Hit and Run (7 page)
Authors: James Hadley Chase
I picked up the glass of brandy and went over to her.
'Here, drink some of this,' I said. 'Come on: it's no use crying.'
I lifted her head and made her drink a little. Then she pushed the glass away with a shudder.
'I'm going to see what has happened,' I said. 'Wait here. I'll be as quick as I can.'
She nodded, not looking at me.
I looked at the clock on the overmantel. The time was twenty minutes to eleven.
'Just wait here. I shouldn't be long.'
Again she nodded.
I left her and went down to the Cadillac. I paused and looked at the broken headlamp and the bent fender. I realized I would be crazy to take the car out on the road in this condition. If someone spotted the damage they might put two and two together when the news broke in the morning's papers as I knew it must break.
And yet I had to have a car and have it fast. Then I remembered that Seaborne who owned the house farther down the road kept a car in his garage for his vacation. I had been to his place off and on, and I knew he kept the key of the garage on a ledge above the garage doors. I decided to use his car.
I got in the Cadillac and drove fast down the road to the house. Leaving the Cadillac outside, I went to the garage, found the key and opened the double doors.
Seaborne's car was a battered 1950 Pontiac: a car he carted his six children around in when he came down here. I drove the Pontiac out on to the road, left it with its engine ticking over, then I got into the Cadillac and backed it into the garage, shut and locked the doors. I dropped the key into my pocket.
I got into the Pontiac and drove fast to the highway. It took me ten minutes to reach the beach road.
I approached the intersection cautiously. There were about six cars parked along the grass verge, their dipped headlamps making puddles of light along the road. A bunch of men and women were standing together looking towards the head of the beach road. Blocking the entrance to the road were two speed cops, standing beside their parked motor-cycles.
With my heart slamming against my ribs, I pulled up behind | the last of the parked cars and got out.
There was a fat man with a Panama hat resting on the back of his head standing alone by his car, his hands in his trouser pockets, staring at the speed cops.
I walked over to him.
'What goes on?' I said, trying to make my voice sound casual. 'What's the trouble?'
He turned to look at me. It was dark, and the lights from the headlights of the cars reflected downwards. He could see my legs and feet, but there wasn't much else of me he could see to recognize later.
'An accident,' he said. 'A cop got himself killed. I've always said these cops ask for trouble the way they get in front of you. Well, this one pulled that stunt once too often.'
I felt cold sweat break out on my face.
'Killed?'
'Yeah: a hit-and-run job. Can't say I blame the guy who did it. If I was unlucky enough to kill a cop, and there were no witnesses, damned if I would stick around and apologize. If they catch him, they'll crucify him. I've always said the cops in this town are no better than the Nazis were.'
'Killed him, did you say?' I scarcely recognized my voice.
'That's right: ran over his head. He must have hit the side of the car, and then the poor devil must have fallen under the rear wheel.' He pointed to a tall, thin man who was talking busily to the crowd. 'That's the fella who found him: the one in the grey suit. He told me. He said the poor guy's face was like a sponge of blood.'
Suddenly one of the speed cops came stalking across the road.
'Hey, you bunch of vultures!' he bawled, his voice violent and tough. 'I've had about enough of you. Get out of here! You hear me? It's swine like you in your hunks of metal who cause the accidents! Get out of here! Get out, the lot of you!'
The fat man said out of the corner of his mouth: 'See what I mean – a Nazi,' and he walked over to his car.
I went back to the Pontiac, started the engine, made a U-turn and drove back fast to the bungalow.
When I walked into the lounge, I found Lucille huddled up in one of the big easy chairs. She looked very small and defenceless and frightened, and her face was the colour of old parchment.
As I came into the lounge, she stiffened and stared up at me.
'Is it all right, Ches?'
I went over to the cocktail cabinet, poured myself a double whisky, added a little water and drank thirstily.
'No, I wouldn't say it is all right,' I said, moving to a chair near hers. I sat down, not looking at her.
