Safer Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  ‘He’ll be okay,’ Creed said and stared down at the dead gunman. ‘Is this your man?’

  ‘Yes. Ever seen him before?’

  ‘Can’t say I have.’

  An ambulance came up and two more squad cars. By now there was a big crowd, gaping from the sidewalks.

  Scaife came over.

  ‘Seen him before?’ Creed asked, nodding at the dead gunman.

  ‘He’s a new one on me,’ Scaife said.

  ‘Well, okay: the show’s over,’ Creed said. ‘You’d better get back to your hotel.’ This to me. ‘Go with him, Scaife. I don’t reckon they’ll try again, but we won’t take any chances for tonight.’

  ‘Come on, hero,’ Scaife said. ‘The excitement’s over. I told you it wasn’t going to be as bad as you thought.’

  ‘It was bad enough. Anyway, it’s given me something to throw in Bernie’s face for the rest of his life.’

  I went with him to one of the police cars.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I

  Nothing happened of interest during the next three days. I knew there was bound to be a time lag before any results of Creed’s investigations bore fruit. He had given various police officers assignments to cover, and we had to wait for them to turn up something. He had men hunting for Henry Rutland and his cream and green Cadillac; other men digging into Fay Benson’s background; a squad hunting for the charm bracelet, and yet another bunch of men digging into the gunman’s past.

  We couldn’t expect to learn anything immediately, and while we waited I sent Bernie back to New York to report in full to Fayette and to begin the first installment of our story. He went off with indecent haste, insisting on a bodyguard to the train.

  I took the Crime Facts photographer, a guy named Judson around and got him to take pictures of Spencer, Mike’s bar, Joan Nichols’s apartment house, the miniature apple I got from Creed and pictures of the various police officers working on the case. All this took time, but when I was through I was satisfied I had a good collection of art to help Bernie’s article.

  Judson flew back to New York on the evening of the third day after the shooting, and I drove over to police headquarters to see if any information had come in.

  Scaife was in the charge room as I entered.

  ‘I was going to call you,’ he said. ‘The captain wants you.’

  ‘Has he got anything?’

  ‘He’s got something. He’ll tell you. Come on up.’

  Creed was sitting at his desk, smoking a cigar when I entered his office. His heavy, hard face looked tired.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, fighting a yawn. ‘Well, we’re getting somewhere. Sit down.’

  I sat down and Scaife leaned against the wall.

  ‘The gunman’s name’s Hank Flemming. He came from Frisco. He had a bad record, including six killings. He’s known to have hired himself out for shootings and beatings-up. For fifty bucks he’d have shot his own father. I guess someone hired him to knock you off. He’s a junky, and Doc says he was full of dope when he staged the shooting the other night. You were lucky to have come out of it alive.’

  ‘So we have to find the guy who hired him?’

  ‘That’s right, and it won’t be easy,’ Creed said, tapping ash off his cigar. ‘We’ve a pointer that might do us some good. Flemming had a return railroad ticket to Tampa City in his pocket. He left Frisco five days ago for Tampa City, then came on here. It could be he got his orders from someone in Tampa City.’

  ‘Do the Tampa City police know anything about him?’ I asked.

  Creed scowled.

  ‘They say they don’t, but from past experience I’ve learned not to take much notice of what they say. They’re the most inefficient, uncooperative police force in the country. The

  Commissioner, Ed Doonan, is hand in glove with the rackets, and believe me, the city is crawling with them. We’re not going to get any help from him.’

  ‘Did you get a line on Henry Rutland?’

  Creed shook his head.

  ‘Not yet. The Cadillac distributing agents in this district tell me they have sold four hundred green and cream convertibles in the past three years. I have a list of the buyers, but it will be a job tracing them. Rutland’s name doesn’t appear on the list, but then that doesn’t surprise me. The name’s probably a phoney. My men are working on it, but it’ll take some time to check everyone on it.’ He fought back another yawn. ‘We’ve got a line on the charm bracelet. It was hocked three days after Fay Benson disappeared. Tierney’s, the local hockshop, handled it. Hesson sold it to them. The clerk recognized Hesson’s picture. The bracelet was sold again to an actress who is in Hollywood now. We’re contacting her. There’s no doubt that Hesson sold it.’

