1970 - Like a Hole in the Head by James Hadley Chase

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

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I slid out of the car, my heart thumping and I looked around. There was no sign of Lepski. I walked to the bungalow. The front door stood open. I entered the sitting-room. The table was laid for a meal. I went into the kitchen. On the stove was a frying pan with slices of ham, a saucepan of peas and another saucepan of water with a cup of rice nearby. I walked into our bedroom. It was as I had left it. I looked into Lucy's closet. Her clothes were there. Nothing seemed missing.

I had a feeling of utter loneliness. This was the first time I had come home and not found her waiting for me.

I left the bungalow and headed for the shooting gallery. I had an idea I would find Lepski there. I was right. As I approached, he appeared in the doorway of the lean-to.

His cold quizzing eyes met mine.

"Hi ! I was going to put in an alarm about you."

I forced myself to meet the probing stare.

"Alarm? What do you mean?"

"I found this place deserted. I thought something was wrong."

"Nothing's wrong. What brings you here, Mr. Lepski?"

"I was passing. I promised Mrs. Benson a recipe for a chutney my old lady used to make. Where is she?"

I was sure he had been in the house, had seen the preparations for the meal and had sniffed around as only a trained cop can sniff around.

"I've just seen her off. A friend of hers is ill. We had a panic call."

"That's tough." He shook his head. "When I got here and looked around it was like another Marie Celeste."

"Another . . . who?"

He looked a little smug.

"The ship that was found deserted: meals on the table . . . no one aboard. I'm a Reader's Digest subscriber. They tell you stuff like that. When I got here, found the front door open, the table laid for a meal, the meal on the stove, no sign of life . . . it got me bothered."

"Yeah, we had this panic call. We dropped everything and ran."

"A friend of your wife's?"

"That's right."

He eyed me.

"Who won?"

I gaped at him.

"Come again."

"What was the fight about?"

I had forgotten my bruises and the cut under my eye.

"Oh, nothing. I got into an argument. I guess I flip my lid from time to time."

"Some argument." He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away from me. "Your telephone isn't working." His eyes swivelled back to me.

"It isn't?" I began to fumble for a cigarette, then changed my mind. That sort of move tells a cop he's making you nervous. "One minute it works, the next it doesn't. You know how it is when you're as far out as we are."

"The line's been cut."

The back of my throat was turning dry.

"Cut? I don't understand that."

"It's been cut."

"Some kid . . . Kids around here are hell. I'll get it fixed. I had no idea."

"Do you usually walk out of your home leaving the front door open?"

I was getting fazed with these questions.

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