Strictly For Cash (10 page)

By that time I was all in. I flopped down on the bed. I thought I was going to pass out. I was shaking like a leaf, and there was an awful swirling going on inside my head. I fought against it. It went away after a moment or so. I got a grip on myself. I didn't dare waste a moment. I got on the trolley and covered myself with the sheet. Then I took off my hat and lay down, pulling the sheet over my head.

I lay there, waiting. My head was beginning to ache now, and every now and then a shiver ran through me. I began to think I would be spotted before they even got me out of the room. I was in two minds whether to get up and hide in the bathroom when I heard the door open.

I turned to stone, holding my breath, trying to control the hammering of my heart. The trolley began to move. The guy pushing it was whistling under his breath. He sounded as if he hadn't a care in the world.

That short ride down the corridor was the worst experience I've ever been through. Even lying in a fox-hole with the scream of falling bombs in my ears was nothing to this.

"What have you got there, chum?" a voice asked.

I felt my blood congeal. I knew by the voice it could only be one of the cops."

"This is just up your street," the attendant said. "It's a corpse."

"Aw, hell. Don't you cure 'em in this hospital?"

"Not often. I guess the head doc draws a commission from the undertaker. He certainly keeps him busy."

"What is this? A man or woman?"

"A woman. She died of peritonitis. I guess the doc left his glove in her or something. I've never known a guy as absent-minded as he is."

The cop laughed and the trolley began to move again. It bumped over a step, and then I heard the faint swish of closing doors. A moment later I felt a downward movement and guessed we were in an elevator.

The attendant continued to whistle under his breath. The elevator bumped to a gentle standstill, the doors swished open and the trolley began to move again.

"Hi, Joe," a girl's voice said.

"Hi, sugar, how's it coming?"

The trolley stopped.

"Who's that?"

"That's opposite Ricca's room, isn't it?"

"Yeah. There're two cops up there, keeping an eye on him."

"There are ? I bet the matron had a fit, didn't she ?"

"Riskin handled her. That guy's smart. I wouldn't want him after me. He's got Ricca fooled. Ricca imagines he's getting away with this loss of memory stuff, but he isn't. I heard Foxy tell Doc Summers he'll be good and ready to slap a murder charge on him tomorrow. I'd like to see his face when they march in and pinch him."

"Who did he murder?"

"Some dame. He must have been nuts. He nearly killed himself as well. Listen, sugar, how about going for a ride with me in the elevator? It might break down between floors if we're lucky."

"If you're lucky, you mean."

"Lemme get rid of this stiff and let's try it." The trolley began to move again. "You wait right here, sugar. This is going to be something to put in your diary."

The foot of the trolley bumped against swing-doors. The attendant gave it a hard push and sent it forward to cannon against a wall.

I heard him say, "The guy who invented elevators was a public benefactor. Hop in, and I'll show you for why."

Then there was silence. I lay there for a moment or so until I heard the elevator doors swish to, then I pulled off the sheet and sat up.

The room was windowless, and in darkness, but the light from the passage, coming through the crack in the swing-doors, was enough for me to get a vague idea of the set-up. There were a number of trolleys covered with sheets standing against the walls. An overpowering smell of formaldehyde filled the air, and it was cold.

I slid off the trolley, again nearly forgetting my hat. I put it on. As my eyes became used to the semi-darkness, I spotted a door across the far end of the room. Faint daylight came from under it.

I went over to it, turned the handle and opened it a couple of inches. I looked into a narrow alley. Two big white motor ambulances were parked out there. The light was beginning to fade now, but it was still too light to be safe.

I opened the door and looked up the alley. Iron gates stood open at the far end. Beyond them I could see a main street. There was no one guarding the gates.

I started off down the alley towards the street. I had no idea where I was going or what I was going to do. I hadn't any money. There was nothing in my pockets, not even a handkerchief. But I didn't care. At least I was getting away from Riskin, the hospital and Ricca. That would do to get on with.

V

A big yellow moon threw amber light over the sea. There was a car parked on the sand, its lights out. The man and the girl, on either side of the car, began to undress. I was near enough to hear their voices, but not what they were saying.

This part of the beach was lonely and deserted but for these two and the car. I had lain hidden in the mangroves for the past three hours, then suddenly the car had arrived. It came just when I was giving up hope.

I watched the two of them run down to the sea and splash in. As soon as they were swimming I moved out of my hiding-place and headed for the car. I found his coat. My fingers closed around a wallet in his inside pocket. I hauled it out, and went around to the back of the car where they couldn't see me if they looked this way. The wallet was stuffed with money. I could scarcely believe my luck. I took a hundred and fifty dollars in small bills. That still left him enough to buy her a slap-up supper. I slid the wallet into the pocket and tossed the coat into the car, then I ran back to the darkness of the mangroves.

During the three hours I had remained hidden I had made a plan. Riskin would expect me to clear out of Miami as fast as I could. I had told him I had a talent for hitch-hiking. He'd probably cover every truck and car going out of town, and watch every road. I had decided my safest bet was to remain in Miami, and hole up somewhere. I had to find myself a quiet hotel, spin them a yarn I was waiting for my baggage, and hope they'd give me a room.

There should be dozens of suitable hotels if I could only find them. I'd have to be careful. My description was bound to be out now, and every patrolman would be looking for me: Ricca would probably be looking for me too.

I started off towards the bright lights of the water-front. I moved slowly. I was tired. I had walked miles since I had left the hospital. My head ached too. While I had been hiding I had taken off the bandages. They had shaved my head, but from the feel of it the wound was healed.

At least my hat fitted me now, and didn't bother me.