  ‘Nothing on Fay Benson yet?’

  ‘A little: could be something. You saw the pictures we had printed in the national papers? We got a heap of letters and they are still coming in. People claim to know her, but I guess most of them will turn out to be cranks. One guy says he thinks he recognizes her, although she was dark haired when he knew her. He’s not at all sure, and it might be a false lead, but I’m hoping it isn’t. He says she did a job for him once. Guess where.’

  ‘Tampa City?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, that’s not bad for three days’ work. What are you going to do? Will Tampa City police dig further for you?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Creed said, scowling. ‘I’ve never known them yet to work with me. They’ll promise the world, but nothing ever gets done.’

  ‘Suppose I go out there and see what I can dig up?’

  Creed nodded.

  ‘I was going to suggest that. We’d get on quicker. You’ll have to watch your step. Doonan hates private investigators worse than he hates poison. They are a tough bunch of boys, and they might discourage you if they know what you’re up to.’

  ‘I’ll watch out,’ I said. ‘Know anyone there who could be helpful?’

  ‘You might do worse than call on Don Bradley. He used to be chief of police at Tampa City before he retired. He’s a good guy; one of the best police officers in the country. He was retired two years before his time. He had trouble with Doonan about some murder case. I never did hear the details, but he would be helpful. I’ll give you a letter to him.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll get off today.’

  ‘There may be nothing in this, Sladen. This guy who’s written to us has probably made a mistake. If it wasn’t that Flemming had a return ticket to Tampa City I’d say he had made a mistake.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘His name’s Lennox Hartley. He lives at 246, Cannon Avenue, Tampa City.’

  I made a note of the name and address. ‘I’ll talk to him.’

  A tap sounded on the door and Scaife opened it. A policeman said something to him; Scaife nodded and turned to Creed. ‘There’s a guy outside, captain, who says he knows something about Flemming. Want to see him?’

  ‘You bet,’ Creed said, pushing back his chair. ‘Shoot him in.’

  A minute or so later, a short, fat man came in, uneasily twirling his hat between red, roughened fingers. He was wearing brown corduroy trousers, and an old, stained coat and a cowboy shirt.

  ‘My name’s Ted Sperry, captain,’ he said, nervously. ‘I saw the picture of the gunman in the paper. He came to see me about a year ago. I thought I’d better come along, but if I’m wasting your time.’

  ‘Sit down, Mr. Sperry,’ Creed said. ‘What’s your line of business?’

  Rather surprisingly, Sperry said he was a market gardener.

  ‘I have a nursery out on Dalmatian Road, captain. I sell fruit trees and garden equipment. I have a pretty nice little business. Me and the wife run it between us.’

  ‘You say Flemming called on you? You’re sure it was Flemming?’

  ‘I’m sure it was the man in the picture, captain. As soon as I saw him I wondered what he wanted. He struck me then he wasn’t any good.’

  ‘What did he want?’<
br />
  ‘I’ve been working up a new line, and it’s paid off pretty well: growing strawberry plants in barrels. I’ve been selling the equipment, and I’ve advertised widely. This guy said he’d read my advertisement and he was interested. I supply the plants, the barrel with the necessary holes in it, and the soil. It’s been a pretty fast selling line: saves space and keeps the slugs off the fruit.’

  ‘Sounds fine,’ Creed said a little impatiently. ‘But Flemming didn’t want strawberry plants, did he?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. He just wanted the barrel. We got into an argument. I told him I didn’t sell the barrel without the plants or the soil. I make my profit on the plants and soil. The barrel I put in at cost.’

  The three of us were listening now with interest.

  ‘What happened then?’ Creed asked.

  ‘We argued back and forth. He said he had strawberry plants. I didn’t believe him. A guy like him wouldn’t even have a garden. I can tell a gardener a mile off. Well, in the end, he agreed to pay me for the whole outfit and just take the barrel. He collected it in a truck the next day.’

  ‘Do you remember the exact date, Mr. Sperry?’

  ‘Yes. I looked it up before I came here. It was August 17th.’