'Oh.'
There was a long pause, then she said: 'Were you able … did you see ...?'
'The police were there.' I couldn't bring myself to tell her she had killed him. 'I didn't see him.'
Again there was a pause, then: 'What do you think we should do, Ches?'
I looked at the clock on the overmantel. It was now twenty minutes past eleven.
'I don't think we can do anything,' I said.
I saw her stiffen.
'You mean we don't do anything at all?'
'That's what I mean. It's getting late. I'm going to take you home.'
She sat forward, her hands on her knees, and she stared at me.
'But, Ches, surely we must do something? I should have stopped. It was an accident, of course, but I should have stopped.' She began to beat her fists on her knees. 'He might recognize me if he sees me again. He might have taken the number of the car. Surely we must do something?'
'I finished the whisky and put the glass down, then I got to my feet.
'Come on. I'll take you home.'
She remained motionless, her eyes wide and staring.
'You're keeping something from me, aren't you? What is it?'
'It's bad, Lucille,' I said. 'As bad as it can be, but you don't have to be frightened.'
'What do you mean?' Her voice was suddenly shrill.
'You ran over him.'
She clenched her fists.
'Oh, no! Is he badly hurt?'
'Yes.'
'Take me home, Ches. I must tell Roger.'
'You can't tell him,' I said. 'He can't do anything.'
'Oh, but he can. He's a friend of the Captain of Police. He'll be able to explain.'
'Explain what?'
'That I have only just learned to drive, of course. That it was an accident.'
'I'm afraid that won't make any impression.'
She became rigid, her eyes opening wide with terror.
'Is he so badly hurt? You don't mean – he's dead?'
'Yes. You'll have to know sooner or later. Yes, he's dead.'
She closed her eyes and her hands went to her breasts.
'Oh, Ches …'
'Now, don't panic.' I tried to keep my voice steady. 'There's nothing we can do about it – anyway, for the moment. We're in a jam, but if we don't lose our heads ...'
She stared at me, her lips trembling.
'But you weren't in the car. It's nothing to do with you. It was my fault.'
'We're in this thing together, Lucille. If I hadn't behaved as I did, you wouldn't have rushed away like that. It's as much my fault as yours.'
'Oh, Ches ...'
She dropped her face down on the settee and began to sob.
I watched her for a moment or so, then, getting up, I put my arms around her and pulled her against me.
'What will they do to us?' she gasped, her hands gripping my arms.
'You mustn't worry about that,' I said. 'There's nothing we can do until we see what the newspapers say tomorrow. Then we must decide.'
'Suppose someone saw me hit him?'
'No one did. There was no one on the beach.' My hands tightened around her. 'Did you pass any car after you hit him?'
She pushed away from me, got unsteadily to her feet and wandered over to the window.
'I don't think so. I can't remember.'
'It's important, Lucille. Try to remember.'
She came back to the divan and sat down.
'I don't think so.'
'All right. Now listen, we must discuss this tomorrow after we've seen the papers. Will you come down here? There's nowhere else I can think of where we can have an uninterrupted talk. Can you get here about ten?'
She was staring at me, her eyes empty holes in her face.
'Will they send me to prison?' she asked.
That gave me a horrible jolt. I realized if they caught her they would send her to prison. You can't kill a policeman and get away with it. You might kill anyone accidentally, and if you had a top-flight attorney you might beat the rap, but not if you killed a policeman.
'Stop talking like that! It won't get you anywhere. What time will you be here tomorrow? Can you get here by ten?'
'Are you sure we shouldn't do anything?' She began to beat her clenched fists together. 'If they find out ...'
'They won't find out. Will you listen to me, Lucille? We mustn't panic. We must first find out
what the papers say. We mustn't do anything until we know all the facts. We'll know the facts tomorrow morning, then if you'll meet me, we can make up our minds what to do.'
She pressed her fingers to her temples.
'Don't you think I should tell Roger? He might be able to do something.'
