You've Got It Coming (1955) by James Hadley Chase

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

V

Borg paused below the fire escape that ran up to the bathroom window of Glorie's old apartment. He had been told by his man that the door to Glorie's apartment was bolted on the inside, and the escape was the only way by which he could get in. The alley at the back of the building was deserted and Borg hooked down the escape and climbed it. As he passed one of the lower windows he heard a radio blaring in the apartment. He was careful not to let his shadow fall across the window. He finally reached the bathroom window and he stopped beside it, wheezing noisily as he listened for any sound coming from the room. He heard nothing, nor did he expect to hear anything. He pushed up the window and squeezed his bulk into the bathroom.

He searched the three rooms, methodically and carefully, looking through the drawers and cupboards. He found the apartment just as Glorie had left it ten days ago. Even the dirty dishes still lay in the sink and the bed was unmade.

He was interested to find a man's suit in the wardrobe, and a man's hat with the initials H.G. in the sweat band. In one of the drawers of the chest there were five white shirts, also with the initials H.G. on the collar bands, and he scratched the back of his thick, fat neck while he brooded over the discovery. H.G.—Harry Green? He remembered Delaney had told him that Glorie had said she didn't know much about Harry Green, but that didn't mean anything. He returned the shirts to the drawer and took out his limp pack of cigarettes. He lit a cigarette before renewing his search. He found a railway timetable in the trash basket. It opened easily at the New York section. A midday train to New York had been ticked in pencil. He remembered Taggart had lost Glorie somewhere in the vicinity of the station. It was possible she had spotted Taggart and had taken fright. New York was a likely bolthole.

He remained in the apartment for more than an hour, but he didn't discover anything else of interest, and finally he let himself out, re-locked the door and plodded down to the next floor.

Borg was enjoying himself. This was a nice, easy and interesting job: a lot better than driving around for Delaney or sitting at a desk listening to the dreary lies from Delaney's collectors.

He paused outside the door to the apartment on the next floor, and read the card on the door: Miss Joan Goldman. He pushed his black, greasy hat to the back of his head and dug his thumb into the bell push. .

The door was opened by a tall, moon-faced girl in a soiled housecoat. Borg thought she looked the kind of girl who would live alone with a cat for company, and be glad of the cat.

“Miss Goldman?” Borg asked in his wheezy, husky voice.

“That's right. What is it?”

“I'm looking for Miss Dane.

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