1955 - You've Got It Coming (30 page)

III

T
he drive back to Biscayne Avenue motel was like a nightmare to Harry. When he got on to the highway, his arm began to burn, and very soon he felt as if his flesh had caught fire. He drove slowly riding the pain, feeling light-headed and faint. He kept telling himself he had to get to Borg's cabin before Borg's body was found. He must find the wrench. It was only this urge of danger that kept him going. He realized now how Joe Franks had suffered, and he flinched when he remembered how he had left him to bleed to death in the desert.

The traffic bothered him. He was afraid he would run off the road if he went faster than twenty miles an hour, and the other cars kept flashing past him with a blast from their horns. The constant noise and the glare in his driving mirror from the headlights of the cars coming up behind him confused his mind and he drove badly, zigzagging about the road.

Once he felt he was losing consciousness. It was only with an effort that made him break out in a cold sweat that he pulled himself together and crushed down the cold sick feeling of faintness that threatened to engulf him. He kept on, his right arm stiff and burning, his left hand on the steering wheel.

How he managed to negotiate the traffic on Bay Shore Drive he never knew. From time to time, drivers shouted at him, once he saw a car appear in his headlights, coming straight at him, but he had no will nor strength left to swerve. It was the other driver, with a screaming of tyres, who managed to avoid a head—on collision. Harry kept on, hunched down in his seat, his teeth gritted against the pain in his arm, forcing himself to keep conscious until he saw ahead of him the red-and-green neon lights over the entrance to the motel.

He drove slowly up the dark drive to the parking lot, cut the engine and groped for the parking brake. Then he sat motionless, his breath hissing between his clenched teeth, cold sweat on his face. When at last he felt capable of making a move, he opened the car door and dragged himself out. He stood unsteadily, his hand on the car door for some moments before he could trust himself to cross over to Borg's cabin.

He got there somehow, and, surprisingly, the cabin door swung open when he turned the handle, and he stepped into darkness.

His left hand groped for the light switch, found it and turned it on. He stood looking around the empty room, then he saw a long, thin brown-paper parcel lying on the table. He went over to it and picked it up. He knew by its hardness and its weight that it was the car wrench, and his lips came off his teeth in a mirthless grin.

Well, he was getting the breaks, he thought as he leaned on the table. He shut his eyes against the sudden feeling of faintness that made the room spin and the light darken. He hung on to the table until the faintness receded. He had now to get back to his own cabin, he told himself. He would have to steel himself to fix his arm and then get some sleep. With any luck, by tomorrow morning, he would be fit enough to move on. It wouldn't do to stay for long at the motel. Someone might find Borg. He must be away from the motel before he was found.

He staggered across the room and into the bathroom. Filling the toilet basin with cold water, he plunged his face into it. The shock of the water revived him. He wiped his face on a towel, then filled a glass with water and drank it thirstily. He now felt capable of reaching his cabin. He went into the outer room, picked up the brown-paper parcel, crossed to the door and turned off the light.

He stepped out into the cool night air. For a long moment he paused, leaning against the door, looking at the other cabins that formed a semi-circle around Borg's cabin.

There was something wrong, he thought uneasily. No one seemed to be about. No lights showed in the cabins. No sound came to him. It was as if everyone had left the motel. When he had driven away to meet Borg, the place had been ablaze with lights and the strident noise of radios had blasted the night air.

Now the place was dark and silent.

If he hadn't been only half conscious, he would have been more on his guard, but the burning pain in his arm dulled his senses.

He set off slowly across the grass to his cabin. He reached it, and paused while he groped in his pocket for the key. He unlocked the door, pushed it open and stepped into darkness.

As he reached for the light switch, he had a sudden feeling that he was not alone in the cabin. He felt certain someone was in the room, hidden by the darkness.

Sick, cold fear gripped him. He leaned against the wall, his left hand gripping the handle of the wrench through the brown paper, sweat on his face, his breath coming in hard, short gasps.

Then he lifted his hand, still holding the wrench, and his finger touched the light switch. He turned it down.

As the light came on, his heart gave a lurch with the shock of seeing the big, thickset man sitting on the bed facing him.

