1954 - Safer Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  No one was paying me the slightest attention.

  I edged to the opening of the corridor, then walked, not too quickly and as nonchalantly as I could, towards the oak paneled door. I turned the door handle and pushed gently. The door swung inwards as silently as a leaf settling on the ground.

  I looked into a big, luxuriously furnished room: a man’s room; a man with plenty of money to spend on his comforts, and who hadn’t missed a trick in satisfying those comforts. I didn’t let my eyes roam around the room longer than a split second.

  The man and woman struggling silently by the fireplace caught and held my attention.

  The woman was Cornelia Van Blake. The man was tall and thin and handsome, with an eyebrow moustache and the beautiful tan of a sun lizard.

  He had hold of Cornelia, the way Rudolph Valentino used to get hold of his women in the silent movie days. He held her two wrists in one hand, his right arm was around her waist, and he was bending her back while he tried to clamp his mouth down on hers.

  She was struggling to break free, and she must have been stronger than she looked for I could see he was having his work cut out to hold her.

  When a man forces his attention on any woman it has always seemed to me that he is presenting himself as a target for violence.

  I don’t often use violence as I’m too lazy to make the effort, but during the war, when I was unfortunate to get drafted into the Marines, I was the undisputed lightweight champion of my battalion, only because I found it less exhausting than getting on the wrong side of my battalion commander who was a boxing fanatic.

  Without considering the consequences, I took two quick steps into the room.

  The tall man let go of Cornelia and faced me, his eyes glittering with fury. To ease his embarrassment, I hung a right hook on the side of his jaw. It was a nice punch, and the results on him were devastating.

  He shot backwards, thudded against his desk, swept some costly gewgaws to the floor and slid down on top of them.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t appear sooner,’ I said to Cornelia who was adjusting the top of her topless dress that had slipped a few inches during the infighting.

  She didn’t even thank me.

  I’ve seen angry women in my time, but never one as angry as she was at this moment. She was as white as a fresh fall of snow and her eyes blazed like red hot embers as they say in Victorian novels.

  She looked at me as if I were transparent, then looked at the tall man who was still lying on his back, although he was shaking his head and trying to get life back once more into focus, then she went out of the room, and as she passed me I felt scorched by the white-hot blast of her rage.

  I sought relaxation by dipping into the gold cigarette box on the desk. I took a cigarette and lit it. One drag sent a tremor up to my memory. Egyptian Abdulla. I looked at the cigarette to make sure, then I looked at the tall man who was by now dragging himself to his feet. I remembered Bernie’s description of the mysterious Henry Rutland: over six foot, lean, suntanned, eyebrow moustache and a gold link bracelet on one wrist and a gold strap watch on the other.

  This guy had a gold bracelet on his left wrist and a gold strap watch on his right. Even without the gold ornaments, the description fitted him like a glove.

  But this seemed scarcely the time to step up, shake him by the hand and say, ‘Henry Rutland I presume.’

  This seemed to me to be the time to ease myself out of the room, turn my discovery over in my mind at leisure and decide how best to make use of it.

  As Royce staggered to his feet, clutching on to the desk for support, I took two steps towards the door, then paused.

  The door had opened silently. Standing in the doorway, his swarthy, cruel face hard and set was Juan. In his right hand he held a .38 automatic and it was pointing at me.

  II

  For a long moment we stared at each other, then he stepped into the room and closed the door, setting his back against it. Royce sat down behind his desk. His fingers touched the side of his jaw. His eyes brooded death.

  ‘Find out who he is,’ he said.

  Juan held out his left hand.

  ‘Wallet,’ he said, ‘and snap it up.’

  I took out my wallet and handed it to him. He found he couldn’t examine it and keep me covered by the gun, so he lowered the gun which was a foolish move. He also took his eyes off me. He was either full of confidence or a bonehead. I didn’t pause to inquire. I hung a right hook on his jaw. I don’t think I’ve ever hit a guy as hard as I hit Juan. The jar that ran up my arm as my fist connected pained me a lot more than it pained him. He went out like a light and I just managed to grab the gun before he hit the carpet.

