James Chase: You've Got It Coming

The driver stared after him, frowning. A nut, he concluded.

Five bucks and staying at a joint like Lamson's! He shook his head, thinking of the oddities he had driven in his cab; this was another for his memory book. He engaged gear and drove away into the rain.

The lobby of Lamson's hotel was even more dingy than its exterior. Three wicker chairs, a dusty palm in a tarnished brass pot, a strip of coconut matting with several holes in it, and a fly-blown mirror made up its furnishing. Over the whole dismal scene there brooded a smell of stale sweat, cabbage water and defective plumbing. To the right of the lobby, facing the main entrance, was the reception desk behind which sat Lamson, the owner of the hotel, a fat man, wearing a derby hat at the back of his head. He was in shirt sleeves which were rolled back to show hairy, tattooed arms.

Lamson eyed the limping man, not moving. His small, hard eyes took in the heavy, sun-tanned, scarred face, the straggling moustache and the limp.

“I want a room,” the limping man said, setting down his suitcase. “Your best room. How much?”

Lamson glanced over his shoulder at the row of keys, made a mental calculation, decided it would be worth trying and said, “You can have No. 32. I wouldn't let anyone have it. It's the best. Cost you a buck and a half a night.”

The limping man took out a wallet, selected a ten-dollar bill and dropped it on the desk.

“I'll t a k e it for four nights.”

Careful not to show his surprise, Lamson took the bill, smoothed it flat while he examined it, then satisfied that it was genuine, he folded it carefully and tucked it away in his watch pocket. He produced four grimy dollar bills and laid them regretfully down on the counter.

“Put it towards breakfast,” the limping man said, waving the bills aside. “I want service and I expect to pay for it.”

“That's okay, mister. We'll take care of you,” Lamson said. He hurriedly put the bills back into his pocket. “I can fix you a meal now if you want it.”

“I don't. Coffee and toast tomorrow morning at nine.”

“I'll fix it.” Lamson produced a dog-eared notebook that served as a register. “Have to ask you to sign in, mister; police regulations.”

The limping man wrote a name in the book with the stub of pencil that was attached to the book by a piece of string.

Lamson turned the book and squinted at what he had written.

In block letters the limping man had printed: Harry Green, Pittsburgh.

“Okay, Mr. Green,” Lamson said. “Can I send anything up to your room? We got beer, whisky or gin.” The man who called himself Harry Green shook his head.

“No. But I want to use the phone.”

Lamson jerked his thumb towards the pay booth in the far corner.

“Go ahead. Help yourself.”

The limping man shut himself in the pay booth. He dialled a number and waited. After a delay a woman's voice said, “Mr. Delaney's residence. Who is calling?”

“This is Harry Green. Mr. Delaney is expecting me to call. Put me through please.”

“Hold a moment.”

There was a long pause, then a click sounded over the line and a man said, “This is Delaney.”

“Glorie Dane told me to call you, Mr. Delaney.”

“Yeah, that's right. You want to see me, don't you? Come over here at eight o'clock tonight. I can give you ten minutes.”

“Are you sure you want me to be seen at your place? Doesn't sound like a good idea to me.”

There was a pause.

“Doesn't it?” Ben's voice was sharp. “Then what does seem a good idea to you?”

“You might not want anyone to know I've talked to you if what could happen, happens. We could talk in a car at West Pier where we wouldn't be seen.”

Again there was a pause.

“Look, Green, if you're wasting my time,” Ben said finally, his voice coldly vicious, “you'll be sorry. I don't like time wasters.”

“I don't either. I have a proposition. It's up to you to judge if listening to it is a waste of time or not.”

“Be at West Pier at half past ten tonight,” Ben snapped and slammed down the receiver.

For a long moment the man who called himself Harry Green leaned against the side of the pay booth, the receiver in his hand while he stared through the grimy glass panel of the door into space. He experienced a feeling of triumph, mixed with uneasiness.

One more step towards the big steal, he thought: one more milestone. In four days' time he would be on the airfield waiting for the night plane to San Francisco to take off. He replaced the receiver and limped over to where he had left his suitcase.

Lamson looked up from the paper he was reading.

“Your room's at the head of the stairs. Want me to carry your bag?”

“No.”

He climbed the stairs. Facing him was a door marked 32. He pushed the key into the lock, turned it and opened the door.

He walked into a large room. A double bed with iron rails at the head and the foot, ornamented with tarnished brass knobs, stood in a corner. The carpet was threadbare and dusty. Two armchairs stood either side of the empty fireplace. A picture of a fat woman, peeling an apple and looking through a window at a hill scene, done in strident poster colours, hung over the mantelpiece.

Facing the door was a full-length mirror and setting down his suitcase and shutting the door, Harry moved to the mirror and looked at himself.

The transformation was incredible, he thought. The man he saw in the mirror had not the slightest resemblance to Harry Griffin.

Apart from the scarred, full face, his figure was that of a man over forty; thick in the middle with a distinct potbelly, whose muscular frame had turned to fat.

Harry took off his hat and trench coat, still standing before the mirror. The blond, thinning hair was a cunningly constructed hairlace wig, firmly fixed to Harry's scalp with spirit gum. The scar from his right eye to his mouth was fish skin covered with collodion.

The moustache had been built onto his upper lip, hair by hair. The shape of his face had been altered by rubber pads, fixed by suction against his gums. The projecting teeth were clipped over his own teeth. The potbelly and the heavy fat shoulders were created by aluminum devices he wore next to his skin. The limp came from wearing the right shoe built higher than the left.

Glorie had done a job. She had said he wouldn't be recognized, and Harry felt confident that even his best friend wouldn’t know him.

Glorie had taught him how to re-fix the scar and the moustache. He would have to wear the disguise for four days and five nights. He would have to wash and shave, and the moustache and the scar would have to be taken off and put back on again. At first he had been against such an elaborate disguise, but she had insisted, and when he had seen the result he had realized she was right. He could risk being seen anywhere now. She had more than fulfilled her promise. Harry Griffin had ceased to exist. Harry Green was a live, believable person.

Everything now depended on Delaney. Glorie had warned Harry again and again not to trust Delaney. He had felt irritated that she had taken so much of the initiative from him. After all, he told himself, this was his plan. Admittedly her idea that he should disguise himself before the job was a brilliant one, but why couldn't she leave the rest of the business to him? Because she had been so successful in creating Harry Green he had been patient with her, but he was glad to be on his o w n now, to handle the job himself without her. Her repeated warnings, her anxiety and her fears made him uneasy.

At ten minutes past ten, he left the hotel and walked in the driving rain to the bus station. He boarded a bus for American Avenue, left it at the terminus and walked down to Ocean Boulevard.