If I had thought Aitken could have done something, I wouldn't have hesitated to go with her and tell him the whole sordid story, but I was certain he couldn't do a thing for her. If she went to him the truth would come out that she and I had been on the beach together. He would want to know why she had run off like that. Knowing Aitken, I felt sure he would have got the truth out of her, and then I would be sunk.
I drew in a long, slow breath.
'You can't tell him, Lucille. If you tell him, how will you explain what you were doing in my car? How will you explain what you were doing on the beach? How will you explain that you and I were on the beach together, that we undressed and swam together? If I thought your husband could do something, then I would go with you and tell him, but he can't. If you lose your head and tell him, you will give him grounds for a divorce, and I'll lose my job.'
She stared fixedly at me, then she said in a voice tight with panic: 'I'd rather be divorced than go to prison. Roger wouldn't let me go to prison. He has a lot of influence. I'm sure he wouldn't let me go to prison.'
I put my hands on her arms and shook her gently.
'Lucille! You're reasoning like a child. Once he knew you and I had been on the beach together, he would wash his hands of you. He wouldn't give a damn what happened to you. You must realize that.'
'That's not true,' she said desperately. 'He might divorce me, but he wouldn't let me go to prison. He's like that. He wouldn't allow it to be said his wife was in prison.'
'You still don't seem to realize how serious this is,' I said, trying to speak quietly and calmly. 'You have killed a policeman. All right, it was an accident, but you didn't stop and you haven't a driving permit. If you had killed anyone except a policeman, your husband might have been able to swing it, but even if he had more influence than Eisenhower, and he hasn't, he can't do a thing for you now.'
'So you mean I'll have to go to prison?'
Her face seemed to shrink and her eyes became rounder and larger. Terror spoilt her young, fresh beauty.
'No. They don't know you did it, and I don't think they will ever know. We would be fools to tell them until we know exactly what has happened. When we do know, then we'll be able to make up our minds just what we should do.'
She gnawed her underlip, looking at me.
'You mean we just don't do anything?'
'We don't do anything tonight. Have you understood about tomorrow? Will you come down here about ten? We can decide what to do then.'
She nodded.
'Well, come on, then. I'll take you home.'
She got up and walked ahead of me out of the lounge, across the hall and to the front door, then she stopped abruptly.
'We're not going back in the car, Ches? I don't think I could drive in it again.'
'I've another car. I borrowed it from a friend down the road.' I put my hand on her arm and eased her out on to the porch. 'We're not going back in the Cadillac.'
I turned off the light in the hall, closed the front door while she stood on the top of the porch. As I was turning the key in the lock, I heard a man's voice call out: 'Hey, is this your car?'
I felt as if I had put my hand out in the dark and had touched a naked electric cable. I don't suppose I started as much as I imagined, but I know I started pretty badly. I heard Lucille catch her breath sharply, but at least she had the sense to move quickly to one side into the shadows of the porch where she couldn't be seen.
I looked down the path. A man stood at the gate. It was too dark to see much of him, except that he was tall and bulky. Parked behind Seaborne's Pontiac was a Buick convertible, its bonnet lit by the Pontiac's tail lights.
'Stay where you are,' I whispered to Lucille, then I walked down the steps and down the path to where the tall man was standing.
'Sorry to give you such a start,' he said, and now I was close to him I could see he was around
forty-five with a heavy moustache and a whisky-red, cheerful face. 'I thought you had seen me. Isn't that Jack Seaborne's car?'
'Yes,' I said, aware my breathing was too quick and too uneven. 'I've borrowed it while mine's in dock.'
'You Chester Scott?'
'That's right.'
'Glad to know you.' He thrust out his hand. 'I'm Tom Hackett. I don't know if Jack ever mentioned me. He's mentioned you to me often enough. I was passing and I wondered if the old sonofagun happened to be down here.'
I wondered if he had seen Lucille. We had come out of the lighted hall. It depended how long he had been standing at the gate.
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