1954 - Safer Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  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.’

  ‘But it’s urgent,’ I said. ‘If it wasn’t I wouldn’t bother you.’

  He thought some more, then snapped his fingers.

  ‘I’ll fix it for you. I’ll ask Suzy to take you,’ he said. ‘She’s a member, and she’s always taking her boyfriend’s there. How would that work?’

  ‘It’d be okay with me, but I had the impression she didn’t take to me. I don’t think she’d play.’

  Lennox waved an airy hand.

  ‘You’re kidding yourself. You don’t know Suzy. She’ll take you. She’s always on the lookout for something new in trousers. You leave it to me. I’ll fix it. Have you any spending money?’

  I stared at him.

  ‘Why sure. Is it going to cost me something?’

  He laughed unpleasantly; a sound that would have made Fayette’s blood run cold if he could have heard it.

  ‘That’s one of the greatest understatements I’ve ever heard. Cost you something? I’ll say it will. You don’t take Suzy out unless you’re prepared to sell up your home, hock your car and empty your bank balance. That’s why I see her here. I can’t afford to take her out.’

  ‘Go ahead and fix it,’ I said recklessly. ‘What do I have an expense sheet for?’

  ‘Now you’re talking,’ he said and reached for the telephone.

  III

  The entrance to the Golden Apple club was guarded by high walls and a couple of beefy men in white drill uniforms and black peak caps.

  They stood either side of the open double wrought iron gates. Above them were two powerful flood lamps that lit up the road and the cars that moved slowly past the guard’s scrutiny.

  ‘They take good care they don’t get gate crashers here, don’t they?’ I said to Suzy who sat at my side.

  ‘My dear man, this is an exclusive club,’ she said. ‘We don’t want anyone who is nobody in it.’

  I suppose that should have been a compliment to me, but I felt like slapping her. Snobbery of any kind makes my hackles rise.

  I slowed down to a crawl as the cars ahead crept forward at a snail’s pace while the drivers waved their membership cards out of the open window.

  I looked at Suzy from out of the corner of my eye. She certainly was something to look at. She had on a gold lame evening dress; over it she wore a black silk, scarlet lined wrap. Around her lovely white throat was a diamond collar that must have cost someone a heap of jack.

  Hartley had told her I was a wealthy businessman from New York, foot loose, with plenty of money to spend. The introduction appeared to be interesting enough to make her forget her first opinion of me, and although I couldn’t say she was exactly cordial, she was at least fairly sociable.

  As I came within sight of the gates, one of the guards came up, and I stopped the car. He peered in, his hard, cold eyes going over me with the intensity of a blow lamp.

  ‘Hello, Hank,’ Suzy said. ‘It’s only me.’

  The guard touched his cap.

  ‘Okay, miss, go right ahead.’

  He again stared at me, then stepped back and I drove on though the gateway and up a long, curving, sand covered drive.

  ‘He’ll know me again,’ I said.

  ‘Of course. That’s his job. He never forgets a face. Are you going to become a member? I’ll put you up if you like.’

  ‘I don’t know how long I’m staying in Tampa City, but thanks for the offer. If I have to stay longer than I think I’ll be glad if you would.’

  A sudden sharp bend in the drive brought me my first sight of the Golden Apple club. It was quite something. Floodlit, the building reminded me of Addison Mizner’s Everglades Club in Palm Beach. Looking more closely at it, I saw it was a pretty fair imitation of the famous Palm Beach club. It was a stucco building with a red tiled roof, medieval turrets and wrought iron grill work in the style of a Spanish monastery. It was pretty obvious someone had spent a lot of money on it at one time or the other. A plush, purple carpet ran down the shallow steps from the lighted entrance hall to where the cars were decanting their occupants.

  Everyone getting out of the cars looked well fed, rich and immaculate. Diamonds glowed like fireflies. I could see if you couldn’t rise to a string of diamonds you had best keep away from this joint.

  ‘Where’s the car park?’ I asked.

