Safer Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  Borg had opened the window and was leaning forward to peer into the darkness.

  With my heart in my mouth, I rushed him.

  He was jerking back and turning as I reached him. I had the gun by its barrel and I struck at his head. He was badly placed, startled and off balance, but he did manage to shift his head enough to avoid absorbing most of the blow. The gun butt scraped down the side of his face, dazing him. His gun dropped out of his hand as he lurched into me, his great arms instinctively closing around mine. It was like being caught in the hug of a bear. I tried to shove him off, but I might just as well have shoved against the Empire State building. He was half a foot shorter than

  I was, and he used that advantage to drive the top of his head, that felt like a slab of concrete, under my jaw.

  The impact was like being hit with a rock and I felt my knees buckle. He tried the same dodge again, but this time I managed to get my jaw out of the way. I hooked my heel around the back of his leg and heaved forward. He lost balance, and we went to the floor with a crash that nearly brought in the roof of the cabin.

  It was my luck I fell on top of him. The jolt sent my gun out of my hand and away into the darkness. The fall broke his hold. I was scrambling to my feet when a fist whistled out of the

  darkness and caught me on my bicep. He could punch like a professional and the force of the blow sent me down.

  Grunting he came at me. I swung up a foot, got it in the middle of his barrel of a chest, grabbed one of his arms and heaved. He went over me like a heaved sack of coal and crashed against the wall.

  I got to my feet, grabbed up a chair and slammed it down on his head as he got up on hands and knees. He flattened out, heaved up again and caught me under the knees before I could hit him again.

  I took a toss that beat most of the breath out of me, and he was on top of me by the time I got my head clear. I shoved my open hand into his face, holding him back, but I took a chopping blow on the side of my neck that turned me sick. I shoved him away and as he scrambled towards me again, I kicked him in the chest.

  He rolled over on his back, but he could take any amount of that kind of stuff. He was getting to his feet as my hand closed around the leg of the bedside table. His head was outlined against the window, and it made a nice target. I hit him on the exact top of his head with the table which flew to pieces under the impact.

  He flattened out and stayed out.

  Panting, I bent over him, turned him on his back to make sure he wasn’t foxing. I felt as if I had been snarled up with a bulldozer. I looked across the room for Lydia, but I couldn’t see her.

  ‘Lydia!’

  She didn’t answer.

  I fumbled my way across to the electric light switch and turned the light on.

  She wasn’t in the room.

  As I ran out into the passage, shouting her name, I heard the sound of an approaching police siren.

  III

  I jerked open the cabin door and ran out on to the verandah. Away through the trees I could see the blaze of approaching car headlights.

  A yellow flash of flame came from across the lawn, something zipped past my face and carved splinters from the front door. The crash of gunfire shattered the silence of the night, and I hurriedly ducked back under cover.

  I had forgotten the second gunman, and he had nearly fixed me. I bolted down the passage into the back room for my gun. The sight of the empty room made my nerves crawl.

  Borg had made a pretty quick recovery. He was either hiding in the cabin or he had left by the window. I snatched up the gun, jumped across the room and turned off the light.

  Cautiously I made my way down the passage to the front door again.

  I heard a car pull up with a screeching of tyres. Car doors slammed, then two policemen, guns in hand, came running down the cinder path. From across the lawn, behind the shelter of a cabin, there was a flash and a bang of gunfire.

  The two policemen scattered like startled hens, diving behind trees. One of them fired at the cabin. There was a crash of glass and a woman screamed.

  Lights began to flash up in the cabins, spilling through the windows on to the lawn.

  I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure, squat and thickset moving stealthily towards the trees. It was Borg. Lifting my gun, I fired at him. He broke into a run, but before he could reach the shelter of the trees, one of the policemen fired at him, and his shooting was more accurate than mine.

  Borg went down on one knee, struggled up, then came slowly out into the open. The gun in his hand blazed. The two policemen both fired at him. Staggering back, he dropped his gun and spread out on the grass.

