Safer Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  I examined the card.

  BENNETT. Frances, Lucy, 256, Glynne Avenue. T. C. 4475. Showgirl. Golden Apple Club. Age 26. Brunette. Blue eyes. Height 5ft. 6. Bust 36. Hips 36. Weight 120 lbs. Photogenic. Good for cruise, vacation, outdoor, candy box subject. Good patient model.

  ‘I keep tabs on them all,’ Hartley said. ‘Then when I want them again, I run through the cards until I find them.’

  I made a note of the address.

  ‘Any idea if she had a boyfriend?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’m careful not to get personal with my models. When I do, I run into trouble. Suzy is an example. She’s a swell model, but she imagines she can throw her weight about: slams doors, goes haughty on me, won’t do as she’s told. My fault. I got personal with her.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind getting personal with her myself,’ I said.

  ‘Ever heard of a guy who calls himself Henry Rutland? He’s tall, handsome and runs a cream and green Cadillac?’

  Hartley shook his head.

  ‘Nope.’ He closed his eyes. I could see he was fast losing interest in me. ‘Well, brother, if I can’t help you anymore, I guess I’ll take a little nap. I’m not feeling as bright as I did when I got up this morning.’

  ‘Well, thanks,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘Maybe I’ll call on you again. Don’t disturb yourself. I can find my way out.’

  I was talking to the air in the room. By the time I reached the hall, he had begun to snore.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I

  It was coming up for seven o’clock by the time I had tracked down Glynne Avenue, but I decided to keep on working while I could. I remembered Creed’s warning. If he were right, then the chances were I would get slung out of town before very long, and I wanted to find out as much as I could before I did run into trouble.

  Glynne Avenue was a modest tree lined street at the eastern end of the promenade: a street of apartment houses and tourist pensions, and No. 256 turned out to be a brown stone apartment house.

  Having located it, I drove the Buick to the nearest car park some hundred yards down the street, left the car, and walked back.

  I climbed the steps to the front door and stared at the five name plates which told me nothing. It was obvious that someone had taken over Fay Benson’s apartment, but I had no idea which apartment she had occupied.

  The situation called for thought. I wasn’t anxious to advertise the fact that I was inquiring for her, and yet I had to take a chance, if I was to find out who her successor was. I was about to thumb the bell to the first floor apartment when the front door opened and a girl appeared.

  She was dark and pale with nice eyes; not a beauty, but pleasant on the eye. She was the kind of girl you’d take home for your mother to see; that kind of girl. She started when she saw me, not expecting to see anyone, then smiled nervously.

  ‘You gave me a fright.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, taking off my hat. ‘I was about to ring the bell.’ She looked safe enough to confide in, so I went on, ‘I’m looking for Miss Bennett. I understand she lives here. Miss Frances Bennett.’

  The girl looked sharply at me. I could see the surprise in her eyes.

  ‘Why, Frankie’s been gone months. She left Tampa City in August.’

  ‘She has? Well, what do you know? That’s a big disappointment. I promised to take her out the next time I was in town.’

  She smiled then.

  ‘What a shame. No, Frankie’s left. I don’t know where she’s got to. I was hoping she’d write, but she never has.’

  ‘Are you a friend of hers?’

  ‘Oh yes. We shared the apartment together.’

  ‘My name’s Sladen,’ I said. ‘This is a big letdown for me. I was hoping she would have dinner with me.’

  She looked at me with sudden interest, mixed with caution. What she saw apparently reassured her for she said, ‘I’m Irene Jarrard. I don’t know if Frankie ever mentioned me. I’m sorry, Mr. Sladen, but she’s gone: that’s the way it is.’

  ‘Yeah, too bad.’ I gave her my best boyish smile. ‘I guess you would be dated for tonight, Miss Jarrard? You couldn’t take pity on a stranger? I was hoping for a little company tonight.’

  ‘Oh well, I don’t know.’ she stopped, hesitated, then laughed nervously. ‘You see, Mr. Sladen, I don’t really know you. I’ll be honest. I was going out to supper on my own, but I don’t think . . .’