For a moment Harry didn't recognize him, then, when he did, his mouth turned dry and the wrench slipped out of his hand.

“Hello, Green,” DetectiveSergeant Hammerstock said quietly. “Don't start anything. You can't get away,” and he lifted the .45 he had been holding by his side. The gun pointed at Harry.

The bathroom door opened and another plainclothes detective came out, gun in hand.

“Green?” Harry said stupidly. “My name's Griffin.”

“You're Harry Green,” Hammerstock said, getting to his feet. “Take it easy. Stay just as you are. What's the matter with your arm?”

“I hurt it,” Harry said.

Then suddenly the room lurched, and he staggered forward and went down on hands and knees, dark faintness creeping over him. He felt hands take hold of him and lift him. He felt himself laid on the bed, then he didn't care anymore. He swam off into a lonely darkness that he no longer had the will to fight against.

He had no idea how long he remained unconscious. He became aware of the hard light from the overhead lamp, and a hand gently shaking him. He opened his eyes and looked blankly up at Hammerstock, who was bending over him.

“Wake up,” Hammerstock said. “The wagon's on its way. How are you feeling?”

Harry lifted his head. There was no one except Hammerstock in the room. He found himself on the bed and looking at his arm he saw his shirt and coat sleeves had been cut off and his arm had been neatly bandaged. He felt weak and hotheaded, but the burning pain had gone.

“I’m all right,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

Hammerstock grinned.

“Getting a promotion,” he said. “If I don't get upgraded for this job I'm going to chuck my hand in and become a farmer.” He took out a pack of cigarettes. “Want to smoke?”

“No,” Harry said, feeling a cold chill of fear gripping him as he looked at Hammerstock's smug, grinning face.

“Yeah, getting a promotion,” Hammerstock repeated as he lit a cigarette. “You owe me fifty bucks, but never mind. It was worth that to me to nail you. My sister isn't the birdbrain I made her out to be. If it hadn't been for her, I wouldn't have caught you. One of the occupants of a cabin near yours called her up and told her you two were shouting at each other. She thought she had better see what it was all about. She went around to the back of your cabin because she spotted a fat guy listening outside your front window. You were yelling your head off. Then your girlfriend started sounding off. My sister heard her say she didn't care if she went to prison, and the police wouldn't put her in the death cell as they would you. My sister went back to the office and tried to get hold of me, but I was out on an assignment. By the time she did get hold of me, you two had packed up and gone. I thought you might stand investigating. I traced you here and told you the phony tale about the fifty bucks. That's a laugh. You don't know my sister. She's never made a mistake in her life. I had a specially prepared piece of paper ready for you to handle, and you handled it when you gave me the receipt for the dough. I got a fine set of your prints. I had them checked and guess what? Harry Griffin turns out to be Harry Green the boy wonder who pinched the diamonds off the Moonbeam and who is also wanted for murder.”

Harry didn't say anything. He was thinking of Glorie. She had tried so hard to make him safe. He was glad now she was dead. It was better for her not to know all her careful planning had failed.

“Then there's this,” Hammerstock went on. He produced the bloodstained car wrench which he held carefully at the extreme end between finger and thumb. “Who have you killed? Was it her?”

“No, I didn't kill her,” Harry said. “You can't pin that on me.”

Hammerstock grinned.

“We can try,” he said and got to his feet. “That sounds like the wagon. Come on; get up. You and me've got work to do.”

He went over to the cabin door and opened it. The headlights of an approaching car fell directly on him. He turned his head to look at Harry.

“Of course you killed her,” he said. “She never reached Collier City. The boys are searching the beach now. That's where you planted her, isn't it? We found the shovel in the boot of your car. There's sand on it.”

“I didn't kill her,” Harry said, getting slowly to his feet. “She was everything to me. I wouldn't kill her. I loved her.”

Hammerstock shrugged.

“From what my sister told me, you loved her like a rat loves poison.”

“I didn't kill her,” Harry repeated.

“Okay, tell that to the jury,” Hammerstock said, “but don't expect them to believe you. Come on. Let's go.”

With slow, unsteady steps, Harry crossed the room and went out to where the police car was waiting.