What's Better Than Money (15 page)

“You’re welcome, sir.”

I nodded to him, put the money back in my wallet and walked out.

That was the first move. I now knew where the record card was kept. I now had to get at it.

I took a taxi to a quiet, inexpensive hotel, booked in, and as soon as I got to my room, I telephoned the Pacific and Union bank. I asked to be put through to the manager.

When he came on the line, I introduced myself as Edward Masters and asked him if he could see me around ten o’clock the following morning. I said there was some business I wanted to discuss with him.

He made an appointment for ten fifteen.

It irked me that I could do nothing further until the following morning, but this was something I couldn’t rush. I was acutely aware that thirteen years ago the Los Angeles police had been searching for a man with a drooping eyelid and a scar on his jaw. For all I knew there might be some keen veteran who might recognise me even now so I spent the rest of the day in the hotel lounge, and I went to bed early.

The following morning I arrived at the bank at a minute to quarter past ten.

I was shown immediately into the manager’s office.

The manager, a fat, elderly man with a bedside manner, shook my hand heartily. At the same time he managed to convey that he was pretty busy and it would be all right with him if I got down to business without wasting too much of his time.

I told him I was representing a firm of building contractors. I said we had our head office in New York and we were planning to set up a branch office in Los Angeles. We had decided to bank with Pacific and Union, and I gave him to understand we were pretty big operators. I asked his advice about obtaining premises. I said we would need plenty of room as we had ten executives and a staff of over two hundred. I could see that made an impression on him. He gave me the name of an Estate Agent who, he told me, could fix me up. I told him we planned to transfer about two million dollars from our New York bank to his to give us a start. That impressed him too.

Anything he could do, he told me, he would be pleased to do. I had only to ask and the services of the bank would be at my disposal.

“I don’t think there is,” I said. Then after a pause I went on, “Maybe there is one thing. I see you have a pretty up-to-date office equipment system here. This is something I want to install in our offices. Who are the people to go to?”

“Chandler and Carrington are the best people,” he said. “They have all the necessary equipment you would need.”

“In a way, our business is a little like yours,” I said, moving cautiously to the reason why I was sitting facing him. “We have clients all over. We need to keep in touch with them. We need records of our association with them. There’s a file and finding machine you have here. I’m interested in it. Do you find it satisfactory?”

I was lucky. It seemed this particular machine was something in which he took a lot of pride.

“It has proved more than satisfactory. I admit it is expensive, but in the long run, it can’t be beaten.”

“I only caught a glimpse of it as I came in,” I said. “You really are pleased with it?”

“Look, Mr. Masters, if you’re interested, I’d be happy for you to see a demonstration. We are more than satisfied. Would you care to see the machine operating?”

I forced myself to sound casual.

“I don’t want to bother you. . .”

“It’s no bother: it’s a pleasure.” He pressed a button on his desk. “I’ll get Mr. Flemming to show it to you.”

“As soon as we find the right premises, I’ll be in touch with you again,” I said. “I appreciate your help.”

A clerk appeared in the doorway: an earnest looking guy who waited hopefully and expectantly.

“Flemming, this is Mr. Masters. He will be opening an account with us. Mr. Masters is interested in our Filing and Finding machine. Will you demonstrate it to him?”

“Yes, sir.” The guy bowed to me. “It’ll be a pleasure.”

I got up. My legs felt shaky. I knew I was half way there, but half way there wasn’t enough. I shook hands with the manager, again thanked him for his help, then followed Flemming out of the office, up the stairs and along the gallery.

We stopped by the machine.

A girl, sitting before it, swung her chair around and looked at us inquiringly.

Flemming introduced me, then he went ahead and explained how the machine worked.

“We have three thousand five hundred odd clients,” he told me. “Each client has a number. We keep a fist of numbers right here on this card.”

He pointed to a big card hanging on the wall. I walked over to it and stared at it, my eyes moving over it swiftly. I found Rima’s name. It looked odd to me to see the neat lettering that spelt out:
Rima Marshall. 2997.

