James Chase - You've Got It Coming

He wiped his sweating face, keeping his eyes from her still, injured body. If anyone should come down to the beach now, he thought, they would imagine he had killed her. Fear gripped him. Even if no one saw him, and the body was found, the police would suspect him before anyone.

They would have reason to suspect him. It was possible that someone had heard their quarrel in the cabin. He remembered that Glorie had warned him he had been shouting. Then there was the truck driver who had seen them standing by the road and had asked the way to the Denbridge service station. He would remember them and tell the police. If they found her body, he was sunk!

Again he looked towards the wood, and Borg, guessing his intentions, moved silently away to where he had hidden his car. Harry felt he couldn't leave without making sure no one was in the wood. He turned and began to walk slowly back the way he had come. He had only taken a few steps when he heard a car engine start up.

The sound brought him to an abrupt stop, his heart slamming against his ribs. So there had been someone! He heard the engine accelerate, and, galvanized into action, he raced across the burning sand to the head of the road. But he was too late. When he reached the road there was no sign of the car. His own car still stood at the opening of the road, but it was facing the sea, and he knew by the time he had turned it, the other car would be too far away to pursue.

Who had it been? he asked himself. Some crazy creature who had seen Glorie on her own and had attacked her? It could only have been the killer who had driven away. He wasn't likely to tell anyone he had seen him, Harry thought. He would be too scared he would implicate himself.

As he stood by the car, the hot sun beating down on him, Harry tried to calm his frightened mind, and to plan what he had best do. He could drive to Collier City and tell the police that someone had murdered Glorie, but he had no hope of the police believing him. If they arrested him and took his fingerprints he would be sunk. The safest thing he could do was to follow out his original plan. He unlocked the car boot and took out the shovel. He stripped off the brown paper, folded it and put the paper in the boot which he closed. Then he walked back to where Glorie lay.

He knew he should carry her to the wood and bury her there where she would be less likely to be found, but he couldn't bring himself to pick her up. He dug a grave within a few feet of where she lay. Digging the sand out wasn't easy, as it kept collapsing into the hole as he made it, but eventually he made a hole, big and deep enough to take her.

His shirt was black with sweat by the time he had filled in the grave, and he was gasping for breath. He smoothed the sand over with the back of the shovel, then he went down to the sea and collected a pile of seaweed, returned to the grave and scattered the seaweed over it, concealing the disturbed sand. He guessed in a day or so the action of the wind would settle the sand and no one would be able to tell that she was buried there. The danger lay in the next day if someone happened along and wondered at the disturbance of the sand.

He looked back at the footprints he and Glorie had made. He would have to get rid of them. For the next half-hour he toiled in the sun, smoothing over the footprints as he slowly worked his way back to the car. When he finally reached the car, he paused to examine the stretch of beach that lay before him.

Except for the little heap of seaweed there was no evidence that he and Glorie had been there, and for the first time since he had found Glorie's body, he felt more sure of himself.

He cleaned the shovel in the long grass and put it in the boot. Then he remembered Glorie's suitcase and he cursed. That too would have to be buried. He got out the shovel, and, carrying the suitcase into the wood, he found a soft piece of ground and dug out a hole. He buried the suitcase, then sat on the trunk of a fallen pine for a few minutes' rest.

His mind was already becoming active again. He was rid of Glorie now for good, and he hadn't her death on his conscience. He was free to return to Miami. He had his capital intact, and there was Joan, anxiously waiting for him. He'd better get away from here, he told himself. Someone might come and find him, although the danger, he felt, was now past. As he stood up, he remembered the wrench he had thrown away. He had to have that.

If it were found it might be checked for fingerprints and he was sure his prints were on it. He tried to remember where he had thrown it. He recollected flinging it away from him in his fury. He remembered it flying off somewhere towards the wood.

He walked along the edge of the wood, his eyes searching the sandy ground. He hadn't gone more than a dozen paces Wore he came upon, in the sand, the unmistakable impression of the wrench, but the wrench itself wasn't there.

He stared down at the clear cut impression, his heart thudding.

There were three odd little marks by the impression, and it was only when he bent down and placed the back of his hand alongside the marks that he realized they had been made by the knuckles of a hand that had dipped into the sand to pick up the wrench.

It occurred to him then that the killer had murdered Glorie with the wrench, and, in spite of the blazing heat, he turned cold. If the killer had thrown the wrench away and it was later found by the police, it would hook Harry for the killing.

For more than half an hour, he feverishly searched the wood, but he didn't find the wrench, and finally he had to give up looking for it. He tried to assure himself that the killer had hidden the wrench where no one would find it. He must get, this whole thing out of his mind, he told himself. He was now free of Glorie, he had his future to think of. He must get back to Miami and to Joan.

He drove up the road leading from the beach. When he reached the junction, he turned left and on to the main highway. Almost at once he was caught up in a ribbon of traffic, and he felt safer as he drove fast along the road back to Miami.

In his car, at the edge of the road, Borg had been waiting patiently. When he saw Harry's Buick go by, he went after him. He drove about a quarter of a mile behind the fast-moving Buick, content to let two other cars keep between his car and Harry's.

After Harry had driven some miles, he saw an oil truck coming towards him and he recognized the green-and-white markings: it was the truck driven by the man who had asked the way to the Denbridge service station. Harry cursed his bad luck to meet this driver again. He sank low in his seat, hoping the driver wouldn't recognize him, but he did. He blasted his horn and waved out of the window as he went by. Harry ignored him, increasing his speed.

If the police found Glorie's body and the murder got into the papers, the truck driver was certain to remember that he had seen Harry with Glorie, and some three hours later had seen Harry coming back without her. Harry felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his back. That kind of bad luck could put a man into the death cell, he thought.

He reached Miami around half-past four. Pulling up outside a drug store, he left the Buick, went in and put a call through to the Graynor's residence. He was told that Joan was out, but she was expected back after six. He said he would call later and went out on to the street again. Pausing by the car, he considered what his next move should be.

He decided to find cheaper accommodation than the motel he had left. Across the way he spotted a Tourist Information Bureau. He crossed the street and got from the bureau the address of a moderate motel. He drove out to Biscayne Boulevard where he found the motel facing the sea. He rented a cabin in a secluded corner of the well-laid-out grounds and, leaving his car outside, he entered the cabin.