  Creed looked over at me: the date Fay Benson disappeared.

  ‘You didn’t get the number of the truck?’

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t. Was it important?’

  ‘Maybe not. What kind of truck was it?’

  ‘A green, open truck; a one tonner. I didn’t notice much about it.’

  Creed looked at Scaife.

  ‘Take Mr. Sperry to the morgue. Let him see Flemming, I want to be sure he identifies him.’ He got up and shook hands with Sperry. ‘Thanks for coming. If every citizen acted the way you’ve done, my work would be a lot easier.’

  When Scaife had led Sperry, beaming and perspiring, from the office, I said, ‘A barrel - that doesn’t look too good for Fay Benson, does it?’

  ‘That was what I was thinking,’ Creed said, his eyes thoughtful. ‘I wonder if anyone in town sold him cement.’ He picked up the telephone and gave instructions for all cement sellers in the district to be checked. When he hung up, he went on to me, ‘That’s probably why we never turned up her body. She’s somewhere in a cement overcoat.’

  I got up and went over to the wall map.

  ‘Is there any local water around where he could have dumped her?’

  Creed joined me. He tapped the map.

  ‘Here; that’s Lake Baldock. There’s about sixty foot of water in the middle. It’s a favourite spot for picnic parties, and it’s only two miles from here.’

  ‘Anywhere else?’

  ‘Only the reservoir, and he wouldn’t try there because they are continually dragging it. Besides, there’s a high fence all around it. If she’s anywhere in water, she’ll be in Lake Baldock.’

  ‘Do we go and look?’

  Creed scratched his head as he stared at the map.

  ‘I guess so. One of my men has a frogman’s outfit. He can take a look, and if he sees anything we’ll have to rig up some kind of hoist. That barrel’s going to be heavy.’

  ‘I’ll stick around, captain, until he’s had a look,’ I said. ‘No point in leaving town with this coming up. It’ll make headlines if we find her. When will you do it?’

  ‘Not before tomorrow. It’s too late in the day now. We don’t want a crowd watching us. I’ll start at six o’clock tomorrow.’

  It meant my getting up at five o’clock and my instincts recoiled at the thought, but I could see it wouldn’t be wise to argue about it.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’ll be there at six.’

  II

  The sun was climbing above the belt of trees as I drove up to the two cars parked near the stretch of water, known as Lake Baldock. It was a pretty spot, surrounded by weeping willows that leaned over the still water which reflected their leafy, green heads. I got out of the car and joined Scaife who was leaning against a tree, placidly smoking.

  ‘Pretty nice spot, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I bet you hated getting up at this time in the morning.’

  ‘Well, I did, but it’s worth it. I didn’t know the day could smell so nice.’ I looked over to where Creed, two cops and a guy who was putting on a frogman’s outfit were standing.

  ‘I’d leave them alone,’ Scaife said. ‘The old man is never at his best in the mornings, and he didn’t get to bed until three o’clock.’

  I sat on the bank, nursing a miniature camera I had brought along.

  ‘I want some art for my rag, but I’ll wait until they come back.’

  We watched Creed, the two cops and the frogman embark in a small rowing boat. The two cops rowed out to the middle of the lake, then the frogman lowered himself into the water and disappeared.

  ‘I bet it’s cold,’ Scaife said, huddling further into his overcoat. ‘I’m glad I didn’t tell the captain what I did during the war. He’s got a long memory. Harris thought he would get promotion if he told the old man what a hero he had been, but all he’s getting is a cold bath. Ugh!’

  I reached down and dipped my fingers in the water.

  ‘Oh, it’s not that bad. I wouldn’t say it is more than ten degrees below freezing.’

  Scaife laughed heartlessly.

  ‘It’ll do him good.’

  We sat side-by-side, smoking and watching the little boat for twenty minutes or so, then suddenly Harris’s head appeared above the surface. He swam up to the boat, hauled himself in. He and Creed talked for a moment or so, then the two cops began to row towards shore.

  ‘Think he’s found something?’ I said, getting to my feet.

  ‘Must have. Creed would have sent him down again if he hadn’t,’ Scaife said, joining me.

