"Blackmailed" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davis William)

CHAPTER FIVE

After Jay had dressed and left her apartment, Carla did some fast, serious thinking. The longer she stayed where she was the greater her danger, for she was sure that the detective's visit and the information he had tortured out of her could very well be her death warrant.

Throwing on a robe, she raced into the living room, picked up the phone and dialed a local travel agency. Quickly, it was settled. She could pick up her airline ticket within the hour and catch her flight to Chicago at six that same evening. Then, she'd catch a quick flight on a feeder line… And, nobody'll be able to find me… on that little farm in Indiana! She hated the idea of living there again, but she knew it would be safe. Maybe, I'll only have to stay there for six months… a year at most!

Hastily, then, she began to pack, making a careful selection of her clothing. She would only take one bag, she decided, because she was just going to disappear… leaving everything just as it was in her apartment. There won't be any suspicion for a couple of days… and that's just enough time… for me to lose myself… in the backwoods…

The telephone rang.

She decided to ignore it. Getting packed and leaving, as soon as she could was more important. Time might be running out on her, and she wasn't taking any chances.

p(line).***

Betty Ballard was worried sick. She had hardly seen her husband for three days. He had come home in the early morning hours, either too tired or too drunk… crawled into bed and gone to sleep, completely ignoring her; then, he was up and gone again, before she could have a chance to talk with him.

She knew he was absorbed in his work. Every case, it seemed, was his most important… But, he hasn't even wanted to talk to me… Or touch me… ever since that night… he forced me… when he was so drunk…

Was it possible he was making good on his threat… that he was having an affair with another woman… or maybe he was getting ready to leave her…? It's not fair! Just when I was going to… make some changes in my own ideas… and let him do some of those things… he's always wanting to do…

Getting ready to do the clothes washing, she emptied out pockets of Jay's shirts, before popping them into the automatic machine. Ordinarily, she didn't pay attention to the items she removed from his pockets; she just set them aside for her husband to go through, keeping what was important and throwing the rest away. Today, however, a scrap of paper caught her eye. It was a telephone number and a woman's name: Carla Reynolds… the day's date and the time, 2:00 p.m. all written in Jay's scribbled hand. Below, almost indecipherable was a notation that read: B-Girl! i.e. Arnie P. Makes pick-ups at Premiere Room, cocktail lounge…

Betty looked at it as though it were a writhing snake. Did it mean that Jay had an afternoon date with a prostitute? She didn't want to believe that; after all, his work as a private investigator did put him into contact with all kinds of people, including prostitutes. She must be a source of information… or she's involved in a case… somehow…

She tried to forget it… but all during the day, as she went about her household chores, the shopping and, later, at the hairdresser's, it gnawed at her, creating in her mind some doubt as to her husband's reason for making such an appointment. If he were playing around… with another woman… a housewife… or a secretary… I could understand it, and maybe… I could fight it…! But going to a cheap little whore… God! What can I do about it? UGH!

Finally, it was almost three o'clock. She had been conjuring up mental fantasies concerning Jay… and a whore named Carla, wondering vague things… about how they would be doing it. Then, she couldn't stand any more of it. There was one way to find out…

Retrieving the doubt-producing scrap of paper from Jay's desk, she dialed the telephone number, realizing as she did that it was an out-of-area prefix. She let it ring five times. There was no answer. She hung up and looked up the prefix in the telephone directory, discovering that it was a number in Corona del Mar. All the way down there…?

Five minutes later, she dialed, again.

"Hello…?" It was a woman's voice, cautious and a little hesitant.

I hope I can pull this off! "Hello…" Betty said, "this is Mr. Ballard's secretary… I have an urgent message for him!"

"He's not here!"

"Are you Miss… Carla Reynolds…?" Betty asked. "He had some kind of appointment with you… I believe…"

"Yes… I'm Carla! He was here… but he's gone now! Sorry… I can't help you…" She was brisk, anxious to end the conversation.

"Then… he did get to interview you…?"

Carla's laugh was brittle. "That's a good one! It's the first time I've ever heard it called that!"

"I'm sorry… I-I don't understand…"

"Then… you don't know why your boss was here?"

"No… he-he didn't tell me…"

"Well… he interviewed me… while we were both naked on my bed! Does that explain it?"

"Yes… yes, it does!" There was a catch in Betty's voice.

"… And, I hope to hell I never see him, again!" The line went dead.

p(line).***

Carrying her single suitcase, Carla left her apartment, purposely leaving several lights burning. She closed the door, locked it and went down the stairs to the carport.

Just as she was putting the bag in her car, it was roughly taken out of her hand.

She gasped, as she looked up into the unsmiling face of Jack Stearns. He hefted the suitcase. "This feels like it's a little overweight… that is… if you happened to be going somewhere on an airline!"

