The Guilty Are Afraid

by James Hadley Chase

  “I can explain that,” I said. “You’re not trying to make out I killed those two, are you?”

  “I’m not trying to make out anything,” Rankin said in a tired, flat voice. “Just shut up, will you? I’ve been told to bring you in, and I’m bringing you in.”

  “What’s this about Holding?”

  “You’ll find out.” Rankin settled back in the corner of the car. “Just shut up.”

  Nothing further was said during the fast run up to the Crest.

  During the run, I did some thinking. Then I suddenly realized I might have the key to the whole case: I couldn’t be absolutely sure, but all of a sudden the bits of the jigsaw that had made no sense, suddenly meant something. It was one of those sudden flashes one gets when one mentally steps back and looks over all the bits and pieces and suddenly sees a connecting link which before hadn’t meant anything.

  I hadn’t time to get excited about this discovery because we arrived at the White Chateau.

  We got out.

  Rankin said to Candy, “Take the car and go back to the bungalow. Take Jackson with you. Search the place. Bring anything you find back here. Get moving.”

  Candy looked surprised, but he got back into the car and the driver slid under the driving wheel.

  “Think she’ll be gone by now?” Rankin asked as the police car drove off.

  “Yeah. What’s happened to Holding?”

  “You’re way out on a limb, Brandon. Creedy’s done a fast deal with Judge Harrison. Holding is back with the Administration. There’s no opposition just now.”

  That really set me back on my heels.

  “Come on,” Rankin said. “We don’t want to keep the Captain waiting. Don’t let’s have any trouble. You were told not to push this thing so you can’t say you weren’t warned.”

  “Holding told me to go ahead.”

  “Couldn’t you see the kind of rat he is?” Rankin said impatiently. “Come on.”

  We walked up the path, across the lawn to the house. All the lights were on. Three uniformed policemen were pacing up and down on the terrace.

  We walked through the open french doors into the lounge. A squad of fingerprint men and photographers were at work. None of them bothered to look at me.

  Rankin said to one of them, “Captain here?”

  “Upstairs, Lieutenant,” the detective said as he peered at a fingerprint he had discovered on the edge of one of the cocktail tables.

  We went out into the hall.

  Two men in white coats were bringing down a stretcher on which lay a body covered with a sheet. From the size of the body I guessed it was the Filipino’s.

  We stood aside and I watched the two men tramp across the hall and out through the french doors.

  “Come on,” Rankin said. “You first.”

  I climbed the stairs, and at his nod I walked into Thrisby’s bedroom.

  Thrisby still lay across the bed. Standing, looking out of the window was the enormous figure of Captain Katchen. Two plainclothes men were going through the various drawers in the room. There was no sign of the Siamese cat. I moved into the room and stopped by the foot of the bed. I didn’t look at Thrisby.

  Rankin leaned against the doorpost, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on Katchen’s broad back. Katchen didn’t turn. He continued to stare out of the window. Cigar smoke drifted from his mouth and crawled across the room in a small grey cloud, passing close to me.

  It smelt rank and strong.

  Nothing happened for two long, unpleasant minutes, then Katchen growled, “Got his gun?” He still remained with his back towards me. The old technique of breaking down nerves and softening-up resistance.

  As Rankin left the doorway, one of the other detectives moved over to take his place. It was a hint that they didn’t expect me to make a sudden dive for the stairs.

  Rankin put my gun into Katchen’s hand. His hand was so big the gun looked like a toy. He took the gun, sniffed at the barrel, broke open the gun, looked at the barrelling, took out the magazine and then checked the slugs. He lifted his massive shoulders and held the gun in Rankin’s direction.

  As Rankin took the gun, Katchen said, “Got the cuffs on him?”

  I saw Rankin’s face muscles tighten.

  “No, Captain.”

  “Why not?” The snarl in his voice would have chilled anyone’s blood. It didn’t warm mine.

  “I didn’t think it was necessary.”

  “You’re not paid to think! Put ‘em on!”

