What's Better Than Money (9 page)

“Well, don’t stand there! Get it!”

“It’s gone now.”

I felt like strangling her.

“They really say he isn’t dead?”

She nodded, her eyes bored.

“Yes.”

I reached for a cigarette and lit it with a shaking hand. The surge of relief that ran through me left me breathless.

“Where do you get that line about me killing him?” I demanded.

“He’s given the cops a description of you. They’re looking for a man with a scarred face.”

“Don’t give me that! It was you who shot him!”

“He didn’t see me! He saw you!”

“He knows I didn’t shoot him,” I said, trying to keep my voice down. “He knows I was facing the wall when you shot at him! He must know I didn’t do it!”

She shrugged her shoulders indifferently.

“All I know is the police are looking for a man with a scar. You’d better watch out.”

By now I was ready to hit the ceiling.

“Get me a paper! Do you hear? Get me a paper!”

“Stop shouting. Do you want everyone to hear you? I’ve got to catch the bus to the Studio. Maybe you’d better stay here and not show yourself.”

I grabbed hold of her arm.

“Where did you get the gun from?”

“It belonged to Wilbur. Let go of me!” She jerked free. “Don’t lose your nerve. I’ve been in worse jams than this. If you keep under cover for a couple of days, you’ll be all right. Then you can get out of town, but don’t try to go before.”

“Once they get a lead on me, this will be the first place they’ll come to!”

“Oh, quiet down!” Her tone of contempt maddened me. “You’re yellow. Keep your nerve and you’ll be all right. Just relax, can’t you? You’re boring me.”

I caught her by the throat and slammed her against the wall. Then I slapped her face: bang! . . .  bang! . . .  bang! I wasn’t proud of myself for hitting her, but I had to. She was so rotten I had no answer to her attitude but to hit her.

I let go of her and stood away from her, panting.

“I’m scared!” I said. “I’m scared because I have some decency left in me. You! You have nothing. You’re rotten through and through! I wish I never had anything to do with you! Get out!”

She leaned against the wall, her face where I had hit her red as fire, her eyes glowing with hate.

“I won’t forget that, you skunk,” she said. “I’ve a lot to remember you by. One of these days, I’ll even the score. I hope he dies and I hope you go to the gas chamber!”

I threw the bedroom door open.

“Get out!” I yelled at her.

She went out and I slammed the door after her.

For a long moment I stood motionless, trying to control my breathing. Then I went over to the mirror and stared at my white, frightened face. I looked at the thin scar that ran down the side of my jaw. If the guard had described that to the police I was cooked.

I was stiff with panic. My one thought now was to get away and go home, but if the police were already looking for me, it would be asking for trouble to show myself on the streets in daylight.

I heard Carrie come thumping up the stairs. I opened the door.

“Do me a favour,” I said. “I’m staying in today. Get me a paper, will you?”

She looked sharply at me.

“I ain’t got time, Mr. Jeff. I’ve got work to do.”

“It’s important. Can’t you borrow one for me?” I had to make an effort to keep calm. “Try and get me one, Carrie.”

“I’ll see. Are you sick?”

“I’m not feeling too bright. Get that paper for me.”

She nodded and went off downstairs.

I got back into bed, lit another cigarette and waited. I had to wait half an hour, and by then I was in a terrible state of nerves. Then I heard her lumbering up the stairs again. I jumped out of bed and went to the door.

She pushed a paper at me and a cup of coffee.

“Thanks, Carrie.”

“The missus was reading it.”

“That’s okay. Thanks.”

I shut the door, set down the coffee and looked at the front page of the paper.

The usual war headlines took priority. The date was August 5th, 1945. Super Fortresses, so the headlines told me, had been continually flying over Japan, plastering eleven Japanese cities with leaflets, warning the people of intensive bombing to come.

The threat to Japan didn’t interest me. What I was hunting for was a threat to myself.

I found it finally on the back page.

A guard at the Pacific Studios had surprised an intruder and been shot, the report said. The guard, an ex-policeman, well liked when on the force, was now in the Los Angeles State hospital. He had given the police a description of the gunman before lapsing into a coma. The police were hunting for a man with a scar on his face.

