He Won't Need It Now
James Hadley Chase
PART ONE. IT BEGINS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
PART TWO. IT FINISHES
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
PART ONE
IT BEGINS
CHAPTER I
THE LOUNGE of the Princess Hotel was crowded with stragglers, filling in time before going in to dine. At the far end of the room., waiters hovered at the open doors of the restaurant, waiting patiently for someone to come on in and eat. It was just after seven o'clock, and the room was seething with movement as people pushed past small tables to greet friends, or shouted across, whichever way they felt.
William Duffy sat in a corner, drinking a Bacardi Crusta. The table before him held a number of bottles. The barman was a friend of his and let him mix his own drinks. There was a scowl on his face and he hadn't removed his hat. He just sat there drinking and smoking and scowling. Looking up suddenly, he saw Sam McGuire of the Tribune crawling by, muttering apologies as he lurched into small tables. Duffy reached out and touched Sam's cuff. Sam stopped at once.
“My God!” he said, “I'm goin' blind or somethin'.”
“You ain't doing so badly,” Duffy said, looking him over. “You ain't quite blind, but you're getting on.”
McGuire hooked a chair with the toe of his shoe and pulled it towards him. He folded himself down and grinned.
“You goin' on a bender?” he asked with interest, looking at the collection of bottles before him.
Duffy signalled the barman, who brought another glass. The barman looked the two of them over with a practised eye. “Ain't goin' to overdo it, are yuh?” he asked in a pleading voice.
“Okay, don't you worry about us,” Duffy said, picking up the rum and pouring it into the shaker.
“I hope not, boss,” the barman took another long look and went back to his counter.
“Poor old George,” Sam sighed, “he's forgotten us since he's moved in with the Big Shots. Listen Bill, make that a strong one. I guess I'm just about all in. If you notice a funny smell in a minute, go away, I shall've died on you.”
Carefully Duffy added the absinthe, squeezed a lime and spooned in some sugar. He chased some crushed ice round with the tongs before getting a grip, then he sealed the shaker and went to work.
McGuire lit a cigarette and pushed his hat on to the bridge of his nose. He looked at Duffy carefully while he handled the shaker. Duffy met his eye and grinned. “Go on, I know what you're going to say.”
“It ain't true, is it?”.
Duffy nodded his head and poured the shaker's contents into the two glasses. McGuire took his in his hand and rested his nose on the rim of the glass.
“Mi Gawd!” he said, “you mean old Sourpuss has tossed you out?”
“Yeah, just like that.”
Sam sat back and groaned. “What the hell——?”
“Listen,” Duffy said, “Arkwright and me have been hating each other's guts for a long time. I never gave him a chance to bat me. Today I did. He'd been waiting for the chance and he grabbed it with two hands like a starving man would grab a dollar lunch. O boy! Did it make him feel good! He tossed me out so quickly, I'm still dizzy in the head.”
“But why, for the love of Mike?”
“I was young and innocent and you know how these things go. I didn't think he was that sort of a boy, and look, mother, what's happened now.”
“Skip the comedy.” Sam was sitting up with a fierce look on his broad face. “Did you slip up on somethin'.?”
“You know me, I don't slip on anything. Anyway, if I do, I cover it up all right. This was a frame. That heel Arkwright has been angling for an interview with Bernstein for weeks, and at last he got it. You know how difficult Bernstein can be. He said that art was out. Mind you, with a mug like that Yid's got on him, I ain't surprised he was a bit touchy Anyway, Arkwright kept right at him until he gave way. I was sent along to get the pictures. I reckoned I had a nice set until I got 'em in the bath, then Mrs. Duffy's son had a shock. Those goddam' plates were fogged, the whole lousy lot. Sabotage, that's what it was. Some smart guy'd tampered with the stock. I tested the remaining plates and they were all duds.” He paused for a pull at his glass. Sam said nothing. His face was flushed and his foot tapped against the leg of the table. Duffy knew he was getting mad. “Well, I explained to Sourpuss and do you think he'd believe me? Not likely! We exchanged a few words, and I guess I got tough, so he ran me inside and they ran me outside.”
Sam helped himself to another Bacardi Crusta.
“This may put you in a spot,” he said thoughtfully. “That punk's got the ear of most Art Editors in town.”
“Sure, I know. Unreliable, fell down on a scoop!”
Duffy finished his drink and began to mix more Bacardis. “What the hell,” he went on, “it's my funeral anyway. Come on in and feed with me.”
Sam climbed to his feet. He looked worried. “Ain't possible, soldier,” he said. “I've got to get back and put in some more sweat. Come over in the morning, will you? Alice's goin' to be sore about this.”
Duffy nodded his head. “I'll be over. Tell Alice not to lose any sleep. I'll get somethin'.”
“Sure.” Sam clouted Duffy on the back, nearly jerking the shaker out of his hands. “Keep 'em bouncin', brother, keep 'em bouncin'.”
When he had gone, Duffy finished the last of the Bacardis and, feeling pleasantly drunk, sat back and considered his future with optimism. He glanced over to the far end of the room at the fat man who had been watching him all the evening. You can't go two hours or so with someone's eyes shifting all over your face without feeling it, and Duffy had been vaguely aware of intense scrutiny ever since the fat man had come in.
Feeling more interested now, he wondered indifferently who he was. In the past, he might have been unusually striking, but he had let himself go and he was running to fat in a big way. He had broad lumpy shoulders that might easily have carried a nasty punch, but he was getting thick in the middle, which told Duffy all he wanted to know. His face was big and fat, and his mouth turned down at the corners, giving him a dismal sneering look. His little eyes were restless and shifted about like black beads.
Duffy guessed he was on the wrong side of forty-five. He had dough all right. Not only were his clothes good, but they were cut right and he wore them right. There was an air of confidence that money brings; the look that tells you that the bank balance's fat.
Getting to his feet, Duffy began an unsteady journey to the restaurant, and he purposely made a detour so that he would pass the fat man's table. As he reached the table, the fat man climbed to his feet and stood waiting. Duffy stopped and looked him over. At close quarters he liked him a lot less.