Read Online 1967 - Have This One on Me by James Hadley Chase - Free Book Online
Authors: James Hadley Chase
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trigger.
Bruckman paused outside the front door. The building was silent. He thumbed the doorbell and waited. He had his story ready if anyone came to the door. From the mailboxes downstairs, he had taken the name of the owner of the apartment above. He would apologise for his mistake and then walk up the stairs.
He waited patiently, then rang again. After a further wait, he was satisfied the apartment was empty. He took from his wallet a flexible piece of steel and expertly unlocked the door.
He moved into the dark room, groped for the light switch and turned it on.
Peering around the shrub, Worthington caught a brief glimpse of Bruckman as he moved into the room. He immediately recognised the big heavily built man. Fear, he knew was in him but up to now had never truly experienced, paralysed him.
He knew Bruckman was O’Halloran’s strong arm thug who did most of O’Halloran’s dirty work. He was an executioner for the C.I.A. used when an Agent with important information threatened to defect.
Who had betrayed him to Bruckman? Worthington wondered, his heart hammering. He thumbed back the safety catch on his gun, but he knew he could never shoot Bruckman.
There was this weak, compassionate streak in him that made it impossible for him to take human life. He knelt on the balcony, cold with fear, waiting for Bruckman to discover him.
Minutes passed: nothing happened. Terrified, Worthington again peered into the room.
Bruckman was coming out of the bathroom. He was massively menacing as he looked around the room, then he walked over to the lifesize wooden angel and stared thoughtfully at it.
Worthington watched him, puzzled. Bruckman’s broad back blocked the angel from Worthington’s view. Then Bruckman half-turned and Worthington saw he was holding the angel’s wooden head in his hands. This he placed on the floor, then he opened his briefcase and took from it a small package done up in brown paper. He forced the package down the hollow neck of the angel into the body. He worked quickly and without fuss, and in a moment the angel’s head had been replaced. He looked around the room, picked up the empty briefcase, walked to the door, turned off the light and closed the door behind him.
Worthington waited, unable to believe his luck, then he gently pushed open the french windows. He could hear Bruckman clumping down the stairs and he moved cautiously across the dark room to the front door. He eased it open.
Bruckman’s heavy tread was dying away. Then Worthington heard the entrance door slam shut.
He turned on the light and went shakily to the armchair and sat down. He had been too close to death, he thought. He was so badly frightened that he could only sit motionless, staring at the wooden angel, thankful he was still alive. His mind crawled with alarm.
He was still sitting in the chair, now half asleep, his body and mind beginning to relax when Mala returned. As soon as she saw his face, tight with fear and the sweat beads on his forehead, she knew something had happened. Quickly she closed the door and shot the bolt.
‘What is it?’
Worthington got slowly to his feet. He made a desperate effort to conceal his fear, but he could see her growing terror.
‘Bruckman’s been here. He picked the lock. I - I hid on the balcony.’
Mala stared fearfully at him.
‘Who is he? What do you mean?’
‘He’s one of Dorey’s men,’ Worthington said, trying to control his impatience. ‘When I saw him come in, I was sure someone had given me away.’ He rubbed his dry lips with the back of his hand. ‘I thought he was going to murder me.’
Mala shivered.
‘But why should he - he murder you?’
‘Dorey knows that if I am caught I will give you and Cain away,’ Worthington said, his voice desperate. ‘But he wasn’t here to kill me.’ He pointed to the wooden angel. ‘He put a package in there. Is that where they leave things for you to pass on?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Mala
Bruckman paused outside the front door. The building was silent. He thumbed the doorbell and waited. He had his story ready if anyone came to the door. From the mailboxes downstairs, he had taken the name of the owner of the apartment above. He would apologise for his mistake and then walk up the stairs.
He waited patiently, then rang again. After a further wait, he was satisfied the apartment was empty. He took from his wallet a flexible piece of steel and expertly unlocked the door.
He moved into the dark room, groped for the light switch and turned it on.
Peering around the shrub, Worthington caught a brief glimpse of Bruckman as he moved into the room. He immediately recognised the big heavily built man. Fear, he knew was in him but up to now had never truly experienced, paralysed him.
He knew Bruckman was O’Halloran’s strong arm thug who did most of O’Halloran’s dirty work. He was an executioner for the C.I.A. used when an Agent with important information threatened to defect.
Who had betrayed him to Bruckman? Worthington wondered, his heart hammering. He thumbed back the safety catch on his gun, but he knew he could never shoot Bruckman.
There was this weak, compassionate streak in him that made it impossible for him to take human life. He knelt on the balcony, cold with fear, waiting for Bruckman to discover him.
Minutes passed: nothing happened. Terrified, Worthington again peered into the room.
Bruckman was coming out of the bathroom. He was massively menacing as he looked around the room, then he walked over to the lifesize wooden angel and stared thoughtfully at it.
Worthington watched him, puzzled. Bruckman’s broad back blocked the angel from Worthington’s view. Then Bruckman half-turned and Worthington saw he was holding the angel’s wooden head in his hands. This he placed on the floor, then he opened his briefcase and took from it a small package done up in brown paper. He forced the package down the hollow neck of the angel into the body. He worked quickly and without fuss, and in a moment the angel’s head had been replaced. He looked around the room, picked up the empty briefcase, walked to the door, turned off the light and closed the door behind him.
Worthington waited, unable to believe his luck, then he gently pushed open the french windows. He could hear Bruckman clumping down the stairs and he moved cautiously across the dark room to the front door. He eased it open.
Bruckman’s heavy tread was dying away. Then Worthington heard the entrance door slam shut.
He turned on the light and went shakily to the armchair and sat down. He had been too close to death, he thought. He was so badly frightened that he could only sit motionless, staring at the wooden angel, thankful he was still alive. His mind crawled with alarm.
He was still sitting in the chair, now half asleep, his body and mind beginning to relax when Mala returned. As soon as she saw his face, tight with fear and the sweat beads on his forehead, she knew something had happened. Quickly she closed the door and shot the bolt.
‘What is it?’
Worthington got slowly to his feet. He made a desperate effort to conceal his fear, but he could see her growing terror.
‘Bruckman’s been here. He picked the lock. I - I hid on the balcony.’
Mala stared fearfully at him.
‘Who is he? What do you mean?’
‘He’s one of Dorey’s men,’ Worthington said, trying to control his impatience. ‘When I saw him come in, I was sure someone had given me away.’ He rubbed his dry lips with the back of his hand. ‘I thought he was going to murder me.’
Mala shivered.
‘But why should he - he murder you?’
‘Dorey knows that if I am caught I will give you and Cain away,’ Worthington said, his voice desperate. ‘But he wasn’t here to kill me.’ He pointed to the wooden angel. ‘He put a package in there. Is that where they leave things for you to pass on?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Mala
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