  Rankin produced a pair of handcuffs from his hip pocket and came over to me. His set face was expressionless. I held out my wrists and he snapped the handcuffs on.

  “They’re on, Captain,” he said, moving away from me.

  Slowly Katchen turned. His big brutal face was dark with congested blood: his small eyes were as restless and as savage as the eyes of a rogue elephant.

  “So you imagined you could get away with it, shamus,” he said, glaring at me. “You thought your pal Holding could keep me off your neck. Well, I’m going to show you just how wrong you are.” While he was speaking he moved slowly towards me and I could see little red flecks in his eyes. “I’ve been waiting for another session with you, shamus,” he went on, “but I’ll be damned if I thought I was going to nail you on a double murder charge.”

  “You can’t pin that one on me,” I said, watching him. “They’ve been dead five or six hours and you know it.”

  For a man of his size he certainly could throw a quick punch. I saw his left coming towards my head and I shifted just in time. I felt his iron knuckles graze my ear, but I hadn’t a chance of blocking his right with my hands handcuffed. His fist slammed into me with the force of a mule’s kick.

  I went down and lay with my knees drawn up, trying to get breath into my lungs. For a long minute I held on to myself, trying to get my breath. Then I heard Katchen snarl, “Stand him up!”

  One of the detectives got hold of me and dragged me to my feet. I swayed against him, bent double, and he shoved me from him and moved away.

  There was a heavy silence while I got hold of myself. After a while I managed to straighten up. I found Katchen facing me, a sneering grin on his face.

  “You’re going down to headquarters, shamus,” he said, biting off each word, “and you’re going to be locked in a cell, but you’ll have company. I’ve got three or four boys who like softening beetles. After they’re through with you, you’ll be glad to confess to four murders, let alone two.”

  I knew if I said anything he would hit me again and taking one full-blooded punch from him was all I wanted to take. I stood there, looking at him.

  “And if I can’t pin a murder rap on you, shamus,” he went on, “we’ll put you away for breaking and entering. You’ll get three months, and every day of those three months one of the boys will bounce you around. I told you to keep your snout out of this, now you’re going to be sorry you didn’t.”

  He turned to Rankin.

  “Okay, take him down to headquarters and book him on a charge of murdering Thrisby and the Filipino. That’ll hold him until I can look the evidence over. We should be able to nail it on him.”

  Rankin, his face expressionless, moved over to me and took hold of my arm.

  “Come on,” he said.

  Katchen came up to me and dug me in the chest with a finger the size of a banana.

  “I’m going to make you wish you were dead, beetle,” he snarled and, drawing his hand back, he clouted me across the face so violently he sent me staggering against Rankin. “Get the punk out of my sight,” he snarled, “and throw him in a cell!”

  Rankin grabbed hold of my arm and jerked me out of the room. We went down the stairs together, out on to the terrace, down the path to where three police cars were parked. Neither of us said anything. As we moved beyond the gate, the police car that had collected me from the bungalow came down the road and pulled up.

  Candy got out and came over to us.

  “Find
anything?” Rankin asked.

  “Another gun: recently fired with four slugs out of the magazine: a .38,” Candy said, and took Bridgette’s gun out of his pocket.

  “Where did you find it?” I said.

  He looked at me.

  “Under your bed . . . where you put it.”

  I shook my head.

  “I didn’t put it there, but I don’t expect you to believe me.”

  Rankin was frowning at me.

  “I’m taking him to headquarters,” he said to Candy. “I’ll get the gun checked. There was nothing else?”

  “No.”

  “Take one of the other cars and get off home,” Rankin said. “The Captain’s got all the men he wants here.”

  “Okay. You taking Brandon in on your own?”

  “Yeah.”

  They looked at each other. I thought Candy’s left eyelid flickered, but I could have been mistaken. He went off into the darkness.

  Rankin waved me to one of the police cars.

  “You drive.”

  “Come again?” I said, surprised.

  “You drive.”

  “In handcuffs?”

  He took his key out and took the handcuffs off.