  ‘My dear man, they’ll take the car,’ Suzy said with a touch of impatience.

  ‘Forgive me: I’m just a New York hick,’ I said.

  We left the car in the hands of a uniformed attendant and walked up the carpeted steps into the hall.

  A big thickset man in an immaculate tuxedo appeared from nowhere and barred my way. His hard, cruel face looked as if it had been carved out of old ivory. His black still eyes had a glitter in them that reminded me of naked knife blades. He looked Spanish, but could have been Mexican or even Cuban. He looked questioningly from me to Suzy.

  ‘Good evening, Juan,’ Suzy said, obviously suddenly anxious to please. ‘This is Mr. Sladen. I’ve brought him along to see the club. He’s from New York.’

  ‘Will you please sign the book, Mr. Sladen?’ he said in a voice you could scour rusty iron on. There was no welcoming smile. He seemed sorry he had to admit me.

  He led me across the hall to a reception desk where a girl in a tight black silk dress offered me a quill pen and a cool, appraising smile.

  I signed my name, using my initial and not my full name just in case this dago was a reader of Crime Facts.

  ‘Ten dollars please,’ the girl said while Juan stood close, his warm breath fanning the back of my neck.

  ‘Ten - what?’ I said, staring at her.

  ‘Ten dollars, Mr. Sladen, for your temporary membership card,’ Juan said curtly.

  I remembered in time that I was supposed to be a wealthy businessman from New York and I paid up. I was given a neat card with my name on it and the date. In minute printing the card told me that for ten bucks I could use the amenities of the club for one night only. I hated to think what it would cost me to use the amenities for one month.

  A hat check girl relieved me of my hat and Juan relieved me of his presence as he swooped away to prise another ten bucks from a guy who had been unwise enough to bring a guest. Suzy took me into the bar which was the longest and plushiest room I have ever seen. I paid out a small fortune on champagne cocktails and then settled down to make pleasing conversation. I hadn’t got far before a stocky little man came over with a bundle of menu cards and asked if we would care to order dinner.

  We ordered dinner, or at least Suzy did. She said she would start with oysters, and I betted myself they would cost a buck piece, then she decided to take the grilled river trout, pheasant and French salade, ice cream and Brie cheese to follow. I said that would do me too. The stocky man scribbled the order down on a pad and went on to the next group.

  ‘For a girl with your shape you eat pretty well,’ I said. ‘How do you manage it?’

  ‘Do you think I have a nice shape?’ she asked languidly.

  ‘Sure, and you have a nice appetite to go with it. Don’t you diet or something?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ she said. The subject didn’t seem to interest her. ‘Shall we have one more?’ a
nd she lifted her empty glass. This went on for half an hour and I was beginning to wonder if I had brought enough money with me when she finally decided it was time to eat. We went into the restaurant.

  Two skimpily dressed girls were doing a song and dance routine on a dais near the band as we took our seats. They were good, and so was the band. It was while we were working through the river trout that a party arrived at a table near ours. I could tell they were important by the way the maître d’hôtel brought them down the aisle. He walked backwards and flourished his arms. If he had had a flag he would have waved it.

  There were two girls and two men. The girl who led the way caught my attention. She was around twenty-six: small, compact, with a shape under her flame coloured evening gown that made my eyes pop. She was dark, and her glossy black hair was piled up on her perfectly shaped head. Her face was as lovely as a greek sculpture; cold, perhaps a little hard, and very, very haughty. But there was a flame burning within her that made her more than a beautiful woman: it made her alive, desirable, seductive and feminine as Helen of Troy must have been feminine.

  She was magnet to men. There wasn’t a man in the restaurant, including the band and the waiters, who didn’t look as if he wanted to be her escort. You could see the expressions on their faces change when they caught sight of her: they were hungry for her; very, very hungry. I caught myself wondering if I looked like that too. I felt maybe I did.