That was all, but it was bad enough.

I felt so bad, I had to sit on the bed, my legs refusing to support me.

Maybe this guard was going to die after all.

After a while, I got dressed. I had a feeling that I might have to make a bolt for it, and I had the urge to be ready. I packed my suitcase, and I checked my money. I had only ten dollars and fifty cents left in the world.

Then I sat by the window, watching the street below.

A little after midday, I saw a police car pull up at the far end of the street and four plain clothes men spill out. The sight of them set my heart hammering so violently I could scarcely breathe.

In this street were four rooming-houses. The detectives split up and walked rapidly towards the various houses.

The one who headed for mine was a big man with a pork pie hat on the back of his head and a dead cigar butt gripped between his teeth.

I watched him walk up the steps and I heard the bell ring as he thumbed the bell push.

I left the window and went out onto the landing. I looked down over the banisters, three flights into the hall.

I saw Carrie cross the hall and heard her open the front door.

I heard the hard cop voice bark, “City police. We’re looking for a man, youngish with a scar on his face. Anyone like that living here?”

I had my hands on the banister rail. I gripped the rail so tightly, the heat of my hands made the varnish sticky.

“A scar?” Carrie sounded bewildered. “No, sir. No one is here with any scar.”

I leaned against the rail, blessing her.

“You sure about that?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sure. I’d know if there was anyone here with a scar. There ain’t.”

“This guy is wanted for murder. You still sure?”

“No one living here with a scar, sir.”

Wanted for murder!

So he had died!

I went back to my room and lay on the bed. I was cold, sweating and shaking.

Time stood still.

I lay there, sweating it out, maybe for ten or maybe twenty minutes, then there came a hesitant knock on the door.

“Come in.”

Carrie opened the door and stared at me. Her fat, lined face was anxious.

“There was a police officer. . .”

“I was listening. Come in, Carrie, and shut the door.”

She came in, closing the door.

I sat up on the bed.

“Thanks. It’s nothing to do with me, but you saved me some trouble.”

I went over to the dressing-table for my wallet.

“That cop could have made things tricky for me,” I went on, taking out a five-dollar bill. “I want you to have this, Carrie.”

She wouldn’t take it.

“I don’t want it, Mr. Jeff. I lied because we are friends.”

I had a sudden wave of emotion that nearly made me cry. I sat abruptly on the bed.

“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” she said, looking searchingly at me.

“Yes. I didn’t have anything to do with the shooting, Carrie. I wouldn’t shoot anyone.”

“You don’t have to tell me. You stay quiet. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“I don’t want anything, thanks.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you a paper later on,” she opened the door, then paused. “She’s gone.” She nodded in the direction of Rima’s door.

“She told me.”

“Good riddance. You take it easy,” and she went away.

Soon after five o’clock, she came into my room and dropped the evening paper on the bed. She looked pale and bothered, and she gave me a long, uneasy stare before she went out.

As soon as she had shut the door, I grabbed the paper.

The guard had died without coming out of his coma.

The paragraph was small beside the war headlines, but the words hit me like a punch in the face.

The police were still looking for a youngish man with a scar on his face: an arrest was expected at any moment.

As soon as it was dark, I told myself, I would get out. The thought of staying in this box of a room was hard to take, but I knew I didn’t dare go onto the streets as long as it was light.

Leaving the room, I went down the stairs to the pay booth and called Rusty.

It was good to hear the sound of his hard, rough voice.

“I’m in trouble, Rusty. Will you come over to my place when it’s dark?”

“Who do you imagine is going to keep the bar open if I do that?” he growled.

I hadn’t thought of that.

“Maybe I could come to you. . .”

“How bad is the trouble?”

“As bad as it can be.”

He must have picked up the panic in my voice for he said soothingly, “Keep your shirt on. I’ll get Sam to handle it. When it’s dark, huh?”

“Not before.”

“Okay. I’ll be over,” and he hung up.

