The Guilty Are Afraid

by James Hadley Chase

  Then I asked the sixty-four dollar question.

  “Any idea who she is?”

  Rankin stubbed out his cigarette, then sat back while he and Holding exchanged glances.

  Holding shrugged.

  “It’s pretty obvious she’s the woman who called for Sheppey at his hotel this morning. What she has been doing from eleven o’clock this morning up to the time of her death defeats me. She was still wearing the swimsuit she had on when she left Sheppey.”

  “Have you been able to identify her yet?”

  “A girl named Thelma Cousins has been reported missing by her landlady. The landlady said she hadn’t been back since she left for work this morning. We got her to look at the body. She says the girl is Thelma Cousins. We’re getting a second check on her. The man she works for is on his way down now.”

  “Who is he?”

  Rankin supplied the information, which had me suddenly pointing like a gun dog.

  “His name is Marcus Hahn,” he said. “He’s a phony who runs a pottery racket he calls the School of Ceramics out at Arrow point. The girl worked in his showroom.”

  II

  I had to decide whether to tell them about the folder of matches I had found in Sheppey’s luggage and the odd tie-up between the folder and this School of Ceramics or whether to say nothing.

  I told myself that maybe this wasn’t the time for a complete exchange of confidences. I had to make sure first that Rankin was going to find Sheppey’s killer. Although he was in charge of the investigation that didn’t mean he had a free hand. He could still be blocked by Katchen on Creedy’s orders. I wasn’t going to hand him anything on a plate until I was sure he meant business.

  Rankin said, “We want to find out what Sheppey and this girl were up to. It’s my bet she had a boyfriend and he fixed them both.”

  I looked over at Holding. His face had gone blank and he had begun to fidget with the pen tray.

  “It shouldn’t be difficult to find out if she had a boyfriend,” I said.

  “Hahn may know something.” Rankin looked at his watch. “I guess I’d better go over to the morgue. He should be down any moment now.” He looked at Holding. “Okay?”

  “Oh, sure,” Holding said.

  I made a move to get up, but Holding lifted his hand.

  “I’d like to run over your statement just once more, Mr. Brandon. You get off, Lieutenant.”

  Rankin got to his feet, nodded to me, and went out.

  There was a long pause after he had shut the door, then Holding pulled a pipe from his pocket and began to fill it. I took that as a signal that we were going to be chummy and I fetched out my pack of Luckies and lit one.

  “You had a talk with Captain Katchen this morning?” Holding said, not looking at me.

  “You might call it that. It was a little one sided, but I managed to sound off in the end. I collected a slap in the face for my trouble, but I’m not complaining.”

  “Something was said about Lee Creedy,” Holding said, looking up.

  “Something was said about Lee Creedy,” I said, watching him.

  His small hard eyes searched my face.

  “You mentioned his name to Katchen?”

  “I did.”

  “You are under the impression that Creedy hired Sheppey to do a job?”

  “Yes.”

  Holding lit his pipe, frowned, shifted in his chair and puffed smoke.

  “You have no proof of that?”

  “Sheppey wrote Creedy’s name on his blotter while he was talking on the telephone. I know the man he was talking to hired him to come down here. Sheppey had a habit of writing on his blotter. I can’t see why he should have written down Creedy’s name unless Creedy was the

  man who hired him.”

  “Unless someone wanted Sheppey to work on a job connected with Creedy. I mean Sheppey’s client could have asked him to get information about Creedy. Thought of that?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t quite fall into line.”

  I went on to tell him how I had telephoned Creedy’s residence and had asked for an appointment, how I had been taken in to see Creedy over the heads of six businessmen, how I had been threatened and how Fulton and I had been attacked by Hertz.

  Holding listened to all this, puffing away at his pipe, his face expressionless.

  “It seems to me that Creedy hired Sheppey, and now Sheppey has been murdered, Creedy is falling over backwards to hush up the fact that he did hire him,” I concluded.

  Holding brooded for a moment, then said, “I take it you’re pretty anxious to get Sheppey’s murder cleared up?”

  I stared at him.

  “Well, of course.”

  “When I heard you had come down here and had talked to Katchen,” Holding said, “I called the District Attorney’s office at San Francisco and made some inquiries about you. It seems your agency has been pretty cooperative in the past and you have a high rating in Frisco. You were also on the staff of the D.A.’s office there for some years and you did a pretty good job.”

  I grinned.

  “I bet the D.A. didn’t tell you that.”

  Holding allowed himself a small smile. It didn’t do much to ease the ferrety expression on his face.

  “I spoke to my opposite number, the A.D.A. He said your rating for insubordination was high, but, given a free hand, you were a good man on an investigation.”

  “He told you that because he still owes me ten bucks,” I said, wondering where all this was leading to.

  “How would you like to have a crack at solving the Sheppey murder?”

  “I’m working on it now: opposition or no opposition.”

  Holding nodded.

  “But you won’t get far without some form of protection.”

  “I know that. Protection is something I’m a little short of right now.”

  “It can be arranged.” He rubbed his lean jaw. “Up to a point that is: it’s not absolutely guaranteed.”

