‘Morning Visit’
JAMES HADLEY CHASE

CRIME: Sadist 
PLACE: Cuba 
YEAR: c. 1940

BRIEFING: Peter Kurten, the ‘Monster of Dusseldorf, who carried out a series of sadistic sexual killings of young women in Germany in the late ‘twenties and early ‘thirties, was as infamous for a time as Jack the Ripper-for whom he expressed a profound admiration. He caused a wave of fear until he was caught, tried for nine murders, and guillotined in Cologne in 1931. America’s most infamous sadistic killer was Albert Fish, who added cannibalism to his sadomasochism and was electrocuted at Sing Sing Prison in 1936; while in the annals of British crime, Neville George Heath, the suave RAF officer with abnormal sexual lusts who killed two young women and was hanged in 1946, enjoys the same dubious distinction on this side of the Atlantic.

AUTHOR: James Hadley Chase (1906-85), a London-born former children’s encyclopaedia salesman and book wholesaler, was inspired by the works of W. R. Burnett and several other hardboiled American crime writers to attempt a similar kind of novel. The result was ‘No Orchids For Miss Blandish’ (1939), the story of a beautiful heiress kidnapped by a mob of American gangsters who sadistically abuse, beat and sexually assault her. It became a million seller and is still claimed today to be one of the bestselling mysteries ever published. The phenomenal success of this book and the author’s choice of subsequent titles with a similar mixture of sex and violence, turned Chase into the acknowledged king of thriller writers in Britain and Europe-a position he maintained for much of his writing life. It was an astonishing achievement for a man who was writing about American localities he had never visited and authentically describing a criminal milieu and its villains about which he had no personal knowledge. In fact, Chase used maps, travel guides and dictionaries of American slang for his eighty novels, which were virtually all set in the USA. He carried his readers along with fast-paced action, complex plots and unforgettable characters, ranging from unscrupulous private eyes to ex-CIA agents and insurance fraud investigators: all of whom constantly tangled with beautiful and voraciously sexual females. However, his sadistic treatment of women in a number of stories got Chase into trouble with some critics and, on occasions, even the authorities. In fact, attempts were made to ban several of his books-although these self-same titles were soon to be made into Hollywood movies. The following uncompromising story of sadism and torture is believed to have been one of the main reasons why a collection of Chase’s short stories, entitled ‘Get A Load Of This’, which was scheduled to be published in 1941, failed to appear on the bookstalls. Indeed, ‘Morning Visit’ was not published in the UK until forty years later and is here making its first anthology appearance.

THE STORY: 

