What's Better Than Money (18 page)

I turned quickly so my back was to him, took out a pack of cigarettes and went through the motions of pretending to get a light in the wind.

Then I half turned to watch him.

He was leaning into a Pontiac convertible, groping in the glove compartment.

I could hear him swearing under his breath. He found what he was looking for, swung round and ran back down the pier and into the restaurant.

I stood looking after him. Then I walked casually over to the Pontiac and looked it over. It was a 1957 job, and not in too good condition. I glanced to right and left. There was no one in sight. Quickly, I picked hold of the licence tag on the steering wheel and flicked my cigarette lighter alight. I read the neatly printed name and address:

Ed Vasari

The Bungalow

East Shore, Santa Barba.

I moved away from the car, then crossing over to a café opposite the restaurant, I pushed open the door and stepped in. There were only four teenagers sitting over cokes at one end of the room. I took a table by the window where I could see the Pontiac and sat down.

A tired looking waitress sauntered over and I ordered a coffee.

Was Rima with this man? Was she living with him at this address?

I sat there smoking and stirring my coffee, my eyes never off the Pontiac across the way. The rain increased and spattered against the window.

The four teenagers ordered another round of cokes. One of them, a blonde with a pert, knowing expression, wearing skin tight jeans and a sweater that showed off her immature childish shape, came over to where I was sitting and fed coins into the juke box.

The Platters began their soft moaning, and the teenagers joined in.

Then I saw them.

They came running out of the restaurant. Vasari was holding an umbrella over Rima. They dived into the Pontiac and drove off. If I hadn’t been watching closely I would have missed them. They had come and gone so quickly.

Without drinking the coffee, I paid the waitress and walked out into the wet and the dark.

I was coldly excited and determined not to waste any time.

I walked fast to an all-night garage I had spotted on my way from the hotel. I went in there, and after a brief talk with one of the staff, I hired a Studebaker, paid the deposit, and while he was filling the car with gas I asked him casually where East Shore was.

“Turn right and keep going, following the sea,” he told me. “It’s about three miles from here.”

I thanked him, then getting into the car, I drove out into the rain.

East Shore turned out to be a mile-long strip of beach with about thirty or forty wooden cabins dotted along the road.

Most of them were in darkness, but here and there lights showed.

I drove at a crawl along the road, staring at each cabin as I passed.

I could see nothing in the darkness that indicated any bungalow, and just as I was beginning to think I would have to leave the car and walk back, examining each cabin more closely, I saw ahead of me a light coming from a much more isolated building.

I drove towards it, then feeling sure this must be the place I pulled off the road, turned off the lights and got out of the car.

The rain, driven by the stiff sea breeze, beat against me, but I scarcely noticed it.

I approached the lighted window, and as I drew nearer I saw this place was a bungalow.

I paused at the double wooden gates. On the drive-in stood the Pontiac. I looked up and down the road, but as far as I could see there was no sign of life.

Cautiously, I opened the gate and walked up the drive-in.

There was a concrete path running around the bungalow and I followed it to the lighted window.

My heart was thumping hard now as I moved up to the window. I looked in.

The room was reasonably large and furnished reasonably well. There were comfortable, but shabby lounging chairs, and a few modern, bright prints on the walls. There was a television set in a corner and a well stocked bar in another corner.

All this I took in at a glance, then my eyes rested on Rima.

She was sprawling in a low armchair, a cigarette between her lips, a glass of Scotch and water in her hand. She was wearing a green wrap that gaped open so I could see her long, slim legs which were crossed. One of them swung nervously and irritably as she stared up at the ceiling.

So she did live here! She did live with Vasari!

I watched her.

Suddenly the door pushed open and Vasari came in.

He was wearing a pair of pyjama trousers and he was naked to the waist. His great barrel of a chest was covered with coarse black hair and his tremendously developed muscles moved under his tanned skin as he rubbed the back of his head with a towel.

He said something to her and she looked at him, her expression hostile. She finished her drink, put the glass down and got to her feet. She stood for a moment, stretching, then she walked past him out of the room.

He snapped off the light and I found myself staring at my faint reflection in the rain-soaked window.

I moved away.

Further along, another window had lit up, but a blind covered it.

I waited.

After some moments the light went out. The whole bungalow was now in darkness.

As silently as I had come, I returned to the Studebaker.

I got in and started the engine, then drove slowly back to my hotel.

While I drove, my mind was busy.

At last I had found her!

But there were still difficulties ahead. Did Vasari know she was blackmailing me? When I had got rid of her would I then have to deal with him?

It was while I
was driving through the dark, wet night that I suddenly realised what I was planning to do. I was going to murder her. A cold feeling of fear took hold of me. It had been easy enough to tell myself she had to be silenced when I had found her, but now I had found her the thought of walking in on her and murdering her brought me out in a clammy sweat.

I pushed the thought out of my mind. It had to be done. First, I would have to get rid of Vasari. With him around I wouldn’t be able to silence Rima. I decided I would have to watch the bungalow for a couple of days: I would have to find out what they did, how they lived and if Vasari ever left her alone.

I didn’t sleep much that night.

The nightmare thought of what I had to do lay heavily on me.

II

A little after half past seven the following morning I was once again driving out to East Shore. I was confident I was safe to approach the bungalow in daylight at this hour. I couldn’t imagine either of them would be early risers.

I drove past the bungalow fast. The blinds were drawn and the Pontiac still stood on the drive-in.

In the hard light of the morning sun the bungalow looked shabby: a typical sea-side vacation place, let year after year by an owner who never bothered to look at the place nor spare any money for a coat of paint.

Beyond the bungalow were sand dunes. After driving a few hundred yards further up the beach road I left the car behind a screen of shrubs and walked back towards the bungalow.