  I turned the gun on the tall man and smiled at him.

  ‘We seem to be having an exciting evening, don’t we?’ I said.

  He looked at me, his face tight with rage.

  ‘Get out of here!’ he snarled.

  ‘I’m on my way. I’ll leave the gun with the guy at the gate. I’ll feel safer with it until I get clear of this joint,’ I said, scooped up my wallet and backed to the door.

  He sat motionless, his hands on the desk, his face pale under the suntan. What with one thing and the other, he couldn’t have had much of an evening.

  I opened the door, edged into the corridor and walked quickly to the lobby.

  Suzy was waiting for me.

  ‘Where have you been for goodness sake?’ she said impatiently. ‘I was about to go home without you.’

  ‘That’s just what you are going to do,’ I said. ‘I haven’t time to explain why. Get one of the flunkeys to grab a taxi for you. I’m not even waiting for my hat.’

  I stepped past her and went to the entrance and down the steps, leaving her gaping after me, too surprised even to speak.

  ‘Your car, sir?’ the doorman asked sharply.

  ‘It’s okay. I’ll collect it myself,’ I said, shoved past him and ran down the avenue to where I could see a row of cars.

  I didn’t know how long it would take Mr. Royce to come into action, but the quicker I was past the guards at the gate, the safer it would be for me. I located the Buick, gave the attendant a buck and got in. As I drove fast down the drive I took the gun from my pocket and tossed it through the open window into a clump of laurels. I was remembering what Creed had said about being caught with a gun on me without a gun permit. It was a sound move for as my headlights picked out the main gates I saw they were shut.

  The two guards, plus a tall, beefy looking man in a slouch hat, stood silent and still, waiting for me to arrive. I slowed down, honked on my horn in the hope they would open the gates, but they didn’t. The headlights of the car lit up the man in the slouch hat. He had cop written all over him. His red, coarse face was a mass of brutality. If you took a lump of brick-red clay, squashed it into the vague shape of a face, stuck a lump on it for a nose, carved a slit in it for a mouth and stuck two match heads in it for eyes you would have a fair portrait of this guy.

  An inch or so over six foot, there was a massive power about him in the way he stood, his hands in his trench coat pockets, his great legs apart, his head a little on one side.

  I wondered if this was Sergeant Carl Lassiter, who, according to ex-Captain Bradley, was the toughest cop on the Tampa City police force. If he wasn’t, then I didn’t want to meet Lassiter.

  This guy was tough enough.

  I pulled up.

  The two guards moved forward, their hands resting on the butts of their guns. They came each side of the car and opened the doors simultaneously.

  ‘Keep your hands on the wheel!’ the guard nearest me rapped out.

  ‘What’s the idea?’ I said, not moving so much as an eyelash.

  ‘What do you think you’re up to?’

  ‘Get him out,’ the cop said. He had a husky low voice that came strangely from his bull throat.

  The guard on the offside now had his gun in his hand.

  ‘Get out,’ he said, ‘and keep your
hands still.’

  I slid out.

  ‘You guys crazy?’ I said. ‘I’m a temporary member.’

  ‘Shut up!’ the cop snarled. ‘Look in the car,’ he went on to one of the guards; to the other, he said, ‘Get him inside.’

  The guard with the gun jabbed my spine.

  ‘Move,’ he said, and I walked around the car and into the lodge by the gates; into a large room with a desk, and a rack of rifles, two chairs and an unlit coke stove.

  The cop followed me in and looked me over in the harsh light. He took a police badge from his pocket and flashed it, then he said, ‘I’m Sergeant Lassiter. Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Sladen,’ I said. ‘What’s the big idea?’

  He held out a hand the size of a bath chap.

  ‘Wallet.’

  I gave him my wallet. He took it over to the desk, hooked one huge finger inside it and shot out the contents. He sat down at the desk, shoved his hat to the back of his head, and went through my papers slowly and with police thoroughness.