  I got in under the driving wheel and started the engine. He slid in beside me, took out his pack of cigarettes and lit one.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  As I drove up to the mountain road, I said, “You’ll be careful what you do with that gun, Lieutenant.” I slowed, looked to right and left, then got on to the highway. “It belongs to Mrs. Creedy.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “What’s the idea of taking me in this way?” I asked. “This must be the first time on record a prisoner has driven himself to jail with a cop smoking at his side.”

  “I’m not taking you to jail,” Rankin said. “This is Katchen’s idea of acting smart. He thinks by now you’ve had such a scare thrown into you, you’ll get out of town and stay out. I’m supposed to give you a chance to escape.”

  I was so surprised I didn’t say anything for the next two hundred yards, then I began to think again and I suddenly laughed.

  “Well, he certainly threw a scare into me,” I said, “but not big enough to make me run away. Were you supposed to tell me this?”

  “I was supposed to look the other way while you ran for it,” Rankin said, his voice bored. “It occurred to me you might not run.”

  “I wouldn’t have. I’m not risking a bullet in the back. This is Creedy’s idea, of course. Having tried to buy me off with a hundred and fifty thousand bucks, now he’s trying to frighten me off.” I blew out my cheeks. “How did you know I had been to Thrisby’s place?”

  “Creedy’s got one of his stooges watching the place,” Rankin said. “The stooge called him, told him he’d seen you go in and Creedy called Katchen and told him to slap a breaking and entering charge on you. He told him to scare you silly, give you the treatment and then run you out of town. We just missed you and found Thrisby. Katchen decided to scare you with a murder charge.”

  “Not giving a damn who really killed Thrisby?”

  Rankin shrugged.

  “Oh, he’ll get around to it in his own time,” he said indifferently.

  “Didn’t the stooge see the killer?”

  “No. He only comes on duty at night.” He took Bridgette’s gun from his pocket and turned it over in his hand. “This the gun that killed Thrisby?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she kill him?”

  “You’d better ask her. I’d say no.”

  “You don’t ask Creedy’s wife questions like that. You don’t ask Creedy’s wife any questions come to that if you want to keep your job in this town.”

  “No man should have that amount of power. So Creedy has done a deal with Judge Harrison?”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t so hard. The Judge hasn’t a dime to call his own and an extravagant wife. Creedy paid him off so he’s ready to pull out of the political racket. It’ll be in the newspapers tomorrow.”

  “The Courier will be pleased.”

  “Nothing they can do about it. You can drive back to the bungalow. Then you’d better pack, take your car and beat it.”

  “I’m not ready to go yet,” I said, coming off the mountain road on to Franklyn Boulevard. “I’m leaving when I’ve cleared up Sheppey’s death and not before.”

  “You’d better clear off tonight, Brandon. Katchen has given orders about you. If you’re not out of town within two hours you’ll be in trouble. Katchen’s prowl boys are expert at staging an accident. You could lose a leg in the kind of smash they can manufacture.”

  I stared at him.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I’ve never spoken a truer word,” he said soberly. “Be out of St. Raphael within two hours or you’ll be a hospital case. There’s nothing you can do about it. These boys come up on you so fast: we have thirty prowl cars in this town, and any one of them could nail you. Just don’t kid yourself. You wouldn’t have a chance for a kick back. You’d be lucky to survive. They are professionals at the job.”

  I thought about that while we bumped over the uneven road that led to the bungalow.

  As I pulled up and got out of the car, I said, “You want that gun, Lieutenant? I might be able to make use of it whereas you possibly won’t.”

  “You still after Creedy?” Rankin asked, turning his head to look at me.

  “I’m after Sheppey’s killer. The gun could have a connection. I’ll let you have it back.”

  He hesitated then shrugged.

  “Okay: it’s not much use to me. Katchen would lose it as soon as he found out it belongs to Mrs. Creedy.”

  “Well, thanks, Lieutenant. You’ve been quite a pal. Here’s hoping you will get your promotion,” and I offered my hand.

  He shook hands, gave me the gun, then slid under the driving wheel.

