Hit and Run

‘Don’t you dare touch me!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re not keeping me here!’

‘You will either submit gracefully or you will get hurt,’ I said, moving towards her. ‘Don’t kid yourself our little scrap just now meant anything because it didn’t. This time if you get rough, I’ll get rough too.’

She whirled around and bolted towards the open french windows, but she had started a shade too late. I reached out, grabbed her arm and spun her around. I was now past the stage of chivalry. As she tried to rake my face with her nails, I knocked her hands aside, and hit her on the side of her jaw. Her eyes rolled back and she slumped into my arms.

Then, moving quickly, I fastened her wrists behind her and then tied her ankles together. I picked her up and carried her into my bedroom and laid her on the bed.

Then going to my wardrobe, I put on a tie and jacket and changed my shoes. By the time I had finished dressing, she began to move.

I went into the kitchen and got a length of clothes line, returned to the bedroom and fastened her securely to the bed.

I went over to her and looked down at her.

After a moment or so, she opened her eyes and stared up at me, her eyes dazed.

‘I’m sorry, but you asked for it,’ I said. ‘I’m also sorry to leave you like this, but there is no other way. You may have a long wait. I’ll get back as soon as I can. Just lie quiet and you won’t come to any harm!’

‘Let me go!’ she said furiously, struggling to get her hands free. ‘I’ll make you pay for this! Let me free!’

I watched her for a moment or so to make sure she couldn’t break loose, then, satisfied, I moved to the door.

‘Don’t leave me!’ she screamed out, struggling frantically. ‘Come back!’

‘Take it easy,’ I said. ‘I’ll try not to be too long.’

I went out and shut the bedroom door.

As I hurried down the passage and into the hall, I heard her scream out after me: ‘Ches! Don’t leave me! Please, don’t leave me!’

Ignoring her cries, I locked the bungalow and then ran down the path where I had left the Buick.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I

WHEN I reached town, I bought a couple of Sunday newspapers and took a quick look at the headlines as I walked back to the Buick. I expected to find the murders of Dolores and Ed Nutley plastered over the front page, but there was, as far as I could see, no mention of them.

I got into the car, and as I was in a no-parking zone, I drove fast to Slim’s bar where I could examine the papers and have a sandwich and a beer before deciding on a plan of campaign.

The bar was nearly empty, but sitting in one of the booths with a man I didn’t know was Joe Fellowes. Both were drinking beer and eating hamburgers. Joe spotted me before I could duck out of sight.

‘Hey, Ches! Come on over.’

There was nothing I could do but to wave to him and say I’d be with him. I ordered a sandwich and a beer from Slim, then carried the drink and food over to Joe’s booth.

‘I thought you were playing golf,’ Joe said. ‘Sit down. Meet Jim Buckley. He’s the star man on the Inquirer.’

‘Only the Inquirer doesn’t know it,’ Buckley said and grinned. He was short, fat and middleaged with a pair of probing ice-blue eyes.

He stared pointedly at the scratches on my neck.

‘Boy!’ he said in wonder. ‘She certainly sold her honour at a high price.’

Joe too was staring.

‘Don’t get ideas.’ I said. ‘One of those things. There was a guy bothering a girl, and like a dope, I interfered. It turned out she liked him bothering her and didn’t like me interfering. It’s a wonder I got away with my life.’

They both laughed, but Joe looked wonderingly at me, his eyes puzzled.

‘What are you doing here on a Sunday?’ I asked him, to change the subject.

‘I had arranged to spend the day on the beach with this louse,’ Joe said, jerking his thumb at Buckley, ‘and now he tells me he has to work! So we eat together and I go on the beach alone unless you have nothing to do and will keep me company.’

‘I’d like to, Joe, I said, ‘but I’m tied up.’

‘So long as she’s tied up too, that’ll make a pair of you,’ Buckley said and bellowed with laughter.

I thought of Lucille lying on my bed. He was unconsciously getting a little too close to the truth.

‘Is that the Inquirer you’ve got there?’ he went on, looking at the paper I’d laid on the seat.

‘Yes. You want it?’

‘I haven’t had a chance to see what they did with the stuff I filed last night.’ He reached out, took the paper, shook it open and glanced at the front page. He snorted, opened the paper, turned several pages, then paused. Finally, he refolded the paper and handed it back to me. ‘Three thousand words, written in blood and Scotch, and the black-hearted punk cuts it down to two hundred. Why I work for this rag beats me.’

Joe said: ‘Jim’s covering this hit-and-run case.’

I bit into my sandwich and chewed.

‘Is that right?’ I said. ‘I haven’t had time to read the paper this morning. Anything new?’

Buckley took a long swig from his glass, sat back and lit a cigarette.

‘New? Listen, bud, this is going to be one of the major sensations of the year. This is going to be something that could get the whole of our beautiful Administration tossed out on its fat neck.’

‘Suppose you skip the build-up and let’s have the dope,’ Joe said. ‘If it’s all that hot, why isn’t it hitting the headlines?’

‘Because we’re not ready yet,’ Buckley said. ‘Wait until tomorrow. We reckon to bust this thing wide open tomorrow if we have any luck.’

‘What thing? What are you talking about?’ Joe asked impatiently.

‘I’ll tell you,’ Buckley said. ‘If O’Brien hadn’t been killed no one would have got on to him for maybe years. All that crap Sullivan gave out about what a fine guy O’Brien was sounded all right until we started to investigate him. Then the cloven hoof came to the surface. Know what? O’Brien had a bank balance of a hundred and twenty-five thousand bucks, and he owned a bungalow out on Palm Crescent that is about as fancy as any movie star could wish to own. When a cop lives like that, there’s only one explanation—graft. There were two people who might have known what his racket was. The woman he planned to marry: a nightclub singer, and her agent, a guy named Nutley. Know what happened to them last night?’

Joe was staring at him with round eyes.

‘What happened to them?’

‘They were both knocked off. Nutley was found in the Washington Hotel, shot through the heart and the night clerk bashed over the head. The killer walked in, persuaded the night clerk to tell him in which room Nutley was, then killed him. He then walked upstairs and shot Nutley to death. He killed the girl as she was leaving her apartment.’

‘It’s not even in the paper,’ Joe said indignantly.

‘Yes, it is. It rates ten lines; but boy! it’s going to hit the front page tomorrow. We’re working on it now. We’re trying to get a line on O’Brien’s racket. The police commissioner thinks he was hooked up with some gang. Sullivan thinks he was a blackmailer.’

‘How about the guy who ran over him?’ I asked. ‘Haven’t they found him yet?’