  After he had gone through everything, and there wasn’t much except my business cards, some money, my driver’s licence and a list of my expenses I had jotted down on an odd scrap of paper, he shoved the lot back to me.

  While I returned the papers and money to my wallet, he sat staring at me. His scrutiny was the most uncomfortable experience I have ever had. I put the wallet back into my pocket and looked up and met the granite hard pig eyes.

  ‘Satisfied?’ I asked.

  ‘You a peeper?’ he asked, biting off each word as if he hated them.

  ‘I’m a writer.’ I took out one of my business cards and put it down in front of him. ‘Haven’t you heard of Crime Facts? We cooperate with most police forces.’

  ‘Must be nice for them.’ He heaved his bulk out of the chair and came around the desk. I’m not exactly a midget, but his height and size made me feel like one. The second guard came in at this moment and shook his head at Lassiter.

  The sergeant stared at me.

  ‘Let’s have the rod,’ he said and held out his hand.

  ‘What rod?’ I asked blankly. ‘What do you mean?’

  His coarse brutal face went a deep purple and his eyes gleamed.

  ‘Lift your arms.’

  I did so, and he ran his hands over me quickly and expertly. It was like being patted by a sledge hammer.

  ‘Where did you dump it?’ he snarled.

  ‘Dump what?’ I asked, trying to keep the blank expression on my face.

  He reached out his huge hand and took hold of my shirtfront.

  He breathed garlic and whisky fumes in my face.

  ‘Where did you dump it?’ he grated, and gave me a little shake. He nearly broke my neck.

  I kept still. I knew if I gave him the slightest excuse he would start some rough stuff, and I wasn’t fool enough to imagine I could handle him.

  ‘I haven’t a gun; I’ve never had a gun. Isn’t that clear?’

  He lifted his left hand and slapped me across the face. It was like being whacked with a baseball bat.

  I very nearly hit back, but just stopped myself in time. I might have taken him if he had been on his own, but not with the other two guys to step in and hold me while he worked over me.

  ‘Go on - hit me!’ he snarled into my face. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  ‘I don’t want to hit you,’ I said. ‘You crazy or something?’

  He gave me another shake that loosened most of my wisdom

  teeth, then he let go of me.

  ‘What are you doing in this town?’

  ‘Having a look around. Trying to pick up material for a story. Anything wrong in that?’

  He hunched his huge shoulders as he glared at me.

  ‘What material?’

  ‘Anything that might crop up,’ I said. ‘What are you getting so excited about? Can’t a writer visit a town for background material without the cops getting tough?’

  A look of exasperated disgust came over his face.

  ‘We don’t like peepers in this town,’ he said. ‘Watch your step. I won’t tell you a second time. Now get out and keep away from this club. Understand?’

  I shrugged myself back into my coat.

  ‘Okay, sergeant,’ I said. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Beat it!’ he snarled. ‘Go on - get out of my sight.’

  I went to the door.

  I half expected it, but I didn’t think a guy of his size could move so fast. Before I could dodge, his great boot caught me on my tail and lifted me out of the hut and sent me sprawling on hands and knees in the drive.

  Lassiter came out slowly and stood looking at me, his teeth showing in a snarling grin.

  ‘Write about that, peeper,’ he said. ‘And I’ll give you something more to write about if I see you again.’

  I could have killed him: I would have killed him if I had had the gun on me.

  I got slowly and painfully to my feet.

  The two guards opened the gate.

  Lassiter swung his great boot and caught the fender of the car a kick that dented it and flaked off the paint.

  ‘Get this heep out of my sight too,’ he said.

  I got in the car and drove away.

  I was shaking with rage.

  I was still shaking when I got back to the hotel.

  III

  Around ten o’clock the following morning, after I had had a late breakfast, I borrowed a telephone book from the reception desk and turned up Mrs. Cornelia Van Blake’s number and address. The address was simply: Vanstone, West Summit.

  I asked the clerk how I got to West Summit.

