1954 - Safer Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  ‘I don’t know, but I have an idea she’s at the bottom of most of my troubles.’

  ‘She’s in solid with Doonan’s flock of buttons. If you’re in wrong with her, you’d better watch out. Lassiter’s on her payroll.’

  ‘Is that a fact? How do you know?’

  ‘A barman hears things. Lassiter may only be a sergeant, but he’s got plenty of influence. Money talks in this town and he’s got it. You should see the Packard he runs, and his house.’

  ‘Think he gets it from her?’

  ‘That’s what I hear. It’s my bet he’ll be Lieutenant next year, and Captain the year after.’

  ‘Why?’

  He showed his teeth in a mirthless smile. ‘She wouldn’t give anything away for nothing. He’s worked for it all right.’

  ‘Bradley thinks she murdered her husband. What do you think?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, but I do know two days after he was shot, Lassiter bought himself the Packard.’

  ‘They say Ted Dillon did the shooting. Did you ever run into Dillon?’

  ‘Are you digging into this murder?’ Benn asked, lowering himself on the arm of a chair.

  ‘It may be hooked up to another killing I’m investigating. Did you ever run into Dillon?’

  ‘He and I served in the same battalion during the war. He was my sidekick. He didn’t kill Van Blake.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  Benn shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘He was taken care of. When you plan to kill a guy with as much dough and influence as Van Blake, it’s a good idea to have a fall guy. That’s what Ted was.’

  ‘How does Hamilton Royce fit in with all this?’

  Benn looked blank.

  ‘Does he? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Bradley thinks Royce arranged the killing on Mrs. Van Blake’s say-so. The payoff was with the club.’

  ‘That’s an idea, but I wouldn’t know. A joint as plush as the Golden Apple is out of my territory. Why not talk to Royce’s ex-girlfriend? She strikes me as being ready to stick a blade into him if she can be sure there’ll be no blow back. About the time Van Blake was murdered Royce and she quarrelled. He threw her out of the nest.’

  ‘Who is she and where do I find her?’

  ‘Her name’s Lydia Forrest. She works at the Hey-Day club on Tampa Boulevard.’ He got to his feet. ‘When I’ve more time and if you want to talk, I’d like to hear more about this setup. Dillon was my pal.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  He took the letter and the package. When he had gone, I reached for the telephone and put in a personal call to Bernie in New York. After some delay he came on the line.

  ‘How are you making out, pal?’ he asked. ‘Long time no see.’

  ‘I’m managing without you,’ I said. ‘It’s about time you did some work for a change.’

  ‘I thought that was in the wind,’ he said. ‘The story’s coming along fine. Even Fayette likes it. Give me another couple of weeks on it.’

  ‘Couple of weeks - nothing. You’ve got a long trail ahead of you. You’re going to Paris.’

  ‘Paris?’ His voice rose in a yelp. ‘Hot dog! Is that good news! Do you think Fayette will stand for it?’

  ‘He will after he’s read the report I’m mailing him. I want you to check on Cornelia Van Blake’s movements while she was there. I’ll send you all the dope. Take a photograph of Fay Benson with you and show it around in the hotels I’ll give you.’

  ‘Did she go to Paris then?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I want to find out. Check up on Joan Nichols too.’

  ‘Say, this sounds like hard work,’ Bernie protested. ‘There are other things to do in Paris besides work.’

  ‘Listen, you good-for-nothing punk! I’m in a jam here. The cops think I’ve knocked off a couple of guys and they’re hunting for me. They’re a tough, rough bunch, and if you don’t give me what I want, I’ll go to Paris myself and you can handle this end!’

  ‘Relax,’ Bernie said hurriedly. ‘I’ll give you what you want. Just tell me and you’ll get it.’

  II

  I left the hideout around nine-thirty, using the emergency exit. It was a dark, moonless night with a hint of rain in the air, and the darkness gave me a sense of security. I was glad to stretch my legs. The report I had written to Fayette was as complete as I could make it, and it had taken the best part of four hours. Getting it all down on paper had helped to clarify my mind on several points I had to clear up.

