Read Online 1957 - The Guilty Are Afraid by James Hadley Chase - Free Book Online
Authors: James Hadley Chase
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a little high by now, but pleasantly high, as, after the first quick rush, we had been taking the Scotch slowly, which is the way good Scotch should be taken.
I looked through the open window at the lights of St. Raphael City. It looked a pretty nice place from where I was sitting.
“Does Mrs. Creedy get along all right with Creedy?” I asked.
Fulton shrugged.
“No one could get along with him,” he said. “Anyway, he’s too busy making money to bother with women. She gets her fun elsewhere.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Well, the current favourite is a husky, curly-haired hunk of meat who calls himself Jacques Thrisby. He’s a French Canadian.”
I became aware that a man had moved up to our table.
For a moment I thought it was the waiter bringing our food. I was looking out of the window, listening to Fulton talk, so my reflexes were a little slow; besides, the Scotch had made me just that woolly in the brain.
Then I heard Fulton catch his breath sharply, the way only a very frightened man will gasp, and I looked quickly around.
Hertz was standing right up at the table looking at me.
Behind him in a semicircle, blocking the way of escape, were four men, tall, beefy, dark and tough, and the expression in Hertz’s wild little eyes sent a chill crawling up my spine.
II
T he noise in the big room was suddenly hushed: heads turned, and eyes looked in my direction. I was in a bad position. My chair was only a foot or so from the wall. The table was between me and Hertz, and it wasn’t a big table. Fulton was better placed. He was on my right, with no wall behind him.
Obviously there was no doubt in the minds of the crowd that there was going to be trouble. Already some of them were heading with restrained panic towards the exit.
Hertz said in his husky voice, “Remember me? I don’t like peepers, and I don’t like a punk.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a big Negro, wearing a white apron and in shirtsleeves, come fast from behind the bar. He was built on the lines of Joe Louis, and there was a vague, apologetic smile on his big, battered face. He crossed the room, weaved around the four men and arrived at Hertz’s side quicker than I can tell it.
I caught hold of the edge of the table and braced myself.
The Negro said pleasantly to Hertz, “Don’t want trouble here, boss. If you and your friends have business to talk over, you talk about it outside.”
Hertz turned his head to look at the Negro. There were tiny red sparks in his eyes making him look a little insane. I saw his shoulder drop slightly, then his fist flashed up and landed in the Negro’s face. The blow sounded like a thump on a tympani. The Negro went staggering back, then fell on his hands and knees.
All this happened fast. I put my weight against the table and rammed it hard into Hertz, who was slightly off balance from the punch he had thrown. The edge of the table caught him against his thigh and he reeled backwards, cannoning into two of the men with him.
I now had a little space in which to move and I jumped to my feet and grabbed hold of my chair. I swung it shoulder high, using it like a scythe, and cleared some more space in which I could manoeuvre.
Fulton was also on his feet, his chair above his head. He slammed it down on the head of the nearest thug, knocking him to the floor.
Two bouncers, big men, one of them a Negro, clubs in hand, came rushing through a doorway nearby. The three thugs with Hertz scattered, then converged on the bouncers. That left Fulton and me facing Hertz.
I smashed my chair down on Hertz’s head and the chairback broke, leaving me with a strip of brittle wood that had the staying power of a toothpick as far as an animal like Hertz was concerned.
Hertz staggered, then snarling, he came at me, his right hand flashing up. If I had stepped back, he would have caught me, but I jumped forward and planted my fist in the middle of his face. It was a good, jabbing punch and it
I looked through the open window at the lights of St. Raphael City. It looked a pretty nice place from where I was sitting.
“Does Mrs. Creedy get along all right with Creedy?” I asked.
Fulton shrugged.
“No one could get along with him,” he said. “Anyway, he’s too busy making money to bother with women. She gets her fun elsewhere.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Well, the current favourite is a husky, curly-haired hunk of meat who calls himself Jacques Thrisby. He’s a French Canadian.”
I became aware that a man had moved up to our table.
For a moment I thought it was the waiter bringing our food. I was looking out of the window, listening to Fulton talk, so my reflexes were a little slow; besides, the Scotch had made me just that woolly in the brain.
Then I heard Fulton catch his breath sharply, the way only a very frightened man will gasp, and I looked quickly around.
Hertz was standing right up at the table looking at me.
Behind him in a semicircle, blocking the way of escape, were four men, tall, beefy, dark and tough, and the expression in Hertz’s wild little eyes sent a chill crawling up my spine.
II
T he noise in the big room was suddenly hushed: heads turned, and eyes looked in my direction. I was in a bad position. My chair was only a foot or so from the wall. The table was between me and Hertz, and it wasn’t a big table. Fulton was better placed. He was on my right, with no wall behind him.
Obviously there was no doubt in the minds of the crowd that there was going to be trouble. Already some of them were heading with restrained panic towards the exit.
Hertz said in his husky voice, “Remember me? I don’t like peepers, and I don’t like a punk.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a big Negro, wearing a white apron and in shirtsleeves, come fast from behind the bar. He was built on the lines of Joe Louis, and there was a vague, apologetic smile on his big, battered face. He crossed the room, weaved around the four men and arrived at Hertz’s side quicker than I can tell it.
I caught hold of the edge of the table and braced myself.
The Negro said pleasantly to Hertz, “Don’t want trouble here, boss. If you and your friends have business to talk over, you talk about it outside.”
Hertz turned his head to look at the Negro. There were tiny red sparks in his eyes making him look a little insane. I saw his shoulder drop slightly, then his fist flashed up and landed in the Negro’s face. The blow sounded like a thump on a tympani. The Negro went staggering back, then fell on his hands and knees.
All this happened fast. I put my weight against the table and rammed it hard into Hertz, who was slightly off balance from the punch he had thrown. The edge of the table caught him against his thigh and he reeled backwards, cannoning into two of the men with him.
I now had a little space in which to move and I jumped to my feet and grabbed hold of my chair. I swung it shoulder high, using it like a scythe, and cleared some more space in which I could manoeuvre.
Fulton was also on his feet, his chair above his head. He slammed it down on the head of the nearest thug, knocking him to the floor.
Two bouncers, big men, one of them a Negro, clubs in hand, came rushing through a doorway nearby. The three thugs with Hertz scattered, then converged on the bouncers. That left Fulton and me facing Hertz.
I smashed my chair down on Hertz’s head and the chairback broke, leaving me with a strip of brittle wood that had the staying power of a toothpick as far as an animal like Hertz was concerned.
Hertz staggered, then snarling, he came at me, his right hand flashing up. If I had stepped back, he would have caught me, but I jumped forward and planted my fist in the middle of his face. It was a good, jabbing punch and it
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