  The second gunman made a dash for the cinder path. One of the policemen spun around, jerked up his gun and fired. The gunman dropped, rolled over, tried to get up on hands and knees, then slumped down on the cinders.

  ‘You’ve got both of them now,’ I shouted and moved out on to the verandah.

  The two policemen came cautiously towards me, covering me with their guns.

  ‘I’m Sladen,’ I said, careful not to move. It struck me these two might be trigger happy.

  ‘Drop that gun!’ one of them rapped out.

  I put the gun on the verandah floor.

  ‘Okay; now identify yourself.’

  I gave him my press card and driving licence.

  ‘Okay, Mr. Sladen,’ the policeman said. ‘Looks like we turned up about right. Sergeant Scaife’s sending another car. It should I be here any moment.’

  ‘Did you see a girl around?’ I asked.

  ‘Didn’t see anyone except those two punks.’

  Then I caught sight of Lydia as she came out of the shadows.

  She walked unsteadily and slowly towards me.

  ‘There she is,’ I said and ran over to her.

  Before I could reach her, she folded at the knees and dropped on the grass. The two policemen joined me as I bent over her. For a moment I thought she had been shot, but there was no sign of blood. One of the policemen felt her pulse.

  ‘She’ll be okay,’ he said. ‘She’s fainted.’

  By this time people were crowding out of the cabins and were forming groups around the two dead gunmen. Approaching sirens brought two more squad cars bouncing

  down the drive-in.

  ‘I’ll get her to my car,’ I said, picking Lydia up.

  With the two policemen either side of me, I carried her to the car park where the squad cars were unloading.

  A sergeant came over to me.

  ‘Sladen?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The Captain wants you back at headquarters. Who’s the girl? Is she hurt?’

  ‘No; just fainted.’ I got Lydia into the Lincoln. ‘She’s part of the story. Are you going to give me an escort?’

  ‘I’ll send someone with you.’

  He told one of his men to drive us to headquarters, then calling to his men, he went off down the cinder path.

  It took us under an hour to reach headquarters. On the way, Lydia came out of her faint. She seemed pretty badly shocked and after I had assured her she had nothing to worry about, she relaxed against me, her head on my shoulder.

  Scaife was waiting as we pulled up outside headquarters. He stared blankly at me as I helped Lydia out.

  ‘The guy hiding behind this moustache is your old pal Sladen,’ I said.

  ‘Pretty smart,’ he said, grinning. ‘You had me foxed for a moment. Looks as if you’ve been having fun. Come on in. The Captain’s just shown up. I got him out of bed. Better watch your step. He’s as mad as a bear with a boil.’

  While he was talking he looked curiously at Lydia who leaned against me and stared at him with scared eyes.

  ‘Let’s go on in,’ I said.

  We climbed the stairs to Creed’s office.

  ‘While I talk to the Captain, will you look after Miss Forrest?’ I said. ‘She’s had a shock and needs a rest.’

  ‘Sure,’ Scaife said. ‘You come with me.’
He went on to Lydia. ‘I’ll fix you up.’

  Leaving them I rapped on the police captain’s door, pushed it open and walked in.

  Creed sat at his desk. His heavy face was drawn and tired. The wall clock told me it was twenty minutes past three. I felt quite a wreck myself. For a moment he stared hard at me.

  ‘Sladen reporting,’ I said.

  ‘You seem to have got yourself into a pretty fine mess,’ Creed growled.

  ‘I guess I have,’ I said, hooking a chair towards me with my foot. ‘Mathis is after me, and I had to change my appearance to keep my freedom of movement. I’ve brought a witness along with me. Her name’s Lydia Forrest. She’s the ex-girlfriend of Hamilton Royce. Have you read my report?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Let me bring you up to date,’ I said, sitting down. I gave him a detailed account of what had happened since writing the report and concluded by saying, ‘Miss Forrest can prove Royce and Fay knew each other, and I can get hold of this private investigator, Andrews, who can prove Royce fingered Fay to Flemming.’

