1963 - One Bright Summer Morning by James Hadley Chase

some months ago, an enemy had caught him unawares and had cut his face open with a razor from his right eye down to his jawbone. These two scars gave him a vicious, frightening appearance of which he was proud. Chita and he had laid a trap for the man who had slashed him. The score had been successfully settled. The man was now being led around by his wife, half-blind and stupid from repeated kicks to his head. Both Chita and Riff always wore skiing boots. They went well with their uniform and were terrible weapons in a street fight.
    A man suddenly appeared in the doorway of the nightclub. He looked to right and left, stared at Chita, then started off down the street, his hands in his pockets. Chita watched him go indifferently. The exodus had begun: sooner or later, some mug would come over to her. She saw her brother flick his glowing cigarette end into the street and move further back into the shadows.
    Men and women began to emerge from the nightclub. Car doors slammed: cars drove away. Still Chita waited. Then a small man, wearing a raincoat and a slouch hat came up the stairs from the nightclub and paused in the doorway. Chita eyed him with interest and she lit another cigarette, holding the match cupped in her hand to light her face.
    The little guy stared across the street at her, seemed to hesitate, then he came over. Chita's experienced eyes noted the quality of the raincoat, the handmade shoes and the glitter of a gold strap watch. This could be the mug she was waiting for.
    The little guy grinned at her as he approached. He had a cocky, knowing air about him. He moved lightly: his thin, foxy face was suntanned as if he spent much of his time out of doors.
    “Hello, baby,” he said, pausing beside her. “Are you waiting for someone?”
    Chita let smoke drift down her nostrils. Then she gave him her wide, professional smile.
    “Hello, Mac,” she said. “If I'm waiting for someone, looks like I've found him, doesn't it?”
    The little guy examined her carefully. What he saw seemed to please him.
    “That's right: suppose we get out of the rain?” he said. “I have a car over there. Suppose you and me go someplace quiet and private? We could have lots to talk about.”
    Chita laughed. She arched her breasts at him and lifted her dark eyebrows invitingly.
    “Sounds like an idea: how private and where?”
    “How's about a hotel, baby?” The little guy winked. “I have money to burn. Do you know a quiet little joint we could go to?”
    This was easy . . . almost too easy. Chita allowed herself to hesitate before saying, “Well . . . if that's what you want, honey, it's okay with me. I know a place. I'll show you.”
    She flicked her glowing cigarette high into the air. This was a pre-arranged signal to Riff, letting him know where she was taking the mug.
    The little guy owned a Buick convertible. They got in and as Chita settled herself beside the little guy, he said, “That's an offbeat getup you have on. Suits you. What's the idea of the Daddy Longlegs?”
    “It's my signature tune,” Chita said. She was already bored with this little man. She only hoped he had a wallet full of money. She eyed the gold strap watch. That, at least, would be worth her trouble.
    Five minutes later they were booking into a shady hotel on the waterfront. The reception clerk, a dirty, elderly man, gave Chita a sly wink and she winked back. Both knew that within a few minutes, Riff would be arriving.
    They went upstairs and into a fair sized room in which was a double bed, two armchairs, a toilet basin and a threadbare carpet.
    Chita sat on the bed and smiled at the little guy who took off his raincoat and hat. He hung them on a peg at the back of the door. He wore a custom-made dark suit. He had the appearance of a man of money.
    “I'd like my present, honey,” Chita said. “Thirty bucks.”
    The little guy gave her an amused smile and moved to the window. He pushed aside the dirty curtain and peered down into the