Youll die next, p.12
You'll Die Next!,
p.12
He said. “Lila.”
And that was all he remembered.
CHAPTER XIX
Henry opened his eyes. It was a white room, a hospital room... private... a white, comfortable hospital bed.
He moved his head and saw the cop sitting in the chair. Not so wonderful.
The cop said, “You all right, Mr. Wilson?”
Henry felt like laughing. Mister Wilson?
“Yes,” he said at last. “I’m fine.” Sure, he was fine. He could hardly see the cop’s face. But at least he was alive. “I want to see Lila,” he said.
The cop smiled. “Sure, Mr. Wilson.”
“Is she all right?”
The cop smiled again. He was a young fellow with dark hair, nice smile. Hell, cops weren’t so bad.
“She’s getting along swell, Mr. Wilson.”
“When can I see her?”
“Pretty soon.”
“God, it seems a long time.”
The cop stood up. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He went out of the room. Henry lay there and stared at the ceiling. At first it was grey and distant. Finally it took shape, turned white... spotless. He began to smell the hospital odour. Disinfectant of some kind, he supposed.
The cop came back. Henry tried to sit up. The room spun and he had to lie down again.
When he opened his eyes, they were standing beside his bed: the cop and a tousled-haired young fellow who looked like a football player. Henry frowned.
“This is Patrolman Nelson,” the young cop said. “He wanted to say hi.”
The blond young giant grinned. “Glad you’re coming out of it, Mr. Wilson. Sorry as hell about that boo-boo Waldron and I pulled the other night.”
Henry frowned again. Nelson laughed. “We’re sorry the story got out that you’d shot me. A reporter got real ambitious. The story was out before Waldron could tell the department he winged me, trying to get you.”
Henry nodded and they went away. The young cop said, “We’ll bring your wife in, Mr. Wilson.”
“Yes,” Henry said.
The cop said, “Lieutenant Murchison said I was to tell you that he’s going to be all right. A blood transfusion, but that’s all. He’s made a report. He sure worked hard, right in this hospital, to be sure they cleared you.” The cop laughed. “Lieutenant Murchison says to tell you next time you come in, he’ll believe every word you say—like gospel.”
* * *
The cop was gone. The door opened. Henry turned, looking for Lila. It was Mellor, his boss from the VA.
Mellor said, “Henry, I won’t stay a minute. Just a minute. Want to tell you I’m sorry. Went off less than half-cocked. I wasn’t primed at all. The man that’d served time in California was named Henry Wilson all right, but that was all.”
“It’s all right,” Henry said. He looked beyond Mellor, watching for Lite. The trouble was. nobody seemed to realise that the one you loved was all that mattered.
Then finally she came. Lila was dressed carefully. She looked as neat as she kept her house. She looked like an angel. She looked wonderful. She sat down on the side of his bed and put her arms around him.
Henry was afraid to touch her. He held her gently.
“Not like that. Henry. Hold me tight.”
“I’ll hurt you.”
“No. I love you.”
He closed his arms about her. He kissed her mouth and for him nothing had ever tasted so good.
“I love you,” she said again.
He smiled. “I know.”
Her frown mocked him. “You mean you really know I love you?”
“Why not?” Henry said. “I’m a hell of a guy. I just never had a chance to prove it before.”
“I—I just wanted to help, Henry.”
“Help?”
“The other morning. After I cleaned house, I went down to the Kit-Kat. I tried to find out about that awful man who hit you. I went back home, and then this man came to tell me his name was Carper and who’d hired him. I gave this man a drink for his information, and we went looking for the man who hit you. We couldn’t find him. But somebody found out I was asking about him, and they told that awful fat man—he was waiting at the house when I got back—”
She shuddered and he held her close.
She tightened her arms about his neck. Her lips moved up his throat. She did love him. Good lord, it was even possible she loved him as much as he loved her. He must be a hell of a guy!
For a long time they stayed like that. Lila said, “Henry, what are you thinking?”
“A hell of a thought,” he said. “Hell of a thing. I’m almost glad this—this thing happened. Maybe it took something terrible like this to show me what I should have known all along.”
She smiled. “You mean you finally know how much I love you.”
He grinned. “Finally.”
THE END
About the Author
Harry “King of the Paperbacks” Whittington (1915-1989) — who was born in the north Florida town of Ocala — is today best known for the noir novels he wrote between 1950 and 1960, including classics such as A Night for Screaming, Fires That Destroy, You’ll Die Next! and Web of Murder. He served with the U.S. Navy during World War II, and worked as an editor and freelance writer before he continued to write full-time.
After selling his first short story to United Features in 1943, Whittington went on to write more than 170 noir, suspense, western and romance novels, using nearly 20 different names, over the next thirty years.
About the Publisher
280 Steps is an eBook publisher of crime, noir and hardboiled fiction from around the world.
For more information about 280 Steps please visit 280steps.com
Copyright
Copyright © 1954 by Ace Books, Inc.; renewed 1982 by Harry Whittington
Introduction copyright © 2014 by Mike Dennis
First eBook edition: April 2014
Published by 280 Steps by arrangement with the Estate of Harry Whittington. Visit us at 280steps.com
Cover design by Risa Rodil
eISBN: 978-82-93326-21-2
Publishers note:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
If you would like to use material from the eBook (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher: info@280steps.com.
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Whittington, Harry, You'll Die Next!
