I WOULD RATHER STAY POOR
James Hadley Chase
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Ken Travers, Pittsville’s deputy sheriff, sat in his aging Packard, chewing gum, his mind clouded with the frustrating prospects of his future.
Tall, lean and dark, Travers had an aggressive jaw, grey intelligent eyes and a burning ambition to gain a position in life that would enable him to marry, raise children and have a decent home of his own.
It was frustrating to know that this ambition could only be achieved when the present sheriff either retired or died. Sheriff Thomson, who Travers not only admired but liked, was nudging seventy-six. Travers felt the old man, no matter how smart he happened to be, no matter how good a sheriff he might be, should have retired long ago and allowed him (Travers) the chance to take over the well-paid job of sheriff of Pittsville. Holding that position and with that income, Travers could have married Iris Loring, a nineteen-year-old beauty he had been courting for the past year and with whom he was very much in love.
Apart from these frustrating thoughts, Travers was also labouring under the grievance of having to spend his Saturday afternoon guarding the Pittsville bank when he should have been spending the time with Iris: a date he had arranged and had had to cancel when the news came to the sheriff’s office that Joe Lamb, the manager of the bank, had had a stroke.
Sheriff Thomson, who planned to spray his rose trees, had handed the job of guarding the bank to his deputy.
‘Sorry, son,’ he said with his genial grin, ‘but I’ve important things to attend to. You watch the bank. You never know. Someone might get ideas and there’s Miss Craig waiting for the fellow from head office to take charge. I know Iris and you have a date, but this is an emergency. You’ll have plenty of time to meet each other weekends, so go to it.’
Travers had been sitting in the car since half past ten a.m. The time was now three forty-five and all hopes of seeing Iris had now vanished. As he shifted irritably in the car seat, he spotted a dusty Mercury with San Francisco number plates pass him and then slow down as it passed the bank. It drove on to the municipal parking lot. He watched a tall, heavily-built man get out of the car and come walking back towards the bank.
Travers studied the man, his eyes alert. Obviously an athlete, Travers told himself. He had an easy, long stride, his shoulders were broad and he had that springy step that could cover miles without fatigue. Travers had no time to form a further judgement for the man had started up the path that led to the bank doors. Travers got out of his car and moved forward.
‘Hey!’ he called, his voice pitched so it would carry. ‘Just a minute!’
The big man turned and looked around, pausing. Travers joined him in five long strides.
‘The bank’s closed,’ he said and flipped back his lapel to show his badge. ‘You want something?’
Now he was close to this man, he was aware of piercing blue eyes, a lipless mouth, a square brutal jaw, but all this suddenly dissolved into charm when the man smiled: it was a wide, friendly smile that softened the brutal lines and made Travers suddenly wonder why he had disliked this man at first sight.
‘I’m Dave Calvin,’ the man said. ‘I’m the new manager of the bank.’
Travers returned the smile.
‘Deputy Sheriff Travers,’ he said. ‘Will you identify yourself, please?’
Calvin took out his bank pass and offered it.
‘Will this do? I see you people take good care of the bank when you have to.’
Travers studied the pass, then returned it.
‘The sheriff didn’t think Miss Craig should be left alone,’ he said, ‘so I got stuck with the job. Now you’re arrived. I guess I’ll clear off.’
The piercing blue eyes ran over him. The wide, friendly smile was very evident.