Ahead I could see the water-front and the harbour, the shops and cafe and saloons.

As I walked along the congested sidewalk I kept my eyes open for a patrolman, but I needn't have bothered. No patrolman could have spotted me in that teeming crowd.

A few minutes' walking brought me to an hotel. It seemed the kind of place I was looking for. It was dingy and quiet, and looking through the double swing-doors I saw the lounge was deserted.

I pushed open the doors and walked in.

Ahead of me was the reception desk. A little guy in a black alpaca coat was propping himself up against the desk. He was bald and wrinkled, and his deep-set eyes were bored. "I'd like a room," I said.

"Ten bucks deposit," he said briefly, "For how long?"

"A couple of days, if I like it, maybe a week." He scratched the top of his head with one finger. "Don't see your baggage."

"It's at the station."

"We like baggage, mister. We could collect it for you."

I fished out two tens and dropped them on the desk.

"I'll get it in the morning. Let's have a room."

He reached for a key from the rack behind him, shoved the register at me and a pen.

I wrote John Crosby on the line he indicated with a dirty finger. My slight hesitation didn't fool him.

"Any relation to Bing?" he asked with a small sneer.

"Why, yes," I said. "I'm his sister. Where do I find the room?"

He gave me a cold, hostile look, stuck his thumb into a bell-push and turned his back on me.

After a while a middle-aged bell-hop materialized and took the key. He was a rat-faced guy with close-set eyes and a thin, hard mouth. His blue uniform and pill-box hat shone like a nickel plate.

"Second floor," he said. "No baggage?"

"No baggage," I said.

I tramped up the stairs after him. Eventually we came to a door which he unlocked and pushed open. He reached inside and turned on the light.

"The bathroom's at the end of the corridor. Don't use the shower. It don't work."

I went past him into a box of a room with a bed, a table, a chest of drawers and a strip of worn carpet.

"Just like Buckingham Palace," I said.

"A little more roomy, if anything."

He put the key on the chest of drawers and looked me over expectantly. I gave him a dollar. He nearly dropped in his tracks.

"Anything you want mister?" he said eagerly. "How about a little company? I have a list of telephone numbers as long as my arm."

"Dust," I said.

"If you change your mind, call the desk and ask for me. Myname's Maddux."

"Beat it!"

When he had gone I sat on the bed and took off my hat. I was so tired I could scarcely keep my eyes open. The bed felt as if it had been stuffed with golf-balls, but that didn't worry me. I could have slept right then on a bed of nails.

My fingers hooked out a thin ribbon of paper, and as I unfolded it I realized I wasn't surprised to find it there. It was almost as if I had known it would be there before I looked for it.

I smoothed it out. It was a left-luggage receipt, and written in pencil across the top were the words:

John Farrar,

Seaboard Air-Line Railway

Greater Miami.

I was fully awake now, the longing for sleep washed right out of my mind. Then this hat, and obviously the clothes, did belong to me! I looked for the date on the receipt. There it was; September 6th! The time the suitcase was handed in was also there: 6.5 p.m.

For some minutes I sat staring down at the threadbare carpet, I felt like a sceptic in a haunted house who suddenly sees a horrifying apparition. There could be no doubt now. I must have lost my memory for forty-five days, and during that time, if I was to believe Ricca, I had murdered two men and a woman.

Ricca might be lying. If I were to remain sane I'd have to find out what had happened during those forty-five days. It started with the smash, five miles outside Pelotta. I would go to the scene of the accident and with any luck I might be able to trace my movements from there. I had been thrown out of the Bentley and had injured my head. From that moment until I had recovered consciousness in the hospital I had been going around with a blacked-out mind.

I flicked the receipt with my finger-nail. Maybe this suitcase contained the key to those missing forty-five days. According to the receipt the suitcase belonged to me, and I must have checked it in. I had no idea where the Seaboard Air-Line Railway was, but I had to get the suitcase tonight. I wouldn't sleep or rest until I had if.

I reached for the telephone.

"Send Maddux up here," I said to the reception clerk. "I want a packet of cigarettes. Tell him to hurry."

As he began to grumble, I hung up.

A couple of minutes later Maddux came in, panting, as if he had run up the two flights of stairs, his ratty face bright with expectation.

"Changed your mind?" he asked, closing the door and leaning against it. "What do you fancy . . .?"

I held out my hand.

"Cigarettes?"

He gave me a packet.

"There's a little blonde ..."

"Forget it," I said, lit a cigarette, then took out two ten-dollar bills. I rustled them between my fingers.

"How would you like to earn these?"

His eyes bugged out and his mouth fell open.

"Try me," he said.

I handed him the left-luggage receipt.

"Get that case and bring it back here."

"What - now?"

"If you want to make twenty bucks."

He looked at the receipt.

"I thought your name was Crosby," he said, and gave me a quick, suspicious look.

I didn't say anything. I folded the two bills and slid them into my pocket.

"I didn't say anything," he said hurriedly. "That wasn't me talking."

"Get that case and make it snappy."

He went off as if fired from a gun.

While I waited I went over my meagre stock of information.

On the night of September 6th I had been driving a Buick convertible, registered in the name of John Ricca, along a road seventy-five miles from Miami. With me was a girl: whether it had been Della or not I couldn't say, Ricca knew who she was, but Riskin didn't. There had been a smash. Apparently I had lost control of the car, for there was no other car involved. The girl had been killed, and I had been found unconscious five minutes later by a speed-cop. There was some talk about a gun. It had her fingerprints on it, and for some reason or other Riskin seemed to think the smash had been deliberate, making it murder.