James Chase - You Never Know With Women

I followed him up the broad stairs, along a passage to a bedroom that smelled as if it had been shut up for a long time. Apart from the stuffy, stale air, there was nothing wrong with the room.

“Good night, Jackson,” he said curtly and went away.

I poured myself out a small Scotch, drank it, made another and walked to the window. I threw it open and leaned out. All I could see were treetops and darkness. The brilliant moonlight didn’t penetrate through the trees or shrubs. Below me I made out a flat roof, a projection over the bay windows that ran the width of the house. For something better to do I climbed out of the window and lowered myself onto the roof. At the far end of the projection I had a clear view of the big stretch of lawn. A lily pond that looked like a sheet of beaten silver in the moonlight held my attention. It was surrounded by a low wall. Someone was sitting on the wall. It looked like a girl, but I was too far away to be sure. I could make out a tiny spark of a burning cigarette. If it hadn’t been for the cigarette, I would have thought the figure was a statue, so still was it sitting. I watched for some time, but nothing happened. I went back the way I had come.

The chauffeur was sitting on my bed waiting for me as I climbed in through the window.

“Just getting some fresh air,” I said as I hooked my leg over the sill. I didn’t show I was startled. “Kind of stuffy in here, isn’t it?”

“Kind of,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I’ve seen you somewhere before, ain’t I?”

“Along the waterfront. Jackson’s the name.”

“The dick?”

I grinned. “That was a month ago. I’m not working that racket anymore.”

“Yeah, I heard about that. The cops picked on you, didn’t they?”

“The cops picked on me.” I found another glass, made two stiff drinks. “Want one?”

His hand shot out.

“Can’t stay long. They wouldn’t like me being up here.”

“Did you come for a drink?”

He shook his head. “Couldn’t place you. It sort of worried me. I heard the way you spoke to that heel Parker. I thought you and me might get together.”

“Yeah,” I said. “We might. What’s your name?”

“Max Otis.”

“Been working here long?”

“Started today.” He made it sound as if it was a day too long. “The dough’s all right, but they kick me around. I’m quitting at the end of the week.”

“Told them?”

“Not going to. I’ll just take it on the lam. Parker’s worse than Gorman. He’s always picking on me. You saw the way he behaved….”

“Yeah.” I hadn’t time to listen to his grievances. I wanted information.

“What do you do around here?”

His smile was bitter. “Everything. Cook, clean the house, run the car, look after that heel Parker’s clothes, buy groceries, the drinks. I don’t mind the job—it’s them.”

“How long have they been here?”

“Like I said—a day. I moved them in.”

“Furniture and all?”

“No…they’ve rented the place as it stands.”

“For how long?”

“Search me. I wouldn’t know. They only give me orders. They don’t tell me nothing.”

“Just the two of them?”

“And the girl.”

So there was a girl.

I finished my drink and made two more.

“Seen her?”

He nodded. “Rates high on looks, but keeps to herself. Calls herself Veda Rux. She likes Parker the way I do.”

“That her out in the garden by the pond?”

“Could be. She sits around all day.”

“Who gave you the job?”

“Parker. I ran into him downtown. He knew all about me. He said he’d been making enquiries and would I like to earn some solid money.” He scowled down at his glass. “I wouldn’t have touched it if I’d known the kind of rat he is. If it wasn’t for the gun he carries, I’d take a poke at him.”

“So he carries a gun?”

“Holster job, under his left arm. He carries it as if he could use it.”

“These two guys in business?”

“Don’t seem to be, but your guess is as good as mine. No one’s called or written. No one telephones. They seem to be waiting for something to happen.”

I grinned. Something was going to happen all right.

“Okay, pally, you shoot off to bed. Keep your ears open. We might learn something if we’re smart.”

“Don’t you know anything? What are you here for? What’s cooking? I don’t like any of this. I want to know where I stand.”

“I’ll tell you something. This Rux frail walks in her sleep.”

He looked startled. “You mean that?”

“That’s why I’m here. And another thing, she takes off her clothes at the drop of a hat.”

He chewed this over. He seemed to like it. “I thought there was something different about her,” he said.

“Play safe and take your hat to bed with you,” I said, easing him to the door. “You might be in luck.”

IT WASN’T UNTIL THE following afternoon that I met Veda Rux.

In the morning, Parker and I drove over in the Packard to Brett’s house. We went around the back of the foothills and up the twisting mountain road to the summit where Ocean Rise has its swaggering terminus.

Parker drove. He took the bends in the mountain road too fast for comfort, and twice the car skidded and the rear wheels came unpleasantly near to the edge of the overhang. I didn’t say anything; if he could stand it, I could. He drove disdainfully, his fingertips resting on the steering wheel as if he were afraid of getting them soiled.

Long before you reached it, you could see Brett’s house. Although surrounded by twelve-foot walls, the house itself was built on high ground and you could get a good view of it from the mountain road. But when you reached the gates the screen of trees, flowering shrubs and hedges hid it from sight. Halfway up the road, Parker stopped the car so I could get an idea of the layout. We had brought the blueprint with us, and he showed me where the back door was in relation to the house and the plan. It meant scaling the wall, he told me, but as he hadn’t to do it, he didn’t seem to think that would be anything to worry about. There was a barbed-wire fence on the top of the wall, he added, but that, too, was something that could be taken care of. He was a lot happier than I was about the setup. But that was natural. I was doing the job.

There was a guard standing before the big iron gates. He was nearly fifty, but looked tough, and his hard, alert eyes held us as we pulled up where the road petered out about fifty yards beyond the gates.

Parker said, “I’ll talk to him. Leave him to me.”

The guard strolled toward us as Parker made a U-turn. He was short and thickset, with shoulders on him like a prizefighter’s. He had on a brown shirt, brown corduroy breeches and a peaked cap, and his short thick legs were encased in jackboots.

“I thought this was the road to Santa Medina,” Parker said, poking his slick head out of the car window.

The guard rested one polished boot on the running board. He stared hard at Parker, then at me. If I hadn’t been told he was an ex-cop, I would have known it by the sneering toughness in his eyes.

“This is a private road,” he said with elaborate sarcasm. “It says so a half a mile back. The Santa Medina road branches to the left, and there’s a notice four yards square telling you just that little thing. What do you want up here?”

While he was shooting off his mouth, I had time to study the walls. They were as smooth as glass, and on top was a three-stranded barbed-wire fence. The prickles on the wire looked sharp enough to slice meat—my meat at that.

“I thought the road to the left was the private road,” Parker was saying. He smiled emptily at the guard. “Sorry if we’re trespassing.”