Just Another Sucker by James Hadley Chase Page B

– the time seemed an eternity – I heard her tap the horn and I looked back.
    She waved to me. I started the little car and drove fast to Lone Bay. She followed.
    I kept looking at my wrist watch. We still had plenty of time to reach the airport. It was two miles beyond Lone Bay. I kept thinking of the drunk, wondering if I had hit him too hard. But now it was over, I realised perhaps it hadn’t been such a bad thing to have happened. If Odette ever had to face up to a police investigation, it would strengthen her story: just so long as I hadn’t hit him too hard or he hadn’t one of the egg shell skulls one is always reading about.
    Lone Bay car park served a colony of bungalows. The residents used the park as a permanent parking place, and it was always full of cars. I felt pretty confident the T.R.3 could be left there without anyone spotting it. As I approached the park, I signalled to Odette to stop, then I swung the sports car into the park.
    There was a narrow aisle between the parked cars, and I drove slowly down this aisle, my headlights on, looking for a vacant place.
    Then suddenly, without warning, a car backed out into the aisle. It hadn’t its lights on. It came out fast and I hadn’t a chance to avoid it. Its rear bumper thudded into my off-wing, and there was a grinding sound of crushed metal.
    For a brief moment, I sat paralysed. This was the one thing I hadn’t thought of: an accident. This stupid ape would want my name and address: he would take the number of the car and it would immediately be traced to Odette. What was I doing – driving her car?
    While I sat there in a panic that stood my hair on ends, the driver got out of the car.
    It was fortunately dark in the parking lot. As he came up to me, I turned off my headlights. I could see he was a small man with a bald head, but I couldn’t see much of his features and that meant he couldn’t see much of mine.

    ‘I’m sorry, mister,’ he said in a shaking voice. ‘I didn’t see you coming. It’s my fault. I’m entirely to blame.’
    A large woman got out of the car. She opened an umbrella and joined the little man.
    ‘It wasn’t your fault, Herbert!’ she said angrily. ‘He shouldn’t have sneaked up like that. Don’t you admit anything. It was an accident.’
    ‘Get your car forward,’ I said. ‘You’ve locked my front wing.’
    ‘Don’t you move the car, Herbert,’ the woman said. ‘We’ll get a policeman.’
    Cold sweat was running down my back.
    ‘You heard what I said!’ I bawled at the little man. ‘Get your goddam car forward!’
    ‘Don’t you speak to my husband like that!’ The woman exclaimed. She was staring hard at me. ‘This is your fault, young man! You don’t intimidate me!’
    Time was running out. I didn’t dare exchange names and addresses with these two. I did the only thing left to me. I engaged gear, twisted the steering wheel and trod down hard on the gas.
    As the little car jumped forward, there was a grinding noise and the other man’s bumper came away.
    Part of my wing came away too. I kept going as I heard the woman scream: ‘Take his number, Herbert!’
    I drove fast to the far end of the parking lot, found an empty space, swung the car into it and jumped out. I was wearing gloves so I didn’t have to stop to wipe off the steering wheel. I looked back down the aisle.
    The woman was staring after me. The little man was trying to lift the fallen bumper.
    There was an exit just ahead of me. I ran for it. Would they go to the police? It was his fault. There was just a chance they would let it go. If they didn’t, the T.R.3 would be traced to Odette. The police would want to know who the man was driving the car.
    As I sprinted towards the waiting Packard, I realised with a sudden sinking feeling of fear, that my highly organised arrangements weren’t working the way I had planned them to work.
    First the drunk: now this car accident.
    What else was going to go wrong with this zany idea