  I had an idea that if I could find out why Lennox Hartley had been murdered I would find the solution to most of my problems. I had had time to think over the events of yesterday, and I recalled Cornelia’s reaction when I had remarked on the picture of her that Hartley had painted. I recalled too her reaction when I had given her Fay Benson’s photograph. Fay had been one of Hartley’s models. There was a hookup somewhere between the three of them. It occurred to me that Fay’s friend, Irene Jarrard, might be able to supply the key to this hookup. It was possible Fay had said something to her that might put me on the right lines. I told myself that at the first opportunity I would talk to her.

  Hamilton Royce was another loose end that needed tying up. If his ex-girlfriend was willing to talk, she would be my best bet for tonight.

  The Hey-Day club had a gaudy, neon decorated entrance that led down steep stairs into one of those airless, dark cellars that save rent and attract the tourist trade. I descended the stairs to where a hard-faced bouncer signed me in for a three dollar entrance and temporary membership fee and promptly lost interest in me.

  I pushed aside the curtain that guarded the entrance to the bar and dance floor and made my way through the smoke laden air and the closely set tables to the bar. There weren’t more than twenty people in the club: most of them were over made up and underdressed girls on the lookout for male company. I could feel their eyes boring into me as I made my way to the bar.

  The rat-faced barman nodded to me as I came to rest in front of him. He looked me over and didn’t seem to know what to make of me.

  I ordered a straight whisky.

  ‘If you want company,’ the barman said as he set the whisky before me, ‘all you have to do is to smile at one of those babies and she’ll break her neck getting to you.’

  ‘Which one of them is Lydia Forrest?’ I asked, reaching for the whisky. ‘Or isn’t she on show?’

  The barman touched his thin lips with the tip of a white coated tongue. His deepset eyes took on a sleepy look.

  ‘You want Miss Forrest?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘You a friend of hers?’ he asked and I could sense his hostility like a wall between us.

  I leaned my elbows on the bar and smiled at him.

  ‘If you must know I am a friend of a friend of hers,’ I said mildly. ‘Is she around?’

  ‘No, and if you took my tip, you’d skip it. She has friends who are touchy about guys asking for her.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ I said and shook my head. I drank the whisky and pushed the glass towards him. ‘Don’t let us get our lines crossed. I’ve plenty of girlfriends of my own. I don’t have to muscle in on someone else’s preserves. I have a message for her - that’s all.’

  He refilled my glass and relaxed a trifle.

  ‘A lot of guys come in here pestering her,’ he said. ‘If it’s only a message.’

  ‘That’s it. Where do I find her?’

  He took my money and accepted the dollar tip.

  ‘She’ll be doing her act in half an hour. Stick around, mister.’

  I peeled off four more of Fayette’s dollar bills and showed them to the barman.

  ‘If I stay here for a half hour this atmosphere will put me into an iron lung. Can’t I call on her in her dressing room?’

  He pulled at his right ear while he examined the four bills.

  ‘I guess so,’ he said finally. ‘Second door by the band. Don’t make it too obvious.’

  He c
ollected the four bills as easily as a vacuum cleaner picks up fluff.

  I carried my drink to a table near the band, sat down and smoked a cigarette. A platinum blonde with a complexion like crepe rubber, jumped the gun and came over without an invitation.

  ‘Hello, honey,’ she said, flashing me a smile that might have been dazzling if her teeth had been better. ‘Going to buy me a drink?’

  I said I was waiting for my mother. The sneer that distorted her face was something to see. She flounced back to the others and told them. Two men in tropical suits and hand painted ties came in at this moment, and the girls shifted their attention from me to them. When I had finished my drink I got up, wandered to the second door by the band, opened it and stepped into a passage.

  There were two doors at the far end of the passage: one of them had a star painted on it. I rapped and waited.

  A contralto voice told me to come in.

  I pushed open the door.

  The girl sitting before triple mirrors was blonde and lovely if you like features that could have been chiselled out of granite. She had the usual curves that you’d expect of a girl in show business. Three years ago she would have been sensational, but now the wear and tear of nightclub life had frayed the edges of her freshness. She was wearing a low cut scarlet and black gown.