  The other girl with her was nothing to look at; pleasant, a little too plump, wealthy of course, but the dark Helen of Troy need never worry about her as a rival.

  The two men were the usual rich, well fed, middle-aged guys you can see any day after ten-thirty a.m. controlling large syndicates, banks or chain stores. You could almost hear their ulcers creak as they moved, and their port wine faces told of their fiery tempers.

  ‘Don’t you know better than to stare?’ Suzy asked crossly.

  ‘Am I the only one?’ I said and grinned at her. ‘Who is she? Not the one with the big bosom, but the dark, little one.’

  Suzy raised her lip scornfully.

  ‘I can’t imagine why men go for her. I think she’s nothing but a horrible, oversexed animal.’

  ‘I like animals,’ I said, ‘I once got a medal for saving a dog from drowning. Who is she?’

  ‘I thought everyone knew her. My goodness! Even if I did have her money, I would know better than to make an exhibition of myself the way she does. Why Piero doesn’t go down on hands and knees when he shows her to her table I can’t imagine. He does everything else.’

  I leaned forward and trying, without a lot of success, to keep my voice from shouting, repeated, ‘Who - is - she?’

  ‘I’m not deaf,’ Suzy said, recoiling. ‘Cornelia Van Blake if you must know.’ She lifted her elegant shoulders. ‘I should have thought even someone from New York would have known that.’

  ‘Cornelia Van Blake?’

  I stared at Suzy, frowning. Where had I heard the name before? In what connection had I heard it?

  ‘Does she live in Tampa City?’

  ‘Of course. She has a house on West Summit and an estate of ten acres. In case you don’t know, West Summit is the high tone district of Tampa City. Only millionaires can afford to live there.’

  Millionaires.

  I felt a sudden creepy sensation crawl up my spine.

  Of course! I remembered now. Cornelia Van Blake was the millionairess Joan Nichols had met in Paris. I remembered Janet Shelley’s exact words: Joan had an amazing talent for making friends with people with money. When she was in Paris she got friendly with Mrs.

  Cornelia Van Blake, the millionaire’s wife. Don’t ask me how she did it, but she did. Twice she went to Mrs. Van Blake’s hotel and had dinner with her.

  I looked again at the dark girl who was scanning the menu that the maître d’hôtel was holding for her. She didn’t look the type to me who would fraternize with an unsuccessful showgirl: she didn’t look the type to fraternize with anyone. If she ever sat next to an iceberg I would bet even money the iceberg would be the first to stoke up the fire.

  ‘Which one of those well fed guys is her husband?’ I asked.

  Suzy wriggled impatiently.

  ‘My dear man, she is a widow. Her husband died last year. Don’t you know anything?’

  ‘That was his hard luck,’ I said, and making an effort, I dragged my eyes away from Mrs. Cornelia Van Blake and continued to bone my river trout.

  I found I wasn’t hungry any more - anyway, not for the trout.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I

  It wasn’t until Suzy and I had been dancing for some little time and had broken off to go to the bar for a drink that I brought Mrs. Cornelia Van Blake up again as a subject for conversation. Suzy had discovered I could dance. I haven’t a lot of talent beside concocting a good yarn, but dancing is one of my specialities. Suzy was pretty good herself, and after we had done one circuit of the floor, she unbent enough to say I was good. A second circuit found her unbending even more, and at the end of a particularly dashing tango, she was behaving almost like a human being.

  ‘Let’s get outside two big highballs,’ I said, ‘then we’ll come back and show them how it really should be done.’

  ‘Where did you learn to dance like that, Chet?’ she asked, linking her arm through mine.

  Chet.

  Well, it takes different ways and means to break them down. I wondered under what conditions, if any, Cornelia Van Blake would break down.

  ‘My dear woman, it’s not something you learn; it’s something you’re born with,’ I said airily.

  Suzy giggled.

  ‘That serves me right. All right, I apologize for being high hat, but the men Hart asks me to take out sometimes are really the limit. You can’t imagine.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. A girl’s got to keep her dignity if she doesn’t keep anything else.’

