Sherman Jamison is rich, very rich. He has amassed millions and now wants someone to pass them on to, the next in the family line. But he has no heir as his wife has been unable to have children. Refusing to let this stand in his way, Jamison pleads for a divorce but his wife, a devout Catholic, refuses to give into his demands. If she will not agree, she will have to be removed. Jamison hires a professional killer to do the deed but this is only the beginning of a thrilling and electrifying story of revenge, betrayal and murder.
Not My Thing
James Hadley Chase
1
A tall, handsome man, in his late thirties, with dark curly hair, paused in the doorway leading to the élite gambling room of the Paradise City’s casino. Immaculately dressed in an off-white suit, a dark-blue shirt and a blood-red tie, he surveyed the scene.
The time was 22.30. This room, containing only three roulette tables, was reserved for the high rollers. The lowest stake came at $500, and the tourists and the little gamblers kept well away. The ornate room was crowded for Paradise City, Florida, was the billionaires’ playground.
Known in the underworld as Julian ‘Lucky’ Lucan, the tall man nodded his approval. Somewhere in this crowded room there would be a woman who would satisfy his greed for money.
Lucan’s speciality was middle-aged women or elderly widows who had more money than sense. He led a life of luxury. If he had to bed with some fat old woman, he bedded her, giving her a late-life thrill, but he always saw the price was right, and it always came high.
He had been in Paradise City for the past three days. No matter how much money he received for his services, he was continually short. This didn’t worry him. Lucan lived well and played the horses. Money was made to be spent. So far, he had been successful in finding a generous old woman, but these past three days hadn’t produced anyone rich enough to be worthy of his charm. Lucan was an optimist. It was a matter of patience and circulating, but he was aware that his capital was dwindling. Why had he put $5000 on a nag that had come in last?
His bright blue eyes scanned the women seated at the tables. Maybe that fat one with the blue rinse and smothered with diamonds might be interesting. Or there was that skinny old woman who must have had at least five face-lifts, wearing interesting rubies and emeralds. Both these women looked bored and lonely as they pushed $1000 plaques onto the table. The time to pounce was when they won, and then they would be in a receptive mood. He moved further into the room, took out a gold cigarette-case, given him by a French countess, selected a cigarette and lit it with a gold, diamond-encrusted lighter, given him by an aging Roumanian millionairess.
‘Mr Lucan, I think?’
Lucan stiffened. A man’s voice: curt and hard. He turned swiftly to find himself confronted by a powerfully built man of his own height, around fifty years of age, with black, close-cut hair, streaked with grey, blunt features and cold grey eyes.
Because of his profession, Lucan had made a study of men and women, and he immediately recognized that this man came into the category of ‘Big People’. Apart from the cold, ruthless face, the man’s dark suit must have cost heavy money. To his irritation, Lucan had to admit that this man’s clothes, his finely woven white shirt and sombre hand-painted tie made him feel slightly shabby.
He put on his arrogant expression, trying to match this man’s penetrating stare, but was forced to shift his gaze.
‘I’m Lucan,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’
‘Mr Lucan, I may have a lucrative proposition for your consideration,’ the man said. His voice low and harsh. ‘Will you have a drink with me?’
Lucan became alert. He could smell money oozing out of this man, but he remained cautious.
‘That’s interesting.’ He switched on his charming smile that had seduced so many elderly women, but it seemed to bounce off this man. ‘And you? Who are you?’
‘Shall we go to the bar, Mr Lucan? We can talk quietly,’ and, turning, the man led the way from the roulette room, down a short passage to the almost deserted bar room.
Lucan followed him like a well trained dog.
Well, at least, he could listen. This man, he was sure, wasn’t a time-waster.
The man selected a table in a dimly lit corner, away from the few drinkers who were consoling themselves for their losses. As Lucan sat down, the barman arrived.
‘You drink… what?’
‘A Scotch, thank you.’
‘Two Scotches, Charles. Doubles.’
The man stared across the room, saying nothing. Lucan moved uneasily. He crushed out his cigarette.
‘You didn’t tell me your name.’
The man ignored him as he continued to stare into space. Glancing at him, Lucan felt his unease increase. Jesus! he thought, he’s a real toughie. He had a face that could have been carved out of granite. Lucan shifted in his chair, and was relieved when the barman came with the drinks.
As soon as the barman had gone, the man turned and stared at Lucan. His steel-grey eyes probing and unpleasantly searching.
‘I know all about you, Lucan,’ the man said in his low hard voice. ‘You are a successful vulture who preys on stupid, rich old women. You have no scruples. You will do anything if the money is big enough.’
Lucan stiffened, flushing.
‘I don’t know who the hell you are,’ he blustered, ‘but I’m not accepting insults from anyone!’
