James Chase - You've Got It Coming

Harry nodded.

“Yes.”

“Don't try to fade away,” Borg said as he opened the cabin door. “The cops will find you even if I don't. Remember what she said, palsy? You're on a hook, and you can't wriggle off it. This time it isn't her hook; it's mine.” He stepped out into the gathering dusk and walked across the grass to his cabin.

Harry went to the window. He watched Borg disappear into his cabin, then he pulled down the blind, turned on the light and went over to the table on which stood the bottle of whisky. He poured himself out a stiff shot, drank it, recharged his glass and then sat down in the armchair.

This was the showdown, he told himself. If he could beat Borg, he was in the clear. He had no doubts of Borg's intentions. As soon as he handed over the fifty thousand dollars, Borg would kill him. Harry was sure now that Borg wanted to return to Delaney with the fifty thousand and the news that he had got rid of Glorie and himself. That meant Harry should be safe until after he had parted with the money. Borg wasn't likely to ambush him, to shoot him on sight, unless he was sure he had the money with him. As soon as the money had exchanged hands and Borg had checked it, then Harry was as good as dead.

If he was to defeat Borg, he would have to do it either before the money was handed over or while it was in the act of being handed over. After it had been handed over, he was sure he wouldn't be able to cope with Borg's efficiency as a killer. It was only while Borg was uncertain that he was going to get the money that he would be off his guard, and that was the only possible moment to beat him.

For a long time, Harry sat staring at the opposite wall while he thought of a way to outfox Borg. Finally he came to a decision. It would be a gamble that might or might not come off, but it was a reasonable risk, and Harry could think of no other alternative plan. He knew he couldn't hope to match Borg's speed with a gun. His one chance was to take Borg by surprise. It was only by surprise that he could hope to save his life.

By the time he had reached his decision, it was just after nine o'clock. Darkness had fallen. He turned off the light and crossed the room to look out of the window. There was no light showing in Borg's cabin, but Harry was sure the fat killer, although out of sight, was at the window, alert and waiting.

At least, he thought, he didn't have to go out to the beach and dig up Glorie's body. He was sure that Borg would follow him now wherever he went and there was no point in attempting to change her burial place.

He went outside, got into his car and drove it into the garage a few yards from his cabin. He turned off the car lights, then opened the glove compartment and took out the .45. The cool feel of the gun butt gave him a little confidence. He slid the gun into his hip pocket, knowing that Borg couldn't possibly see what he was doing. He got out of the car, closed the garage doors and walked across to the brightly lighted restaurant.

As he pushed open the swing doors, he knew Borg could see him outlined against the bright light from the overhead sign.

He didn't mind that. Up to a point he wanted Borg to know what he was doing.

The restaurant was nearly empty. Only four couples still lingered over their meal. No one paid any attention to him as he walked to the far end of the room, out of sight of the uncurtained windows, and sat down at a corner table.

A waiter, a sullen, bored expression on his face, came over and gave Harry the menu card. Harry ordered a fillet of steak, french fried potatoes and a salad. As the waiter moved away, Harry stopped him.

“While the steak's being fixed, I'd like you to do me a favour,” he said, taking out two five-dollar bills. He slid them across the table towards the waiter. “That's for the trouble I may cause you.”

“Yes, sir.” The waiter snapped up the bills and stowed them away. He was suddenly anxious to please. He bent over Harry with a deferential air. “What can I do for you?”

“I want five pieces of wood: three measuring twelve by six and two measuring three by six. Think you can get them for me?”

The waiter looked startled,

“Well, I don't know. Maybe our carpenter can fix it if he hasn't gone home. I'll ask him.”

Harry took another five-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to the waiter.

“Give that to the carpenter. I wouldn't want him to work for nothing. I also want a dozen half-inch nails, a hammer, a drill and a fretsaw. Okay?”

The waiter looked at Harry as if he thought he was crazy.

“You want to buy the tools?”

“No, just to borrow them. I’ll let you have them back tomorrow.”

“You want five pieces of wood, three measuring twelve inches by six, and two three by six, a hammer, a drill, twelve half-inch nails and a fretsaw. Is that right?” the waiter said.

“That's right, and I'd like about a foot of thick copper wire.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” the waiter said and went away to the kitchens.

Harry lit a cigarette and stared across the room at a dark, sexy-looking girl who was talking to a thin man with Latin eyes and high cheekbones. Harry didn't see the girl, but his steady stare in her direction so disconcerted her that she shifted her chair around so her back was turned to him.

After a twenty-minute wait, the waiter came back with Harry's steak. He said he had talked to the carpenter who would have the pieces of wood ready for Harry by the time he had finished his dinner.

“I'm in cabin 376,” Harry said. “Would you bring the wood and the tools over to me, and a bottle of Scotch? I want you to keep the wood and the tools out of sight under a napkin. Will you do that?”

The waiter looked wonderingly at him, nodded and said he would come over after Harry had finished his dinner.

Harry didn't hurry over his meal. He had a lot to think about.

First thing in the morning, as soon as the bank opened, he would have to draw out all his capital. He mustn't let Borg think for a moment that he was about to pull a fast one on him. He would have to persuade Joan to lend him a further ten thousand, and he'd have to draw that from her bank. He wondered uneasily if Joan would lend him the money. He was sure Borg would keep track of him, and it was essential not to rouse his suspicions. If he were going to outwit Borg he would have to lull him into a feeling of security, to blunt his razor edge of alertness. If he could do that, he stood a chance of beating him.

After he had finished his meal, he returned to the cabin and sat down to wait. Ten minutes later the waiter came over from the restaurant. He had followed out Harry's instructions to the letter.

He carried a tray, covered with a white napkin undo: which were the five pieces of wood, a hammer, a fretsaw, a drill, some nails and a length of copper wire. In his other hand he carried a bottle of Scotch.

Harry thanked him and got rid of him. Then he locked the door, and, taking the strips of wood over to the table, he assembled them to make an open-top box. From his hip pocket, he took out the .45 automatic and laid it in the box. With a pencil, he made a mark on the wood at one end and another mark in the middle of the bottom of the box. He removed the gun, and with the drill and the fretsaw, made two small openings at the places he had marked. He put the gun back in the box and checked his calculations. The barrel of the gun just poked through the end opening.

The trigger could be reached through the opening in the bottom.

Satisfied that his calculations were accurate, he fixed the gun to the bottom of the box with the length of wire. Then he held the box in the palm of his hand, his thumb and little finger gripping each side, it was simple to insert his forefinger through the opening in the bottom of the box and to curl his finger around the trigger. He found he hadn't made the opening quite wide enough to allow him to pull the trigger. He unfastened the gun, took it out of the box and widened the hole. Then he replaced the gun, fastened it with the wire and tried again. This time he had no difficulty in pulling the trigger. He again took the gun out of the box and sitting on the bed, he carefully oiled and cleaned toe gun. Then he broke open a box of cartridges, and, using a penknife, he cut a ridge in the heads of four of the bullets, slightly spreading the soft lead to make a rough kind of dum-dum. He loaded the gun with these bullets, jacked one into the breech, and once more fastened the gun into the box Satisfied with his work, he locked the box away in a drawer in his chest, cleared up the mess he had made on the table, wrapped the tools in the napkin and left the bundle on the dressing table.