  ‘I’m harmless,’ I said. ‘I’ll prove it to you if you’ll join me. I can’t very well, if you don’t, can I?’

  She laughed again.

  ‘That’s fair. Well, all right. I’d love to.’

  ‘Fine. My car’s at the end of the road. Where shall we go?’

  ‘There’s Lodoni. It’s a little expensive, but the food’s marvellous: that is if you like seafood.’

  I said I was crazy about seafood.

  By the time we reached Lodoni’s restaurant, I had got her confidence, and we were talking away as if we had known each other most of our lives.

  She was telling me she worked for Ryman Thomas, the advertising man, as I drove up a sand covered drive that led directly to the neon plastered restaurant, and she broke off to say: ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have come here. It’s going to be expensive. I don’t want you to have to spend a lot of money.’

  I laughed, thinking what a favourite she would be with Fayette.

  ‘I’m in an expensive mood tonight. Think nothing of it.’ I pulled into the parking lot, and together we walked over to the restaurant entrance.

  It was a pretty nice joint. The big restaurant overlooked the ocean, and although it was fairly crowded, we managed to get a table on the balcony that gave us a fine view of the sea, the bathers frolicking in the moonlight, and the wonderful sweep of the promenade.

  Irene told me she had heard the turtle steaks at Lodoni’s were out of this world, so we had turtle steaks. We started with two very dry martinis, followed by scampi, then the turtle steaks. While we ate, we talked. When we got to the coffee and cigarette stage, I brought the conversation around to Fay Benson.

  ‘Why did Frankie leave town, Miss Jarrard?’ I asked. ‘Did she give you any reason?’

  Irene shook her head.

  ‘I just can’t think. I went off to work as usual and when I got back she had gone. She left no note; she had just gone.’

  ‘She took all her things?’

  ‘Oh, yes; otherwise I should have been much more worried than I was. As it was, I couldn’t understand it. I called the Golden Apple, but they were just as surprised as I was.’

  ‘Who did you speak to at the Golden Apple?’

  ‘The stage manager: Mr. Hewlitt. Frankie hadn’t said anything to him about leaving.’

  ‘Do you remember the exact date?’

  ‘It was August 3rd. I remember because my brother’s birthday is on the 4th and I had got him a tie. I wanted Frankie’s opinion of it, but she had gone.’

  ‘She gave you no hint at all that she was leaving?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she pay her rent?’

  ‘Yes. I found the rent money on the mantelpiece. That’s why I was so surprised. I thought at least she might have written a note. We were good friends, Mr. Sladen. We had shared the apartment for eight or nine months. We got on well together.’

  I ordered more coffee. When the waiter had refilled our cups and had moved away, I said, ‘She worked at the nightclub on the night of 2nd?’

  ‘Yes. She had been modelling for Mr. Hartley, the cover designer, during the afternoon. When I got back to the office about six, she told me what a good drawing he had made of her and that she was looking forward to seeing him again the following day. She went out to do some shopping, then when she came back, she got ready for the nightclub and left at eight o’clock.’

  ‘She didn’t seem flustered or upset?’

  Irene shook her head.

  ‘She was in great form. She wasn’t worried a bit.’


  ‘Did she get back at her usual time?’

  ‘I think she was later than usual. She more or less got back every night around two. We didn’t share bedrooms, but I generally heard her when she came in. I thought it was later, but I can’t be sure. I was sleepy, and I didn’t look at the time. It felt later to me. I think it must have been nearly daylight.’

  ‘Did you see her before you went to work?’

  ‘Oh no. I didn’t disturb her. She didn’t get up any morning before eleven, and I have to leave the apartment around nine.’

  ‘Was she alone when she came back that night?’

  She looked sharply at me, frowning.

  ‘It’s funny you should ask that. I had an idea at the time there was someone with her. I was only half awake when I heard her unlock the door, but I thought I heard a man’s voice. I can’t be sure. I was sleepy, but I did think a man was with her.’

  ‘Did she often bring men back to the apartment?’

