Chapter Seven
I
For some seconds there was no sound in the room except the ticking of the
clock on the overmantel and Lola’s quick, sharp breathing.
Jenson was staring at her and at the gun as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Why, Lola . . .”
“Don’t move!” Her voice was harsh. “I’m taking the money! He’s not having
a nickel of it!”
“Lola! Have you gone cr@zy? Put that gun down! It’s loaded!”
“Don’t move and listen to me. I’ve had enough of this life. I’ve had enough
of you and your convict pal!
I’m going, and I’m taking that money. Don’t
either of you imagine you can stop me.”
Jenson’s face hardened.
“You should be ashamed of yourself—talking that way. That money was for
both of us. I’ve slaved thirty-five years to save it and you’re not walking off
with it now. Put that gun down, and stop acting like a crazy fool!”
“I’m taking it! If you try to stop me I’ll tell the police you have been
sheltering this jailbird, and I’ll tell them you haven’t paid tax on that money!
Now get out of my way or you’ll be sorry!”
Jenson, his face suddenly red with anger, got to his feet.
I still stood by the open safe. It made me nervous to see the way she was
waving the gun about as she talked.
“It’s time you were taught a lesson, young woman,” Jenson said. “I’ve been
too soft with you. What you want is a good hiding, and that’s what you are
going to get!”
“Watch it!” I said sharply. I gave the safe door a hard shove with my knee. It
swung to with a clang.
Lola, her face tightening with frustrated rage, looked towards me. She knew
enough about that safe to realise it had automatically locked as the door
slammed shut.
Jenson had almost reached her when the .45 went off with a bang that rattled
the windows.
I looked with horror at Jenson.
He stood motionless for a brief moment, then his great body of muscle and
flesh collapsed like a felled tree. It went down slowly and ponderously,
smashing the back off a chair, sweeping aside the table and shaking the
bungalow as it finally hit the floor.
Lola screamed and dropped the gun. She hid her face in her hands, turning her back.
Shaking, I knelt beside Jenson. Blood made a small red patch on his left side.
It had been an unlucky shot. The soft-nosed .45 slug had killed him instantly.
I couldn’t believe it. I put my hand on his arm, staring at him.
The words jerked out of me: “You’ve killed him!”
She gave a shuddering groan and ran blindly out of the room.
I heard her bedroom door slam shut.
I knelt there, staring down at Jenson, not knowing what to do. I didn’t dare
call the police. Suppose she told them I had killed Jenson? She might do it to
save her own skin. She might tell them who I was, and they wouldn’t need
any further proof once they knew I was the escaped convict from Farnworth.
Then I heard the sudden sound of a car pulling up and the impatient blast
from its horn.
The blind in the sitting room wasn’t drawn. Whoever it was outside could see
the light. If I didn’t get out to them fast they might come over and look in: if
they did, they would see Jenson dead on the floor.
As I started for the door, my foot kicked against the .45. I picked it up and
shoved it into my hip pocket. I jerked open the front door and started across
to the pumps.
There was a big Chrysler waiting: a deluxe job with a customs built body. A
blonde woman sat in the front passenger seat. The driver, a thickset, elderly
man, was getting out of the car.
“Fill her up,” he said as I reached him, “and how about some food?”
I was in a daze. I scarcely heard what he said. I began automatically to fill the
tank.
“Hey! Didn’t you hear me?” the man said, raising his voice. “We want
something to eat!”
“Sorry—the lunch room’s closed.”
I wanted to get rid of these two, but the man was one of those wealthy,
arrogant big wheels you couldn’t brush off.
“Then d@mn well open it!” he said. “We’re hungry. It’s your business to
provide food.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but the lunch room’s closed,” I said, screwing on the cap of the tank.
“Do you own this joint?”
“No.”
“Then where’s the boss? I’ll talk him into opening your goddamn lunch
room!”
“Harry, dear . . .” the blonde woman began nervously.
He turned on her.
