Somewhere in the house a clock ticked busily, but otherwise there was an oppressive silence.
As I stood there, I wondered what it was the intruder had been looking for and if he had found it. I wondered, too, how Thrisby would react when he returned and found the disorder. It would be interesting to see if he called the police or if he did nothing about it.
I would be in an unpleasant position if he suddenly walked in on me, and for a moment I hesitated about going up the stairs. I was pretty sure that anything that might have interested me in this house had already been taken. But I finally decided to have a quick look over the rest of the house and then get out fast. I mounted the stairs two at a time and arrived on a broad, dark landing.
Then I got a shock that pretty nearly lifted me to the ceiling.
As I swung the beam of my flashlight around, I saw in a far corner of the landing the figure of a crouching man. He looked as if he were about to spring on me. My heart did a somersault. I jumped back and the flashlight fell out of my hand. It rolled across the floor and then went bumping down the stairs sending the beam flashing against the wall, then the ceiling, then the banisters, until it landed in the hall below, leaving me in total darkness.
I stood rooted, my breath whistling between my teeth, my heart slamming against my side.
Nothing happened. The clock downstairs continued to tick busily, making an enormous sound in the tomblike silence of the house.
I slid my hand inside my coat and my fingers closed around the butt of the .38. I eased it out of the holster and my thumb slid the safety catch forward.
“Who’s there?” I said, and I was annoyed to hear that I sounded like a flustered old maid who finds a man under her bed.
The silence continued to press in on me. I listened, standing motionless, my eyes staring into the darkness ahead of me where I had seen the crouching man. Was he creeping towards me? Would I suddenly have him on top of me with his fingers searching for my throat?
I suddenly remembered how Sheppey had died with an icepick driven into his throat. Was this Sheppey’s killer facing me? Had he an icepick in his hand?
Then something moved across my leg. My nerves leapt practically out of my body. My gun went off with a bang that rattled the doors and I sprang back, sweat starting out on my face.
I heard a low growling sound and a scuffle, and I knew the cat had come up in the dark and had rubbed itself against my leg.
I stood still, my back pressed against the banister rail, cold sweat oozing out of me, my heart hammering. I put my hand in my pocket, and took out my cigarette lighter.
“Stay where you are,” I said into the darkness. “One move and you’ll get it!”
Pushing the .38 forward, I lifted my left hand above my head and flicked the lighter alight. The tiny flame gave me enough light to see the man in the corner hadn’t moved. He still crouched there on his heels: a little, dark man with a brown wrinkled face, slit eyes and a big, grimacing mouth that showed some of his teeth.
There was a stillness about him that gave me the creeps.
No one could stay so completely still unless he were dead.
The lighter flame began to fade.
I moved to the head of the stairs, then went down them to where the flashlight lay, its beam pointing across the hall to the front door.
I picked up the flashlight, turned around and forced myself up the stairs again. When I reached the head of the stairs, I swung the beam of the flashlight on to the crouching man.
I guessed he was Thrisby’s servant. Someone had shot him through the chest and he had crawled into the corner to die.
There was a puddle of blood by his feet and a dark patch of blood on his black linen coat.
I walked slowly over to him, pushing the gun back into my holster. I touched the side of his face with my fingertips. The cold skin and the board-like muscles under the skin told me he had been dead for some hours.
I drew in a long slow breath and swung the beam of the flashlight away from the dead face. Two big sparks of living light lit up in the beam of the flashlight as the cat paused at the head of the stairs, crouching and growling the way Siamese cats do when they disapprove of anything. I watched the cat cross the landing, walking slowly, its head held low with the sinister wildcat movement, its tail trailing.
It passed the Filipino without even pausing and stopped outside a door, facing me. It reached up, standing on its hind paws and tapped the door handle with its front paw. It tapped three times, then let out its moaning growl and then tapped again.
I moved forward slowly, reached the door, turned the handle and gave the door a little push. It swung wide open.
Darkness and silence came out of the room. The cat stood on the threshold, its ears pricked, its head slightly on one side. Then it walked in. I stood where I was, my heart hammering, my mouth dry.
I turned the beam of the flashlight on the cat. The beam held it in its clear-cut circle of light across the room to the foot of the bed.
The cat jumped up on the bed.
I shifted the circle of light and my heart skipped a beat. Thrisby lay across the bed. He was still in his white singlet, his dark red shorts and his sandals.
The cat moved over to him and began to sniff inquiringly at his face.
In the beam of the flashlight I could see the terrified, fixed grimace on his face, the clenched hands and the blood on the bed sheet.
There was no sign of a wound or of blood on the white singlet, but I was sure if I turned him over I would find the wound.
Someone had shot him in the back as he had tried to get away. As he had died, he had fallen across the bed.
III
I swung the flashlight beam around until I found the light switch, then I turned on the lights.
I turned again to the bed.
Thrisby looked a lot more dead in the shaded lights than he had done in the beam of the flashlight. The cat moved slowly around his head, crouching, its tail outstretched, its ears flat. It stared angrily at me over the dead man’s face.
I looked around the room.
