Knock Knock Who's There? by James Hadley Chase Read Free Book Online Page A

outside Massino's office block.
    Johnny touched him on his shoulder.
    "Finished," he said quietly. Now the Rolls."
    But Sammy still didn't feel safe. He had to cross the sidewalk, dragging the heavy bags before he finally reached the haven of Massino's office.
    With Johnny at his side and Ernie and Toni, fanned out, their hands gripping their gun butts, he got out of the car and into the rain. He cringed at the crowd waiting around the entrance to the office block to cheer the four men as they arrived.
    Then the blessed dimness of the lobby and the ride up in the elevator.
    "How does it feel, boy, to be carrying all that dough?" Toni asked.
    Sammy looked at him, then away. He was thinking that tomorrow he would be really safe, fitted with a grey uniform, wearing a peaked cap with a black cockade and at the wheel of a Corniche Rolls. After ten years of fear, he had come through without being shot at and without having his hand chopped off and now he was heading for pastures green.
    With Johnny at his side, he shambled into Massino's office and set down the two heavy bags on Massino's desk.
    Andy was there, waiting. Massino was chewing a dead cigar. As Andy unlocked the handcuff, Massino lifted his eyebrows at Johnny. It was a silent question: "No trouble?" Johnny shook his head.
    Then came the ritual while Andy counted the money. It took some time. Finally, Andy looked at Massino and pursing his thin lips said, "This is the tops, Mr. Joe: one hundred and eighty-six thousand. Some take!"
    Johnny felt a rush of hot blood down his spine. The jackpot! In a few hours this enormous sum of money would be his! A thirtyfooter? He would now be able to make new plans. A forty-five-footer now came into his mind.
    He watched Andy tug the two bags into his office and after a moment or so, he heard the old-fashioned safe door clang shut.
    Massino took from his desk drawer a bottle of Johnny Walker. Ernie produced glasses. Massino poured himself a generous shot, then offered the bottle to Johnny.
    "Go ahead," Massino said. "You're my boy, Johnny. Twenty years! I wanted you to be in on the biggest take." He leaned back, grinning. "Now, you've got a career ahead of you."
    Ernie poured the rest of the drinks. Sammy refused. There was a pause while the men toasted themselves, then the telephone bell started up and Massino waved them away.
    As Johnny and Sammy walked down the stairs, Sammy said, "It's been tough, Mr. Johnny and I'm sorry you and me won't work together no more. You've been good to me. You've helped me. I want to say thanks."
    "Let's go drink beer," Johnny said and as he walked into the rain, he felt the spray of the sea against his face and the lurch of a fortyfive-footer beneath his feet.
    They drank beer in the dimness of Friday's, bar. "I guess this is
    good-bye, Sammy," Johnny said as Sammy waved to the barman for a second round. "You see . . . nothing ever happened all these years. You were scared about nothing."
    "I guess." Sammy shook his head. Mere are folk who always worry and folk who don't. You're lucky, Mr. Johnny. You don't ever seem to worry."
    Johnny thought of the steal. Worry? No! After all be was over forty: half way to death. Even if the steal turned sour, he could tell himself when the crunch came that at least he had tried to achieve an ambition. But the steal wasn't going to turn sour. There would be no crunch.
    Out in the rain, the two men—one white, the other black— looked at each other. There was an awkward pause, then Johnny offered his hand.
    "Well, so long, Sammy," he said. "We'll keep in touch."
    They gripped hands.
    "Keep saving your money," Johnny went on. "I'll be around. Anytime, anywhere if you want to yak . . . you know."
    Sammy's eyes grew misty.
    "I know, Mr. Johnny. I'm your friend . . . remember, Mr. Johnny. I'm your friend."
    Johnny gave him a light punch on his chest, then walked away. As he walked he felt a shutter was closing down, cutting off a slice of his life. The clang of the