“You keep out of this! I’ll handle it. I’ll talk to the top man. I never waste my
time talking to hired hands.”
To my alarm, he began to walk off towards the bungalow.
“Okay, okay,” I said, jumping to his side. “I’ll fix you something. The boss is
asleep.”
He paused to glare at me. “I’ve a mind to report you.”
“I’ll fix you something,” I said, and leaving him, I opened up the lunch room
and turned on the lights.
I heard him bellow at his wife, “Well, come on! Don’t sit there! You’re
hungry, aren’t you?”
They followed me into the lunch room and sat down at one of the tables.
“What have you got?” the man barked at me.
“Chicken sandwiches or cold roast beef,” I said. The thought of food made
me feel sick to my stomach.
“Chicken, and hurry it up. See your hands are clean before yon touch the
bread.”
I went into the kitchen. There was a bottle of Scotch on the table. I picked it
up and took a long pull. Then I got the chicken out of the ice box and cut
several rounds of sandwiches. I heated coffee, put the food on a tray and
carried it into the lunch room.
The man grunted at me, and began to devour
the sandwiches. Suddenly I turned cold and my mouth began to fill with bile.
It had been a mistake to have drunk that whisky. I felt if I didn’t get out into
the open air I would faint: I felt that bad.
I mumbled something about fixing his car and I went out fast. The hot night
air didn’t help me. I just managed to get around the side of the lunch room
before I threw up.
After some minutes I began to recover. I sat on the ground with my back
against the wall, my head in my hands, and considered my position.
I was in a jam.
As soon as Lola had got over the shock of her husband’s death and I had an
idea it wouldn’t take her long, she would realise she was also in a jam.
It hadn’t crossed my mind that Jenson’s death had been anything but an
accident. She had been waving the gun around in fury and it had gone off.
But she couldn’t prove to the police it bad been an accident. They would want to know what she had been doing with a gun in her hand. She would have to admit was going to steal her husband’s savings. Once she admitted they would nail her on a murder charge.
How long would it take her to realise her only way out was to fasten Jenson’s
death on me? I was handmade for the job.
She could tell the police that she and I had been left together while Jenson
had gone to the Legion meeting. She had been busy in the kitchen. I had
sneaked into the bungalow and had opened the safe. Jenson had returned unexpectedly and had caught me red-handed. I had killed him. Nothing I could say would shake that kind of evidence once they found out who I was.
My first panicky thought was to get into the station wagon and make a dash for Tropica Springs, but I knew I couldn’t beat the speed of a telephone call.
As soon as she found I had gone, she would call the police and they would be
waiting for me at the bottom of the pass. Even if I disconnected the telephone
and tied her up, the chances of someone arriving at the pumps and finding her
was too great.
Then suddenly it flashed into my mind that if she had me in a jam, I had her in one too. I realised everything depended on how much she wanted that
money in the safe, and I was pretty sure she wanted it more than anything else in the world.
If she gave me away to the police, I had only to tell them that the money in
the safe was untaxed and she would never touch it. That had been her threat
to Jenson: it could now be mine to her. If I told the police the truth about the
money she would never lay her hands on it. This could be stalemate if I
handled it right.
I thought of Jenson’s body lying in the sitting room of the bungalow. I would
have to bury him. I would also have to think up a story to explain away his
absence.
This was as far as I got.
The man and his blonde wife came out of the lunch room and started for their
car. I got shakily to my feet and followed them. He paid me the exact
amount. He said the place was a disgrace and he would tell his friends about
it.
When they had driven away, I ran back to the bungalow.
I was just in time.
As I pushed open the front door, I heard the telephone bell tinkle.
She was calling the police.
II
The telephone was in the hall.
Lola looked up, her finger poised over the dial. She looked ghastly: her face
was white, her eyes sunk into her head, and they were scared. Even her lips
were white.
We stared at each other. She held the receiver in her hand. I held the .45 in
mine, and I pointed it at her.
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