The Guilty Are Afraid

by James Hadley Chase

  “And you were wonderful,” I said, letting my lips browse over her face, “and you are wonderful.”

  She ran her fingers through my hair.

  “So long as both of us are pleased with each other.”

  Then she slid away from me and, getting off the bed, she went out of the room. I reached for my dressing gown, put it on and went after her.

  I found her standing by the open french doors looking out at the silvery beach and the sea. She made a picture in the light of the moon: like a statue by the hand of a master.

  “What now?” I said, coming up by her side. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

  “Let’s swim now,” she said, taking my hand. “Then I must go. What is the time?”

  I led her out on to the terrace so I could read my watch in the light of the moon.

  “It’s after two.”

  “A quick swim, and then I really must go.”

  She ran ahead of me down to the sea and I went after her, throwing aside my dressing gown. We swam out for two hundred yards or so, then turned and headed back to the beach. The water was warm and around us there was a complete stillness as if we were the only two people left on earth.

  We walked across the sand towards the bungalow, hand in hand.

  As we reached the bungalow steps, she stopped suddenly, turned and lifted her face. I slid my hands down her long, slender back, over the curve of her hips and pulled her to me. We stood like that for a long moment, then she pushed me away.

  “It’s been lovely, Lew,” she said. “I’m coming again. Will you mind?”

  “What a question! Can you imagine I’d mind?”

  “I’ll get dressed. Will it bore you to take me back?”

  “I’d rather you stayed the rest of the night. Why don’t you?”

  She shook her head.

  “I can’t. Don’t think I don’t want to, but I have a maid whom Daddy pays. If I stayed out all night, Daddy would hear about it.”

  “You certainly seem to have your old man in your hair,” I said. “Well, all right. Let’s go in.”

  It didn’t take me more than a few minutes to get dressed. While she was fixing her hair, sitting before the dressing table mirror, I sat on the bed, waiting for her.

  “You know I think I should pay you rent for this place,” I said, “I could rise to thirty dollars a week, and it’d give you some pin money.”

  She shook her head and laughed.

  “That’s very sweet of you, but I don’t want pin money: I want spending money. No. I’m glad for you to have it and I’m not going to be paid for it.” She stood up, smoothed down her glittering dress over her hips, looked at herself and then turned. “Now, we must go.”

  “Well, all right, if you’re absolutely sure.”

  She came over to me and touched my face with her fingertips.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  We went through the rooms, turning off the lights, then I locked the front door and dropped the key into my pocket. We walked down to the car.

  As we drove back over the uneven road, my mind was busy. It seemed to me this was a good opportunity to ask questions. I felt she must be in a receptive mood, and there was one question that I really wanted answered.

  So I said casually, “Can you think of any reason why your father would want to hire a private detective?”

  She was sitting low down, her head resting against the top of the bench seat. She stiffened a little, turned to look at me.

  “Now you have had your way with me,” she said, “you are hoping I will be compliant.”

  “No. You don’t have to answer the question. I won’t hold it against you if you don’t.”

  She was silent for a long moment, then she said, “I don’t know, but I could make a guess. If he did hire your partner, then it was because he wanted him to watch his wife.”

  “Has he any reason to have her watched? “

  “I should imagine he has every reason. It surprises me he hasn’t done it long ago. She has some gigolo always hanging around her. She has this horrible man Thrisby at the moment. Perhaps Daddy is getting tired of it. I wish he would divorce her. Then I could go home.”

  “Would you like to do that?”

  “No one likes to be turned out of their home. Bridgette and I just can’t live together.”

  “What’s the matter with Thrisby?”

  “Everything. He’s the complete home wrecker: a horrible man.”

  I let the subject hang for a few moments then, as I drove off the beach road on to the promenade, I said, “Your father wouldn’t have hired Sheppey to check on you, would he?”

  She flicked her cigarette out of the window.

  “He doesn’t have to pay a detective to do that. My maid does all the necessary spying. It was a condition he let me have the apartment that I should have her with me. No, unless it’s something I know nothing about, I think you can be fairly sure he hired him to watch Bridgette.”

  “Yes, that’s what I think.”

  We drove in silence for a mile or so, then she said, “Do you plan to watch Bridgette?”

  “No: there’s not much point in that. I don’t imagine she had anything to do with Sheppey’s death. What I think happened was that while he was watching her, he came across something that had nothing to do with her. It was something important, and he was smart enough to realize it, so he got killed. This is a gangster town. Take the Musketeer Club. Sheppey could have found out something going on there. Although it is only used by the blue-blood trade, it is run by a gangster.”

  “Oh, you really think that? “

  “I’m guessing. I may be wrong, but until I’ve found out more I’m going to stay with the idea.”

  “If Sheppey got evidence that would give Daddy a divorce, Bridgette would be without a dime. She hasn’t any money of her own, or practically none. If Daddy divorced her, she would be out in the cold and she wouldn’t like that.”

  “You’re not suggesting that she killed Sheppey?”

  “Of course not, but Thrisby could have. I’ve seen him; you haven’t. He’s utterly ruthless and if he thought he wasn’t going to get any money out of Bridgette because of something Sheppey had found out, he might have killed him.”

