James Hadley Chase
My Laugh Comes Last
Chapter One
Looking back, I can now see that the seeds of this nightmare that happened to me were sown some four years ago: seeds that finally produced blackmail, two murders and a suicide.
Four years ago, I was a badly paid service mechanic, working for Business Equipment & Electronics. My father, who was their head accountant, got me the job. When I left school, he had suggested I should study electronics, and sent me to the local university where I got a Master’s degree. While I was still at school, he also suggested I learned to play golf.
‘More business is done on a golf course, Larry,’ he said, ‘than in a boardroom.’
I discovered I was a natural golfer, and later I became a fanatic about electronics.
All the week, including Saturdays, I humped a heavy tool bag, in the evenings I went to night school and studied electronics. Sundays, I played golf.
I had this arrangement with the golf pro at Creswell golf course that I could play a round for free every Sunday morning at 08.30, and in return, I would look after his shop until lunchtime. It was an arrangement that suited us both as I couldn’t afford to become a member, and he could spend the morning out on the course.
On this hot June morning, I decided to concentrate on my putting, and not play a round. Looking back, this was an act of fate. If I hadn’t decided to sharpen up my putting, I wouldn’t have met Farrell Brannigan, and this nightmare wouldn’t have happened to me.
I had just rolled in a twenty footer when a gravelly voice said, ‘That’s one hell of a putt.’
I turned round.
Standing on the edge of the green was a vast man around sixty years of age. He was over six feet tall, and nearly as wide. He had all the trappings of the very rich: his golfing outfit screamed money. His fleshy, suntanned face, his aggressive chin, his china-blue eyes told me he was important people.
‘Can you repeat that, son?’
I stepped back, put another ball down, took a look at the cup, now thirty feet away, then giving the ball plenty of top spin, I sent it on its way. Knowing the lie of the green backwards, I knew the ball would drop, and it did.
‘Jesus! Mind if I try?’
‘Go ahead, sir.’
He fiddled around as most bad golfers do, then aiming at the cup, he stabbed, and was five feet short.
‘I’m doing that all the time,’ he moaned. ‘There must be some trick in this.’
‘There is, sir.’
He regarded me.
‘Okay, you tell me. What do I do wrong?’
‘For one thing, your putter is too short for you. For another, you looked up when you struck the ball. For another, you were standing all wrong.’
‘My putter too short? Damn it! I’ve played...’ He paused, then went on. ‘What sort of putter should I use?’
‘I can fix that for you, sir.’
‘Go ahead and fix it.’
I took him to the pro’s shop, opened up and sold him a putter that was right for his height. Then I took him back to the putting green and explained how to read the lie of the green. This was something he knew nothing about. After an hour, I was getting him to roll them in in three putts instead of five. He was delighted.
‘I have another problem, son,’ he said. ‘You just might fix it. I have a hell of a hook.’
‘Suppose we go over to the driving range, sir?’
We went. He teed up, and just as he was shaping for his swing, I stopped him. I got his feet right and his overlap grip turned. He drove a nice one down the middle.
‘Just keep your feet like that, and your grip as you have it now, sir, and you’ll be fine.’
He hit three balls down the middle, then he beamed at me.
‘I appreciate this, son,’ he said. ‘I have a match on this morning. I guess you are a lifesaver.’
‘Glad to be of help, sir. I’ll get back to my putting.’
‘Hold it. What’s your name?’
‘Larry Lucas.’
‘Glad to know you.’ He thrust out his big hand. ‘Farrell Brannigan.’
I did a double take. Farrell Brannigan’s name was as well-known as Gerald Ford’s. He was the President of the Californian National Bank with branches through the state.
‘My privilege, sir,’ I said, as we shook hands.
He grinned, obviously pleased his name had impressed me.
‘What’s your line, Larry?’
‘I’m a service mechanic with B. E. & C.’
‘Is that right?’ He regarded me. ‘What do you know about computers?’
‘I have a Master’s Degree.’
‘University?’
I told him the name of my university.
‘Okay, Larry. Go back to your putting. Come and see me at the bank at ten tomorrow.’ Then nodding, he picked up his driver and moved back to his tee.
Four years ago, this had been my great moment. I had a feeling that Brannigan was going to do something for me.
Now, looking back, I can see I was taking my first step into this nightmare.
On Monday morning at exactly 10.00, I was shown into a vast office with a vast desk between two vast windows with a panoramic view of the city.
Farrell Brannigan was rolling a golf ball along the floor, using the putter I had sold him.
‘Come on in, Larry,’ he said. ‘I won that match, thanks to you.’
‘Congratulations, sir.’
‘This a fine putter you sold me.’ Putting the putter down, he moved to his desk, waved me to a chair and sat down. ‘How are you fixed for next Sunday? How about playing a round with me? I’d like your ideas about my approach shots. How about it?’
I could scarcely believe my ears: to play golf with Farrell Brannigan!
‘That would be fine with me, sir.’
‘Okay. The wife likes me home for lunch. Suppose we meet at the club at eight o’clock. Right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I talked to your Dean this morning. What the hell are you doing wasting your time as a service mechanic? According to the Dean, you’re a top-class computer and electronic engineer: the best student he’s ever had.’
‘My father wanted me to stay with B. E. & C. He had a theory that it was better to be a big fish in a small pond than a little fish in a big pond. My father died a few months ago. I am now making plans. I.B.M. have made me an offer.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-seven, sir.’
‘What do you earn?’
I told him.
‘Forget I.B.M.,’ he said. ‘With your qualifications, son, you are handling your future career all wrong, but never mind. I’m going to fix that.’ He paused to light a cigar, then went on. ‘You know something, Larry? When you get to my position, it’s fun to play God. From time to time, I do it when someone does something for me. I haven’t yet made a mistake, and I don’t think I’m going to make a mistake with you. Ever heard of Sharnville?’
‘Yes, sir.’ My heart was beginning to thump. ‘It’s an up and coming town half-way between here and ’Frisco.’
‘Right. We are opening a bank there. This bank is going to be something special as Sharnville, in a few years, is going to come on the map in a big way. I want the latest computers, the latest business machines and calculators that money can buy. Do you think you could outfit the bank?’
My heart was now slamming against my ribs.
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
He nodded.
‘I’m going to give you the chance to do it. You have a little time. The bank doesn’t open for six months. I’ll give you three weeks to submit ideas and estimates. If they are not what I want, I’ll try elsewhere. How about it?’
‘That’s fine with me, sir.’
He dug a big thumb into a press button and his secretary came in.
‘Take Mr. Lucas to Bill,’ Brannigan said. He looked at me. ‘Bill Dixon is my architect. You and he will work together.’ As I got to my feet, he went on, ‘See you Sunday,’ and with a wide grin, a wave of his hand, he dismissed me.