James Chase - This Way for a Shroud

The sudden whoosh of air and the roar of an aircraft engine had startled them both.

“There’s a night trip from Pacific City to Los Angeles that passes about this time,” Conrad said, glancing at his watch. It was just ten o’clock. “I think the best thing we can do is to take her from here in an armoured car with an escort of cycle cops. We’ll keep her in the court-house. There’re some rooms in the basement she can have. They’re not particularly pleasant, but it’ll only be for a week or so. There’re no windows and only one entrance.”

“Yes,” Forest said, “but we’ve got to catch Maurer first.”

“Still no news?”

“Bardin was on the phone about ten minutes ago. He says there’s a rumour going around that Maurer’s back. They’re checking now.”

Conrad sat up.

“Back? Who started the rumour?”

“There’s that plane again,” Forest said, as the aircraft, flying very low, roared past the window. He got up and went to the window. “Goddamn it! Look at this, Paul.”

Conrad joined him at the window.

Flying out to sea was a small, single-winged aircraft, lit up by red neon lights. It looked like some strange bird of paradise as it swept around in a tight circle and came back towards the hotel.

“Some advertising stunt,” Conrad said, watching the plane without interest. His mind was busy thinking about Frances. The idea of taking her to Venice made his heart beat faster. The trip would give him a chance to try and straighten out her mind.

“Looks pretty good,” Forest said, leaning out of the window to see more of the plane as it came around the hotel and swept downwards towards the sea. “What’s he advertising, I wonder? Hey! Look at that, Paul.”

A little irritated by Forest’s childish interest, Conrad moved closer to the open window.

The plane was now flying just below the cliffs and practically level with the hotel gardens. A figure, lit up by red and blue fairy lights, was standing on one of the wings. It waved as the plane roared past the hotel.

“The reckless fool,” Conrad grunted. The things people will do for money.”

“When I was a kid,” Forest said, “I wanted to be a wing-walker. That guy’s certainly got a nerve. Look at him!”

The plane was returning now, still flying low. The wing-walker was standing on his hands, balanced precariously on the edge of the wing.

Faintly above the roar of the engine. Conrad could hear the excited cries of the people in the garden as they waved to the plane.

“Here he comes,” Forest said, leaning farther out of the window. “He’s hanging on with one hand…”

Conrad felt the rug they were standing on shift suddenly as Forest leaned still farther out of the window. He saw Forest lurch forward and grab frantically for the window sill. Conrad snatched at Forest’s coat, braced himself as he felt Forest over-balance. For one horrible moment he thought the coat was going to be wrenched out of his grip, then Forest managed to get a hold on the windowframe and heave himself back into the room.

“For God’s sake…” Conrad gasped.

Forest was white-faced and shaken.

“Thanks, Paul,” he said huskily. “Hell! I nearly went out. That’s a long way down. Phew! I guess the rug slipped… .”

Conrad stood rooted, his face white. Above the returning roar of the aircraft both men heard a wild, terrified scream that chilled their blood.

“What’s that?” Forest exclaimed.

Conrad flung himself across the room, wrenched open the door and ran blindly down the corridor to Frances’s room.

Two of the guards were coming from the opposite direction. Conrad beat them to the door and threw it open.

The two police women were standing away from the open window, whitefaced and like statues.

Madge Fielding was wringing her hands, her face ashen.

There was no sign of Frances.

“Madge! What’s happened?” Conrad asked, in a strangled voice.

“She’s gone! She was leaning out of the window, looking at the plane when suddenly she screamed. I rushed to her, but I was too late. She seemed to be pulled out of the window. She was struggling, then the rug slipped from under her and she went out…”

Forest pushed past Conrad and went over to the window. He looked out.

Two hundred feet below him, looking like a small, broken doll, Frances lay stretched out on the moonlit sands.

He looked down at her for a long moment, then he stepped back as Conrad walked unsteadily to a chair and sat down.

“Well, that’s it,” Forest said in a low savage voice. “Goddamn it! There goes my case against Maurer — like her — out of the window.”

The aircraft swooped once more over the hotel, then its neon lighting went out, and like a departing spirit it flew swiftly out to sea.

At ten o’clock the following morning, Jack Maurer, accompanied by his attorney, Abe Gollowitz, and four hard-faced, alert bodyguards, arrived in a blue and silver Cadillac outside the City Hall.

A half an hour previously every newspaper in town had been tipped off that Maurer was on his way to surrender to the District Attorney. There was a big crowd of newspaper men, camera men, television cameras and three movie cameras to greet him.

Maurer got out of the car, a broad smile on his swarthy face, and waved towards the television camera. Maurer was a television fan, and he liked the thought that his face was being watched at this very moment by three-quarters of a million people.

The reporters converged on him, but his four bodyguards formed a protective wall around him and waved them aside.

“Have a little patience, boys,” Maurer said from behind his screen. “I’ll have something to say to you when I come out. Just stick around until I’ve had a talk with the D.A.”

“What makes you think you’re coming out?” one of the reporters bawled, his face red with anger.”

Maurer gave him a wide friendly smile, and still surrounded by his bodyguards, he mounted the steps to the entrance of the City Hall and disappeared through its portals.

“The fat sonofabitch,” the reporter said. “He won’t talk himself out of this rap. They’ve got him where it’ll hurt most.”

“Yeah?” the Pacific Herald reporter sneered. “Do you imagine a bastard like Maurer would surrender unless he knew he could beat the rap? I bet you ten dollars to a dime he comes out of there in ten minutes as free as the air.”

“You’ve got yourself a bet, son,” the other reporter said pityingly. “I happen to know what Forest has got on him.”

“Do you happen to know the only witness he had to clinch the case fell out of a window last night?” the Pacific Herald reporter asked. “You’ve got to hand it to that oily snake. He’s never let anyone give evidence against him, and he never will.”

“That was an accident,” the other reporter said hotly. “I’ve talked to Conrad. That guy knows what he’s talking about. She fell out of the window accidentally.”

“Like Weiner got drowned in his bath accidentally? Yeah? If you believe that crap, you’re the only one besides Conrad who does.”

They were still arguing ten minutes later when there was a sudden hush from the crowd, and looking up, they saw the four hard-faced men coming through the doors with Maurer in the middle of them.

Maurer was beaming. He paused at the top of the steps and looked down at the battery of cameras and the hostile faces of the reporters.

Abe Gollowitz, a little pale and very tired-looking, stood to his right. His fat face was expressionless, but his eyes were the eyes of a man without hope or without a future.

“Well, boys,” Maurer said breathlessly, “seems it was all a mistake.”