  A flat Turkish cigarette hung from her glistening lips.

  She raised arched eyebrows as she said, ‘Well? What is it?’

  ‘Miss Forrest?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The name’s Low,’ I said, borrowing Bernie’s name. I eased myself into the room and closed the door. ‘Can you spare me a minute?’

  ‘About what?’

  She twisted around in her chair, rested one slim arm on the chair back and examined me without interest.

  ‘You and I may have things in common, Miss Forrest. I’m making inquiries about Hamilton Royce.’

  Her eyelids narrowed and she tapped ash off her cigarette before saying, ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a long story: cutting corners, he’s connected in some way with the disappearance of a girl. I’m looking for information and I’m authorized to pay for it.’

  ‘What girl?’ she asked.

  ‘Fay Benson or Frances Bennett. Maybe you’ve heard of her?’

  Her full lips tightened.

  ‘Who are you - a detective?’

  ‘A private investigator.’

  ‘Who are you working for?’

  ‘Someone who has lots of dough and isn’t scared of spending it.’

  She stubbed out the cigarette, turned to look at herself in the triple mirrors.

  ‘We can’t talk here,’ she said and picking up a comb she ran it through her fine, silky hair. ‘I’ve an apartment on Lennox Drive: 246 C. I’ll be there just after one o’clock.’

  I heard a door down the passage click open. She heard it too to judge by the way she put down the comb and by the way her face tightened.

  A tap sounded on her door and she turned and looked at me.

  Her eyes were scared.

  ‘You’ve made a mistake. I don’t know anyone of the name of Morgan.’ she was saying in a high-pitched voice when the door opened and the hard-faced bouncer came in.

  He looked at me.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked in a hoarse croak.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ I asked, backing away.

  ‘Get him out of here, Sam,’ Lydia said breathlessly. ‘He’s pestering me.’

  The bouncer reached out a huge hand and took in the slack of my coat front. I resisted the temptation to hang one on his jaw. He was wide open for a sucker punch, but I saw Lydia was anxious. She had given me the role of a Romeo and I was stuck with it.

  ‘I’m going,’ I said. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘You don’t want it, pal, but you’re going to get it,’ the bouncer said and hauled me out of the room into the passage. He hustled me down the passage to the rear exit, opened the door and shoved me into the night.

  ‘If you show your snout in this joint again, I’ll take you apart and throw the bits to my dog,’ he said, giving me a push that sent me reeling across the sidewalk.

  I got back my balance, straightened my coat and smiled at him. It’s not often I get mad, but right now I ached to sink my fist in his face.

  ‘You and who else?’ I asked and pushed out my jaw.

  The temptation was too much for him. He started a swing from his left kneecap that was as ponderous and as slow and as violent as any slap happy bouncer could throw. I let his fist slide past my face, then stepping in, I hung a right hand punch on the side of his jaw that jarred me down to my heels.

  He gave a stifled grunt, his eyeballs rolled back and he spread out on the sidewalk.

  III

  With two and a half hours to kill, I went back to Benn’s bar. He was going to bed, but came down to the hideout when I called him on the telephone.

  He looked at my scraped knuckles, but didn’t ask questions.

  ‘I want a car,’ I said. ‘Know anyone who’ll rent me one at this hour?’

  ‘Take mine,’ he said. ‘The garage’s at the end of the alley,’ and he dropped keys on the table. ‘It’s a 1943 Lincoln, but I’ve taken care of it and it goes.’

  ‘That’s fine, and thanks,’ I said, putting the keys into my pocket. ‘One other thing: where’s Lennox Drive?’

  ‘You know Cap Bradley’s house? It’s the second turning past there.’ He stifled a yawn. ‘If there’s nothing else, I’ll turn in. I have to work for a living.’

  I said there was nothing else.

  When he had gone, I turned on the radio and listened to the tail end of a recorded Beethoven’s fourth piano concerto.

  Around twelve forty-five, I left the hideout, got Benn’s car out and drove to Lennox Drive.