  ‘You know the Golden Apple club?’ he asked.

  I said I knew the Golden Apple club.

  ‘You go past the club, along the sea road and you’ll come to a finger post. West Summit covers the whole of the cliff top to the San Francisco highway.’

  I thanked him, collected the Buick from the garage, paused at a florist to send Suzy a half a dozen orchids and a note apologizing for my hasty retreat, then I drove down to the promenade.

  The Golden Apple was fast asleep when I drove past. The gates were shut; the door of the guard house was shut. No one took a potshot at me.

  I kept on along the lonely beach road that climbed steadily to the cliff top.

  A finger post with West Summit on it showed up at a fork and I turned left, leaving the sea road and climbed steeply up a wide, snake back road that brought me up on the cliff top.

  Vanstone was the last of the estates down the broad tree-lined avenue. It partly overlooked the sea and its grounds sloped away at the back into wooded country and then, I assumed, down to the Frisco highway.

  I knew it was Vanstone because of the nameplate on the high wrought iron gates. High walls, heavily guarded by wicked looking spikes, arranged along the top of the walls like vicious daggers, their points heavenwards, hid the house. A guard house by the gates told me there was no question of just driving up the carriageway, ringing on the bell and asking for Mrs. Van Blake. When one becomes a millionaire, one has to take precautions.

  A lot of spontaneity must go out of one’s life, I thought.

  I drove past the gates and turned left, following the wall.

  After a mile or so, the road dipped and I could see the Frisco highway a half a mile ahead of me.

  I stopped the car, got out and took off my shoes. Then I climbed up on to the roof of the car. From this vantage point I could see over the wall and had a good view of the garden and house.

  It was everything that a millionaire’s place should be; with set gardens, lush, billiard table lawns, masses of flowers, a sanded carriageway and a regiment of Chinese gardeners working in the sunshine.

  The house was big and white with a green roof, green sun shutters and a magnificent terrace, equipped with sun blinds that stretched either side of a flight of stone steps that led down to the carriageway.

  Apart from the gardeners, there was no sign of
life, no one taking a constitutional on the terrace or even looking out of the windows.

  To me it looked a lonely house; a house I shouldn’t care to live in on my own.

  I got off the car roof, put on my shoes and climbed into the driving seat. I wasn’t ready to call on Mrs. Van Blake just yet so I drove back to the hotel for lunch.

  Before going into the restaurant I called up Captain Bradley and asked him if I could see him that evening.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ve been wondering how you’ve been getting on. Don’t leave your car outside, will you?’

  I said I’d take care of that, and I’d be around after nine o’clock.

  After lunch I went up to my room to write a report for Bernie.

  As soon as I opened the bedroom door I knew someone had been in there while I had been out.

  I shut the door and looked around.

  My suitcase that I had left on the luggage stand was now on the floor. My overcoat that I had left in the cupboard was tossed on my bed.

  I went over to the bureau, pulled open a drawer. Some big hand had stirred up my shirts and socks and hadn’t bothered to put them back as he had found them. Other drawers also showed signs of a quick frisk. Whoever it was who had been poking around didn’t care if I knew it or not.

  I guessed my visitor was Lassiter, but I had to be sure. I crossed the room to the telephone and asked the reception desk to send the house dick up.

  He came after a short delay: a fat, stolid man with a hangover moustache and cold, fishy eyes. I had a five-dollar bill on the table where he could see it, and he saw it before he even saw me.

  ‘The cops been here?’ I asked and moved the bill a couple of inches towards him.

  I could see he had been told not to talk, but the bill proved too much for him. After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded.

  ‘Sergeant Lassiter?’ I asked.

  Again he nodded.

  I handed him the bill.

  ‘Sorry to have brought you up.’

  He slid the bill into his hip pocket, nodded again and drifted out of the room: the strong, silent, corruptible type. Well, Lassiter hadn’t discovered anything that would tell him why I was here. I had no notes on the Benson case with me. I had put nothing down on paper. He must be still wondering what, if anything, I was up to.