  ‘Only once that I remember: towards the end of July. She said she was having a friend in for supper, and would I mind keeping out of the way. We had agreed to do this when we shared the apartment together. If I wanted my friends in, she kept out of the way. As it happened I had a movie date, and I didn’t get home until late. They had gone by then, but there were a lot of cigarette butts in the ashtray: Egyptian cigarettes. I don’t like the smell of them much and I particularly noticed they were Egyptian.’

  ‘It might have been a woman, of course?’

  ‘Well, there were no lipstick marks on the butts.’

  I smiled at her.

  ‘You’d make a good detective; Miss Jarrard.’

  ‘I was thinking that about you,’ she said seriously. ‘Why are you asking all these questions?’

  ‘I’ll tell you: I think Frankie’s in trouble.’ I took out Fay Benson’s photograph from my wallet and put it on the table.

  ‘That’s her, isn’t it?’

  Irene looked at the photograph.

  ‘Yes, of course, but she’s blonde in this picture. She was a natural brunette, Mr. Sladen. Why has she gone blonde? When was this picture taken?’

  ‘From what you tell me, I’d say it was taken a couple of weeks after she left here. This girl,’ I went on, tapping the photograph, ‘called herself Fay Benson. On August 9th, she arrived at Welden and got a job at the Florian nightclub as a solo dancer. On August 17th she suddenly vanished and the police think she was kidnapped. I’m going to be frank with you, but I want you to promise me that what I’m going to tell you goes no further. It’s important.’

  She was looking a little scared by now.

  ‘Of course I won’t say anything.’

  ‘The Welden police have asked me to find out what I can about the girl. They have an idea an investigation won’t be encouraged by the Tampa City police so I have to work cautiously. There’s some mystery going on, and I want to find out what it is.’

  ‘But if she was kidnapped, surely she must have been found by now,’ Irene said, her eyes opening wide. ‘You say she disappeared on August 17th? That’s more than fourteen months ago?’

  ‘She hasn’t been found yet,’ I said. I thought it wouldn’t be wise to tell her the girl had been murdered. She might get scared and clam up on me. ‘Maybe she hasn’t been kidnapped. Maybe she’s scared of something and is in hiding. Did she have a boyfriend; someone she went regularly with?’

  ‘No. You see, her work made it difficult. She didn’t get up until late, and she went to the nightclub at eight. She often said how dull it was having the afternoon free with no one to spend it with.’

  ‘And yet there was a man who came to your apartment for supper, and who was with her on the last night before she left.’

  ‘Yes, but she never said who he was and I never saw him.’

  ‘Are you quite sure she didn’t leave that night? You didn’t go into her room the next morning, did you?’

  ‘No. Of course, she might have left that night. I overslept and I was in a hurry to leave. It was only when I got back I noticed the money on the mantelpiece. It might have been left there overnight.’

  ‘She never mentioned a guy named Henry Rutland to you, did she?’

  Irene shook her head.

  ‘No.’

  ‘She had a charm bracelet. Did you ever see it?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve often seen it.’

  ‘Did you notice a golden apple among the charms?’

  Irene looked surprised.

  ‘Oh yes. Mr. Royce gave it to her. It was soon after she had got the job at the Golden Apple. She had made a hit on her first night, and Mr. Royce gave it to her as a memento.’

  ‘Hamilton Royce? He owns the club, doesn’t he?’

  She nodded.

  Hamilton Royce - Henry Rutland, I was thinking. Could he be one and the same?

  ‘Have you ever seen him?’

  ‘Oh no. Although Frankie didn’t talk about him much, I think she liked him. I’ve never seen him myself.’

  ‘Did she ever say what he looked like?’

  ‘I don’t think she did, but I have the impression she thought he was very good looking.’

  I decided I should have to take a look at Mr. Royce. He interested me.

  We talked on for another half hour, but I learned nothing further. Irene had just so much information to give me, and no more. But I had one more lead to follow. My next move was to take a look at Royce.

  I took Irene home, promised I would let her know if I made any startling discoveries, then drove back to the Beach Hotel.