It was in disorder. The closet doors stood open. Clothes had been bundled on to the floor. The drawers of the chest hung open: shirts, socks, ties, collars and scarves spilled out of the drawers.
Stiff-legged, I walked over to the bed.
The cat spat at me as I came and crouched down; its eyes wide. I reached out and touched Thrisby’s hand. It was hard and cold: at a guess, he had been dead five to six hours.
As I stood over him, my foot kicked against something, lying just under the bed: something hard. I bent, pushed aside the sheet and lifted into sight a .38 automatic. It was the gun I had returned to Bridgette Creedy. I was sure of that, but to make absolutely certain, I carried it over to one of the lamps and looked for the serial number.
I found it under the barrel: 4557993.
I slid out the magazine. Four shots had been fired: at least two of them had been fatal.
I stood for a moment, thinking. The whole set-up was a little too good to be true. Why leave the gun where the police would find it? I thought. Bridgette would know the police would have the serial number logged. I tossed the gun from hand to hand, frowning. Too pat, I kept thinking; then on a sudden impulse I dropped the gun into my pocket, crossed the room, turned off the lights and walked down the stairs.
I went into the lounge. Crossing over to where the telephone stood on the bar, I dialled Creedy’s number.
As I waited for a connection I glanced at my watch.
The time was a quarter to ten.
Hilton’s voice came over the line.
“This is Mr. Creedy’s residence.”
“Connect me with Mrs. Creedy.”
“I’ll put you through to her secretary if you will hold on, sir.”
A few clicks, then the cool, efficient voice I now recognized said, “Who is calling, please?”
“This is Lew Brandon. Is Mrs. Creedy there?”
“Yes,
but I don’t think she will speak to you, Mr. Brandon.”
“She’s got to speak to me,” I said, “and I’m not fooling. Put me through to her.”
“I can’t do that. Will you hold on? I’ll ask if she will come to the telephone.”
Before I could stop her, she went off the line. I waited, holding the receiver against my ear with unnecessary pressure.
After a long pause, she came back on the line.
“I ‘m sorry, Mr. Brandon, but Mrs. Creedy says she doesn’t wish to talk to you.”
I felt my mouth form into a mirthless smile.
“Maybe she doesn’t want to, but she’s got to. Tell her an old friend of hers has just died. Someone shot him in the back and the law could be on its way to talk to her.”
I heard a faint gasp over the line.
“What was that?”
“Look, give me Mrs. Creedy. She can’t afford not to talk to me.”
There was another long pause, then there was a click on the line and Bridgette Creedy said, “If I have any further trouble from you, I’m going to speak to my husband.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “He’ll love it. If that’s the way you feel about it, you’d better speak to him now because you’re heading for a whale of a lot of trouble and it’s not of my making. Right at this moment, Jacques Thrisby is lying on his bed with a .38 automatic slug in him. He’s as dead as your last year’s tax return and your .38 automatic is right by his side.”
I heard her draw in a long, shuddering breath.
“You’re lying!”
“Okay, if you think I’m lying, sit tight and wait until the law descends on you,” I said. “I couldn’t care less. I’m sticking my neck out calling you. I should be calling the cops.”
There was a long pause. I listened to the hum on the line and to her quick, frightened breathing, then she said, “Is he really dead?”
“Yeah; he’s dead all right. Now listen, where were you between five and six this evening?”
“I was here in my room.”
“Anyone see you?”
“No. I was alone.”
“Didn’t your secretary see you?”
“She was out.”
“What did you do with the gun I gave you?”
“I put it away in a drawer in my bedroom.”
“Who could have got at it?”
“I don’t know—anyone. I just left it there.”
“Did anyone come to see you?”
“No.”
I stared at the wall, frowning, then I said, “I don’t know why I’m doing this for you, but I’m taking the gun away. They might be able to trace the gun through the bullet; if they do, you’ll be in trouble, but there’s a chance they won’t. I think someone is framing you for Thrisby’s murder, but I could be wrong. Sit tight and pray. You have a chance of sliding out of this, but not much of one.”
Before she could say anything I dropped the receiver back on to its cradle.
Then I turned out the lights in the lounge, lit my way to the french doors with the aid of my flashlight, pulled them shut behind me and then walked quickly down the path, through the gateway up the road to where I had left the Buick.
No cars passed me as I started down the mountain road. I could see the bright lights of St. Raphael City every time I turned into a bend: it looked deceptively lovely.
It was nudging ten-fifteen when I pulled up outside the dark, quiet bungalow. As I got out of the car I saw a convertible Cadillac standing under the palm trees, its lights out. I stared at it for a moment, then walked up the steps leading to the front entrance of the bungalow, took out my keys, then, on second thoughts, turned the handle first. The door swung open and I stepped into the dark hall.
I thumbed down the light switch and stood listening, my hand on my gun butt.
For a long moment there was silence, then Margot said out of the darkness, “Is that you Lew?”
“What are you doing in there in the dark?” I said, moving to the doorway.
The light from the hall made enough light for me to see her shadowy outline. She was lying on the long window seat, her head outlined against the moonlit window.
“I came early,” she said. “I like to lie in the moonlight. Don’t put on the light, Lew.”