I went back to my room and waited. It was a long wait, and I was in a pretty bad way by the time the sun went down over the bay and the lights went on in the honky-tonk bars and on the gambling ships. At least there now seemed safety out there in the growing darkness.

A little after nine o’clock I saw Rusty’s Oldsmobile come around the corner, and I went down the stairs and had the front door open as he came up the steps.

We climbed the three flights of stairs in silence. It was only when he was in my room and I had shut the door that the tension in me eased a little.

“Thanks, Rusty, for coming.”

He sat on the bed, his fat, blue jowled face shiny with sweat, his eyes anxious.

“What’s the trouble? That girl?”

“Yes.”

I picked up the evening paper and gave it to him, pointing to the paragraph with a shaking finger.

He read it, his face screwed up, his expression blank.

Then he looked up and stared at me.

“For Pete’s sake! You didn’t do it, did you?”

“No, but she did. I must have been out of my mind. I wanted five thousand dollars for her cure. She told me we could find the money in the casting director’s office. I fell for it. We went out there, broke in, but there was no money. The guard caught me. She was behind the desk, out of sight. She shot him.” I sat on the upright chair and hid my face in my hands. “I was against the wall, with my back turned to him. Listen. Rusty, I swear I didn’t do it.”

He put the paper down, took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, shook one out into his large hand and lit it.

“So you’re in trouble. Well, I warned you, didn’t I? I told you she’d be a load of grief to you.”

“You told me.”

“Well? What are you going to do?”

“I want to get out of here. I want to go home.”

“That’s about the first sensible thing you have said since I’ve known you.” He put his hand inside his coat and took out a shabby wallet. “Here you are: as soon as I heard the state you were in, I raided the till.”

He offered me five twenty dollar bills.

“I don’t want all that, Rusty.”

“Take it and shut up.”

“No. All I want is my fare home. It’ll be ten bucks. I’m not taking any more.”

He got to his feet, cramming the bills back into his wallet.

“You’d better not travel from L.A. Station. They may have the joint pegged out. I’ll drive you to ‘Frisco. You can get a train from there.”

“If they stop us and find me with you. . .”

“Forget it! Come on: let’s go.”

He went to the door and started down the stairs. Picking up my suitcase, I followed him.

In the lobby, Carrie was waiting.

“I’m going home, Carrie,” I said.

Rusty moved on into the street, leaving us together.

“Here.” I offered her my last two five-dollar bins. “I want you to have these. . .”

She took one of the bills.

“That’ll take care of the room, Mr. Jeff. You keep the rest. You’ll need it. Good luck.”

“I didn’t do it, Carrie. No matter what they say, I didn’t do it.”

Her smile was weary as she patted my arm.

“Good luck, Mr. Jeff.”

I went out into the darkness and got into the Oldsmobile. As I slammed the door, Rusty shot the car away from the kerb.

II

We had been driving for ten minutes or so in silence, when I said, “It’s a funny thing, Rusty, but all I can think of now is to get home. I’ve learned my lesson. If I get away with this mess, I’m going to start my studies again. I’m through with this kind of life – through with it for good.”

Rusty grunted.

“It’s about time.”

“You heard her sing. She had a voice in a million. If only she hadn’t been a junky. . .”

“If she hadn’t been a junky, you would never have met her. That’s the way it is. If you ever see her again, you run for your life.”

“I’ll do that. I hope I’ll never see her again.”

We reached San Francisco around three o’clock in the morning. Rusty parked by the station while I waited in the car, he went to check on the trains.

When he came back, I could see he was worried.

“There’s a train to Holland City just after eight: eight ten,” he said. “There are two cops at the booking office. Maybe they aren’t looking for you, but they’re there. You can by-pass them. I bought your ticket.”

I took the ticket and put it in my wallet.

“Thanks. You leave me now, Rusty. I’ll go and sit in a café and wait. I’ll pay you back. You’ve been a real pal to me.”

“You go home and settle down to a job of work. I don’t want the money back. You keep clear of Los Angeles from now on. The way to pay me back is to settle down and do a real job of work.”

We sat side by side in his car, smoking, dozing and talking while the hours crept by.