  She gave me an old-fashioned look.

  ‘And don’t think because you can dance, there’s anything else to it, because there isn’t.’

  I pushed open the bar door.

  ‘Don’t start screaming for help until you’re being crowded,’ I said. ‘Who said I wanted anything else?’

  ‘I know an opening gambit when I hear one,’ she returned and climbed up on a stool and flapped her hands at the barman.

  ‘Two highballs,’ I said, climbing up on the stool beside her. I took a quick look around the crowded bar in the hope of seeing Mrs. Van Blake again, but she wasn’t in the room. ‘I’ve often thought it would be nice to be a millionaire. If I wasn’t naturally lazy, I’d do something about it,’ I said after I had paid three times too much for the highballs. ‘Take that Van Blake girl. How much did you say she was worth?’

  ‘I didn’t say. No one knows. Her husband is supposed to have left her five million, but everyone thinks there was more than that. He invented some gadget to do with oil drilling, and they say the royalties on that alone are worth thousands a year. She’s lousy with money. Van Blake put the money up for this club. He had a controlling interest in it, but when he died, Cornelia sold out to Royce. He owns and runs it now.’

  ‘I wonder what he paid her?’ I said, looking around the plush bar.

  Suzy shrugged.

  ‘Plenty. She wouldn’t part with anything for nothing.’

  ‘You said her husband died last year?’

  ‘That’s right. He was murdered.’

  I nearly dropped my highball.

  ‘Murdered? How come? How did it happen?’

  She stared at me.

  ‘The papers were full of it. Why don’t you read them if you have such an inquisitive nature?’

  ‘Never mind my nature. I bet the New York papers weren’t full of it. Anyway, I have better things to do than bother to read newspapers. I listen to the radio and let it go at that. Who murdered him?’

  ‘A poacher. Van Blake hated poachers. He used to ride over his estate every morning before seven o’clock
, believe it or not and if he caught a poacher after his game, he set about him with his riding whip. Well, he did it once too often. He got shot, and served him right.’

  ‘He sounds like the Feudal type. What happened to the poacher?’

  She shrugged. The subject obviously didn’t interest her.

  ‘I don’t know. He got away. The police never found him.’

  She finished her highball and slid off the stool. ‘Come on; let’s dance. I can’t be too late tonight. I’ve got to pose for Hart tomorrow around noon, and I don’t want to look like a corpse.’

  ‘That, madam, you could never do,’ I said gallantly, and followed her back to the restaurant.

  We danced until one o’clock, and then Suzy said she had to go home.

  All the time I had been in the club I had kept my eyes open for Hamilton Royce, but I didn’t see anyone who looked remotely like what I imagined he would look like.

  As we were leaving the restaurant, I asked, ‘Isn’t Royce on show tonight? I wanted to catch sight of him.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him. He’s not always on show,’ Suzy said indifferently. She paused in the lobby. ‘Wait for me here. I won’t be long.’

  I watched her disappear into the Ladies retiring room. Quite a crowd were leaving by now, and the lobby was pretty congested. I backed against the far wall to get out of their way. To my right was a passage, and at the far end, I saw an oak-panelled door. It was a pretty plush looking door, and it aroused my curiosity. Behind such a door the owner of a nightclub as gaudy as the Golden Apple might conceivably dwell. I had come to the club for the express purpose of getting a look at Mr. Hamilton Royce and so far I had been unlucky.

  I didn’t hesitate for more than a couple of seconds. I could always say I thought the door led to the gentlemen’s retiring room.

  I looked quickly around the lobby. The receptionist was busy totting up the night’s loot. The hat check girl was surrounded by departing members, all clamouring for their hats. Juan, still flashing the knife blades in his eyes, was bowing to a fat, important looking man, obviously a Senator, who was leaving. Three flunkeys were occupied on the steps of the entrance, whistling up cars.