What's Better Than Money (17 page)

“You have had ten thousand. That will have to hold you. I can’t spare any more for the time being. I need all the money I have to save my wife’s life.”

She took out a flat, gold cigarette case from her bag, lifted out a cigarette and set it alight with a gold Dunhill lighter.

“Looks like you and me are going to jail then,” she said. “I told you: I don’t give a damn one way or the other. I should imagine you would want to be with your wife, but if you want to go to jail I can fix it for you.”

“You can’t mean that,” I said. “I need every dollar I have to take care of my wife. At the end of the month I’ll give you something. I don’t know how much, but it’ll be something. That’s the best I can do.”

She laughed.

“You’ll do much better than that, Jeff. You’re going to give me a cheque for ten thousand right now, and on the first of the month another cheque for thirty thousand. Those are the terms. I need the money. If I don’t get it, I’m ready to go to jail. If I go to jail, you’ll come with me. Please yourself.”

I stared at her. The burning desire that was in me to destroy her must have shown on my face, for she suddenly giggled.

“Oh, I know. You would like to kill me, wouldn’t you? But don’t kid yourself,” she said. “I’m much too smart. Do you see that poor ox, sitting over there in his finery? He’s in love with me. He doesn’t ask questions. He does what I tell him. He’s just a dumb, blind ox, but he’s tough. Don’t kid yourself you could tangle with him. He’s never more than ten feet away from me. You won’t be able to kill me even if you find me, and you won’t even be able to do that. So forget about it.”

“You don’t seem to understand my position,” I said, trying to speak calmly. “My wife has had a serious accident and she is dangerously ill. I have a lot of unexpected expenses coming up. All I’m asking is for time to pay you. I can’t give you any money now and still take care of the doctors’ bills.”

“Can’t you?” She leaned back in her chair, lifting her eyebrows. “Well, all right, then I must go to the police. I either get the money or you go to jail. Please yourself.”

“Now, listen. . .”

“You listen!” She leaned forward and her expression was suddenly vicious. “You seem to have a short memory! A little scene like this took place eleven years ago! Maybe you’ve forgotten it, but I haven’t. We sat side by side in a car. You said unless I gave you thirty dollars you would take me to the police. Remember? You took my purse and everything I owned. You dictated to me! You told me I would have to work for you until the money was paid. I haven’t forgotten! I warned you I wouldn’t and I haven’t! I promised myself if ever I got you in the same spot, I’d have as much mercy on you as you had for me! I don’t give a damn about your wife! I don’t give a damn about you, so save your breath! I want ten thousand dollars from you right now, and if I don’t get it, I’m going to the police!”

Looking at her hard, degenerate face, I could see nothing I could say would light any spark of mercy in her. For a brief moment I was tempted to tell her to go to hell, but that was only for a brief moment. She was a junky. Her mind was unpredictable. I didn’t dare call her bluff. She might go to the police, and if she did, I was sure they would come for me within a few hours of her giving them the information. There was no way out of this situation. She had me over a barrel. I would have to pay her.

I wrote the cheque and pushed it across the table to her.

“There it is,” I said, and I was surprised how steady my voice sounded. “Now I’ll give you a warning. You are right that I plan to kill you. One of these days I will find and kill you. Remember that.”

She giggled.

“Stop talking like a movie script, and don’t forget I want thirty thousand on the first of the month. If I don’t get it, you won’t hear from me, but you will hear from the cops.”

I got to my feet. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her boy friend had also stood up.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I said, and turning I crossed the bar to a row of telephone booths. I called the hospital and told the receptionist I was now on my way home.

“Oh, Mr. Halliday, will you hold on a moment. . .?”

I was feeling pretty flat, but the sharp note in her voice brought me alert.

I heard her say something as if talking in an undertone to someone near by, then she said, “Mr. Halliday? Dr. Weinborg would like you to come in. There’s nothing to be alarmed about, but he would like to see you as soon as possible.”

“I’m coming,” I said, and hung up.

I left the bar and in the street I waved to a cruising taxi. I told the driver to take me to the hospital fast.

