James Chase - You Never Know With Women

I cut the wire, expecting a peal of bells to start up all over the house, but nothing happened. It looked as if Parker had either cased the joint with expert thoroughness or else the alarm was still unset. I didn’t know and didn’t care.

I took the card from my pocket, checked the combination and then started on the dial. I held the flashlight on the dial and turned carefully: one full turn to the right, a two-second wait, one half turn back, another wait, a full turn to the right, another wait and a half turn to the right again. Just the way Parker had said. Then I took hold of the knob and pulled gently. I didn’t expect anything to happen, but it did. The safe opened.

I whistled through my teeth, shone the beam of the flashlight into the steel-lined cabinet. On the second shelf in the corner was a small gold box, about three inches square—very neat and modern and expensive looking. I picked it up, balanced it in my hand. It was weighty for its size. There was no button or catch to open it. I fiddled with it for a second or so then dropped it into my pocket. There was no time to waste. I could examine it when I was out of the house.

I took the dagger case from my pocket. Up to now I had been too busy avoiding the guards and thinking about the dog to give the case any attention, but now I had it in my hand my brain began to function.

The dagger was the only thing about Gorman’s story that didn’t click. I was as sure as Parker was loony that the girl hadn’t taken the dagger from Brett’s safe, and that the compact wasn’t her property. I had seen the dagger. It looked genuine enough. I didn’t know anything about antiques, but I did know gold when I saw it, and the dagger was gold—that made it expensive. Then why was Gorman getting me to put a valuable antique in Brett’s safe—an antique that I was certain didn’t belong to Brett? Why? A thing like that could be easily traced. Why hire me to steal the compact and leave something in its place of equal value and which would give the police a clue that might take them to Gorman? There was something wrong here, something out of tune.

I looked at the case in the light of the flash. Maybe they had fooled me and the dagger wasn’t in it. I tried to open the case, but it wouldn’t budge. It was too heavy for an empty case. I continued to examine it, and suddenly it occurred to me that it was thicker and a shade longer than the case Gorman had shown me. I wasn’t sure, but it looked that way to me. Then I heard something that brought me out in a rush of cold sweat. There was a faint but distant ticking coming from the case. I nearly dropped it.

No wonder those two smart punks had told me to handle it carefully. I knew what it was now. It was a bomb! They had made up the bomb to look like the dagger case, figuring I would be in such a hurry to get rid of it I wouldn’t spot the exchange. I put it in the safe as fast as you’d have got rid of a tarantula dropped in your lap.

I had no idea, of course, when the bomb was timed to explode, but when it did, I knew it would blow everything in the safe to atoms. That’s the way they had it figured. Brett wouldn’t know whether or not the compact had been stolen. For all he could tell, an attempt had been made to blow open the safe, but too much T.N.T. had been used and the contents of the safe had been liquidated. It was a bright idea—an idea worthy of Gorman. But when I thought of climbing that wall, coming up here, wasting time dodging the guards with a bomb ticking in my pocket, I came out in another rush of cold sweat. I shut the safe and spun the dial. My one thought was to get as far away from the safe as I could before the bomb went off. Maybe I was a little panicky. You would have felt the same. Bombs are tricky things, and a homemade bomb is the trickiest of them all. I didn’t doubt that Parker—if Parker was responsible for the thing—had timed it to go off sometime after we were well clear of the house; but I wouldn’t trust anyone to be accurate when it comes to bomb mechanism. So far as I was concerned that bomb was likely to go off right now.

I shot to the door, jerked it open and walked out just as Ned, the guard, walked in.

I have a reputation for fast action when it comes to a fight. I don’t have to think what to do when I step into that kind of trouble. My reflexes take care of the work long before my brain goes into action. I had Ned by his thick throat, throttling his yell, before I had gotten over the shock of running into him.

His reflexes were a mile behind mine. He just stood there for a split second, unable to move, letting me throttle him. I’ll say this for him: he made a remarkable recovery. As soon as he realized what was happening, he caught hold of my wrists and I knew by his grip I wouldn’t be able to hold him. He was as strong as a bear.

Only one thing mattered to me. I had to stop this guy from yelling. He tore one of my hands off his throat and swung a fist that felt like a lump of pig iron into the side of my neck. It hurt and got me mad. I socked him twice about the body. His ribs weren’t made of concrete but they felt like it. He grunted, drew in a breath and I socked him again before he could yell. He sagged a bit at the knees, ducked under another smack I let fly at him and grabbed me around the body. We went to the floor, in slow motion, and settled on the carpet with scarcely a bump. We fought like a couple of animals then. He was as tough and as dirty as an all-in wrestler, and as savage. But I kept socking them into his body and I knew he wasn’t built to take much of that stuff. I grabbed hold of his head and slammed it on the floor. He twisted away, gave me a kick in the chest that flattened me and let out a yell like a foghorn.

I jumped him and we sent a table crashing to the floor. I was rattled now. If the other guard came in with the dog, it wouldn’t be so good. I hit Ned in the face with two punches that nearly bust my fists. He flopped to his side, groaning. I didn’t blame him. Those smacks even hurt me.

Then the light went on and the other guard came in and that seemed to be that.

I kicked Ned away, half rose on my knee, paused. The .45 pointing at me looked a lot larger than a 240 millimeter howitzer and twice as deadly.

“Hold it!” Harry said, his voice squeaky with fright.

I held it while Ned got unsteadily to his feet.

“What the hell is going on?” Harry demanded. He was a fat-faced, dumb-looking hick, but built like a bullock.

All I could think of was the bomb.

“Watch him, Harry,” Ned croaked. “Just let me get my breath. I told you, didn’t I? It’s the same guy.”

Harry gaped at me. His finger tightened on the trigger.

“We’d better call the cops,” he said. “You all right, Ned?”

Ned cursed him and cursed me. Then he kicked me in my ribs before I could block his boot. I went sprawling across the room and I guess that saved me.

The bomb went off.

I was vaguely aware of a lot of noise, a flash of blinding light and a rush of air that flung me up against the wall. Then plaster crashed down on me, windows fell out, the room swayed and shook.

I found I was clutching the flashlight I’d dropped when I had grabbed Ned. I knew I had to get out of there fast, but I had to see what had happened to the guards. I needn’t have worried. They had been in a direct line of the safe door as it was blown off its hinges. I recognized Ned by his boots, but I didn’t recognize Harry at all.

I stumbled through the broken French windows out onto the terrace. I was punch-drunk, slaphappy and scared witless, but my brain still functioned.

I was going to double-cross Gorman before he double-crossed me. The exploding bomb had made it easy for me.

I staggered over to the stone bird that guarded the top of the terrace steps. I don’t know how I managed to climb up to the place where its wings joined its body, but I did. I put the compact in the little hollow between the wings, scrambled down, and began to run toward where I hoped I’d find Parker.