"It's… j-just some things I'm taking… to a girlfriend's house…" she lied.

"Now… that's a coincidence!" Jack spat out at her. "A real coincidence… that just a few minutes after Mr. Jay Ballard leaves here… you decide to take a little trip…!"

"I don't know… wh-what you're talking about!"

"Ballard's a private eye… and he's working for Arnie Pearson!" he barked. "Does that jog your memory?"

"You're wrong!" she gasped.

"No, I'm not! Now, what did you tell him…?"

"Nothing! What could I tell him? I don't know anything!"

"Tell that to Warren… when we get there!" he told her grimly. "Now… get into my car! Don't cause any commotion… and you won't get hurt!"

God! How did I get involved… in all this?

p(line).***

When Arnie Pearson had left Jay Ballard's office the day before, it hadn't taken him long to realize that he was being followed.

He first spotted the car while he was still on the streets, before gaining the freeway South. To find out for sure, he stopped at a newsstand, examined some magazines casually and finally bought a paper. The driver of the big Oldsmobile pulled past his parked car and stopped to wait. He wasn't able to get a good look at the driver, but he noted the letter and number combinations of the Olds' license tags… So, now they're tailing me! Trying to find out where I've moved to… no doubt.

Getting back into his car, he headed for the freeway. The Oldsmobile stuck right with him… as he drove fast… then slowed down. The Olds' driver stayed right behind him through a couple of lane changes. There's no doubt at all! He's following me!

Arnie settled down to travel at sixty-five miles an hour in the number two lane of four lanes. He held his speed steady for seven or eight miles; then, he began slowing down, little by little, until he was cruising at fifty-five. The Olds crept up closer, until there were only four or five car-lengths between them.

Then, as he was approaching an off-ramp, and the third and fourth lanes were clear on his right, he suddenly gunned his rental Ford, cut across the two open lanes and darted into the off ramp, leaving the driver of the Olds a choice of following him to a certain crack-up, if he attempted the same maneuver, too late… or continuing on down the freeway safely, losing Arnie, in the process. The driver of the Olds realized too late what had happened. It was impossible for him to follow. He chose the freeway and lost his man. Damn! I made it! And, all that guy knows is that I was headed South!

Making his way westward on one of the Boulevards, Arnie found the coast route and followed it South towards home.

It worried him; things were rapidly coming to the boiling point. He was on edge… and he was cloddish with Joan in bed that night. Afterwards, he didn't sleep too well.

Now, the following day, he had spent at the Olympic working out, because he didn't want to get out of condition completely. He showered, spent several minutes swapping stories with some of the other boxers, then left the gymnasium to head for home.

This time, it was a big, green Pontiac that followed him. I'll have to shake this guy… for good… I guess… As he drove along the streets, his mind churned, trying to think of something. An idea formed in his brain. Damn it! Of course… that's it! Carry the fight to him!

Spotting a corner news kiosk, Arnie pulled in to park, hopped out of the car, on the right side, and sprinted along the sidewalk for three or four car-lengths. Ducking into a doorway, he waited.

The driver of the Pontiac, he saw, was the same man who had followed him the day before, and just as he had, yesterday, his pursuer pulled ahead of Arnie's parked car, angled into the curb and stopped.

Arnie walked out into the street and approached the car from the left front. The driver was twisted around, looking over his shoulder to where he expected his quarry to be at the newsstand.

Jerking the door open, Arnie hauled the man out and slammed him up hard against the rear fender.

"You looking for me?" he growled.

The man who had been trailing him was husky, heavily muscled and Arnie saw that his face bore the marks of many a bout, the gloves of his opponents having cut him, time after time.

"What the hell?" the old fighter snarled, his hand diving into a jacket pocket and coming up holding a snub-nosed pistol.

Arnie grabbed the gun hand and smashed it against the fender of the car. He heard the sickening crunch of breaking bones. The pistol dropped to the ground. The man who had been following him grabbed at his broken hand with a groan.

"Son-of-a-bitch! My hand's broke!"

Reaching down, Arnie picked up the pistol from the pavement and rapped out, "You're lucky that's all!"

"Why'n hell you do that?"

"Why have you been following me… the last two days?" Arnie countered.

"You're crazy! No such thing!" the other groaned.

As the injured man was speaking, Arnie studied his face, his memory clicking. He was almost sure that he knew who the man was.

"Why'd you pull this gun on me… just now?"

"Well, hell… I thought you were a mugger… or something!"

Arnie's memory dredged up a name: Pratt… Ollie Pratt! He had been a welter-weight… one of the top ones. Let me see… maybe fifteen years ago.

"You knew who I was… Ollie!" Arnie grunted.

