1945 - Blonde's Requiem

by James Hadley Chase

  He shook his head. “Nothing. There’s trouble in town. A mob went clown to police headquarters and there was some shooting.”

  “Shooting?” It was my turn to stare at him. “Anyone hurt?”

  “No . . . the police fired over their heads. It scared them and they ran away. You know, Mr. Spewack, if this goes on much longer there’ll be bad trouble in Cranville.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” I said grimly, “that’s what I hope will happen. With the town out of hand, Macey’ll have to do something.”

  He looked at me curiously. “What can he do that you can’t?”

  I grinned. “Plenty, but never mind that. Who’s burying Dixon?”

  “Dixon?”

  “Yeah. Is your father burying him?”

  “No—the city authorities are handling the funeral. Father supplied the coffin, if that’s what you mean, but the authorities “

  “What I want to know is this,” I said patiently. “First, where is Dixon’s body? Second, who is putting him in the coffin?”

  “He’s at the city morgue,” Ted said, looking bewildered. “The coffin was delivered there this morning. The morgue attendants will put the body in the coffin, and then it will be taken to father’s funeral parlour. The funeral will be on the following day.”

  “So no one will see the body except the morgue attendants?”

  “I suppose not,” he returned, his bewilderment growing. “But what’s the idea?”

  “Never mind the idea,” I said. “I’m asking the questions. One more thing. What made you suspect the Street-Camera was connected with the kidnapping?”

  “Why, I told you. Luce McArthur was photographed on the street and showed me the ticket—”

  “I know that, but it isn’t enough to tic it to the kidnapping. It’s too good a guess.” I gave him a hard look. “You know something.”

  He looked confused, started to say I was wrong, but petered out.

  “Loosen up,” I said. It was a hard job to look tough with an ice bag on top of my head, but I must have succeeded, because he looked scared.

  “I—I didn’t think it was important,” lie said, going red. “It was something Dixon told me—”

  “Dixon? Did you know Dixon?”

  “Why, of course . . . I’ve known him ever since I was a kid—”

  “Never mind the autobiography,” I snapped. “What did Dixon say?”

  “Just that the Street-Camera was mixed up in the kidnapping. He didn’t believe the girls were murdered. He thought——”

  “I know what he thought,” I growled. “So it wasn’t your theory after all? It was something Dixon thought up?”

  He gulped. “Yes. I—I wanted you to think . . .”

  I grinned suddenly and lay back on the bed. “You wanted me to think you had ideas of your own—was that it?” I said. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter. Did Dixon say why he suspected the Street-Camera?”

  Ted shook his head. “I did ask him, but he changed the subject.”

  “Well, we can’t ask him now,” I said regretfully, “but I’d like to know just why he thought that.”

  “He was right,” Ted said. “That picture of Mary Drake clinches it. What are you going to do about that?”

  I didn’t want to answer questions just then, so I said I was working on it and I had a hell of a headache. I was telling him just how badly it ached when Marian came in. She was wearing a white linen dress and a large floppy hat trimmed in red. She looked swell.

  “Get off, you two,” I said, closing my eyes. “I want to get some more sleep. The ice-bag’s doing fine and I’ll be okay by tomorrow.”

  Marian fussed round me for a minute or so and then they took themselves off. I thought they looked a pretty nice-looking couple. Maybe Marian was a little old for a kid like Esslinger, but she would keep him out of mischief and they looked right together.

  When they had gone, I grabbed the telephone and called the Gazette again.

  Phipps came on the line. He said I was lucky to catch him as he was just going home.

  I grunted. “From now on, Reg,” I told him, “you haven’t got a home. Know where the city morgue is?”

  He said he did, and what did I want with the city morgue?

  “We won’t talk now,” I said. “Come here around midnight. I’ve got a job for you.”

  “Okay.” His voice crawled with curiosity. “Is it something to do with the morgue?”

  I didn’t enlighten him but asked him instead if he could handle a camera.