  That was a line I hadn’t thought of.

  “I think I’ll take a look at him. Where do I find him?”

  “He has a little place up on the Crest. It lies at the back of the town. He calls it the White Chateau. It isn’t a chateau, of course. It’s just a flashy, nasty little love nest.”

  The bitterness in her voice made me look quickly at her.

  “Bridgette isn’t the only woman he entertains up there,” she went on. “Any woman with money is welcomed.”

  “Well, at least, he isn’t the only one,” I said. “This coast line is full of them.”

  “Yes.” She pointed. “You take the first on the right now. It’ll bring you straight to the Franklyn Arms.”

  I turned off the promenade and saw ahead of me the lighted sign of her apartment block. I drove to the entrance and pulled up before the revolving doors.

  “Well, good night,” she said, and her hand touched mine. “I’ll call you. Be careful of that man Thrisby.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” I said. “I’ll handle him. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

  As I made to get out, she said, “No, don’t. My maid is probably watching from the window. Good night, Lew.”

  She leaned against me and I felt her lips touch my cheek, then she opened the car door, slid out and walked quickly under the lighted canopy and disappeared through the revolving doors.

  I drove away.

  When I reached the promenade, I pulled up by the kerb to light a cigarette then, setting the car moving, I drove slowly back to the bungalow.

  On the way, I did some thinking. I switched my mind from Margot and concentrated on Cordez. For some reason or other the folder of matches that I had found in Sheppey’
s suitcase appeared to be worth five hundred dollars. Cordez had parted with three of these folders to three different people and in each case they had paid him that sum. It was safe to assume that Sheppey had either found the folder or had taken it from someone. That someone had ransacked both Sheppey’s and my room at the hotel. He had failed to find it in Sheppey’s room, but had found it in mine, and had substituted another folder, probably in the hope I hadn’t noticed the ciphers at the back of the matches. Therefore it was safe to assume that the ciphers meant something. It could also mean that this mysterious folder of matches was the cause of Sheppey’s death.

  I felt I was moving in the right direction, but I had still a lot more information to collect before I could get further than guesswork.

  I arrived back at the bungalow at a quarter to three. I was pretty tired by then. I unlocked the front door and, turning on the light, I entered the lounge.

  I had in mind to give myself a small whisky and soda before turning in, and I was crossing the lounge towards the bar when I saw something lying on one of the small occasional tables that made me pause.

  It was Margot’s evening bag: a pretty thing in black suede in the form of a scallop shell. I picked it up, idly pushed open the gold clasp and opened the bag. In it was a built-in powder compact in gold. A silk pocket contained a handkerchief. I pushed the handkerchief aside and saw beneath it a match-folder in red water silk.

  For a long moment I stared at it, then I picked it out, set down the bag and turned the fold over between my fingers.

  I opened it. There were only thirteen matches: the others had been torn out of the folder. Bending the matches back I saw a row of numerals printed on the back of them. The numerals ran from C451148 to C451160.

  I knew then this was the match-folder I had found in Sheppey’s suitcase; the one I had hidden under the carpet in my hotel bedroom; the one that had been stolen. As I stared at it, the telephone bell began to ring, making a loud, strident sound in the silent bungalow.

  I slid the folder into my pocket and walked over to the telephone and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello, yes?” I said, fairly certain who was calling.

  “Is that you, Lew?”

  Margot’s voice. She sounded a little out of breath.

  “Hello again: don’t tell me: I know. You’ve lost something?”

  “My bag. Did you find it?”

  “It’s right here on one of the tables.”

  “Oh, good. I didn’t know if I had left it at the club or in your car. I’m always leaving things in places. I’ll pick it up tomorrow morning unless you are passing and can leave it for me. Could you?”

  “That’s all right. I’ll leave it sometime during the morning.”

  “Thank you, darling.” There was a pause, then she said, “Lew . . .”

  “I ‘m still with you.”

  “I’m thinking of you.”

  I put my hand in my pocket and fingered the folder.

  “I’m thinking of you too.”

  “Good night, Lew.”

  “Good night, beautiful.”

  I waited until I heard her hang up before I replaced the receiver.

  III

  I awoke around ten o’clock the following morning. For some minutes I lay in the big double bed, staring up at the patterns made by the sun on the ceiling. Then I ran my fingers through my hair, yawned, threw off the sheet and got out of bed.

  A long, cold shower brought me fully awake. Wearing only my pyjamas, I went into the kitchen and made some coffee. When it was made, I carried it out and drank it on the terrace.

  From where I sat I could see the building that housed the School of Ceramics perched on its rocky peninsula: a low rambling building that had a blue-tiled roof and white walls.

  I decided as soon as I was dressed I’d go out there and mix with the tourists and see what there was to see.

  When I had finished the coffee, I returned to my bedroom, put on a pair of swimming trunks and then went down to the sea. I spent half an hour proving to myself that I was still as husky and athletic as I liked to think I was. After I had swum out about a quarter of a mile, I found myself getting slightly short of breath, so I turned around and made for the shore, with a longer stroke and at a slower speed.