"You're off your rocker! My name's…"

"Ollie Pratt! Welter-weight… out of Des Moines… right at the top of the weight! You were even the contender for the title… one time… but it looks like the gamblers found your price! What was it… money… women… drugs?"

"Shut up! Damn you!"

"Now… you're packing a gun… and mixed up with a blackmailing thing! Christ! How low can a man get?" There was raw contempt in his voice for the former boxer.

Methodically, Arnie swung open the cylinder of Pratt's snub-nosed pistol and extracted the shells; one by one he tossed them toward the iron grating of a flood-control inlet near the curb. When he was finished unloading the gun, he hurled it into the weeds of a vacant lot opposite Ollie's parked car; then, reaching inside, he removed the ignition keys. They followed the pistol. In the waning light they would be hard to find.

Satisfied that the former boxer, turned gunman and blackmailer, wouldn't be able to follow him now, Arnie told Pratt grimly, "Give this message to your boss, Ollie. I don't scare easy!"

Walking purposefully to his own car, he got into it and left Ollie Pratt standing helplessly where he was, holding his broken hand and cursing through his groans of pain.

p(line).***

Cautiously, Jay Ballard checked all around the immediate area, before he climbed into his Mustang to leave Carla Reynolds' apartment building. There's a damned good chance they might be watching her! Everything seemed to be clear. He drove away.

He had considered the possibility of Carla's being in some danger, and thought, perhaps, she should be in protective custody… But, hell… she might not testify against Ramsey… and if it ever come out in court how I got my information from her… there'd be hell to pay… as far as I'm concerned! So, if she wants to play in the big time… she'll just have to take her chances!

Arnie would have to be told what he'd found out, so far, but the case was still a long ways from being settled. He'd have to have a lot more to go on, before he could take it to the police.

Remembering that the heavyweight fighter was going into L.A. to work out and probably wouldn't be home until late in the afternoon, Jay headed for the air-conditioned comfort of a bar to refresh himself and kill some time, before looking up Arnie's new address.

At about a quarter after six, Jay found the new apartment complex, walked up a flight to the number Arnie had given him, pushed the doorbell and waited, humming a tuneless popular song to himself.

The door opened. He recognized her, instantly. Joan! The other woman… in Carla's place! He stared at her hard.

"Joan…?"

"You!" She started to slam the door in his face.

"Wait!" Jay said, holding the door back. "Are you… Joan Pearson… Arnie Pearson's wife…?"

"What difference would that make?" Again, she struggled to close the door. He saw that she had been crying.

"Wait… Joan… let me explain…?" he implored. "I'm a friend of Arnie's… and I have to see him."

"He isn't here!" Joan snapped. "Goodbye!"

"Look… Joan, it was just an accident… or a horrible coincidence… that you came into Carla's apartment… and it just happened! You know that… don't you?"

"Oh, p-please… just go away…!" she sobbed, tears starting into her eyes, again.

"I've got a pretty good idea… of why you went there…" he began.

"That'd be none of your… b-business!"

"Carla's just like a lot of other prostitutes… you know…"

Joan stared at him, unbelieving. "P-Prostitute…?"

"Yes… didn't you know?"

Mutely, she shook her head in negative disbelief.

"Anyway… she's a man-hater… and gets her real kicks with other women!" he explained. "… And, I gather… you and she had a thing going… and… and I just happened to be there… as a… customer!"

"Oooh, no!" Joan moaned, covering her face with both hands and turning away to slump into an overstuffed chair near the door.

Jay came to stand beside her. Looking down at her pitiable figure, he said, "Arnie'll never have to know… about her… or me… if that's the way you want it. It'll be our secret!"

"Oh, God… I'd just die… if Arnie… ever… f-found out!"

"He won't ever known he promised."

"Really…?" Joan looked up at him gratefully through streaming eyes.

"Really! Just tell Arnie I called him… and have him call me at my office, in the morning… Okay? You don't even have to tell him I was here."

"All right…" She dabbed at her eyes. "What did you say… your name was…?"

"Jay… Jay Ballard…"

As he looked down at her, remembering how she had climaxed under him, just a few hours ago, in Carla's apartment, he felt a surging rekindling of sexual arousal… the beginning of a throbbing erection. He repressed it. Damn it! No! She's so uptight, now… she doesn't know which way's which!

With an exertion of will, Jay forced himself to walk to the door and out; then, he turned and said, "Get yourself all prettied up! Arnie'll probably be here pretty soon… and you'll want to look your best for him!"

"A-All right… Mr. Ballard…"

"Jay!" he said. "And just forget that it ever happened! It was… well… just one of those things!"

He closed the door behind him and left her there. Christ! This changes everything… especially, the fact that she and Carla were having… a lesbian affair! What happens when they try to show her pictures of Arnie's little dalliance with Carla…? Hell! There's no ball game… and they start playing real rough… with Arnie!