Believed Violent by James Hadley Chase Read Free Book Online Page A

his life. He eased open the door and walked into the dimly lit lobby that smelt faintly of cabbage water and floor polish. He carried in his pocket an engagement ring with a glittering diamond that he could ill afford, set in a blue velvet lined, leather covered box. He had shopped around, and with the help of a friend, had finally come down on this diamond, being assured it was a bargain at the price, and a diamond no girl could resist.
    He started up the stairs to the third floor, and he wondered, with male interest, what he was going to eat. Nona had told him she could cook, but Sherman had been around. Before meeting and falling in love with her, he had had plenty of girl-friends who had always told him the same story. When the proof was on the table, he invariably wished he had taken the girl out to a restaurant. But he had a lot of confidence in Nona. Even if she did dish up a burnt offering, he would still want to marry her. There was that thing about her that set his blood on fire, his heart thumping, and he now couldn’t imagine life without her.
    He rapped on the door on the third floor. While waiting, he fingered his tie and readjusted the set of his jacket. Then puzzled, he rapped again. Still the door remained unopened.
    He discovered a bell push and jabbed it with his thumb. He heard the bell ringing. He stepped back and again waited. He repeated this action for the next three minutes, then it dawned on him there was no one in the apartment.
    He consulted his strap watch. The time was now 7.40. Maybe she had been held up at the Research Station. She couldn’t have met with an accident? Alarm jogged his mind. He went down the stairs, two at a time, to the ground floor. A sign with an arrow pointing to a door read:
    Mrs. Ethel Watson. Proprietor.
    He hesitated, then walked to the door and rang the bell. The door was opened by a small, bird-like woman with cold, unfriendly eyes, a tight mouth and her thinning hair done up in a bun on the top. of her head. She wore a black, shapeless dress that had seen a lot of wear, and in spite of the heat, a grubby white shawl over her shoulders. She regarded Sherman without interest. In a waspish voice, she asked, “Well, young man . . . what do you want?”
    “I’ve just been up to Miss Jacey’s apartment,” Sherman said. “We had a date for seven-thirty. She isn’t in.”
    “I can’t help that, can I?” Mrs. Watson said. “If she isn’t in, she isn’t in.”
    “I was wondering if you had heard if she had been delayed.”
    Mrs. Watson screwed up her bitter mouth.
    “No one tells me anything.”
    Sherman realized he was wasting time. The next move would be to telephone the Research Station. It was more than possible Nona had had to work late.
    “Thanks . . . sorry to have troubled you,” he said and walked across the lobby, opened the front door and ran down the steps. He slid under the driving wheel of the Pontiac. As he was about to press down on the starter, Keegan, hiding on the floor of the back of the car, rose up and hit him behind his right ear with a sand-filled cosh.
    Sherman fell forward, unconscious. Keegan knew just how hard it was necessary to hit a man to render him unconscious and just how hard to kill him. He rolled Sherman’s inert body away from the driving seat so that his body slumped half on the passenger’s seat, half on the car’s floor. Then he climbed over the seat, slid under the driving wheel and set the car in motion.
    Silk started the Thunderbird, following the Pontiac that moved at a leisurely speed to the main street. It turned right, the Thunderbird following. It drove down a narrow street and slowed as it came to a vacant building site, high with weeds and coarse grass. The two cars stopped. Silk looked up and down the deserted street, then got out of the Thunderbird to help Keegan drag Sherman’s unconscious body out of the Pontiac. Swiftly, they half carried, half dragged him into the thick, high growing weeds.
    “Watch