  Creed took out a cigar, bit off the end before saying, ‘That won’t do us much good. So long as he remains in Tampa City we can’t touch him. I’ve checked the gun you sent in. It was stolen from a gunshop in Frisco eight years ago. It could have belonged to anyone. There’re no prints on it.’ He lit his cigar, then asked, ‘What’s the motive behind Hartley’s murder?’

  ‘As far as I can make out the motive behind all these murders is panic,’ I said, shaking a cigarette from the pack and lighting it. ‘Since Fay disappeared there have been five murders that can be linked to her. Let’s look at them in rotation: first was Joe Farmer. He helped kidnap her. He was a lush; the kind of guy who might talk when he was drunk. He was dangerous, so he was knocked off by a hit and run car. Joan Nichols was next. She was a blackmailer, and it’s my bet she picked up some information when she was in Paris and tried to cash in on it. She too was silenced. Then fourteen months later, just when everything had quietened down, Jake Hesson made a mistake. He admitted to me he knew Fay. He was promptly knocked off before I could put pressure on him. Hartley offered you information. When I first called on him he hadn’t much to tell me, but later, he may have thought of something. Anyway, he called me and said he had a theory that might interest me. But he was knocked off before I could get to him. Probably his servant saw the killer and he had to go too. The whole setup smells to me of panic. Someone is desperately trying to keep a murder quiet. I have an idea it’s Van Blake’s murder and not Fay’s that the killer is trying to cover up. There must be a pretty good reason why six people have been murdered, and five million bucks is a good reason. That’s what Van Blake left his wife.’

  Creed ran his fingers through his hair while he scowled at me.

  ‘You think Royce and the Van Blake woman are behind all these killings?’

  ‘I’m sure they are.’

  ‘But you’re guessing. Where’s the hook up between Van Blake’s murder and Fay Benson?’

  ‘If I knew that the case would be solved. There is a hookup. There must be. Look at it this way: Royce dropped his girlfriend for Fay. But he went around with Fay in secret. Why in secret? If Miss Forrest hadn’t had Fay watched no one would have known Royce and she had teamed up. Royce fingered Fay to Flemming. He then took her to Welden where no one knew her and he was careful not to be seen with her there. Flemming, Farmer and Hesson kidnapped her, and Flemming killed her. He took a lot of care about hiding her body. Mrs. Van Blake knew her. She must have done. You should have seen how she reacted when I showed her Fay’s photograph. Hartley employed Fay as his model. I think he remembered something about her that was dangerous to either Royce or Mrs. Van Blake. He got shot before he could talk. Of course there’s a hookup. We’ve got to find out what it is.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Creed said, impressed in spite of himself. ‘Well, how are we going to do it?’

  ‘There’s an essential clue missing,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘Maybe Low will dig it up in Paris. I’ve sent him over there to trace Mrs. Van Blake’s movement. I’m hoping he’ll find out what Joan Nichols found out. I’m now going back to Tampa City. Royce was pretty anxious to silence Miss Forrest and he’s failed. He and Mrs. Van Blake might panic, and I want to be there if they do.’

  ‘You’re sticking your neck out, Sladen,’ Creed said seriously. ‘If Mathis arrests you for murder, there’s nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘I’ll chance it. The solution to this case is in Tampa City. Until we crack the case, don’t let Miss Forrest leave here. She’ll be an important witness, and we can’t afford to lose her.’

  ‘I keep telling you,’ Creed said impatiently, ‘we haven’t any say-so in Tampa City. Royce and the Van Blake woman could get away with this even if you got proof. I can’t see Doonan putting a millionairess on trial.’

  ‘He’ll put her on trial if I can prove she killed her husband,’ I said. ‘You might not be able to do anything about it, but I can. We’ll print the whole story with statements and photographs in Crime Facts. That’ll smoke Doonan out. He’ll have to put her on trial.’

  Creed’s face brightened.

  ‘That’s an idea, but you’ll have to get proof that’ll stand up.’