I stepped away from the doorway and shed the two guns. I slid them into the drawer of the hallstand that stood just by the front door, then I took off my hat and dropped it on to the hall chair.
I walked into the lounge, picked my way past the various pieces of furniture until I reached her.
From what I could see of her, she was wearing only a dark silk wrap. I could see her bare knee through the opening of the wrap. She reached out her hand.
“Come and sit down, Lew,” she said. “It’s so lovely here, isn’t it? Look at the sea and the patterns of the moonlight.”
I sat down, but I didn’t take her hand. Thrisby’s face still haunted me. It spoilt the mood for intimacy.
She was quick to sense that. “What is it, darling? Is there something wrong?”
“Margot. . . .” I paused, then went on. “You were once in love with Thrisby, weren’t you?”
I felt her stiffen. Her hand dropped to her side.
“Yes,” she said after a long hesitation. “I was once. It was one of those inexplicable things. I think I fell for his vitality and his colossal conceit. It didn’t last long, thank goodness. I’ll never forgive myself for being such a fool.”
“We all do things we regret,” I said, and groping for a cigarette, I lit it. In the light of my lighter I saw she had raised her head from the cushions and was staring at me, her eyes wide.
“Something has happened, hasn’t it? You’ve been out there? Something has happened to Jacques?”
“Yes. He’s dead. Someone shot him.”
She dropped back on to the cushion and covered her face with her hands.
“Dead?” She gave a strangled little moan. “Oh, Lew! I know he treated me shamefully, but there was something about him . . .” She lay still, breathing quickly, while I stared out of the window. The only light coming between us was from the red glow of my cigarette. Then she said, “It was Bridgette, of course.”
“I don’t know who it was.”
She sat up abruptly.
“Of course it was Bridgette! She tried to shoot him this afternoon, didn’t she? If you hadn’t stopped her she would have killed him. You said so. Did you let her have the gun back?” She swung her legs off the window seat. “She went out there and killed him! She’s not going to get away with it this time!”
“What are you going to do then?”
“Tell my father, of course. He’ll get the truth out of her!”
“Suppose he does . . . what then?”
She turned her head. Although I couldn’t see her face in the darkness I knew she was staring at me.
“Why, he’ll throw her out! He’ll divorce her!”
“I thought you wanted to keep the police out of it?” I said quietly.
“The police? Why, of course. The police mustn’t know. Daddy wouldn’t call the police. He would throw her out and then divorce her.”
Through the window I saw the headlights of a car coming fast over the rough beach road and my eyes went to the red lamp on the hood.
“You may not be able to keep them out of it, Margot,” I said, getting to my feet. “They’re here now.”
Chapter 13
I
In the hard light of the moon I saw Lieutenant Rankin, followed by Sergeant Candy, climb out of the police car. The uniformed driver remained at the wheel.
I walked out on to the verandah to meet them as they came towards the verandah steps.
I stood squarely in Rankin’s path so that he had to stop on the second step from the top.
“I want to talk to you,” he said. “We’re coming in.”
“Look behind you, Lieutenant,” I said softly, so Candy couldn’t hear, “then change your mind.”
He turned his head and saw the convertible Cadillac. He looked more to his right and saw the Buick, then he turned and stared at me.
“Should that mean anything?”
“I’ll give you one guess who owns the Caddy,” I said. “You haven’t got your promotion yet, Lieutenant. You walk in there, and it’s a fair bet you won’t get it.”
He took off his hat, stared into it, ran his fingers impatiently through his hair, put on his hat and took three steps back.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ll talk in the car. We’re going out to Thrisby’s place.”
“You go, Lieutenant, I’m busy,” I said. “I’m not all that worked up about Thrisby. I have a Cadillac owner to take care of.”
“Are you coming the easy or the hard way?” he said, a sudden bite in his voice.
Candy moved forward, his hand sliding inside his coat.
“Okay, if you put it like that,” I said, and started down the steps. “What’s on your mind, Lieutenant?”
“Don’t give me that crap,” Rankin said, his voice savage. “You’ve just come from Thrisby’s place, haven’t you?”
“That might be difficult to prove,” I said, and got into the back seat of the police car. Rankin joined me and Candy got in beside the driver.
“Let’s go,” Rankin said.
The car moved off.
I looked back at the bungalow, wondering what Margot was thinking. I didn’t see any sign of her. In a few minutes she would be dressed and away from the bungalow.
I wished now I hadn’t gone up to the White Chateau.
“Give me your gun,” Rankin said abruptly.
“I haven’t got it on me.”
Rankin told the driver to stop. As the car pulled up, he said, “Where is it?”
“In the bungalow.”
“Go back,” Rankin said, an exasperated note in his voice.
The driver reversed the car and drove fast down the road until we reached the bungalow.
“Go with him,” Rankin said to Candy. “I want his gun.”
I got out of the car and, with Candy plodding at my heels, I walked up the steps, pushed open the door, turned on the light and crossed over to the hallstand. I tried to block Candy away from the drawer, but he shoved me aside, opened it and took out my .38.
1957 - The Guilty Are Afraid Page 19