Raymond Marshall
(James Hadley Chase)
LADY—HERE’S YOUR WREATH
CHAPTER ONE
THE BOYS, WHO had come to see Vessi die, were lined up before the bar. They were putting up a good front, but they were all scared sick.
I came into the bar just when the liquor was hitting them. When they saw me, they let out a groan.
“For Gawd’s sake, look who’s here,” Barry shouted. “The nine days’ sensation himself.”
Barry Hughson was a good guy, but he’d got plenty of gristle mixed with his brains. I just called for a rye and gave them a grin. “H’yah, boys,” I said, waving my hand. “I bet some of you’re goin’ to change your tune mighty soon.”
They didn’t like that crack, and gathered round looking tough. Hughson poked me in the chest with his forefinger. That’s a thing I love. Some guy poking me in the chest. Barry was tight, so I let it slide.
“Listen, Bud,” he said, screwing up his eyes to get my face in focus, “this little business is by invitation only. You don’t stand a chance. Be a nice lad an’ scram.”
I belted the rye and showed him my card. “You boys ain’t the only guys,” I said. “I’m with you all the way.”
Hackenschmidt of the Globe pushed his hat to the back of his head, “How d’you pull these quick ones?” he asked, his fat face looking like a startled Dutch cheese. “You ain’t got any standin’ around here, but you’re always in on the right things.”
I nodded. “I know,” I said, “it’s tough, but there it is… better to be early than late, as the airline hostess said to the passenger.”
Hughson filled his glass. He looked at the clock. “Deadline 12.1,” he said.
Hackenschmidt grabbed a handful of drinking-straws and broke them in two; discarded one lot and carefully counted the rest. I watched him thoughtfully. “You’ve left me out,” I said, after he was through.
The guy lifted his thick lip. It was his idea of a sneer. “Yeah?” he said. “I guess you ain’t in this.”
I leant forward and picked up a straw. “Put it in the bundle and don’t be a punk,” I said, offering it to him.
He looked at me, and I looked at him. Then he took the straw. Some of these flabby guys think they’re tough. Hackenschmidt was just punk, right through.
One of the straws was a lot shorter than the others. The guy who drew the short one got Vessi’s last words. I wanted the job bad.
Hughson pulled the first straw, but he didn’t get the short one. I let three more have a go, then I shoved a little, and the other guys gave way. I knew the short one, so I got it.
The others stood round, glaring at me.
“You gotta play ball,” Hughson said. “Don’t start anythin’ that ain’t on the level.”
I tossed the straw away. “You’ll get it all,” I said. “Don’t you worry.”
The time was 11.20. Just time for a couple more drinks. Those guys belted their rye like they expected to die themselves.
Outside, we crowded into three cars that were waiting to take us to the prison. Hughson, Hackenschmidt and I, with two other guys, got in the first car. Hughson drove and I sat beside him.
When he’d got the car moving, he said: “Why the interest, Nick?”
I grinned in the darkness. Hughson was a cagy bird, but he wasn’t getting anything from me. “Why not?” I asked him. “Vessi made a big noise, didn’t he? I thought I’d see him go. Anyway, this gas stunt’s a new one on me.”
Hughson swung the car past an overloaded truck.
“Not much you miss, is there?”
I shrugged. “I get by.”
“Think Vessi did it?”
I grinned again. “Don’t you?”
Hughson swore softly: “Listen, you bum, if there’s anything behind this, let me have it. I’ve done things for you, an’ I guess—”
“Skip it,” I said shortly. “How the hell do I know whether he did it or not? The jury pinned it on him, didn’t they?”
“I ain’t interested in what the jury thought. I’m askin’ what you think.”
“I never think, brother,” I said hastily. “I just wait until somethin’ happens.”
Hughson snorted. “Okay, smart guy,” he said. “Wait until you want somethin’.”
We reached the prison at 11.40. There were some other witnesses waiting outside the gates as we drove up. They all looked uneasy in the dim light, and moved a little way away as we came tumbling out of the cars. We stood there in a bunch, pretending we didn’t know what we were there for, until the gates were opened at 11.45.
A couple of bulls inspected our cards and gave us a quick frisk. Since the Snyder execution the authorities were scared sick that another guy would smuggle in a camera. The boys knew it was pretty useless to try, and the cops knew they knew it, so the frisk was really just a matter of form. When they got through, we started through a maze of gates, each of which was locked behind Us before we could pass through the next.
We marched single file, and I guess we looked a fine bunch of professional mourners. We went past the big cell buildings, our footsteps resounding on the walk. It was dark and silent in the cells. The death house was over in the far corner of the immense prison yard.
We walked round the hearse, parked in front of the death house, and a number of us just took one quick look at that wagon and tucked in our tails.
The death house had two entrances. One led to a narrow passage between the death chamber and wall of the death house. The other led to the little cell where Vessi was—a few feet from the entrance.
There was no other building near the death house. It stood alone in a corner of the yard, where the convicts played their ball game. As we shuffled across the yard the dust got on to our shoes and we took it into the death house with us.
The guard stopped at the entrance. “Who’s the guy for the last words?”
I stepped out of the file and jerked my thumb.
“Okay,” he said. “You wait here.”
The rest of the guys trooped down the passage and grouped themselves before the glass windows of the gas chamber. Hughson was the last one to take up a position. He said to me, as he passed: “Watch yourself, Bud.”
I was surprised that a grin didn’t come easy. This business was getting me a little nervy.
The gas chamber was octagonal in shape and made of steel, with windows on all sides. The narrow passage where the other boys had gone was built to allow four feet of space between the wall of the death house and the chamber. There was a very high steel chimney from the chamber up through the death house, to carry off the fumes once the execution was over.
I had a little more space on my side. I looked into the chamber. It was about five feet wide, and empty except for a steel chair, equipped with straps, standing in the centre. The cyanide ‘eggs’ were suspended from the bottom of the chair. I didn’t like the look of this spot. It gave me the heebies just to imagine myself sitting in there.
From where I stood, I could look through the window of the chamber and see the boys on the opposite side, looking through their window at me. They waved at me and I gave them the two-digit high sip. Those guys certainly looked a bunch of monkeys massed up behind the glass.
I had come to see Vessi, so I thought I might as well have a look at him. He was sitting in his cell, smoking a cigarette. He was naked but for a pair of underwear shorts.
I looked at the guard. “What’s the idea—him like that?”
The guard glanced in at the cell. “We always strip ’em down as far as we can. The gas sticks to clothes and it makes it difficult for us to get ’em out.”
“There’s goin’ to be a mighty rush for tickets when they put a dame in there,” I said.
The guard made a grimace. I guess he wasn’t feeling too good. “Yeah,” he said, “but they’ll keep you bums outta here.”