James Chase: You Can Say That Again

I drove down to the barrier, wondering if I would have trouble with the guard, but he lifted the pole and gave me a surly nod.

Forcing myself to relax, I drove onto the Overseas Highway. At this hour, there was little traffic, but I was careful to keep within the speed limit, although I was itching to send this powerful car flat out.

The typewriter was nagging me. I would have to dump it somewhere. I knew, sooner or later, the Merc, would be traced, and if they found the typewriter, they would guess I had been making a record of what had happened. The hunt for me would be redoubled.

After a few miles, I came upon a fisherman’s lay-by and I pulled in. I waited until there were no signs of traffic, then got out, lugged the typewriter to the rail and dropped it into the sea.

Back in the car with one problem solved, I continued towards Miami. While I drove, I thought of Loretta. I heard her voice saying: She is a ruthless, dangerous old woman. All she thinks about is money. When he dies, she will inherit everything.

John Merrill Ferguson was dead. Mrs. Harriet now inherited everything. She had flicked her ruthless fingers and Charles Duvine, who had made it possible for Larry and me to impersonate her son, had died. She had flicked her fingers and Loretta who could have inherited everything, had died. Now this ruthless old woman was flicking her fingers towards me. The thought brought me out in a cold sweat.

Then I thought of the car I was driving. If it was found at the airport, they would know I had flown somewhere. With their money and their organization, they could trace me to New York.

I abruptly realized that if I was to continue to live, I had better start using my brains. I had dumped the typewriter. I had now to dump the car.

I looked at the clock on the dashboard: 01.05. Time was running out for me. In another seven hours, Mazzo would find Larry gone. There would be a check on the cabin, and they would find I had gone. Then the heat would be on.

I was now approaching Paradise City. Suppose one of Ferguson’s guards, off-duty, spotted the car? I drove along Ocean Boulevard. My heart was beginning to thump. Maybe, I had been crazy to have come this way. I could have turned off and headed for the west coast. It was too late now.

I kept looking in my driving mirror, scared that I was being followed. There were cars behind me, but they kept turning off: people going home.

Once away from the city and heading for Fort Lauderdale, I began to relax.

Then an idea dropped into my mind: Give them a red herring. Leave the car at the airport for them to think I had taken off by air, but stay around Miami until the heat cooled. There were dozens of motels on the highway. I would leave the car at the airport, then take a taxi and settle, out of sight, in one of these motels.

Surely a motel, close to Paradise City, would be the last place they would think of looking for me. This is what I did. Having parked the Merc., I took a taxi, being careful not to take one off the rank. The cabby had delivered a passenger from Palm Beach and was returning. He was glad to pick up a fare. I told him I wanted a good motel for the night. He took me to the Welcome Motel.

The sleepy girl at the reception desk, scarcely looked at me as I signed in. I used the name of Warren Higgins. She gave me a key, told me where to find the cabin and went back to dozing.

I shut and locked the cabin door and turned on the light. The place was comfortable. I set down my suitcases and drew in a long breath.

I now felt safe!

Man! Was I tired! My one thought was to sleep.

I undressed, then too tired to take a shower, I fell into bed.

I slept.

* * *

The sound of car engines starting up woke me. Sunlight was streaming into the little bedroom. I heard voices. For a moment, I felt a clutch of fear. Had they found me already?

I threw off the sheet and scrambled out of bed. I went into the living room and peered out from behind the curtains.

The sight I saw was reassuring: people loading their cars with baggage: talking, laughing: people on vacation. I looked at my watch. The time was 09.15. I took a shower, dressed, then walked out into the sunshine. By then most of the people with their cars had gone. There were only three cars parked.

I found my way to the restaurant. The waitress gave me a cheeky smile.

‘Mr. Lazybones, huh?’ she said. ‘What’ll you have?’

I ordered eggs on grilled ham and pancakes and asked for a newspaper. She brought me The Paradise Herald. I searched through the paper, but there was no mention of the death of John Merrill Ferguson. It was too soon, but I badly wanted news.

Breakfast over, I went to the reception desk. The lean, dark man who was the manager, gave me a wide smile.

‘I’m Fred Baine,’ he said, shaking hands. ‘Sleep well, Mr. Higgins? Comfortable?’

‘Everything’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll be staying a while. I’m writing a book.’ I gave a modest smirk. ‘I don’t want to be disturbed.’

‘A book?’ He looked impressed. ‘No problem, Mr. Higgins, you stay as long as you like, and you won’t be disturbed.’

‘You wouldn’t have a typewriter I could rent?’

‘Sure. No renting. I have a spare. You’re welcome.’

‘That’s real kind of you. I appreciate it.’

‘Now, look, Mr. Higgins, if you don’t want to be disturbed, I can have your meals sent over to you. No problem. Just give the girl fifteen minutes a day to fix your bed and room, and you won’t be disturbed.’

‘I would like that . . . thank you.’

‘No problem, Mr. Higgins. Boy! Would I like to be able to write a book.’ He sighed. ‘All those paperback rights!’

‘Yes,’ I said and returned to the cabin.

I was determined to finish The Ferguson Story. I would have nothing to do, probably, for the next three weeks. By then, the heat should have cooled. I would then consider what my next move should be.

A black girl came over later with a portable typewriter.

She gave me a toothy grin.

‘My brother wants to write a book, but he doesn’t know how to start it, Mr. Higgins,’ she said as she busied herself with an electric cleaner. ‘He has a fine plot, but he doesn’t know how to finish it either.’

‘Tell him to start in the middle,’ I said. ‘It’ll work out,’ and I shut myself in the bathroom. When she had gone, I got out my manuscript and spent the entire morning reading it.

The room was air conditioned, but I longed to get out into the sun. I resisted the temptation. I had to keep out of sight.

The manuscript, to me, read well.

After a lunch of hamburgers and coffee, I settled down at the typewriter.

I hammered away at the typewriter until 18.00, then I paused to make myself a Martini from the well-stocked refrigerator.

I had now reached the moment when Larry Edwards had come into my cabin, disguised as John Merrill Ferguson. I was pleased with the way the story went along: there were no hitches, but I wanted a rest before the big moment when I found Ferguson was impersonated by Larry.

I looked longingly out of the window at the swimming pool. There were a number of men and women and kids enjoying themselves, but I decided to keep out of sight.

Around 19.30, the black girl brought me a steak dinner. I gave her a couple of bucks and she looked in on awe at the table, littered with typewritten pages.

After dinner, I pulled the curtains and continued to write. Finally, around 23.00, I had brought the story up-do-date.

In the story, as in fact, I was in a motel, worried about what my next move should be. I would have to wait and see what happened.

Gathering up the pages, I put them with the rest of the manuscript, then took a shower and went to bed.