  “Sure. Do you want me to bring my outfit?”

  I said he must be clairvoyant, because that was just what I did want him to do. “Put on a dark suit, wear sneakers, and try to pretend you’re a burglar,” I told him. “And be here by midnight.”

  Before he could ask any more questions I hung up.

  * * *

  Audrey Sheridan opened the door of her apartment, raised her eyebrows in mock surprise and stood to one side to let me in.

  She looked very nice in a white housecoat relieved by a complicated pattern of red flowers, white silk pyjamas and red sandals. I thought how like a Varga picture she looked.

  “This is a surprise,” she said, closing the door and leading the way into the red and cream sitting room. “So you made it—broken back and all. I imagined you’d be in bed with a pretty nurse fussing over you.”

  “Not a bad guess,” I said, noting the apartment had been tidied up. “The trouble was the nurse got tired of it before I did.” I put my hat on a chair and went on: “How’s the arm?”

  She wandered over to a trolley containing bottles, glasses and cracked ice.

  “It’s all right, thank you,” she said, putting ice in one of the glasses. “I hope your head’s not as bad as it looks.”

  I said it was all right. In spite of our concern for each other I was aware of a hostile and uneasy atmosphere in the room.

  “That’s splendid.” She looked at me with a secretive, amused smile. “I’m sure you would like a drink. What will you have?”

  “Do we have to be so polite?” I asked, joining her at the trolley. “After all, we’re just fellow dicks.”

  “That’s very flattering,” she said, “but I’m only an amateur. Will you have whisky?”

  I said I would, and added: “You’re not doing bad for an amateur.”

  “Really? You’re just saying that. I know what men are.” She gave me the drink and went over to the settee and sat down.

  “Do you usually have a bunch of thugs working you over when clients call?” I asked, sitting down in an armchair opposite her.

  “Oh, that?” She shook her head. “Rube lost his temper. He isn’t usually as bad as that.”

  “You mean you wouldn’t give him the handkerchief?”

  She looked down at her sandals and then said: “I suppose you haven’t had time to see much of the town? It’s not very nice, of course, but there are parts that are better than others.”

  “Never mind about the town,” I returned. “Tell me how you learned jiu-jitsu.”

  “Let’s not talk about me,” she said quickly. “Tell me about yourself. Have you been a detective long?”

  “I’d like to tell you the story of my life. It’s full of excitement, but right now I haven’t the time,” I said. “Maybe later we’ll get together and take our hair down. You can listen to me and I’ll listen to you. But you said you liked to keep pleasure apart from business, so that’s what we’ll do.”

  She raised her eyebrows, but didn’t say anything.

  “Four girls have disappeared from this town. You and I’ve been hired to find them. So far everyone I’ve talked to doesn’t give a damn what’s happened to them. I’ve only been on the job for forty-eight hours, but that’s too long. All the time people are sorting out their differences these kids are either in danger or the trail’s getting cold. Wouldn’t it be an idea if we got together and pooled informatio
n?”

  “It might be,” she said cautiously. “It depends whether you have any information to trade or whether you just want to find out what I know.”

  “You’re set on breaking this case yourself, aren’t you?”

  Her eyes darkened. “When my father died he left me the agency. It was all he had to leave me. He was proud of it and he’d done a good job with it considering he was sick and old. He expected me to carry on, and I’m going to carry on. No one’s taken me seriously yet in this town, but they will before I’m through. They’ve laughed at me and they think I’m crazy to try to make a success of it, but I’m going ahead and no one’s going to stop me.”

  “In the meantime,” I said dryly, “four girls are missing and you haven’t found them. Don’t you think it’d be smart to throw in with me? Together we might get somewhere.”

  Her mouth set in an obstinate line. “I wonder what makes you think you’re going to get somewhere?” she asked coldly.

  “You pulled a fast one on me last night,” I reminded her. “With those three photographs and the handkerchief I would have had got the photographs. That’s what I mean by wasting time. We’re enough to nail Macey. You took the handkerchief and maybe you’re working against each other.”