  ‘When I get it, my proof will do more than stand up: it’ll jump right at him and bite him,’ I said as I made for the door.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I

  A girl in a grubby white sweater looked at me from over a portable typewriter and raised pencilled eyebrows.

  ‘If you want Mr. Andrews,’ she said distantly, ‘he isn’t in.’

  The office was big enough to swing a cat in, but only just. Behind where the girl sat was a door marked Private. A fireproof filing cabinet stood by the window. An armchair for clients, its headrest greasy from the impact of hair oil spread over many years faced me.

  ‘I did want to see him,’ I said, closing the door. ‘Will he be long?’

  She looked at the fly blown clock on the wall. It told her it was twenty minutes past ten.

  ‘He’s usually here by now.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait.’

  I sat on the arm of the chair which creaked ominously under my weight and set fire to a cigarette. The girl looked doubtfully at me, decided I was no business of hers and turned her attention to the typewriter. Time drifted by, punctuated by the clicks of the typewriter keys. I mentally dozed.

  I had got back to Tampa City around five-thirty this morning and had gone to ground in the hideout. I had slept until nine-thirty, then after a cup of coffee and a brief word with Benn, I had driven over to Murrow Street where Benn had told me Andrews had his office.

  After seeing Andrews, I intended to talk to Irene Jarrard, Fay’s girlfriend, and if I could get any new information from her, to persuade her to see Creed. Then I thought a call on Vincent

  Latimer, Van Blake’s ex-secretary, might pay dividends in spite of Captain Bradley’s warning that Latimer was no talker. The hands of the wall clock stood at ten forty-five when the outer office door jerked open and a lanky man in a light grey suit, much creased and spotted, entered hurriedly.

  He looked sharply at me, and his small, close set eyes alerted. Then he smiled hopefully, revealing big plastic teeth. He looked exactly what he was: a man who had spent half a lifetime sneaking up and down hotel corridors, listening at keyholes and standing out in the cold and rain with stoic patience.

  ‘You wanted me?’ he asked, looked at the girl and then back to me.

  ‘Mr. Andrews?’

  ‘That’s right. Come on in.’

  His long thin legs took him to the door marked Private. He produced a key, unlocked the door, turned and said to the girl, ‘As soon as this gentleman has gone, Miss Fairely, I’ll have my mail.’

  She stared blankly at him.

  ‘There isn’t any,’ she said.

  He tried not to show how much he would like to slap her, and waved me into the office.

  I walked
into a room the size of a cupboard and squeezed against the wall to let him get around the battered desk.

  ‘I didn’t get your name,’ he said, waving me to an upright chair.

  I sat down. My knees touched the front of the desk.

  ‘I’m a staff writer on Crime Facts, and at the moment I am working with the Welden police.’

  The fixed smile vanished like a rat down a hole, and the small green eyes turned stony.

  ‘What’s that to do with me?’ he asked, resting his elbows on the desk and cupping his bony chin between his not too clean hands.

  ‘Some time ago you were hired to watch a showgirl who worked at the Golden Apple club: Frances Bennett.’ I took out Fay’s photograph and laid it on the desk in front of him. ‘This girl.’

  He looked down at the photograph, then up at me, and his lips turned down at the corners.

  ‘Look, Jack,’ he said, his voice suddenly tough, ‘you’re wasting your time. I don’t talk about my clients. If that’s all you have to say, pull up your anchor and steam out of here.’

  ‘Your client, Miss Forrest, is with the Welden police right now, giving them a statement. We want you to support her statement. I can put some money and a lot of publicity your way if you will go to Welden and see Police Captain Creed. You’ll be the first private dick to have his photograph in Crime Facts.’

  He pushed his hat to the back of his head while he stared at me.

  ‘What is all this?’

  ‘Frances Bennett was murdered in Welden. You say Royce fingered her to Flemming, a Frisco killer. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know any Flemming.’

  ‘But you saw Royce finger the girl to a guy in a car, didn’t you?’