  I went up to my room, got into bed and lay in the dark, considering my progress.

  Fay obviously had a mysterious man friend. For some reason or other she had kept quiet about him to Irene. If the association had been straightforward the most natural thing would have been for her to discuss him with Irene. But she hadn’t done so. Why? Was he Royce? At least I had one small clue. This guy smoked Egyptian cigarettes: a little unusual, but not all that unusual.

  Had Fay left on the night of August 2nd? If she had, it was possible she had gone with her boyfriend. I wasn’t forgetting that she and Henry Rutland booked in at the Shad Hotel, Welden, on the same day.

  The time lag between August 2nd, when she left Tampa City and August 9th, when she arrived at Welden, puzzled me. Seven days - where had she been and what had she been doing during those seven days?

  ‘Work at it, Sherlock,’ I said to myself. ‘This time lag may be the key to the whole mystery, so work on it.’

  It was after two o’clock before I fell asleep.

  II

  A little after noon the following day, I drove out to Lennox Hartley’s house.

  The Filipino boy who opened the door showed me into the lounge and said he would ask if Mr. Hartley was free to see me. I waited half an hour before Hartley appeared, in a red and white striped dressing gown over pearl grey pyjamas. He looked rather the worse for wear, but at least he had shaved and bathed.

  ‘You again,’ he said and laboured across the carpet to the cocktail cabinet. ‘Scotch or gin?’

  I said Scotch sounded right.

  He made two large highballs, handed me one with a hand that was no steadier than an aspen leaf, then sank into an armchair, took a swig from his glass, shuddered and closed his eyes.

  ‘Sunlight and early callers are hell,’ he said mournfully. ‘I sometimes wish I lived on the moon. Have you ever thought of living on the moon?’

  I said since, from what I had heard, there was no air worth mentioning up there and also it was pretty cold, I had never given it serious consideration as an asylum.

  He stared up at me and shrugged.

  ‘Maybe you’re right, but think how isolated you’d be.’ He took another drink, then asked, ‘Well, old fella, what is it this time?’

  ‘You are a member of the Golden Apple club, aren’t you?’

  He looked surprised.

  ‘That’s right, but don’t hold it against me. Why?’

&nb
sp; ‘I want you to take me there tonight.’

  He gaped at me, then smiled and set his glass down on the occasional table at his side.

  ‘You are quite a guy, aren’t you? So you want me to take you to the club, do you? This is very interesting, Mr. Slade - is that your name?’

  ‘Sladen,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry.’ He groped for his glass, found it and held it close to his chest. ‘Mr. Sladen, this is very interesting. What makes you imagine for one moment that I want to take you to the Golden Apple tonight? I don’t want to sound boorish, but let’s be reasonable about this. I met you for the first time yesterday, and now you are suggesting I should take you to the most expensive dive on the coast and spend my good money on you. Don’t take offence, Mr. Sladen, but when I go out and spend my money recklessly I like to spend it on a girl who will be duty bound to pay off in return. See what I mean?’

  I laughed.

  ‘Sure, that’s the way I like to do it too, but this is business and important. I have reason to think Frances Bennett has been murdered.’

  He spilled some of the whisky on his dressing gown, but he didn’t even notice.

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘Yes. It’s important I get into the club and take a look around. You’re the only person I know in town who is a member. You’ll be doing the police a service if you’d take me in tonight.’

  He stared down at the carpet while he thought. The process seemed to be painful to judge by his screwed up expression.

  ‘Someone belonging to the club kill her?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s possible.’ I was on the point of asking him for a description of Royce but decided against it. He would probably jump to the conclusion that I thought Royce had killed the girl. If he spread that rumour I knew I would be in real trouble.

  ‘No point in me taking you to the club, Mr. Sladen,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It wouldn’t be good for you nor for me. I’ll tell you why. I go to the club pretty often, but I’ve never taken a man there as my guest. Not once. There’s a guy on the door who’s about the toughest egg I’ve ever run into. If you don’t want to look suspicious, you won’t go to the club with me.’