The Lieutenant stopped and held up his hand. Over to his right he had seen the farm, half hidden by a clump of coconut palms. The four negro soldiers shuffled to a standstill, grounding their rifles and leaning on them.
Overhead the sun beat down on the little group. The Lieutenant, the sweat oozing out of his fat hide, wriggled his body inside his uniform which stuck to him uncomfortably. He was acutely aware of the great patches of damp that stained his white uniform; and he cursed the heat, the President and, above all, the ABC terrorists.
Contemptuously he regarded the four negroes, who stood staring with vacant eyes on the ground, like emasculated cattle. ‘This is the place,’ he said, thrusting forward his bullet head. ‘Two of you to the right; two to the left. No noise. No shooting-use your bayonets if there’s trouble.’
He drew his sword. The steel blade flashed in the sunlight.
The soldiers opened out and advanced towards the farm at a trot. They held their heads down, and their rifles hung loosely in their hands. As they shambled over the uneven ground they looked like bloodhounds picking up a scent.
The Lieutenant moved forward at a slower pace. He walked gingerly, as if he were treading on eggshells. Inside his once beautiful uniform, his fat body cringed at the thought of a bullet smashing into him. He took the precaution of keeping the coconut palms between him and the farm. When he could no longer shelter himself behind the slender trunks he broke into a run. The heat waves coiled round him like a rope as he lumbered over the rough ground.
The four soldiers had already reached the farm, and they stood in an uneven circle, waiting for the Lieutenant to come up. They were more animated now. They knew that very soon they would be back in the barracks out of the heat of the afternoon sun.
The farm was a squat dwelling, with a palm-thatched roof and whitewashed walls. As the Lieutenant approached cautiously, the door of the place opened and a tall, poorly dressed Cuban stepped into the sunshine.
The soldiers jerked up their rifles, threatening him with the glittering bayonets. The Cuban stood very still, his hands folded under his armpits, and his face wooden.
The Lieutenant said, ‘Lopez?’
The Cuban’s eyes flickered round at the soldiers, seeing only the ring of steel before him. He looked at the Lieutenant. ‘Yes,’ he said, a dry rustle in his voice.
The Lieutenant swung his sword. ‘You may have heard of me,’ he said, a wolfish smile pulling at his mouth. ‘Ricardo de Crespedes.’
Lopez shuffled his feet in the sand. His eyes flinched, but his face remained wooden. ‘You do me much honour, señor,’ he said.
The Lieutenant said, ‘We’ll go inside,’ and he stepped past Lopez, holding his sword at the alert. He walked into the dwelling.
Lopez followed him with two of the soldiers. The other two stood just outside the door.
The room was very poor, shabby, and dirty. De Crespedes moved to the rough table standing in the middle of the room and rested his haunches on it. He unbuttoned the flap on his revolver-holster and eased the revolver so that he could draw it easily. He said to one of the soldiers, ‘Search the place.’
Lopez moved uneasily. ‘Excellency, there is no one here-only my wife.’
The negro went into the other room. De Crespedes said, ‘See if he’s armed.’
The other soldier ran his big hands over Lopez, shook his head, and stepped back. De Crespedes hesitated, then reluctantly put up his sword. There was an long, uneasy pause.
The negro came back from the other room pushing a Cuban woman before him.
De Crespedes looked at her and his small eyes gleamed. The woman ran to Lopez and clung to him, her face blank with fear. She wore a white blouse and skirt; her feet were bare. De Crespedes thought she was extraordinarily nice. He touched his waxed moustache and smiled. The movement was not lost on Lopez, who tightened his hold on his wife.
De Crespedes said: ‘You’re hiding guns here. Where are they?’
Lopez shook his head. ‘I have no guns, Excellency. I am a poor farmer-I do not trade in guns.’
De Crespedes looked at the woman. He thought her breasts were superb. The sight of her drew his mind away from his duty and this faintly irritated him, because he was quite a good soldier. He said a little impatiently: ‘It will be better for you to say so now than later.’
The woman began to weep. Lopez touched her shoulder gently. ‘Quiet,’ he said, ‘it’s Ricardo de Crespedes.’
The Lieutenant drew himself to his full height and bowed. ‘He is right,’ he said, rolling his bloodshot eyes a little. The woman could feel his rising lust for her.
Lopez said desperately: ‘Excellency, there has been some mistake-‘
De Crespedes lost patience. He told the soldiers to search the place for guns. As the negroes began hunting he pulled the woman away from Lopez. ‘Come here,’ he said, ‘I want to look at you.’
Lopez opened his mouth, but no sound came to him, his eyes half closed and his hands clenched. He knew he could do nothing.
The woman stood close to de Crespedes, her hands clasped over her breasts. Her fear stirred his blood.
‘Do you understand why I’m here?’ he said, putting his hand on her bare arm. Traitors are arming the people against the President. Guns have been hidden here. We know that. Where are they?’
She stood quivering like a nervous horse, not daring to draw away from him. She said, ‘Excellency, my man is a good man. He knows nothing about guns.’
