One Bright Summer Morning
- Автор: Чейз Джеймс Хэдли
- Год: 1963
- Язык: английский
- Год: Robert Hale
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «One Bright Summer Morning». Краткое содержание книги:
“All right, if you just want to sit around, I’ll handle it,” she said.
“I’m certainly not turning myself into a servant,” Zelda exclaimed crossly and looked out of the window.
At this moment, the bedroom door swung open and Riff appeared in the doorway.
Both Carrie and Zelda stiffened as they stared at him. Riff’s scarred face was glistening with sweat. Carrie was nearer to him than Zelda. She could smell the dirt from him and she backed away. He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at Zelda who seemed frozen in her chair.
“Come on, baby,” Riff said, beckoning to her. “You and me are going to have a jazz session. Get out of that chair!”
Carrie moved in front of Zelda and faced Riff.
“Get out of here!” she said fiercely. “You’re not to touch her!”
Riff grinned evilly.
“Out of the way or I’ll start on you first!”
Carrie didn’t move. She was terrified, but something in her forced her to face this scarred-faced thug.
“Get out!”
Riff’s long looping left with his fist half closed caught Carrie on the side of her face. It was as if she had been struck by a tremendous blast of wind. She went reeling across the room, thudded against the bed and fell across it, stunned and only half conscious.
She was vaguely aware that Zelda was screaming. She made a desperate effort to get to her feet, but her legs buckled and she slid from the bed to the floor. Dazed, trying to get up, she watched Zelda struggling with Riff. Zelda was helpless in his savage grip. He swung her off her feet and carried her out of the room. Her screams echoed through the house. Her fists pounded uselessly on the shabby leather uniform. Riff rushed her down the short passage and into the bedroom she occupied. Brutally, he flung her on the bed, then turning, he locked the door. As she scrambled off the bed, her eyes wide with terror, Riff moved in on her. As his hands grabbed her, she began to scream again.
Chita sat motionless in the hot sunshine while she listened to the high-pitched screams coming from the ranch house. She didn’t move. She just sat still, her face wooden, her hands clenched between her knees.
After a while the screaming stopped.
Moe Zegetti stood in the telephone booth waiting. Sweat ran down his fat face. Through the glass panel of the booth he watched two girls in tight-fitting, washed-out jeans, sitting on stools, sucking at straws in Coke bottles. A boy with a crew-cut and with freckles across his nose, leaned his elbows on the soda counter and talked to them. He too had a Coke bottle with a straw in it in his hand.
Moe wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. How much longer did he have to wait? He could hear the hum over the open line and every now and then, faint voices. He had got through to the hospital. They had told him to hold on. Minutes dragged by. One of the girls at the counter slid off the stool and went over to the jukebox. She inserted a coin. As the juke box began to blare jazz, she began to swing her small, childish hips and snap her fingers while her companion and the boy watched her, grinning.
A voice said, “Mr. Zegetti? This is Nurse Hardisty. I’m sorry to tell you your mother passed away peacefully last night”
The strident sound from the jukebox came through the glass panel of the booth and swamped Moe’s isolation. He found it impossible to hear what the woman was saying. He pressed the receiver to his ear, his heart thumping. He couldn’t really have heard aright... his mother... passed away... that meant she was dead!
“What was that?” he demanded. “Hold on a moment.” He opened the booth door and bawled, “Turn that goddam thing off!”
The girl stopped dancing and stared at him. The other girl and the boy turned and stared too. Then the girl started dancing again, giggling and rotating her hips at Moe and went hip swinging down to the entrance door, snapping her fingers and singing.
In despair, Moe slammed the booth door shut.
“How’s my mother?” he shouted frantically above the noise of the music.
“I told you.” The nurse sounded impatient. “She passed peacefully...”
“You mean she’s dead?”
“Why, yes, of course. I’m telling you... she died last night.”
Slowly, Moe replaced the receiver. He leaned against the wall of the booth and closed his eyes. A bluebottle fly buzzed busily around and about him. The girl wriggled her slight body as her companion and the boy began to clap their hands in time with the music.
Moe suddenly had no further wish to own a quarter of a million dollars. What use would the money be to him now? He was alone. He’d always be alone now Doll was dead. With her, it would have been fun to have had money to burn, but without her...
He walked slowly from the cafe, unaware that the barman and the three young people were staring curiously at him and he sat in the car, his hands resting slackly on the driving wheel. Should he go back to Wastelands? Suppose something went wrong? Kramer was old: suppose his planning came adrift? Moe thought of those awful years in prison. What would he do with a quarter of million dollars anyway? But then he thought of the little restaurant and the long hours of slavery. He couldn’t go back there. With money he could buy himself a small house. He could live decently. He might even find some woman with whom he could share his life. Besides, he couldn’t let Kramer down. No... he had to go back. Kramer would never forgive him if he ducked out now.
With a gesture of despair, he drove the car on to the highway and headed back towards Wastelands.
“You still don’t remember where you’ve seen him before?” Van Wylie asked. He was standing at the window watching Vic Dermott as he got into his Cadillac. Vic was on his way down to the California and Merchant Bank to pick up the certified cheques.
“No... but I’m sure I’ve seen him some place,” Andrews returned. “I’m sure of that and I’m sure he’s something to do with the theatre.”
“You got his car number?”
“Sure.”
The Cadillac was now out of sight. For a long moment, Van Wylie stood thinking.
“Okay, now let’s get busy,” he said. “If these punks think they’re going to get away with four millions of my dollars, they’re in for a surprise. They said they’d tapped the telephone here. Could be bluff, but I’m not taking any risk. Jay Dennison is the boy we want. Send him a Telex. Tell him to meet me at the L.A. airport at twelve. Warn him it’s to be a secret meeting. We’ll take the helicopter. They won’t be able to follow us in that. Get moving.”
An hour and a half later, Van Wylie with Andrews at his heels, strode across the tarmac of the airport and into a small office where Jay Dennison had arranged to meet him. With Dennison was Tom Harper.
It was some years since Van Wylie and Dennison had met. Then Dennison had saved Van Wylie a considerable sum of money when he had exposed a bank fraud by a brilliant piece of detective work. Van Wylie hadn’t forgotten Dennison’s work, and every Christmas, Dennison had received a large food hamper with Van Wylie’s compliments.
The two men shook hands and Dennison was quick to see the hard bitter gleam in Van Wylie’s eyes.
“My daughter has been kidnapped,” Van Wylie said abruptly as he sat on the edge of the desk. “The ransom is for four million dollars with the usual threats if I go to the police I won’t get her back. I’m consulting you, Dennison, because as soon as I do get her back, I want you to get these hoodlums. We flew here. They have no means of knowing we have met, and they mustn’t know.” He took from his pocket a small reel of tape. “I recorded the man’s demands. You’d better have this,” and he handed the reel of tape to Dennison.
“When did this happen, Mr. Van Wylie?” Dennison asked, sitting behind the desk. He glanced at Harper who had his notebook ready.