  We walked along the bank and waited for the boat to reach shore.

  ‘There’s a barrel down there,’ Creed said, his heavy face excited. ‘No doubt about it, and it’s full of cement.’

  I took a photograph of Harris who was trying to stop his teeth from chattering. I had already taken a couple of the lake.

  ‘Going to get it up right away?’ I asked.

  ‘We’ll get it tonight,’ Creed said. ‘I don’t want everyone in town here. Keep your traps shut about this. I think the girl’s down there, but I don’t want any publicity until we know for certain.’

  I got in his car and drove off.

  ‘I told you he wasn’t too sweet this morning, didn’t I?’ Scaife said, grinning. He looked over to Harris. ‘Like your dip?’

  Harris’s reply was unprintable.

  I drove Scaife back to town.

  ‘Even if we do bring her up,’ I said, as we drove along, ‘we’re a long way from finding her killer. Okay, Flemming did the actual job, but it looks as if someone paid him to do it, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. He had no reason to kill her as far as we know. Well, it’s not my headache, thank goodness,’ Scaife said. ‘There’s a lot to be said for just being a police sergeant. I wouldn’t want Creed’s job right now. We’ve got to find out more about this girl. We’ve got to find out if anyone had a reason for getting rid of her. From what we do know, she doesn’t sound the type to cause trouble, but then one never knows. Still waters run deep so they say.’

  ‘You talk like that and you’ll turn into a writer,’ I said, grinning. ‘Then you’ll have to work for a living.’ I pulled up outside headquarters. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

  ‘Come out to the lake about nine. I’ll be there. Getting that barrel up is going to be hard work. You might come in useful,’ Scaife said, getting out of the car. ‘So long for now.’

  As I had nothing better to do, and as the night ahead threatened to be a long and hard one, I drove to the hotel and went back to bed.

  I slept until three in the afternoon, then I drove down to the police headquarters.

  I found Scaife in his cubbyhole of an office, going through the Benson dossier. An ashtray, crammed with cigarette
butts, told me he had been working most of the morning on it.

  ‘Found anything?’ I said, sitting down.

  ‘You again?’ he said, pushing back his chair. ‘No, not a thing. I hope we don’t find this girl. It’ll be tough if we do. There’s no link I can see that makes sense as to why Flemming was hired to kill her.’

  ‘Don’t you think he killed Joan Nichols and Farmer as well?’

  Scaife nodded.

  ‘I guess so. Anyway, it looks like it, although we’ve got no evidence.’

  ‘I can understand Farmer getting knocked off,’ I said. ‘He had something to do with the kidnapping; Hesson too, but I can’t see why Joan Nichols died.’

  ‘The coroner said it was an accident,’ Scaife said patiently.

  ‘I don’t believe it. She inquired about Fay Benson, then went home and broke her neck. It’s too smooth. You people working on her?’

  ‘We haven’t anything to work on. Creed is leaving her lie until we can hook her into the case if we ever can.’

  ‘What about these other eight girls who went to Paris? Are they local girls?’

  ‘One of them is.’ Scaife flicked over the pages of the dossier. ‘Her name’s Janet Shelley. She lives at 25, Arcadia Drive.’

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Not yet. We’ve more important leads to cover. We’ll get around to her.’

  ‘I think Joan Nichols may be important. I’ve got a spare afternoon. I guess I’ll go and talk to this Shelley girl. Any objection?’

  ‘I haven’t, but don’t quote me,’ Scaife said, grinning. ‘Go and see her if you want to. I’ve got to get on. The old man is still sour tempered. He wouldn’t be pleased if he knew I was spending all my time talking to you.’

  I got to my feet.

  ‘If I turn up anything, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘My pal,’ Scaife said sarcastically and settled down once more to brood over the bulky file.

  III

  Arcadia Drive was a quiet street on the outskirts of the town. A row of bungalows faced a large vacant lot, overgrown with weeds and dead grass, and on which stood several large advertising hoardings.

  The bungalows might have been attractive when they had first been erected, but now they were past their prime. They had the dejected look of a man with a shrinking income, trying to keep up appearances and knowing he won’t be able to hold on much longer.