As the cab drew away from the kerb, I caught sight of Rima and her boy friend walking towards the car park. She was looking up at him and smiling and he was staring hungrily down at her.

I reached the hospital in under seven minutes and I was shown straight into Dr. Weinborg’s office.

He came around his desk and shook hands with me.

“Mr. Halliday, I’m not too satisfied with your wife’s progress,” he said. “She should be showing some improvement by now, but frankly, she isn’t. Don’t misunderstand me. Her condition hasn’t deteriorated, but it hasn’t improved, and in a case like this we look for improvement within three or four days of the operation.”

I began to say something but found my lips so dry I couldn’t get the words out. I just stared at him, waiting.

“I’ve talked to Dr. Goodyear. He suggests that Dr. Zimmerman should see your wife.”

“What makes him imagine Dr. Zimmerman whoever he is can do anything better than he has done?” I asked.

Weinberg moved a letter opener around on his desk.

“Dr. Zimmerman is the most able specialist to do with the nerves of the brain, Mr. Halliday. He. . .”

“I thought Goodyear was that.”

“Dr. Goodyear is a brain surgeon,” Weinborg said patiently. “He doesn’t handle post-operative cases. Dr. Zimmerman usually takes over from him in complicated cases.”

“One clearing up the other’s messes?”

Dr. Weinborg frowned.

“I understand how you must be feeling, but that is scarcely a fair thing to say.”

“I suppose it isn’t.” I sat down abruptly. I was suddenly deadly tired and felt defeated. “Well, all right, let’s get Dr. Zimmerman.”

“It’s a little more involved than just that,” Weinborg said. “Dr. Zimmerman will only treat a patient if the patient is at his sanatorium out at Holland Heights. I’m afraid this will be an expensive business, Mr. Halliday, but I have every confidence that if your wife went to Dr. Zimmerman’s place she would have the very best chance of recovery.”

“Which is another way of saying if she remains here she doesn’t stand such a good chance.”

“That is correct. Dr. Zimmerman. . .”

“What will it cost?”

“That’s something you will have to discuss with Dr. Zimmerman. At a guess about three hundred dollars a week. She would be under Dr. Zimmerman’s personal supervision.”

I lifted my hands despairingly. This thing seemed to be going on and on, making inroads into my money.

“Okay, let Dr. Zimmerman see her,” I said. “When he’s here I’ll talk to him.”

“He’ll be here at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Before I returned home, I looked in on Sarita. She was still unconscious. I took away with me a picture of her that crushed me.

When I got home I made a check on my financial position. With more expense ahead of me, it would be impossible to pay Rima any more money. I had four weeks ahead of me to find and silence her. Even if it meant leaving Sarita for a few days, I would have to do it.

The next morning I met Dr. Zimmerman. He was a middle-aged man with a lean face and keen eyes and a quiet, confidential manner. I liked him on sight.

“I’ve examined your wife, Mr. Halliday,” he said. “There can be no question but she must come to my sanatorium. I am sure I can start good progress moving. The operation has been successful, but certain nerves have been damaged. However, these I think I can fix. In three or four months’ time, when she is stronger, I’m going to talk to Dr. Goodyear and I’m going to suggest another operation. I think between the two of us we can certainly save her memory and we might even get her walking again, but she must be moved to my place immediately.”

“What’s it going to cost?”

“Three hundred a week for a private room. There will be nursing fees: say three hundred and seventy a week?”

“How about the second operation?”

“I couldn’t say, Mr. Halliday. To be on the safe side, perhaps three thousand, possibly four.”

I was beyond caring now.

“Go ahead,” I said, paused and then went on, “I need to leave town for four or five days. When do you think my wife will be safe for me to leave?”

He looked a little surprised.

“It’s too early for that. I’ll be better able to tell in a couple of weeks. She won’t he off the danger list until then.”

So I waited two weeks.

I went back to the office and slaved to get ahead with the work so when the all-clear came I would be free to go on my hunt for Rima.

Ted Weston, the new man Jack had found to work with me, was keen and reliable. I had no misgivings once I had set him a programme that he wouldn’t be able to carry it out.