  “I didn’t get the photographs,” she said in a low voice. “Someone had beaten me to it.”

  “See Dixon there?” I said casually.

  She looked up sharply. “Dixon? What do you mean?”

  “Dixon was in an armchair by the window. He was as dead as a pork chop. Didn’t you see him?”

  She stared at me. “He wasn’t there—you’re fooling, aren’t you?” She could easily have missed him if she had used a flashlight and had gone straight to the drawer and then out again.

  “I’m not fooling. Don’t you see you’re sticking your neck out If someone had grabbed you, Macey could have pinned the killing onto you.”

  “But Dixon died of heart failure “

  “Okay, okay, let’s skip that,” I said, not wanting to go over it again. “Maybe he did die of heart failure, but it wasn’t a smart move on your part to break into his office.”

  “You’ve got a nerve!” she said indignantly. “Why, you were doing the very same thing!”

  I grinned at her. “Maybe I was,” I said. “But this isn’t a job for a girl to handle. This is a political set-up with a big rake-off hanging to it. Do you think anyone is going to let you gum up their racket?”

  She sat forward. “And do you think they’d stop for you?”

  “It’s my job and I get paid for it,” I explained patiently. “Besides, I’m a man.”

  She leaned back and surveyed me with a half angry, half amused expression.

  “I’m not convinced,” she said. “You’ll have to work harder than this.”

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s take it another way. Do you think these girls have been kidnapped or do you think it’s murder?”

  She blew smoke in a thin cloud above my head. “What do you think?”

  “It points to kidnapping. If it was murder—what’s the motive and where are the bodies?”

  She nodded agreement. “What is it and where are they?” She said, her eyes mocking me.

  I began to get annoyed. “Maybe you don’t think it’s either kidnapping or murder?”

  “What’s left?” she asked, looking aimlessly out of the window.

  “Suppose Starkey paid them to duck out of sight? That would discredit your client and mine, wouldn’t it?”

  “Did you think that up all by yourself?” she said with exaggerated astonishment.

  “Now look, sister,” I said, “this kind of cross-talk is getting us nowhere. You can help me and I can help you. You’ve got the background of this town at your fingertips. I’ve got the experience. Are you going to play or aren’t you?”

  “I’m sorry to have to disappoint you,” she said quietly, “but I’m handling the case myself.”

  “Then you’re a bigger dope than I thought you were,” I said, annoyed by her obstinacy. “Esslinger’s only hiring you because he wants a stooge. He doesn’t care whether these girls are found or not. All he’s worrying about is the election. That’s why he’s picked you to work on the case. Cranville looks on you as the pattern-plated, courageous little dick who’s keeping her father’s name going. They laugh at you, but they like you. Esslinger’s trading on that. Can’t you get that into your thick skull?”

  She stiffened, her eyes angry and hurt. “I’m still going ahead,” she said, rising to her feet. “And no one’s going to stop me. And the last person who can stop me is a self-opinionated flatfoot from New York!”

  I stood up too. “Is that so?” I said angrily. “Let me tell you something. You’re a stubborn little fool and you want some sense spanked into you. I’ve a mind to do it myself.”

  “You and who else?” she said scornfully.

  “Just me,” I said grimly, picking up my hat. “I’ve tamed better girls than you in the time it takes to wind my watch.”

  She jerked open the door. “Tell that fairy-tale to someone who’ll believe it— if you can find anyone that simple,” she said with fine scorn.

  “I’m warning you,” I said, wagging my finger in her face. “This job is too tough for you. You’ll only get your pretty little neck broken. Keep out of it and take up knitting.. I’ll even buy you the wool.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed furiously. “I hate you! Don’t you ever dare come here again!”

  I stepped up to her, pulled her to me and kissed her. We stood for a moment like that, my arm round her shoulders and my lips on hers. Then I stepped back and stared at her.

  “Now why in hell did I do that?” I said blankly.

