What`s Better Than Money

would I then have to deal with him?

It was while I was driving through the dark, wet night that I suddenly realised what I was planning to do. I was going to murder her. A cold feeling of fear took hold of me. It had been easy enough to tell myself she had to be silenced when I had found her, but now I had found her the thought of walking in on her and murdering her brought me out in a clammy sweat.

I pushed the thought out of my mind. It had to be done. First, I would have to get rid of Vasari. With him around I wouldn’t be able to silence Rima. I decided I would have to watch the bungalow for a couple of days: I would have to find out what they did, how they lived and if Vasari ever left her alone.

I didn’t sleep much that night.

The nightmare thought of what I had to do lay heavily on me.

II

A little after half past seven the following morning I was once again driving out to East Shore. I was confident I was safe to approach the bungalow in daylight at this hour. I couldn’t imagine either of them would be early risers.

I drove past the bungalow fast. The blinds were drawn and the Pontiac still stood on the drive-in.

In the hard light of the morning sun the bungalow looked shabby: a typical sea-side vacation place, let year after year by an owner who never bothered to look at the place nor spare any money for a coat of paint.

Beyond the bungalow were sand dunes. After driving a few hundred yards further up the beach road I left the car behind a screen of shrubs and walked back towards the bungalow.

Within a hundred yards of the place was a line of dunes that offered excellent cover. From behind them I could watch the bungalow without being seen.

I had brought with me a pair of powerful field glasses I had been lucky enough to borrow from the owner of my hotel.

I made myself comfortable. By scooping away some of the sand, I was able to lie down against the face of the dune and rest the field glasses on top of it.

I watched the bungalow for more than an hour without seeing any sign of life.

At twenty minutes to nine, a battered old car came churning up the road and pulled up outside the bungalow. A woman got out. She walked up the path. I examined her through the glasses. They were so powerful I could see the smudges of powder on her face where she had put the powder on too thickly.

I guessed she was the maid, coming to clean up, and through the glasses I saw her dip two fingers into the mail box slot and then fish out a long string at the end of which was a key. She unlocked the front door with the key and entered the bungalow.

The long wait had paid off. I now knew how to get into the bungalow if I wanted to get in.

From time to time, through the big window, I caught sight of the woman moving about in the lounge.

She was pushing an electric cleaner. After some minutes, she disconnected the cleaner and went away out of sight.

Time crawled by.

A little after eleven thirty the front door opened and Vasari came out. He stood on the step staring up at the sky, flexing his muscles and breathing in the fresh morning air. The sun was hot after the night’s rain. He was wearing blue cotton slacks and a sweater shirt. He looked very massive. As a bodyguard he was impressive.

He went over to the Pontiac and checked the oil and water, then he returned to the bungalow.

It wasn’t until midday that I saw Rima. She came to the front door and looked up at the sky. It was startling to put the field glasses on her face. She looked pale, and there were smudges under her eyes, and the rouge she had put on made her face look like a painted mask. Her expression was sullen. She got into the Pontiac and slammed the door viciously.

Vasari came out, carrying bathing wraps and towels. The cleaning woman came to the door. He said something to her and she nodded, then he got into the car and drove away.

I followed the car through the field glasses. It headed in the direction of the West side of the town where the swank beach clubs were.

A few minutes later the woman came out, locked the front door, dropped the key through the mail slot, got in her car and drove away.

I didn’t hesitate.

This was an opportunity too good to miss. There was a chance that Rima kept the gun that had killed the guard in the bungalow. If I could get it, the case against me would be considerably weakened.

Before moving from my hiding place I examined the road and the beach carefully. There was no one in sight. I came out from behind the sand dunes and walked fast to the bungalow.

I opened the gate and walked up the drive-in. To be on the safe side, I rang the bell, although I knew there was no one in the place. After waiting a few minutes I fished up the key and opened the door. I stepped into the small hall and paused to listen. There was no sound except the busy ticking of a clock somewhere in the bungalow and the drip-drip-drip of a faulty tap in the kitchen.

The lounge was to my right. A short passage to my left led to the bedrooms.

I walked down the passage, opened a door and glanced into a room. This would be Vasari’s dressing-room. A pair of slacks were neatly folded on a chair and an electric shaver lay on the dressing-table. I didn’t go in, but moved to the next door, opened it and stepped inside.

There was a double bed by the window and the dressing-table was loaded with cosmetics. A green silk wrap hung behind the door.

This was the room I wanted. I half closed the door, then went over to the chest of drawers and began going through the contents quickly, being careful not to disturb anything.

Rima had been on a buying spree with my money. The drawers were crammed with nylon underwear, scarves, handkerchiefs, stockings and so on. I didn’t find the gun.

I turned my attention to the closet. A dozen or so dresses hung on hangers, and on the floor of the closet was a number of pairs of shoes. On the top shelf I saw a cardboard box tied with string. I took it down, slid off the string and opened the box. It contained letters and a number of photographs, most of them of Rima with her silver hair, taken at the film studios.

A letter on the top of the pile caught my attention. It was dated three days ago. I picked it from the box and read it.

234 Castle Arms,

Ashby Avenue,

San Francisco.

Dear Rima,

Last night I ran into Wilbur. He is out on parole and he is looking for you. He is on the stuff again and he is dangerous. He told me if he finds you he’ll kill you. So watch out. I told him I thought you were in New York. He is still here, but I am hoping he will go off to New York. If he does so, I’ll let you know.

Anyway, you keep clear of here. He gives me the creeps and he means what he says about fixing you.

In a rush to catch the mail.

Clare.

I had completely forgotten Wilbur’s existence.

My mind flashed back to Rusty’s bar. I saw again the door slamming open and the sudden appearance of the small nightmare figure. Dangerous? An understatement. Then he had been as deadly as a rattlesnake as he had moved to where Rima had been crouching, the flick knife in his hand.

So he was out of jail after thirteen years, and he was looking for Rima.

When he found her he would kill her.