‘No?’ De Crespedes pulled her closer to him. ‘You know nothing about these terrorists? Nothing about plots to overthrow Machado?’
Lopez stepped forward, pushing his wife roughly away, so that de Crespedes’ hold was broken. ‘We know nothing, Excellency.’
De Crespedes shoved himself away from the table. His face hardened. ‘Seize this man,’ he barked.
One of the soldiers twisted Lopez’s arms behind him and held him.
The woman ran her fingers through her thick hair. Her eyes grew very wide. ‘Oh no... no...’ she said.
De Crespedes himself supervised the search, but they found nothing. He went out into the sunlight again and shouted to the remaining soldiers to look round the outside of the farm. Then he came back. He stood in the doorway, looking at Lopez. ‘Where are the guns?’ he said. ‘Quick-where are they?’
Lopez shook his head. ‘We know nothing about guns, Excellency.’
De Crespedes turned to the soldier. ‘Hold him very tightly.’ Then he began to walk towards the woman. She turned to run into the other room, but the other soldier was standing against the door. He was smiling, and his teeth looked like piano keys. As she hesitated, de Crespedes caught up with her and his hand fell on the back of her blouse. He ripped it from her. She crouched against the wall, hiding her breasts with her hands, weeping softly.
De Crespedes looked over his shoulder at Lopez. ‘When you are dead,’ he said, ‘I will have your woman-she is good.’
Lopez controlled himself with a great effort. He was completely powerless in the grip of the soldier.
De Crespedes said to the soldiers who came in at this moment, ‘Cut off his fingers until he’s ready to talk.’
The woman screamed. She fell on her knees in front of de Crespedes, wringing her hands. ‘We know nothing, Excellency,’ she said wildly. ‘Don’t touch my man.’
De Crespedes looked down at her with a smile. Then he put his dusty boot on her bare breasts and shoved her away. She fell on her side and lay there, her head hidden under her arms.
The soldiers forced Lopez to sit at the table, and they spread his hands flat on the rough wood. Then, using his bayonet like a hatchet, one of the negroes lopped off a finger.
De Crespedes sat looking at the blood that ran across the table and dripped on to the floor. He stood up with a little grimace of disgust.
A thin wailing sound came from Lopez, although he didn’t open his lips. The two soldiers who held him shifted as they strained to keep his hands in position.
‘Until he talks,’ de Crespedes said, unhooking his jacket and removing his sword-belt.
The negro raised his bayonet and brought it down with a swish. There was a little clicking sound as it went through bone, and he had difficulty in getting the blade out of the hard wood.
De Crespedes threw his jacket and sword-belt on the bench and walked over to the woman. With a grunt, he bent over her. Taking her under her arms, he dragged her into the other room. He threw her on the bed. Then he went back and kicked the door shut. He noticed that it was very hot in the room, although the shutters kept out the sun.
The woman lay on her side, her knees drawn up to her chin. She kept her eyes shut, and her lips moved as she prayed. De Crespedes lowered his bulk on to the bed. He took her knees in his hands and turned her on her back. Then he forced her knees down and ripped the rest of her clothes from her. He did not hurry, and once, when she resisted, pushing at him with her small hands, he thumped her on her chest with his fist, like he was driving in a nail with a hammer.
Then, because he knew this rigid body could give him no pleasure, and because he had much experience, he set about breaking her down. His two hands settled on her arms and his fingers dug into her soft muscles. Her eyes opened and she screamed. He leant on her, crushing her with his bulk, and dug further with his fat, thick fingers. It was not long before the violence of the pain turned the woman into a weeping, gibbering thing of clay on the bed. And when he took her, she lay placid, her tears falling on his shoulder.
Later on, one of the soldiers had to go out and get a bucket of water to throw over Lopez, and although they did many things to him, they could not get him to speak, so they lost patience with him and they killed him.
When de Crespedes came out of the room he found his soldiers standing uneasily waiting for him. He looked down at Lopez and stirred him with his boot. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and yawned. ‘Did he talk?’ he asked indifferently. He was thinking of the long tramp back to the barracks. When they shook their heads, he shrugged and put on his jacket. He was feeling devilishly tired. Listlessly he tightened the sword-belt round his thick middle and put on his cap. Then he went back and looked at Lopez again. ‘It is possible he knew nothing about guns,’ he said half aloud, ‘they’ve made a lot of mistakes before.’ He shrugged and turned to the door.
The soldiers picked up their rifles and moved after him. Outside, he paused. ‘The woman,’ he said irritably, ‘I was forgetting the woman.’ He looked at one of the soldiers. ‘Attend to her. Use your bayonet.’
While they waited in the blinding heat, he thought regretfully how much better it would have been if she had loved him. There was little satisfaction to be had from a weeping woman. Still, he felt better for it. Women were necessary to him.
When the soldier came out, they gave him time to clean his bayonet and then they all tramped across the uneven ground towards the barracks.