always keep you angry, baby,” he said softly. “You look even prettier when your eyes flash like that.”

Janey softened a little. She never could resist a compliment.

“Now, please, Louis, go downstairs. If Paul comes back…”

Seigel sat on the bed.

“Where is he?”

“That’s none of your business. Now run along and wait for me downstairs.”

“Don’t you know, then?”

“Of course I know, but it’s none of your business.”

Seigel grinned.

“Seriously, is he likely to come back tonight?”

“I don’t suppose he is, but I’m not taking any chances. Now please go downstairs.”

He got up and went over to her, putting his arms round her.

“Kiss me, Janey.”

She hesitated, then lifted her face to his. He crushed his mouth down on hers, and for a long moment he held her like that, his body hard against hers, his arms tight in the small of her back.

She tried to resist him, but he held her easily, and slowly he felt the resistance go out of her.

“Oh, Louis…” she sighed, leaning against him.

He manoeuvred her over to the bed, and she shook her head, but the resistance had gone completely out of her. She lay flat on her back, looking up at him, her eyes cloudy, her face flushed. “We shouldn’t…”

“Where is he, Janey?” he asked, bending over her.

“Where is who?” she asked, frowning.

“Your husband. Where is he?”

The cloudy look went out of her eyes.

“Why are you so interested?” Then she sat up abruptly, pushing him away. “Of course! What a fool I am! Of course!”

He eyed her warily.

“Of course — what?”

“So that’s why you’re suddenly interested in me again,” she said, her eyes furious. “You want to know where that Coleman woman is, don’t you? Of course! Paul said you were one of Maurer’s thugs. What a stupid fool I’ve been!” She jumped to her feet. “Get out! Get out before I call the police!”

Seigel grinned at her. His smooth charm had gone, and the cold, ferocious expression in his eyes frightened her.

“Take it easy, baby,” he said softly. “Don’t start anything you can’t finish. You know where he is, and you’re going to tell me, or I’ll damn well beat it out of you! Where is he?”

Janey backed away, quaking.

“I don’t know. Get out!”

Seigel stood up.

As Janey opened her mouth to scream he crossed over to her with two quick strides and hit her across her face with his open hand so heavily that she went down on hands and knees, momentarily stunned.

He bent over her, dragged her upright and holding her by her elbows he shook her, rocketing her head backwards and forwards. Then he gave her a violent shove that sent her reeling across the room to fall flat on the bed. She lay gasping, feeling as if she had been caught by the blast of a bomb.

He went over to her, knelt on the bed, caught her wrist and turned her over on her face. He twisted her arm, driving it up and screwing her wrist as he did so.

She screamed frantically, but his left hand pushed her face into the bedclothes, drowning her scream.

“Where is he?”

Janey wasn’t cut out for a heroine. The pain in her arm made her feel faint. She began to cry.

He wrenched her arm back again.

“No! Don’t! I’ll tell you!” Janey screamed.

“Well, come on, damn you! Where is he?”

“I don’t know where he is, but I’ve got his telephone number,” Janey sobbed.

He turned her and stared down at her white stricken face.

“What is it?”

“Barwood 99780.”

“If you’re lying it’ll be the last lie you tell, baby!”

“Leave me alone,” she sobbed. “Oh, you’ve hurt me, you beast!”

“We’ll go downstairs and you’ll call that number. You’ll talk to him. Tell him you’re lonely: tell him anything so long as I know for sure he’s there.”

“I’ll do it,” Janey gasped, so eagerly Seigel knew at once she had been telling the truth.

“Come on,” he snarled, jerking her to her feet.

She staggered across the room to the door, holding her aching arm. He followed her along the short passage to the head of the long flight of stairs. He was just behind her as she put her hand on the banister rail, and he braced himself as she groped for the first stair. Then he lifted his foot, aiming at the small of her back, and drove his leg forward with all his strength.

The flat of his foot hit her like a battering-ram, projecting her violently into space. Her wild, terrified scream as she hurtled down the stairs, set his nerves on edge.

Her body twisted around as she fell, and he caught a glimpse of her terrified eyes and wide open mouth before she crashed to the floor below, landing on the back of her head with a thud that shook the house.

TEN days had passed since Janey’s death, and by now Conrad had absorbed the first shock. At first it had seemed unbelievable that she was dead, and it was only at the funeral that he finally realized the unhappy partnership was ended.

The Coroner had returned a verdict of death by misadventure. The high heel of one of Janey’s slippers had been found to have caught in the hem of her wrap. It was obvious to the Coroner that as she was descending the stairs she had tripped and had fallen heavily, breaking her neck.

Conrad had left all the arrangements to Janey’s father, and had stayed with Frances in the new hide-out. There was nothing he could do for Janey now, and the responsibility of Frances’s safety lay on him like a dead weight.

He had puzzled over O’Brien’s last cryptic words: It wasn’t an accident. Ferrari… my kid…

Conrad, like every other police officer in the country, knew of Vito Ferrari. Had O’Brien meant that Weiner had been murdered and that Ferrari had been responsible? Conrad had warned McCann that Ferrari might be in town, and had asked him to alert his men, but McCann had reported back that there was no sign of the Syndicate’s executioner.

Conrad worried about this. If Ferrari had been responsible for Weiner’s death, then Frances was in serious danger. He took every possible precaution to guard her.

He had moved her to the Ocean Hotel at Barwood, a small town fifteen miles from Pacific City. The hotel was a ten-storey building, built on the edge of the cliffs, overlooking the sea.

Forest had taken over the whole of the top floor of the hotel. A special steel door now sealed off the approach to the top floor, and twenty of McCann’s picked men were on constant patrol on the landing and in the grounds.

As Conrad improved the defences, he slowly satisfied himself that it was virtually impossible for anyone to get at Frances.

Madge Fielding and two police women never let Frances out of their sight, and it was agreed that until the trial, she should not leave her room.