  She put her hand to her lips and stared back at me. The anger had gone out of her eyes. “Perhaps you wanted to,” she said in a meek, low voice, and closed the door gently in my face.

  * * *

  As I entered the lobby of the Eastern Hotel I spotted Reg Phipps talking to the dark, sulky-looking receptionist.

  She was holding a movie magazine on her lap and chewing gum, an indifferent expression on her face. Reg leaned on the desk and seemed to be putting his personality over on a’ short wave.

  He looked over his shoulder as he heard me come in and his eyes brightened.

  “I’ll be seeing you,” he said to the girl. “Try not to pine for me.”

  She gave him a scathing look and returned to her magazine.

  “Hello,” I said to him, and reached for my key. “What’s cooking, beautiful?” I went on to the girl. “Still keeping in good shape, I see.”

  She eyed my bruises. “I look after what I’ve got,” she said coldly. “You’re not all that good you can afford to wear your face out as fast as you seem to be doing.”

  “I got this in a fight,” I said, tapping my bruise and wishing I hadn’t. “That’s the kind of guy I am. Any time you say so you can have my chest for a rug. I’m tough—full of fight, liquor and——”

  “Hot air,” she cut in. “I know. Toughs are ten a dime in this town.”

  I patted her shoulder, smiled at her and promised to send her a stuffed snake if I found one.

  “If it’s got to be a snake, come yourself,” she said acidly, and picked up her magazine again.

  Reg and I went upstairs together.

  “Didn’t I say twelve?” I said, glancing at my wristwatch. It was a few minutes past ten-thirty.

  “It wasn’t worth it to go back home,” he explained. “So I looked in to talk to Nora. I’ll go back if you ain’t ready.”

  “That Nora?” I said. “The dark, sulky one with the built-up area?”

  His leer was too youthful to be impressive. “That’s her,” he said. “Her father runs this hotel. I’ve been trying to make that dame for the last six years.” Seeing my startled glance, he added: “We were at school together.”

  I unlocked my door and we we
nt in. “You be careful,” I warned him. “Something tells me that baby’s dynamite.”

  “She is,” he said gravely. “Why do you think I’m working on her?”

  I waved him to a chair. “Sit down and stop boasting,” I said, giving him a cigarette. “Got your camera?”

  “It’s in the car,” he said, eyeing me with suppressed excitement. “What’s cooking?”

  “We’ve got a nice little job to do tonight,” I said, sitting on the bed. “Dixon’s at the city morgue. We’re going to get a picture of his body. Then we’ll come out slap across the Gazette with picture and story of Dixon’s murder, and how Macey tried to cover it up.”

  Reg’s eyes popped. “For the love of Mike!” he said. “You don’t think we’ll get away with that, do you?”

  “Why not?”

  He sat back, gaping at me. “It’ll blow the lid right off this town,” he began.

  “That’s what I want,” I broke in. “It’s the only way to get something done. Listen, Reg, I’ll never find these girls until people cooperate. They won’t cooperate so long as they’re thinking only of the election. I want you to write a story along these lines.” I told him about the Street-Camera angle, and what had been happening since last I saw him. “Now you know the facts. The way to put it over is to ask questions. Do the people of Cranville know all four missing girls were photographed by the Street-Camera and that Dixon had copies of the photographs? The photos were stolen and Dixon was murdered. Who stole them and killed Dixon? Who owns the Street-Camera? Why did Chief of Police Macey say Dixon died of heart failure? Look at the picture printed below. Does that look like heart failure? Do you get it? That’s the way to put it over. Let Cranville make up its own mind.”

  “It’s terrific,” he said, driving a small fist into the palm of his hand. “But, brother, what a stink there’ll be! If this ain’t asking for Starkey to put a slug into us, I don’t know what is.”

  I looked at him thoughtfully. “Plenty of time to back out, Reg,” I reminded him.

  “Don’t be funny,” he returned, his eyes sparkling. “This is just my meat. Was Wolf on the level when he said I could stick?”