My mind absorbed the number: it absorbed it the way I have never absorbed any other thing before in my life.

“Having got the number,” Flemming went on, “all we have to do is to press the keys that make up the number and the record card is immediately dropped into the tray here.”

“That sounds fine,” I said, smiling at him, “but does it work?”

The girl who had been listening gave me a pitying smile.

“It never fails.”

“Give me a demonstration,” I said, smiling back at her.

“Take the first number on our list,” Flemming said. “R. Aitken. His number is 0001. Miss Laker, give me Mr. Aitken’s card.”

She swung around, pressed the keys. The machine hummed into life and a card fell into a tray.

“Just like that,” Flemming said, beaming at me.

I held out my hand.

“I’m a sceptic. Maybe the card has nothing to do with Mr. Aitken.”

Happily, he handed the card to me.

I saw it had ‘Aitken’ printed in large type at the top of the card.

“Yes. It’s impressive. Looks like I’ll have to invest in a machine like this. Could I have a try?”

“Certainly, Mr. Masters. You go ahead.”

I bent over the keyboard. I pressed down the keys that spelt out 2997.

My heart was thumping so violently I was scared he and the girl would hear it.

The machine hummed. The cards flicked through the metal holder. I stood there, feeling sweat on my face, watching and waiting, then I saw the lone white card slide into the tray.

Flemming and the girl smiled.

“The number you selected belongs to Miss Rima Marshall,” Flemming said. “See for yourself if it is the correct card.”

I reached out and picked up the card.

There it was:

Rima Marshall. Account. Santa Barba. Credit $10,000.

“Some machine,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Well, thanks. This is just what I’m looking for.”

Half an hour later, in a hired car, I was driving fast along the coast road to Santa Barba.

I told myself not to be too optimistic. Although I had narrowed down the field, although I was pretty sure Rima must be living somewhere in the locality of Santa Barba, I had still to find her and my time was running out.

I arrived in Santa Barba around five thirty. I asked a traffic cop where I could find the Pacific and Union Bank and he directed me.

I cruised past the bank which was closed. It was a branch bank and small. I parked the car and walked back to take a close look at it.

Exactly opposite was a small hotel.

I took my bag from the car and went over to the hotel.

It was one of those down-at-the-heel places that cater mainly for travelling salesmen.

The fat woman behind the reception desk handed me a pen to sign in and gave me a dismal smile of welcome.

I asked her if she had a room overlooking the street. She said she had, although she recommended the back rooms as they were less noisy.

I said I didn’t mind the noise, so she gave me a key and told me how to reach the room. She said dinner would be served at seven o’clock.

I carried my bag up the stairs, found the room, unlocked the door and entered.

It was clean, plain and far from comfortable, but I didn’t care. I crossed to the window and looked out. Exactly opposite was the bank.

I pulled up a chair and sat down by the window and studied the grill guarding the entrance.

When did Rima visit the bank?

I knew I dare not try the same trick I had worked on the Los Angeles branch to get a look at her record card. I knew if she got the slightest hint that I was on her trail, she would slip away, and I would have to start the hunt all over again.

Maybe if I sat at this window and watched, I might see her, and then I could follow her and find out where she lived.

I realised this would take time. I was due back at my desk the day after tomorrow. I couldn’t stay away longer than another day. Maybe I would have some luck and spot her. It was something I decided to do, although I didn’t have much hope that tomorrow she would come to the bank.

I had to be careful to keep off the streets. It would be fatal to my plans if she saw me before I saw her. So I decided to take no chances and remain in the hotel and keep out of sight.

I unpacked, took a shower, changed, then went down to the lobby. The place was deserted. I spent some minutes checking the telephone directory and a street directory on the off chance that Rima would be listed in either one or the other, but she wasn’t.

Then I went up to my room and stretched out on the bed. There was nothing now I could do until the bank opened the following morning.

The hours crawled by.

