Read Online 1955 - You've Got It Coming by James Hadley Chase - Free Book Online
Authors: James Hadley Chase
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keys, made a mental calculation, decided it would be worth trying and said, “You can have No. 32. I wouldn't let anyone have it. It's the best. Cost you a buck and a half a night.”
The limping man took out a wallet, selected a ten-dollar bill and dropped it on the desk.
“I'll t a k e it for four nights.”
Careful not to show his surprise, Lamson took the bill, smoothed it flat while he examined it, then satisfied that it was genuine, he folded it carefully and tucked it away in his watch pocket. He produced four grimy dollar bills and laid them regretfully down on the counter.
“Put it towards breakfast,” the limping man said, waving the bills aside. “I want service and I expect to pay for it.”
“That's okay, mister. We'll take care of you,” Lamson said. He hurriedly put the bills back into his pocket. “I can fix you a meal now if you want it.”
“I don't. Coffee and toast tomorrow morning at nine.”
“I'll fix it.” Lamson produced a dog-eared notebook that served as a register. “Have to ask you to sign in, mister; police regulations.”
The limping man wrote a name in the book with the stub of pencil that was attached to the book by a piece of string.
Lamson turned the book and squinted at what he had written.
In block letters the limping man had printed: Harry Green, Pittsburgh.
“Okay, Mr. Green,” Lamson said. “Can I send anything up to your room? We got beer, whisky or gin.” The man who called himself Harry Green shook his head.
“No. But I want to use the phone.”
Lamson jerked his thumb towards the pay booth in the far corner.
“Go ahead. Help yourself.”
The limping man shut himself in the pay booth. He dialled a number and waited. After a delay a woman's voice said, “Mr. Delaney's residence. Who is calling?”
“This is Harry Green. Mr. Delaney is expecting me to call. Put me through please.”
“Hold a moment.”
There was a long pause, then a click sounded over the line and a man said, “This is Delaney.”
“Glorie Dane told me to call you, Mr. Delaney.”
“Yeah, that's right. You want to see me, don't you? Come over here at eight o'clock tonight. I can give you ten minutes.”
“Are you sure you want me to be seen at your place? Doesn't sound like a good idea to me.”
There was a pause.
“Doesn't it?” Ben's voice was sharp. “Then what does seem a good idea to you?”
“You might not want anyone to know I've talked to you if what could happen, happens. We could talk in a car at West Pier where we wouldn't be seen.”
Again there was a pause.
“Look, Green, if you're wasting my time,” Ben said finally, his voice coldly vicious, “you'll be sorry. I don't like time wasters.”
“I don't either. I have a proposition. It's up to you to judge if listening to it is a waste of time or not.”
“Be at West Pier at half past ten tonight,” Ben snapped and slammed down the receiver.
For a long moment the man who called himself Harry Green leaned against the side of the pay booth, the receiver in his hand while he stared through the grimy glass panel of the door into space. He experienced a feeling of triumph, mixed with uneasiness.
One more step towards the big steal, he thought: one more milestone. In four days' time he would be on the airfield waiting for the night plane to San Francisco to take off. He replaced the receiver and limped over to where he had left his suitcase.
Lamson looked up from the paper he was reading.
“Your room's at the head of the stairs. Want me to carry your bag?”
“No.”
He climbed the stairs. Facing him was a door marked 32. He pushed the key into the lock, turned it and opened the door.
He walked into a large room. A double bed with iron rails at the head and the foot, ornamented with tarnished brass knobs, stood in a corner. The carpet was threadbare and dusty. Two armchairs stood either side of the empty fireplace. A picture of a fat woman, peeling an apple and looking through a window at a
The limping man took out a wallet, selected a ten-dollar bill and dropped it on the desk.
“I'll t a k e it for four nights.”
Careful not to show his surprise, Lamson took the bill, smoothed it flat while he examined it, then satisfied that it was genuine, he folded it carefully and tucked it away in his watch pocket. He produced four grimy dollar bills and laid them regretfully down on the counter.
“Put it towards breakfast,” the limping man said, waving the bills aside. “I want service and I expect to pay for it.”
“That's okay, mister. We'll take care of you,” Lamson said. He hurriedly put the bills back into his pocket. “I can fix you a meal now if you want it.”
“I don't. Coffee and toast tomorrow morning at nine.”
“I'll fix it.” Lamson produced a dog-eared notebook that served as a register. “Have to ask you to sign in, mister; police regulations.”
The limping man wrote a name in the book with the stub of pencil that was attached to the book by a piece of string.
Lamson turned the book and squinted at what he had written.
In block letters the limping man had printed: Harry Green, Pittsburgh.
“Okay, Mr. Green,” Lamson said. “Can I send anything up to your room? We got beer, whisky or gin.” The man who called himself Harry Green shook his head.
“No. But I want to use the phone.”
Lamson jerked his thumb towards the pay booth in the far corner.
“Go ahead. Help yourself.”
The limping man shut himself in the pay booth. He dialled a number and waited. After a delay a woman's voice said, “Mr. Delaney's residence. Who is calling?”
“This is Harry Green. Mr. Delaney is expecting me to call. Put me through please.”
“Hold a moment.”
There was a long pause, then a click sounded over the line and a man said, “This is Delaney.”
“Glorie Dane told me to call you, Mr. Delaney.”
“Yeah, that's right. You want to see me, don't you? Come over here at eight o'clock tonight. I can give you ten minutes.”
“Are you sure you want me to be seen at your place? Doesn't sound like a good idea to me.”
There was a pause.
“Doesn't it?” Ben's voice was sharp. “Then what does seem a good idea to you?”
“You might not want anyone to know I've talked to you if what could happen, happens. We could talk in a car at West Pier where we wouldn't be seen.”
Again there was a pause.
“Look, Green, if you're wasting my time,” Ben said finally, his voice coldly vicious, “you'll be sorry. I don't like time wasters.”
“I don't either. I have a proposition. It's up to you to judge if listening to it is a waste of time or not.”
“Be at West Pier at half past ten tonight,” Ben snapped and slammed down the receiver.
For a long moment the man who called himself Harry Green leaned against the side of the pay booth, the receiver in his hand while he stared through the grimy glass panel of the door into space. He experienced a feeling of triumph, mixed with uneasiness.
One more step towards the big steal, he thought: one more milestone. In four days' time he would be on the airfield waiting for the night plane to San Francisco to take off. He replaced the receiver and limped over to where he had left his suitcase.
Lamson looked up from the paper he was reading.
“Your room's at the head of the stairs. Want me to carry your bag?”
“No.”
He climbed the stairs. Facing him was a door marked 32. He pushed the key into the lock, turned it and opened the door.
He walked into a large room. A double bed with iron rails at the head and the foot, ornamented with tarnished brass knobs, stood in a corner. The carpet was threadbare and dusty. Two armchairs stood either side of the empty fireplace. A picture of a fat woman, peeling an apple and looking through a window at a
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