  Captain Bradley’s house was in darkness as I drove past. I was tempted to drop in and tell him the situation to-date, but I hadn’t the time and from the look of the house he was in bed.

  I left the Lincoln at the corner of Lennox Drive and walked to Lydia’s apartment house. Her apartment was on the ground floor at the back. I dug my thumb into the bell push, wondering if she had got back yet. The sound of someone moving to open the door told me she had. The door opened.

  I got the shock of my life.

  Juan Ortez stood in the doorway, a .45 Colt in his right hand and a cold, vicious gleam in his eyes.

  ‘Keep your hands still,’ he said, ‘and walk in. Make a wrong move and you’ll get it.’

  He stood aside.

  I walked into a large room with gay curtains, lounging chairs, a table on which stood a bowl of roses, and in one corner was a walnut radiogram playing muted swing music.

  Lydia sat on the settee. She didn’t look at me. Her face was as white as a fresh fall of snow except for three red marks on her right cheek where someone, presumably Juan, had slapped her.

  ‘Back up against the wall,’ Juan said.

  He didn’t appear to recognize me, but for all that I was shaken. I backed up against the wall and tried to look more scared than I was.

  ‘You’ve got me all wrong.’ I began feverishly.

  ‘Shut up!’ he snarled.

  He moved backwards so he could watch the two of us.

  ‘Will you listen!’ Lydia burst out. ‘This fella pushed his way into my dressing room tonight. I’ve never seen him before. Sam threw him out. He must have followed me back here.’

  ‘You gave him your address,’ Juan said softly. ‘Sam heard you.’

  ‘Sam’s a liar and you know it!’ Lydia said hysterically. ‘He’s always trying to get me into trouble. I didn’t give him my address!’

  Juan looked at me.

  ‘What do you want here?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, trying to look scared and sheepish. ‘Not now anyway. How was I to know she wasn’t alone? I thought we might get friendly if I had the chance to talk to her.’

  ‘Yeah? So you’re just
a masher, is that it?’

  ‘I just wanted to be friendly,’ I said sullenly.

  He looked at Lydia and then at me. He didn’t seem so sure of himself.

  ‘You make me sick, Juan,’ Lydia said, getting to her feet. ‘Throw this punk out and get out yourself. I want to go to bed.’ She crossed to the table, poured a double whisky into a glass and picked it up.

  ‘Shut up!’ Juan snarled. ‘I think you two are lying. I’m going to find out who this guy is.’

  She shrugged and moved away from the table. She kept moving so she passed close to him. I had an idea what was in her mind and I moved a couple of steps towards the door.

  ‘Hold it!’ Juan exclaimed and swung up the gun to cover me.

  Lydia threw the whisky in his face and caught his wrist in both her hands, dragging down the gun and wedging her finger in the trigger guard so he couldn’t fire. I crossed the room in two jumps and slammed a right to his jaw. His head snapped back, and as he fell, I hit him again.

  Lydia straightened, holding the gun. Her eyes burned feverishly as she looked down at Juan. I reached forward and took the gun out of her limp fingers. She gave a little shudder, walked unsteadily over to an armchair and sat down.

  ‘I shouldn’t have done that,’ she said in a small, thin voice. ‘I shouldn’t have done it!’

  ‘This guy isn’t going to remain quiet for long,’ I said. ‘You’ve got things to tell me. I can take you somewhere where they won’t bother you. Do you want to come?’

  ‘There’s nothing else I can do now,’ she said, ‘not after this.’

  ‘Go and pack. I’ll take care of him.’

  She got up and went slowly into the inner room.

  I opened Juan’s coat, pulled it down over his elbows and fastened his wrists together with the belt I found around his waist. He opened his eyes as I rolled him over on to his back and he began to mumble. I took the Colt and gave him a sharp rap on the top of his skull. His eyes snapped shut and he went limp again. I tied his ankles together with a curtain cord and gagged him with his handkerchief.

  Satisfied he wouldn’t make a nuisance of himself for a while, I went into the inner room to see how Lydia was making out. She was tossing garments into two suitcases; her movements showed her growing panic.