James Hadley Chase
Cade
FOR SYLVIA
My wife, my secretary, my cook, my interpreter, my chauffeur and my right hand — plus thirty-three years of kindness and understanding.
One
As the aircraft circled Eastonville, Cade could see the pall of smoke covering the north end of the town. He had guessed it would be bad, but he hadn’t imagined it was going to be this bad. The fear that had been gnawing at him during the three-hours flight sharply increased, turning his hands clammy and slowing his heartbeats to painful thuds. He had an overpowering need for yet another drink.
The lighted sign above his head told him to fasten his seat belt and put out his cigarette. He knew without asking that the air hostess wouldn’t bring him another drink now: he had left it too late. He knew too that she was pretty bored with him. She had already brought him eight double whiskies during the flight, and she had made the journey to the top end of the aircraft where he was sitting with increasing reluctance. Although his tense, frightened nerves screamed for more alcohol, he knew he would now have to force himself to wait until they landed.
There were only two other passengers travelling on this flight. With things the way they were in Eastonville no one unless he had to was visiting this day.
The twenty-odd passengers travelling with Cade from New York had left the aircraft at Atlanta, and these two men had got on: tall, beefy, red-faced men, wearing wide-brimmed panama hats and dusty city suits. They had sat a couple of rows behind him. He had been uneasily aware of their muttered comments as the air hostess kept bringing him drinks. Now, as the aircraft was circling to land, one of them said, “Look, Jack, see that smoke? Looks like we’re back in time for the fun.”
“Nigger bastards,” the other man growled. “I hope they’re roasting in there.”
Cade flinched. He glanced furtively at the well-worn Pan-Am overnight bag on the seat beside him. It contained his camera and equipment. He had thought it wiser not to bring with him his fitted camera case. He would be crazy, he had told himself, to walk into a town as explosive as Eastonville advertising that he intended to take photographs.
“Think the Militia’s arrived?” the man called Jack asked.
His companion laughed.
“Not if I know Fred. He won’t let those schoolboys mess up our fun until he has to.”
“Maybe some nigger has put up a squawk.”
“Not with Fred checking all out-going calls, and that’s what he said he would do. No, this time, Brick, we are going to teach these niggers, and no sonofabitch from outside is stopping us.”
Cade took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. He had known as soon as Mathison had sent for him he was in for trouble. He felt instinctively as he walked into Mathison’s small, untidy office that Mathison was going to give him the kiss of death. Not that he blamed him. There was no finer News Editor than Henry Mathison. He had leaned over backwards for three sordid weeks in Cade’s favour. He had given him chance after chance. He had accepted Ed Burdick’s assurance that Cade was still a genius and if given a chance, he was still the finest photographer in the world. He had had his chance, and what had he done with it?
Cade’s sweating, shaking fingers dug into the over-night bag in a spasm of shame.
Well, for five months, he had proved Burdick had been right. He had given Mathison real value for his money. There had been times when Mathison, a hard man to impress, had stared with delighted eyes as Cade had dropped his glossy prints on his desk. That phase had lasted just five months, then Cade began hitting the bottle again. He had a reason; a very good reason, but it wasn’t the kind of reason he could mention to a man like Mathison who was dedicated to his job. No excuse could ever upset this dedication. Cade knew he couldn’t explain about Juana. Women were very unimportant to Mathison.
During the following three weeks, Cade had fallen down on four important assignments. So when Mathison had sent for him, Cade expected to get the gate. He had no idea what he would do when he left the newspaper office. He was ill. He couldn’t sleep. He had to drink a pint of whisky a day. That was the minimum. He could drink a lot more, but he had to have that amount of alcohol each day to stay alive. He was short of money. He was being pressed for payments on his car. He was behind on his rent. The only thing of value that he owned was his camera equipment and he would have rather died than part with that.
“Sit down, Val,” Mathison had said, pushing back his chair. He was a small, bird-like man, some ten years older than Cade, which made him forty-seven. “You’re not doing so good, are you?”
Cade rested his shaking hands on the chair back. The effect of his last drink was dying on him. His face felt hot, his head ached, and there was a gnawing pain in his belly that frightened him.
“Let’s skip the lecture,” he said. “I am right with you. It’s been great knowing you, and I...”
“Sit down and shut up,” Mathison said mildly. He took out a bottle of Scotch from his desk drawer and two shot glasses. He filled the glasses and pushed one towards Cade. “Sit down, Val.”
Cade looked at the drink. He resisted it for one brief moment, then he lifted the glass and drank carefully. He sat down, holding the glass with half the whisky now in it, hesitating, but he had to finish the drink, so he finished it.
“Something has come up. You can handle it, Val,” Mathison said. He examined Cade sympathetically, then pushed the bottle across the desk. “Go ahead. You look like you can use another.”
Cade made a show of ignoring the bottle. He said, “What’s come up?”
“Ace Syndicate has a hot tip. They want you to cover it. It’ll be good for us, for them and for you.”
A syndicate job usually meant big money. It meant the photographer went after the pictures, the Syndicate arranged for world coverage, and there was a fifty-fifty split on the take.
“What’s the job?” Cade asked, thinking that if he could only stay sober, this could get him out of his financial hole. He refilled his glass.
“There’s a Civil Rights demonstration beginning tonight at Eastonville.” Mathison didn’t look at him. “The real trouble is expected to be in full swing by tomorrow afternoon. They want you to fly down there on the nine o’clock plane tomorrow morning.”
Cade slowly replaced the cap on the bottle. A chill crawled up his spine.
“Why not tonight?” he asked, staring hopelessly at the whisky in his glass.
“They don’t want you there too soon. It will be one of these quick in and quick out jobs.”
“If I get out,” Cade said.
Mathison sipped his drink. He didn’t say anything.
After a long pause, Cade said, “The last time photographers from New York tried to cover a caper like this three of them landed in hospital, five cameras were smashed and no one got any pictures.”
“That’s why Ace wants these pictures so badly.”
Cade finished his drink. He tried to focus Mathison as he asked, “You want them too?”
“Yes, I want them. Ace tells me they can fix a big deal with Life if the pictures are good.” Again a pause, then Mathison went on, “I had the G.M. agent on the telephone. He asked if we would carry your car payments. I had to tell him your car payments weren’t covered by your contract.” Again there was a pause. “It is up to you, Val. Alice will get your ticket. There’s a hundred dollars for expenses: more if you want it. What’s it to be?”
“This is a pretty rough assignment,” Cade said, feeling the clutch of fear at his heart. “Who else will be going?”
“No one. No one else knows about it. If you pull this one off you will be back in business.”