Hit and Run

'Well, of course, that's a risk you'll have to take, but for a nice fat payment, I could forget about you.'

I braced myself.

'How much?'

'Between the two of you,' he said, sinking lower in his chair, 'I should imagine you could scrape up thirty thousand bucks. She must have a few diamonds she could hock, and I bet you've salted away a sackful of the stuff. Yeah, let's settle for thirty thousand. It's cheap at the price.'

I felt a cold sensation snake up my spine.

'You're crazy! I haven't anything like that. I'll buy the photograph for five thousand – not a nickel more.'

He finished his whisky and then set the glass down.

'That's damn fine Scotch. I'll give you to the end of the week to collect the dough. I'll call you and tell you where to deliver it. Thirty thousand in cash.'

'I tell you I haven't got it! Five is my top.'

He leaned forward and took a cigarette from the box on the occasional table and lit it.

'Be your age, buster. You can sell this bungalow. That'll bring in fifteen thousand. She can raise some dough too. You want to get organized. This is a one-payment job. I'm not coming back for more.' He laughed suddenly. 'I'm not coming back for any more because I'm going to convince myself there won't be any more to come back for. Now listen, buster, when I throw a hook into a sucker I make certain it goes in deep and it stays in. You'll either go to jail for fifteen years and take her with you, or you'll find thirty thousand bucks. You have six days. Think about it. I'll call you on Thursday to see how you are making out. What you have to decide is whether it is better to pay me the dough or to spend fifteen years in jail: it's as simple as that.' He got to his feet. 'I know what I'd do, but maybe you don't think the way I think. But don't let it spoil your dreams, buster. After all what is money?' He began to move across the room, a little swagger to his shoulders. 'Sorry I had to hit you, but you did ask for it. We'll be getting together again so don't pine for me. So long, and thanks for the drink.'

I watched him walk to the door where he paused to look back at me. I stared at him. My head was beginning to ache again and I felt pretty bad.

'And no funny business, buster,' he said. 'You can kick a little. That's only natural, and it won't do any harm, but what you want to get clearly into your head is you are on the hook. You'll find out fast enough the hook is in good and deep and it'll stay in.'

He went away, and after a moment or so, I heard a car start up and drive away fast.

I got unsteadily to my feet. I fetched a clean glass from the liquor cabinet and poured myself a stiff whisky. I drank it, then went into the bathroom and ran a basinful of cold water. I shoved my head into it. I felt slightly better by the time I returned to the lounge. I poured another shot of whisky, carried the glass to an armchair, sat down and lit a cigarette.

I stared up at the ceiling and thought: so this is what it is like to be blackmailed. Rosss had said the hook was in and wouldn't come out. That was what he had said, so I took a look at the hook to see just how deep in it was. After a little thought, I decided it was in pretty deep. It seemed to me whichever way I moved, I was caught. If I went to Aitken and told him the truth, he would throw me out. If I went to the police and told them the truth, they would grab Lucille and Aitken would fix me for giving his wife away. If I somehow managed to scrape up thirty thousands dollars, I would be finished as far as the new job was concerned. As Ross had said, the hook was in. So what was I to do?

I stubbed out my cigarette and then lit another. There is only one thing to do, I said to myself. You are going to get off this hook. You're not only going to get off it, but you're going to fix Oscar Ross so he can't fix you. You have no alternative. You either fix him or you're sunk.

At least I had six days' grace before I had to cope with him. My first move was to make the Cadillac safe.

The time was now half past nine. I went to the telephone and called Sam Lowther, who ran the garage that handled my repairs.

'Sam,' I said when he came on the line, 'I'm sorry to call you so late but I've had a hell of a pile-up with the Caddy. I rammed it into a tree. I want a quick repair job done. How are you fixed?'

'I can take her in right away, Mr. Scott,' he said, 'if that suits you. I have a couple of men here who haven't anything much to do and they can get on with it as soon as you bring it in. If it's not all that bad I can let you have it back Wednesday, but I'd like to see the extent of the damage before making a promise.'

'Thanks a lot, Sam,' I said. Although my head was throbbing now like mad, I was determined to get the Cadillac into his hands this night. 'I'll bring it around in half an hour.'