Very slowly Sarita began to make progress. Each week I parted with three hundred and seventy dollars. My bank balance shrank. But I didn’t regret the money because I now felt if anyone could pull her through it would be Zimmerman.

Finally I got a telephone call.

Zimmerman himself came on the line.

“You want to get off on business, Mr. Halliday? I think I can let you go now. There is a definite improvement in your wife’s condition. She is not conscious yet, but she is much stronger, and I think you can go without any need to worry. It would be wiser to let me know where I can contact you just in case of a setback. This I don’t anticipate, but it is well to be on the safe side.”

I said I would let him know how to reach me, then after a few more words I hung up.

I sat staring in front of me, my heart thumping, and there came a cold feeling of triumph rising in me. At last after all these horrible, endless weeks, I could go after Rima.

I had thirteen days in which to find her before the thirty thousand had to be paid.

I was well ahead with my work. I could leave without throwing any extra work on Jack.

I caught a plane to Santa Barba the following morning.

Chapter FIVE

I

The fat woman at the hotel opposite the Pacific & Union Bank recognised me as I walked up to the reception desk.

She gave me her dismal smile of welcome, saying, “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Masters. If you want your old room, it’s free.”

I said I wanted it, passed a remark about the weather, added casually that I had a lot of work to do and wouldn’t be leaving my room all day during my three-day stay, and then humped my bag up to the room.

The time was twenty minutes past one. I had brought a pack of sandwiches with me and a half bottle of Scotch, and I settled down at the window.

This seemed the bank’s busiest time. Several people went in and out, but I didn’t see Rima. I knew I was gambling on a long chance. It might be that she only came to the bank once a week or even once a month, but there was just no other way I could think of to get at her.

When the bank closed, still without my seeing Rima, I went down to the lobby and put through a long distance call to Zimmerman’s sanatorium. I gave the receptionist there the telephone number of the hotel. I told her as I was almost certain to be out most of the time would she ask for Mr. Masters, who was a friend of mine, and who would pass on any message.

She said she would and then went on to say Sarita was still gaining strength although she was still unconscious.

It was a cold, blustery evening with a hint of rain in the air. I put on my raincoat, turned up the collar, pulled my hat down over my face and went out onto the streets.

I knew this was a risky thing to do, but the thought of spending the rest of the evening in this depressing hotel was more than my taut nerves could stand.

I hadn’t gone far before it began to rain. I went into a movie house and sat through a dreary, fourth rate Western before returning to the hotel for dinner. I then went up to bed.

The next day followed exactly the same pattern. I spent all day at the window, not seeing Rima; the evening in a movie house.

That night, when I returned to the hotel, I felt a prick of panic. Was the trip going to fail? Time was moving on. I now had only eleven more days to find her, and these days could easily be the same as the previous days.

Although I went to bed, I found it impossible to sleep, and around twenty to one in the morning, unable to lie any longer in this box of a room, I got up, dressed and went down into the dimly lit lobby.

The old negro night watchman blinked sleepily at me when I told him I was going for a walk in the rain.

Grumbling under his breath, he unlocked the door and let me out.

There were a few café bars still open, and one or two dance halls, their red and blue neon lights making patterns on the sidewalk.

Young couples moved along in their plastic slickers, arm in arm, oblivious of the rain. A solitary cop balanced himself on the edge of the kerb, resting his aching feet.

I walked down to the sea, my hands thrust deep into the pockets of my raincoat, feeling a slight relaxing of my nerves in the chilly wind and rain.

I came upon one of the many sea food restaurants, built on piles over the sea. There was a long line of parked cars outside, and I could hear the strains of dance music. I paused to look down the long walk-in that led to swing doors and into the restaurant.

I was about to move on when a big man came out of the restaurant and ran down the wooden pier towards me, his head bent against the rain.

As he passed under one of the overhead lamps I recognised the cream sports coat and the bottle green slacks.

It was Rima’s boy friend!

If it hadn’t been raining and if he hadn’t been running with his head down, he must have seen me and possibly recognised me.