  “If it will hold Katchen off my neck, I’ll take care of Hertz.”

  “Katchen can be fixed. You may find Hertz hard to handle. You don’t want to underestimate him.”

  “I won’t.”

  Holding brooded some more, then said, “Well, I guess that’s about it, Mr. Brandon. It’s getting late. It’s time I was in bed.”

  I shook my head at him.

  “Why the free hand? What chestnut am I pulling out of the fire for you?”

  I saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall, but otherwise his face remained impassive.

  “It’s not a question of that,” he said carefully. “It seems to me that since your partner has been murdered and you are in the line of business, you would want to make a separate investigation.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that if you want me to play,” I said, putting an edge to my voice.

  He went back to fidgeting with the pen tray, then, after taking time to find the right words, he said, “I’m not entirely convinced this is a job for the police. It could be, of course. If this girl was associated with a thug and if he found Sheppey was fooling around with her, and killed them both, then it is something the police could handle. But if it goes deeper than that, if it involves Creedy, then we’re not going to make much progress.”

  “And that would worry you?”

  He looked sharply at me.

  “All right: I’ll put the cards on the table. It’ll be difficult for you to understand the position really unless I do.”

  “Let’s have all the cards in view,” I said. “Including the one you have up your sleeve.”

  He let that one ride.

  “Within the next few weeks the Administration is coming up for a new term,” he said, picking his words as if they were as fragile as eggshells. “The opposition is naturally looking for an opportunity to loosen the grip Creedy has on this town. If Creedy is involved in some way in Sheppey’s murder, it may give the opposition the opportunity it is looking for. The Administration isn’t part
icularly popular, but it is extremely powerful. At the moment it is balanced on a razor’s edge. Any scandal that could be used on the front page of the opposition newspapers might turn the trick.”

  “I take it, Mr. Holding, that you are a member of the opposition?”

  “I believe in justice and freedom,” he said, taking the pipe out of his rattrap of a mouth and looking at it as if he were surprised to find it still alight.

  “Pretty praiseworthy, Mr. Holding,” I said. “If the opposition gets into power, you would probably become the new District Attorney?”

  That made his Adam’s apple do a hand spring. He looked at me from over the top of his glasses, scratched the lobe of his right ear, hesitated about looking indignant, then relaxed completely with a wide, boyish smile that was as false as a chorus girl’s eyelashes.

  “I suppose I would, but that, of course, has nothing to do with the issue, nothing at all.”

  “Who’s gunning for Creedy?”

  “I wouldn’t call it that. This is a straight fight between the Creedy Administration and Judge Harrison, who is going to the poll on a Reform ticket.”

  “And this town could do with a little reforming?”

  “It certainly could.”

  “Where does Rankin figure in all this?”

  “There isn’t a great deal Rankin can do if this case develops along the lines that would be detrimental to the Administration,” Holding said. “The Commissioner wouldn’t encourage an investigation that might embarrass Creedy. He and Creedy are good friends.”

  “And, of course, Rankin is hoping to become Captain and needs to keep his nose clean,” I said. As Holding didn’t have any remarks to make on that one, I went on, “So no one is sticking his neck out except me, is that it?”

  “Judge Harrison has considerable influence. We have a newspaper with a wide circulation. You would have to be careful, of course, but providing you carry out an orthodox investigation no one would interfere.”

  “Except Creedy and Hertz.”

  Holding tapped out his pipe.

  “I think you said you could take care of Hertz.”

  “Yes, I think I could, but I don’t say that my methods would be orthodox.”

  “That’s something, perhaps, I had better know nothing about.”

  I thought for a moment, then said, “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. The position as I see it is that I make an investigation, present my findings to you and you persuade the Commissioner to make an arrest. Right?”

  Holding went back to the pen tray again. He seemed to get a lot of comfort from pushing it around.

  “Not quite. I think perhaps the best plan would be for you to make the investigation and pass the facts to the Editor of the St. Raphael Courier. He is a firebrand who is willing to publish anything so long as it hits at the Administration. Then when it is published, the Commissioner will have to act.”

  I grinned.

  “And you and Rankin keep out of it? So if anything goes wrong, you’re right where you are, safe and happy.”

  He didn’t like that.

  “Until the Administration . . .” he began, but I cut him short.

  “Okay, skip it.” I got to my feet. “I’ll handle it. Not because I’m pulling your chestnuts out of the fire nor because I want to see Judge Harrison running for a Reform ticket. I’m doing it because my partner was killed, and a thing like that is bad for my business.”

  He nodded, looking wise.

  “I can understand that.”

  “Although he was my partner and I’ve a sentimental feeling about turning up the killer,” I went on, “I can’t live on air forever. If your mob rides into office because of what I turn up, I’ll expect them to meet my expenses.”

  He looked as if he had suddenly bitten into a quince.

  “That might be arranged, but we would have to be sure first that this case is connected with Creedy.”

  “That’s understood. In the meantime do I get any help from anyone?”

  “Rankin knows what I’m arranging with you. If you will contact him at his home from time to time he will let you know what progress he has made. You’ll find him in the book.”

  “What’s the name of this Editor you mentioned: the firebrand?”