Later, I went down to the restaurant and had a cheerless dinner, badly cooked and indifferently served.

After dinner I went up to my room and went to bed.

At breakfast the following morning, I told the fat woman I had a lot of paper work to do and I planned to work in my bedroom.

She said I wouldn’t be disturbed.

I returned to my room, pulled up a chair and sat down at the window.

The bank opened at nine o’clock. It was obvious that it wasn’t a busy branch. For the first two hours only five people entered. After that it got a little busier, but not much. I sat there and watched.

I didn’t give up hope until the bank doors were shut, then I became so depressed I could have cut my throat.

I had to leave the next morning, and I knew my chance of finding Rima before the second payment came due was now washed out.

I spent the rest of the evening, trying to think of any other way of finding her except this hit and miss chance of watching the bank, but I just couldn’t think of any other way.

It would be hopeless to walk the streets in the hope of seeing her. Besides, it would be dangerous. She could easily see me before I saw her, and then she would vanish.

Then I had a sudden idea. How would it be, I asked myself, if I employed a detective agency to find her for me?

For a few moments I was so excited by this idea I nearly rushed downstairs to consult the classified directory to find out the name and address of an agency, but then I realised I didn’t dare do it.

When I found her, I was going to kill her.

The detective agency would remember me. They would tell the police that I had hired them to look for her, and the police would start hunting for me.

This thing was between Rima and myself. No one could help me. I had to handle it myself.

It was then, as I lay on the bed, that I realised, that even when I did find her, I still had to think of a way of killing her in complete safety.

I didn’t flinch from the thought of killing her. It was Sarita’s and my future against Rima’s worthless and degenerate life. But it would have to be done so that it could never be traced back to me.

Had she confided in anyone that she was blackmailing me? Again that was something I had to find out. The whole thing now took on a nightmarish atmosphere: one difficulty led to another that led to another.

First, I had to find her.

Then I would have to be guided by circumstances as to how best to kill her.

Then I had to be quite, quite sure the murder couldn’t be traced to me.

The following morning I took the plane to Holland City and walked into my office soon after eleven o’clock.

Jack was talking on the telephone. When he saw me, he said, “I’ll call you back. Yeah. In ten minutes. Something has come up. . .” and he dropped the receiver onto its cradle.

He looked at me and I saw at once that something bad had happened. He was pale; there were shadows under his eyes as if he hadn’t had any sleep, and an expression on his usually cheerful face that sent a chill crawling up my spine.

“Have you been home yet, Jeff?”

“No. I’m just off a plane.”

I put down my suitcase and dropped my raincoat on a chair.

“I’ve been trying to get you,” Jack said, his voice husky and unsteady. “Where the hell have you been?”

“What’s up?”

He hesitated, then got slowly to his feet.

“It’s Sarita. . .”

I felt my heart miss a beat, then it began to thump violently.

“What is it?”

“It’s bad, Jeff. There’s been an accident. . . I tried everywhere I could think of to find you. . .”

I was cold and shaking now.

“She’s not dead?”

“No, but she’s pretty badly hurt. Some drunken driver hit her car. I’m afraid she is really badly hurt, Jeff.”

I stood there, staring at him, feeling empty and cold and very lonely.

“When did it happen?”

“The morning you left. She went shopping. This drunk was on his wrong side. . .”

“Jack! Tell me! How bad is she?”

He came around the desk and put his hand on my arm.

“They are doing their best. It’s a matter of waiting. You can’t see her. No one can see her. As soon as there’s news, they’ll telephone here. She stands a chance, but it’s a small one.”

“Where is she?”

“The State Hospital. But look. . .”

I ran out, past the white-faced Clara and down the corridor to the elevator. Somehow I got down onto the street and waved frantically to a taxi.

“State Hospital,” I said, jerking open the door, “and hurry!”

The driver took one look at my face, then he slammed the door shut, engaged gear and sent the cab racing down the side streets, missing the traffic while I sat rigid, my hands clenched on my knees.