He Won't Need it Now by James Hadley Chase Read Free Book Online Page A

and climbed in beside her.
     She drove at a furious pace without a word. Her eyes were fixed on the road ahead, and Duffy leant back, breathing heavily, his eyes heavy with sleep.
     When they began to run into traffic again he raised his head. “You can drop me off here,” he said. “I'm going home.”
     “I'll drive you there,” she said.
     “No.”
     She stopped the car.
     “I'm sorry I...”she began.
     “I'm going home,” Duffy said firmly. He had had a bellyful. “Tomorrow, perhaps. Tonight, no.”
     He opened the door and lurched on to the street. He stood there, holding the door in his hand. “I've got to get those pictures back,” he said. “I'll see you then.”
     He slammed the door hard. He had a swift vision of her great eyes, wide with hate, her white teeth gleaming in the dark, then the Cadillac shot away from him.
     He looked up and down the street for a taxi.
     “I guess that honey hates my guts,” he said sadly, as a yellow taxi slid up to him.
      
     

CHAPTER IV
         
     DUFFY'S PLACE WAS a three-room affair on the top storey of an old-fashioned apartment house.
     The taxi-driver drew up at the kerb, just under the street light. Duffy got out of the cab, letting the door swing on its hinges.
     “This it?” the taxi-driver asked.
     “Yeah, that's right.”
     The taxi-driver looked at him. “You been havin' a good time?”
     Duffy shifted his head a little so that he didn't breath over the taxi-driver.
     He said, “You don't know the half of it.”
     The taxi-driver said, “The first half's good enough for me.” One of those smart guys.
     Duffy paid him off and slammed the door for him. He slammed the door so hard that the cab rocked. The taxi-driver scowled, but said nothing. He was smart all right, but he wasn't dumb. He rolled the cab away.
     Duffy walked up the steps, fumbled for his key and fumbled at the lock. “Jeeze, that Scotch was dynamite,” he said, as he poked at the lock. The key sank suddenly, and he turned it. I he hall was in darkness, but he knew his way up. He started to climb the stairs as the wall-clock struck four. The wall-clock hung in the hall. It had a little brittle chime that always irritated Duffy. Treading carefully, one hand on the rail and the other just touching the opposite wall, he went up silently. He had to go up four flights, but he was used to that. When he reached his landing he paused. A light was burning in his apartment. He could see the bright light coming from under the door.
     Two things crossed his mind. First, the cleaner had forgotten to turn the light off; and second, McGuire was waiting for him. It gave him quite a shock when he remembered McGuire. He had forgotten all about the poor guy. Too bad. He wagged his head. Maybe he'd be as sore as hell. He fumbled for his key again, and opened the door. The light quite blinded him for a second.
     Two men were sitting in his room, facing the door. Another one was standing by the window, looking into the street, peeping round the blind.
     Duffy jumped.
     “I bet you've been stealing my whisky,” he said.
     The man who was looking out of the window turned his head quickly. He was big. He had Mongolian eyes and a loose mouth. He had that battered, brutal face of an unsuccessful prize-fighter.
     Duffy looked at him, then he looked at the two sitting in the chairs. The nearest one was a little guy with tight lips and cold,, hard eyes. His face was white as cold mutton fat, and he just sat, with his hands folded across his stomach.
     The other one, sitting on the little guy's right, was young. He had down on his cheeks and his skin had that peculiar rosy tint that most girls want, but don't have. He looked tough, because he had screwed up his eyes and drawn