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Authors: James Hadley Chase
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Club.
Keegan was sitting in the Thunderbird. He swung open the car door and she slid in beside him.
That big Mick doesn’t like you,” she said, leaning back, adoring the luxury of the car. “He says you are poison.”
“Yeah?” Keegan started the car and drove into the steady flow of traffic. “Maybe I am.”
He drove to a deserted part of the beach, stopped the car and turned off the lights.
“Okay, baby, let’s talk business,” he said. “First, the pay-off. Play the cards I deal you right and you will pick up ten thousand dollars. Just in case you have wax in your ears and think I’m kidding, the pay-off is ten thousand dollars ― repeat ten thousand dollars.”
Drena gaped at him. She looked into the small, cold, green eyes and a wave of excitement crawled up her long, beautifully formed spine. This man meant what he said. Years of experience, dealing with men, told her this.
“Keep talking,” she said, her voice shaking, her hands clenching into fists. This makes beautiful music.”
“Doesn’t it?” Keegan said. “Ten thousand dollars could buy you a ball.” He lit a cigarette without offering her one. Keegan had no polish. To him, women were to be used and abused and certainly not to be considered. “Your little pal, Fred Lewis. I’m interested in him.”
Drena started and stared at him in surprise.
“Freddy? But why?”
“Look, baby, I do the talking. You answer the questions. Lewis . . . how are you two getting along together?”
She shrugged, grimacing.
“Well, he’s a drip. Maybe later . . . I don’t know. He wants to marry me. One day, perhaps, when I’ve had enough of the Club I’ll decide, but not now.”
“How does he feel about it?”
Drena shrugged impatiently.
“He’s crazy about me.” She shook her head. “Okay I admit it’s nice for a girl who works the way I work to have some poor sap just mad about her. But he hasn’t any money. A girl can’t get along without money. . .”
“Has he ever laid you?”Keegan asked.
Drena sat bolt upright. “What the hell is that to do with you?” she demanded. “I’ll have you know . . .”
“Brake the yak,” Keegan said, not bothering to look at her, but staring through the windshield at the gently moving sea. “I asked you . . . have you given him anything?”
Drena hesitated, then shrugged.
If you have to know . . . when a sap wants to marry a girl that bad, she keeps her legs crossed. Do you imagine I am soft in the head?”
Keegan leaned over the back of his seat and brought up a brief-case lying on the rear seat. He laid it across his knees. Zipping it open, he turned on the dashboard light, then said, “Feed your eyes on this, baby.”
Drena caught her breath. In the case, neatly arranged were packets of $50 bills . . . more money than she had ever seen in her life.
“That’s what ten thousand dollars look like,” Keegan said. “All yours if you can handle this deal.”
He let Drena stare at the bills for several seconds, then he zipped the case shut.
“Tell me,” she said, her breathing fast. “Short of murder, I’m right with you, you gorgeous, beautiful man.”
Keegan told her.
The Harrison Wentworth Sanatorium is situated on the far left arm of Paradise Bay with views over the sea and the distant yacht harbour: a massive building standing in some three acres of immaculately kept lawns. It is surrounded by high walls and there is a lodge at the entrance gates where an elderly guard checks in visitors with old-world charm.
The security regulations are strict. Each patient is double locked in his room and each corridor is watched over by a qualified male nurse. The rooms are air conditioned, the windows of armoured glass and they don’t open. There is no hint that this mansion is a prison, and it is on record that no patient has ever escaped once consigned to a room.
The Sanatorium is the most expensive and most exclusive criminal asylum for the insane in the world. It provides
Keegan was sitting in the Thunderbird. He swung open the car door and she slid in beside him.
That big Mick doesn’t like you,” she said, leaning back, adoring the luxury of the car. “He says you are poison.”
“Yeah?” Keegan started the car and drove into the steady flow of traffic. “Maybe I am.”
He drove to a deserted part of the beach, stopped the car and turned off the lights.
“Okay, baby, let’s talk business,” he said. “First, the pay-off. Play the cards I deal you right and you will pick up ten thousand dollars. Just in case you have wax in your ears and think I’m kidding, the pay-off is ten thousand dollars ― repeat ten thousand dollars.”
Drena gaped at him. She looked into the small, cold, green eyes and a wave of excitement crawled up her long, beautifully formed spine. This man meant what he said. Years of experience, dealing with men, told her this.
“Keep talking,” she said, her voice shaking, her hands clenching into fists. This makes beautiful music.”
“Doesn’t it?” Keegan said. “Ten thousand dollars could buy you a ball.” He lit a cigarette without offering her one. Keegan had no polish. To him, women were to be used and abused and certainly not to be considered. “Your little pal, Fred Lewis. I’m interested in him.”
Drena started and stared at him in surprise.
“Freddy? But why?”
“Look, baby, I do the talking. You answer the questions. Lewis . . . how are you two getting along together?”
She shrugged, grimacing.
“Well, he’s a drip. Maybe later . . . I don’t know. He wants to marry me. One day, perhaps, when I’ve had enough of the Club I’ll decide, but not now.”
“How does he feel about it?”
Drena shrugged impatiently.
“He’s crazy about me.” She shook her head. “Okay I admit it’s nice for a girl who works the way I work to have some poor sap just mad about her. But he hasn’t any money. A girl can’t get along without money. . .”
“Has he ever laid you?”Keegan asked.
Drena sat bolt upright. “What the hell is that to do with you?” she demanded. “I’ll have you know . . .”
“Brake the yak,” Keegan said, not bothering to look at her, but staring through the windshield at the gently moving sea. “I asked you . . . have you given him anything?”
Drena hesitated, then shrugged.
If you have to know . . . when a sap wants to marry a girl that bad, she keeps her legs crossed. Do you imagine I am soft in the head?”
Keegan leaned over the back of his seat and brought up a brief-case lying on the rear seat. He laid it across his knees. Zipping it open, he turned on the dashboard light, then said, “Feed your eyes on this, baby.”
Drena caught her breath. In the case, neatly arranged were packets of $50 bills . . . more money than she had ever seen in her life.
“That’s what ten thousand dollars look like,” Keegan said. “All yours if you can handle this deal.”
He let Drena stare at the bills for several seconds, then he zipped the case shut.
“Tell me,” she said, her breathing fast. “Short of murder, I’m right with you, you gorgeous, beautiful man.”
Keegan told her.
The Harrison Wentworth Sanatorium is situated on the far left arm of Paradise Bay with views over the sea and the distant yacht harbour: a massive building standing in some three acres of immaculately kept lawns. It is surrounded by high walls and there is a lodge at the entrance gates where an elderly guard checks in visitors with old-world charm.
The security regulations are strict. Each patient is double locked in his room and each corridor is watched over by a qualified male nurse. The rooms are air conditioned, the windows of armoured glass and they don’t open. There is no hint that this mansion is a prison, and it is on record that no patient has ever escaped once consigned to a room.
The Sanatorium is the most expensive and most exclusive criminal asylum for the insane in the world. It provides
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