Within a hundred yards of the place was a line of dunes that offered excellent cover. From behind them I could watch the bungalow without being seen.

I had brought with me a pair of powerful field glasses I had been lucky enough to borrow from the owner of my hotel.

I made myself comfortable. By scooping away some of the sand, I was able to lie down against the face of the dune and rest the field glasses on top of it.

I watched the bungalow for more than an hour without seeing any sign of life.

At twenty minutes to nine, a battered old car came churning up the road and pulled up outside the bungalow. A woman got out. She walked up the path. I examined her through the glasses. They were so powerful I could see the smudges of powder on her face where she had put the powder on too thickly.

I guessed she was the maid, coming to clean up, and through the glasses I saw her dip two fingers into the mail box slot and then fish out a long string at the end of which was a key. She unlocked the front door with the key and entered the bungalow.

The long wait had paid off. I now knew how to get into the bungalow if I wanted to get in.

From time to time, through the big window, I caught sight of the woman moving about in the lounge. She was pushing an electric cleaner. After some minutes, she disconnected the cleaner and went away out of sight.

Time crawled by.

A little after eleven thirty the front door opened and Vasari came out. He stood on the step staring up at the sky, flexing his muscles and breathing in the fresh morning air. The sun was hot after the night’s rain. He was wearing blue cotton slacks and a sweater shirt. He looked very massive. As a bodyguard he was impressive.

He went over to the Pontiac and checked the oil and water, then he returned to the bungalow.

It wasn’t until midday that I saw Rima. She came to the front door and looked up at the sky. It was startling to put the field glasses on her face. She looked pale, and there were smudges under her eyes, and the rouge she had put on made her face look like a painted mask. Her expression was sullen. She got into the Pontiac and slammed the door viciously.

Vasari came out, carrying bathing wraps and towels. The cleaning woman came to the door. He said something to her and she nodded, then he got into the car and drove away.

I followed the car through the field glasses. It headed in the direction of the West side of the town where the swank beach clubs were.

A few minutes later the woman came out, locked the front door, dropped the key through the mail slot, got in her car and drove away.

I didn’t hesitate.

This was an opportunity too good to miss. There was a chance that Rima kept the gun that had killed the guard in the bungalow. If I could get it, the case against me would be considerably weakened.

Before moving from my hiding place I examined the road and the beach carefully. There was no one in sight. I came out from behind the sand dunes and walked fast to the bungalow.

I opened the gate and walked up the drive-in. To be on the safe side, I rang the bell, although I knew there was no one in the place. After waiting a few minutes I fished up the key and opened the door. I stepped into the small hall and paused to listen. There was no sound except the busy ticking of a clock somewhere in the bungalow and the drip-drip-drip of a faulty tap in the kitchen.

The lounge was to my right. A short passage to my left led to the bedrooms.

I walked down the passage, opened a door and glanced into a room. This would be Vasari’s dressing-room. A pair of slacks were neatly folded on a chair and an electric shaver lay on the dressing-table. I didn’t go in, but moved to the next door, opened it and stepped inside.

There was a double bed by the window and the dressing-table was loaded with cosmetics. A green silk wrap hung behind the door.

This was the room I wanted. I half closed the door, then went over to the chest of drawers and began going through the contents quickly, being careful not to disturb anything.

Rima had been on a buying spree with my money. The drawers were crammed with nylon underwear, scarves, handkerchiefs, stockings and so on. I didn’t find the gun.

I turned my attention to the closet. A dozen or so dresses hung on hangers, and on the floor of the closet was a number of pairs of shoes. On the top shelf I saw a cardboard box tied with string. I took it down, slid off the string and opened the box. It contained letters and a number of photographs, most of them of Rima with her silver hair, taken at the film studios.

A letter on the top of the pile caught my attention. It was dated three days ago. I picked it from the box and read it.

234 Castle Arms,

Ashby Avenue,

San Francisco.

Dear Rima,

Last night I ran into Wilbur. He is out on parole and he is looking for you. He is on the stuff again and he is dangerous. He told me if he finds you he’ll kill you. So watch out. I told him I thought you were in New York. He is still here, but I am hoping he will go off to New York. If he does so, I’ll let you know. Anyway, you keep clear of here. He gives me the creeps and he means what he says about fixing you.

In a rush to catch the mail.

Clare.

I had completely forgotten Wilbur’s existence.

My mind flashed back to Rusty’s bar. I saw again the door slamming open and the sudden appearance of the small nightmare figure. Dangerous? An understatement. Then he had been as deadly as a rattlesnake as he had moved to where Rima had been crouching, the flick knife in his hand.

So he was out of jail after thirteen years, and he was looking for Rima.

When he found her he would kill her.

A tremendous surge of relief ran through me. This might be my way out: the solution to my problem.

I copied the woman Clare’s address into my pocket diary and replaced the letter in the box and the box in the cupboard.

Then I continued my search for the gun, my mind busy.

It was by chance I found the gun. It was hanging by a string inside one of Rima’s dresses. It was only because I impatiently pushed aside the row of dresses to look behind them that I felt it.

I untied the string and lifted the gun clear.

It was a .38 Police Special, and it was loaded. I slid the gun into my hip pocket, shut the cupboard and looked around the room to make sure I had left no signs of my search, then satisfied, I crossed the room to the door.

As I opened the door I heard a car pull up outside the bungalow.

I jumped to the window, my heart beginning to thump. I was in time to see Rima getting out of the Pontiac. She ran up the drive-in and I heard her fumbling for the key.

As the key grated in the lock I moved silently and swiftly out of the bedroom. I paused for a split second in the passage, then stepped into Vasari’s dressing-room. I pushed the door to as the front door opened.