1959 - Shock Treatment by James Hadley Chase

Author:James Hadley Chase [Chase, James Hadley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

chapter five

I

I didn’t get back to my cabin until late in the afternoon.

I sat on the verandah, a glass of whisky in my hand, and thought about what had happened since I had left the cabin at eight-thirty this morning.

I had killed a man. Although I could tell myself that I had dreamed up a foolproof plan and I was going to get away with it, at the back of my mind, I knew I would be wondering, during the years ahead of me, if I had made a slip that would eventually give me away.

The sound of an approaching car interrupted my thoughts.

I went to the door, my heart thumping.

Sheriff Jefferson drove in through the open gateway and, getting out of his car, he came over to me.

“I guess you could use a drink,” I said.

“Yep: I could. This has been a pretty hard day,” he said, and together we crossed the garden to my cabin. “I’ve been fixing the inquest. Joe is starting his vacation the day after tomorrow, so we’ve had to hurry it up. We’re holding it tomorrow. You’ll have to give evidence, son.”

“That’s okay. It’s all straightforward, isn’t it?” I asked as I waved him to an armchair.

“I guess so.” He sat down. He looked tired and worried.

I made two whiskies and gave him one.

He asked, “Did you find Mrs. Delaney in Glyn Camp?”

“I met her on her way back.”

Jefferson frowned, pulling at his moustache. I had a sudden uneasy feeling that he had something on his mind.

“I want to get the facts straight,” he said. “Doc is satisfied it was an accident. What do you think?”

A cold prickle of fear began to creep up my spine.

“It couldn’t be anything else,” I said, and to avoid meeting his eyes, I opened my desk drawer and took out a pack of cigarettes.

“It’s a bad thing to jump to conclusions,” Jefferson said. “The book says when a man dies you’ve got to consider four things: if he died from natural causes, an accident, suicide or murder.”

“It was obviously an accident,” I said.

“Yep: it certainly looks that way, but it could have been suicide.”

“You don’t imagine a man would kill himself by poking a screwdriver into the works of a TV set, do you?”

“It’s unlikely, son, but when a fellow’s mind is upset, you don’t know what he might do,” Jefferson said slowly. “I’m getting old. I don’t want to make a mistake now. I’ve been in office close on fifty years. I reckon to give up next year. The L.A. police have their knife into me. They think I’m too old to handle my job. I have only to make one mistake, and there’ll be a yell of “I told you so.” I want to avoid that if I can.”

“I don’t see what’s worrying you.”

“I thought it was an accident until . . .” He paused, frowning, then pulled out his pipe and began to load it.

I watched him, feeling suddenly short of breath.

“Until what?” I asked in a hard, tight voice.

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