  “Ralph Troy. You can rely on him. Give him the facts and he’ll print.”

  “But first I’ve got to find the facts.” I looked at him. “Well, I’ll see what I can dig up. So long for now.”

  He offered a limp hand.

  “Good luck and be careful.”

  No one could say he was a ray of sunshine. I knew I would need some luck and I was certainly going to be careful.

  III

  On my way out I wondered if I was too late to catch a glimpse of Marcus Hahn. I was curious to get a look at him without him getting a look at me.

  I asked the desk sergeant where the morgue was, explaining that I wanted a word with Lieutenant Rankin if he were still there.

  The sergeant told me to follow the corridor to the rear door, turn left and I’d see the morgue light straight ahead.

  I followed his directions.

  The entrance to the morgue was across the yard. A blue lamp above the door made a ghostly light. Two windows of the low building showed lights and, moving quietly, I crossed the dark courtyard and looked in through one of the windows.

  Rankin was standing by a table on which lay Thelma Cousins’ body, covered to the neck by the sheet. Facing him was a slightly built man with a mass of corn-coloured hair and a chin beard to match. He was wearing a cowboy shirt of blue and yellow checks, black trousers, skin tight at the hips and that belled out around his ankles. On his feet he wore Mexican boots with high heels, and with some tricky inlaid silver work on them.

  He was good looking if you could accept the long hair and the beard. He had a good nose, deep-set, intelligent eyes and a dome of a forehead.

  While he listened to Rankin, he kept smacking the side of his boot with a thin riding whip.

  Maybe if he had had a horse with him he would have been impressive. Without the horse, he looked just another Californian screwball.

  Rankin seemed to be doing most of the talking. Hahn just nodded and uttered a word here and there. I could see from Rankin’s expression that he was getting nowhere. Finally he flicked the sheet over the dead girl’s face as a signal the interview was over, and Hahn started across the room for the door.

  I stepped quickly back into the shadows.

  Hahn came out, crossed the yard with long strides, flicking his leg with his whip. He disappeared through the doorway, leading to the street exit.

  I moved around to the entrance to the morgue, pushed open the door and went in.

  Rankin was just about to turn off the lights when he saw me and his hard, tight face showed his surprise.

  “What do you want?”

  “Was that Hahn?”

  “Yeah: a phony if ever there was one, but he does all right with his pots. He must be making a small fortune out of the sucker trade.” Rankin suppressed a yawn. “Know what he told me? This will kill you.” He touched the dead girl’s arm. “She wasn’t only religious, but she never went around with men. She hadn’t even a boyfriend unless you can call her priest her boyfriend. He was the only one she went around with, and then only to help him collect for the poor. Doc says she’s a virgin. I’ll talk to the priest tomorrow, but I think we can believe Hahn.”

  “And yet she went around with Sheppey.”

  Rankin grimaced.

  “Was he all that good? Could he have made a girl like her fall for him?”

  “I wouldn’t put it beyond him. He had a technique all of his own, but I don’t like it a lot. He didn’t go for the religious type. Maybe he and she were on the level. She might have been helping him: giving him information.”

  “Would they go swimming together; sharing the same cabin if it was only that?”

  I shrugged.

  “I don’t know.”

  “We
ll, at least, it doesn’t look as if we’ll have to look for a boyfriend, does it?” He wandered over to the light switch and turned it off. “You playing along with Holding?” His voice came out of the semi-darkness. The light from the outside blue lamp made a silver puddle on the morgue floor.

  “I said I would. He tells me I can look you up at your house if I want any information.”

  “He didn’t tell you you could look him up at his house, did he?”

  “No.”

  Rankin moved over to me.

  “He wouldn’t. He never takes chances.” He put his hand on my arm. “You want to watch him: you’re not the first guy he’s taken for a ride. He’s been in office now for four years and he hasn’t got there or stayed there without a lot of help. He has a nice, well-developed talent for getting someone else to row his boat for him. He’s the only punk I’ve ever known who hunts with the Administration and runs with the opposition and gets away with it. So watch him.”

  He walked out of the morgue, his hands thrust deep in his coat pockets, his shoulders hunched, his head bent.

  I stood for a long moment, turning this information over in my mind. Even if he hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t have trusted Mr. Holding. He hadn’t been born with the face of a ferret for nothing.

  I left the morgue, closed the door and walked quickly down the passage and on to the street.

  The time was now twenty-five minutes to two o’clock. I was pretty tired, and it was nice to sink into the upholstered seat of the Buick.

  I got back to the hotel as the clock was striking two. The night clerk looked reproachfully at me as I crossed the lobby. I was too tired to bother with him. I got into the elevator, rode up to the second floor, tramped wearily down the corridor to my room. I unlocked the door, pushed it open and turned on the light.

  Then I swore under my breath.

  The room had been given the same treatment as Sheppey’s room. The drawers in the chest were hanging out, the mattress was ripped open, the pillows were slashed. My stuff had been tossed out of my suitcases and strewn all over the floor. Even Sheppey’s stuff had been thrown around too.

  I went quickly to where I had hidden the match-folder.

  My fingers slid under the edge of the carpet and I grinned.