Free 1971 - Want to Stay Alive by James Hadley Chase Page A

to pause and exchange greetings.
    “How’s your pal . . . the Executioner?” Anders asked as McNeil paused by his side. “I was listening to the radio. Got all my old dears wetting their knickers.”
    “Your old dears aren’t the only ones,” McNeil said darkly. “Right now life isn’t worth living. I’m thankful to be on patrol. Except for a dozen of us old deadbeats, the rest of us are out looking for his sonofabitch. Two truckloads of men from Miami arrived this morning. So much water down a drain. What do the finks from Miami know about this City?”
    “Do you think what Hamilton says is right?” Anders asked innocently. He liked needling McNeil.
    “Hamilton?” McNeil snorted. “I never listen to that big mouth . . . he’s a trouble maker.” He cocked an eye at Anders. “What did he say?”
    “That this killer is a homicidal maniac with a grudge against the rich.”
    McNeil pushed his cap forward to scratch the back of his head.
    “You don’t have to be either homicidal or a maniac to hate the rich,” he said after some thought. “I can’t say I love the rich myself.”
    Anders concealed a grin. “They have their uses.”
    “You can say that again. I’d like to have your job.”
    “It’s not so bad.” Anders tried not to look smug. “But you have to know how to handle them. Think you’ll catch this nut?”
    “Me?” McNeil shook his head. “Nothing to do with me. I’ve got beyond catching anyone. I’m like you . . . taking it easy, but the Chief will catch him. Terrell’s got a head on his shoulders, but, of course it’ll take time .”
    A gleaming sand coloured Rolls drew up and leaving McNeil, Anders stepped briskly across the red carpet and opened the car door.
    “Morning, Jack.” The handsome fat man who got out of the Rolls was Rodney Branzenstein. He was a successful Corporation lawyer who came every morning to see clients living at the hotel. “Seen anything of Mrs. Dunc Browler?”
    “Too early for her, sir,” Anders said. “In about fifteen minutes.”
    “If she asks you, tell her I haven’t arrived.” Branzenstein slid a dollar bill into Anders’ ready hand. He strode into the hotel.
    While his chauffeur drove the Rolls away, McNeil moved close to Anders.
    “Do you ever get sore fingers, Jack?” he asked with concern.
    “Not me,” Anders said promptly, “but don’t get wrong ideas. This has taken years.”
    “Is that right?” McNeil shook his head. “I’ve been pounding this goddam beat for years and no one has ever thought to slip me a buck.”
    “My personality,” Anders said. “Your bad luck.”
    A tiny woman with sky blue hair, her skin raddled, her aged fingers crooked by diamond rings came tottering out of the hotel.
    Anders was immediately by her side.
    “Mrs. Clayton!” Watching him, McNeil was startled by the look of incredulity on Anders’ red, leathery face. “Now where do you think you’re going?”
    The little woman simpered and looked adoringly up at Anders.
    “I thought I’d go for a very short walk.”
    “Mrs. Clayton!” The concern in Anders’ voice made even McNeil concerned. “Did Dr. Lowenstein say you could go for a very short walk?”
    The little woman looked guilty.
    “To be honest, Anders, he didn’t.”
    “I should think not!” Anders took her elbow gently and began to guide her back into the hotel. “You sit quietly, Mrs. Clayton. I’ll get Mr. Bevan to call Dr. Lowenstein. I can’t have you running around wild, now can I?”
    “Sweet Jesus!” McNeil muttered and was so impressed, he crossed himself.
    Some minutes later, Anders came back and rested his corns on the red carpet. McNeil was still there, breathing heavily, his small Irish eyes glassy.
    “That was Mrs. Henry William Clayton,” Anders told him. “Her old man kicked off five years ago. He left her five million bucks.”
    McNeil’s eyes opened wide.
    “You mean that old bag of bones is worth five million bucks?” Anders frowned at