  “You can’t buck this system, Brandon,” he said seriously, looking at me through the car window. “These punks are too big, too strong and too well organized for a loner to tackle them. I know. I’ve given up trying. Get out fast and stay out.”

  He nodded, then U-turned and drove rapidly away into the darkness.

  II

  As I turned towards the bungalow I saw the headlights of a car coming fast down the rough road. Rankin’s car swerved aside and the other car passed it, and came on towards me.

  I put Bridgette’s gun into my empty shoulder holster and waited. I was suddenly tired, the muscles in my stomach ached dully from Katchen’s punch and I didn’t feel like anything now except some sleep.

  The car pulled up and a tall, thin man got out. He came over to me. I couldn’t see much of him in the moonlight except he seemed reasonably young and he was wearing a slouch hat at the back of his head.

  “Mr. Brandon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m Frank Hepple of the Courier. Mr. Troy told me to contact you. Is it too late for a talk?”

  It was too late and I didn’t feel like talking, but Troy had said this guy was good and I needed help so I said for him to come on in.

  “How did you know I was here?” I asked, as we walked over the sand towards the bungalow.

  “I called Lieutenant Rankin this afternoon and he told me,” Hepple said. “I’ve got something for you. I thought I’d better get out here and let you have it right away.”

  The bungalow was silent, and there was a feeling of emptiness about it. I could smell Margot’s perfume that still hung in the hot, stale air. I thumbed down the switch and led the way into the lounge, turning on the lights as I entered.

  The clock on the mantelpiece showed twenty minutes past eleven. I thought a little sourly that if Rankin hadn’t come to drag me to Thrisby’s place, I would be lying in Margot’s arms by now.

  I went over to the bar, found a full bottle of Vat 69 and I made two large highballs. I carried the drinks to a table and then sat down.

  I looked over at Hepple, who was
standing with his back to the fireplace, watching me.

  He was around thirty, with a thin, pleasant face, shrewd eyes and a jutting jaw. He looked the kind of man that would want a lot of stopping once he got going.

  “Help yourself,” I said, waving to the glasses, then I put my hands on my aching stomach and tried to relax.

  He came over and picked up one of the glasses, took a long drink, then as I reached for my glass he said, “Mr. Troy told me to take a look at Hahn. I’ve been digging into his past and I’ve struck gold.”

  “In what way?”

  “I went out to his place and asked him if he’d give me an interview,” Hepple said. “He jumped at the chance of getting some free publicity. Make no mistake about this guy. He’s an artist and he knows his stuff. I persuaded him to do me a rough model in clay, and he let me take the model away. It was only a rough thing, but on it was a perfect set of his fingerprints.” Hepple grinned at me, delighted with his strategy. “This morning I took the model to the F.B.I. headquarters in Los Angeles. They checked the prints and out came the story.” He picked up his drink, took another pull at it and waved the glass excitedly. “Hahn’s real name is Jack Bradshaw. He served two years for drug smuggling back in 1941. When he came out, he went to Mexico and the F.B.I. lost sight of him. He turned up again four years later and was caught crossing the border with two suitcases loaded with heroin. This time he drew eight years. When he came out, the F.B.I. kept tabs on him, but this time he seems to have settled down and become legitimate. They know all about his School of Ceramics and they have even looked the place over, but they say there is something shady going on there.” He leaned forward and pointed a finger at me. “Now this is the part that’s going to interest you. While Hahn was serving his last sentence, he palled up with a guy called Juan Tuarmez, who was another drug operator. They left jail together. I had a hunch about Tuarmez and got the F.B.I. to show me his photograph, and guess who?”

  “Cordez?”

  Hepple nodded.

  “That’s right: Cordez of the Musketeer Club. How do you like that?”

  “Does the F.B.I. know he’s here?”

  “Oh, sure, but there’s nothing they can do about that. He’s served his sentence and on the face of it, he’s running a successful club. They drop in every now and then and take a look around, but they are satisfied he isn’t up to his old tricks.”