  I went back to the bungalow, dried off, put on a pair of slacks and an open-neck shirt, then, locking up the bungalow, I got in the Buick and set course for Arrow Point.

  By then the time was twenty minutes past eleven. If there were going to be tourists, this was the time when they would begin their visit.

  I had to get back on to the promenade, and after a five-minute drive, I came upon a branch road which had a sign that said: This way for the School of Ceramics: the Treasure House of Original Design.

  As I turned on to the road I saw in my driving mirror a big blue and white rubberneck bus loaded with eager beavers with the usual brick-red faces and awful hats and making the usual over-happy noises.

  I pulled to one side and let the rubberneck get ahead of me. It went past with a roar and a stream of dust that kept with me all the way up the long road and through the double gates leading to the blue-tiled building. There were already six cars in the parking lot as I pulled up. An elderly man wearing a white coat, the pocket of which had a design of two fishes floating in a wine-red sea on it, came over and gave me a parking ticket.

  “One dollar,” he said with an apologetic smirk as if he knew it was robbery, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  “I bet they hate anyone who has the strength to walk,” I said, giving him the dollar.

  He said no one ever walked.

  I was killing time by talking to him. I wanted the bunch from the bus to get themselves sorted out. I planned to walk in with them.

  By the time I had crossed the parking lot, they had got out of the bus and were moving towards the entrance to the building. I tagged along with them.

  The courier, a busy, worried little man, bought tickets at the door and shepherded his flock through a turnstile into a big hall. I paid out another dollar, was given a ticket by a hard-eyed man in a white coat with the fish symbol showing on his pocket.

  He told me if I bought anything I’d get a refund on my ticket.

  “Heads you win, tails I lose,” I said.

  He lifted his shoulders.

  “If you knew the number of jerks that come in here out of the sun before we began to charge them entrance and never bought a damn thing, you’d be surprised.”

  I could see his point.

  I went through the turnstile, and was in time to join up with the last straggler as he moved after his party into a big room crammed with pottery of all shapes, sizes, colours and designs. The overall effect was pretty horrible.

  The room was around fifty feet long and twenty feet wide. On each side were long low counters which held more specimens of pottery. Girls, wearing white coats with the fish symbols on the pockets, stood behind the counters. They watched the bunch come in with bored eyes. I found myself thinking that Thelma Cousins had probably stood behind one of these counters and had probably watched a similar bunch of tourists with the same bored look only a few days ago.

  There were about twenty girls in the big room, all dressed alike, all shapes and sizes, all ready to sell something the moment anyone paused or was unwise enough to handle the ugly specimens of pottery on show.

  At the far end of the room was an open doorway across which hung a wine-red curtain. A hard-faced blonde sat on the chair by the curtain, her legs crossed, her hands folded in her lap. She looked as if she had been sitting like that for a long time.

  I tagged along in the rear of the tourists, pausing when they paused, shuffling on when they shuffled on. It surprised me the amount of stuff they bought: the prices were high and the stuff was pure junk.

  I kept my eye on the curtained doorway. I had an idea that it was beyond that curtain the real business was done. A fat old woman, her wrinkled fingers loaded with diamond
rings, carrying a wheezing Pekinese, suddenly came out from behind the curtain. She nodded to the hard-faced blonde, who gave her an indifferent stare. The old woman walked down the centre aisle and went out. Through one of the big windows I saw her heading for a Cadillac where a chauffeur was waiting.

  I caught the eye of one of the girls behind one of the long counters: a pretty little thing with a pert nose and a cheeky expression.

  “Haven’t you anything better than this junk?” I asked.

  “I’m looking for a wedding present.”

  “Isn’t there anything you like here?” she asked, and tried to look surprised.

  “Take a look yourself,” I said. “Is there anything here you’d want as a wedding present?”

  She cast her eye around the room, then she pulled a little face.

  “You could be right. Will you wait a moment?”

  She left the counter and went over to the hard-faced blonde and spoke to her. The blonde looked me over. She didn’t appear to be impressed. I had no diamond rings, nor a Pekinese. I was just another jerk on vacation.

  The girl I had spoken to came over to me.

  “Miss Maddox will look after you,” she said, and indicated the hard-faced blonde.

  As I moved over to her, she stood up. She had one of those hippy, bosomy figures you see in the nylon ads, but rarely in real life.

  “Was there something?” she asked in a bored voice, her eyes running over me and not thinking much of what they saw.

  “I’m looking for a wedding present,” I said. “You don’t call this muck a treasure house of original design, do you?”

  She lifted her plucked eyebrows.

  “We have other designs, but they come a little pricey.”

  “They do? Well, you only get married once in a while. Let me see them.”

  She drew aside the curtain.

  “Please go in.”

  I moved past her, through the doorway into a slightly smaller room. There were only about sixty specimens of Mr. Hahn’s art on show there; each had its own stand and was shown off to its best advantage. A quick look told me that this must be the stuff Margot had raved about. It was unlike the junk in the other room as crystal is unlike a diamond.