Safer Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  Slowly she replaced the receiver. Her eyes turned into dark, expressionless holes in her face.

  ‘It’s Mr. Sladen, isn’t it?’ she asked in a polite, brittle voice.

  ‘That’s right. We’re both in a jam, aren’t we?’

  ‘I don’t think I am,’ she said, leaning against the bar, the barrel of the gun turned slightly away from me. ‘But you are, Mr. Sladen.’

  ‘I think we both are.’

  ‘You’re wanted for murder. I have only to call the police.’

  ‘You’re forgetting Dillon.’

  Her lips came off her teeth in a mirthless smile.

  ‘No, I’m not. No one knows except you that he is here. My story will be that I saw a light here. I took my gun and came out to see who had broken in. I found you hiding here: a man wanted for murder. You attacked me, and I was forced to shoot you. Why should Sergeant Lassiter think to pick up the floor boards? He will be too occupied with your body to think of looking for another.’

  ‘You don’t imagine I was so crazy as to come here alone, do you?’ I asked, trying to sound more confident than I felt. ‘You’re through, Mrs. Van Blake. I’ve all the evidence I want. The case is written up, and if anything happens to me, my colleague will send the stuff to Crime Facts who will print it.’

  She gave a harsh little laugh.

  ‘You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?’

  ‘I can convince you. We could make a deal. I’m not kidding myself you wouldn’t shoot me as you shot Dillon. It wouldn’t be difficult for you to lift the floor boards and drop me in alongside him for company.’

  ‘I don’t make deals.’

  ‘I can prove you killed your husband. Like to hear about it?’

  ‘You can’t prove it.’ A little white ring appeared around her mouth. I saw her finger tighten on the trigger of the gun. I had a sick feeling she was likely to shoot at any second.

  ‘But I can,’ I said, words spilling out of my mouth. ‘Get a load of this: Royce wanted the Golden Apple club, but your husband wouldn’t sell. You and Royce were lovers, and you wanted to help him. You also wanted to get your hands on your husband’s money. You thought it might be an idea to kill him: the old story of two birds with one shot.’

  Her finger on the trigger relaxed. She was listening.

  ‘You knew you’d be the first to be suspected if your husband died violently,’ I went on. ‘You had the motive: five million dollars of motive. So you plotted and planned to kill him and yet be in the clear. It wasn’t until Lennox Hartley brought Frances Bennett to your house to stand in for your portrait that you saw the way you could do it. Frances was like you in size and colouring. In a few days you were going to Paris. You couldn’t swing it on your own so you told your plan to Royce. His payoff was the club, so he came in with you. It is probable you had already tried to persuade him to do the job himself, but he hadn’t yet arrived in the murder class and he funked it. If it was to be done, you were the one to do it because your alibi would be watertight.’ I paused to ask, ‘How am I doing, Mrs. Van Blake? Do you like it so far?’

  ‘You don’t imagine anyone will believe you, do you?’ she said scornfully. ‘You can’t prove a thing.’

  ‘Let’s go on a step or two before we get to the proof,’ I said, my eyes on the gun. ‘Royce gained Frances’s confidence. He kidded her he was in love with her. He had to be careful in case there was a slipup. He went around with her secretly so he couldn’t be connected with her if things went wrong. If she were going to take your place in Paris, she would know, when the news broke, that you two had planned Van Blake’s death, so she had to be taken care of once she had done her job. She had to disappear. It was to be a professional job: a barrel and cement job. Royce knew the guy to handle an assignment like that. He sent for Hank Flemming, a Frisco killer, and fingered Frances to him. When Frances came back from Paris, he was to do the job. The plan began to work. Royce cooked up some yarn that it was necessary for you to remain in Tampa City and yet appear to be in Paris. I don’t know what the yarn was, but when a girl like Frances falls for a smooth operator like Royce she would be prepared to swallow any yarn. You supplied her with money, clothes and your passport. A pair of dark glasses and a floppy hat would turn her into Mrs. Van Blake, leaving for Paris. Millionaires’ wives get preferential treatment at the passport barriers. No one looked at her twice. You took care to send her to the George V hotel instead of to your usual hotel, the Ritz. She was accepted at the George V because they didn’t know her, and she stayed there for four days. What you didn’t foresee was that a girl named Joan Nichols who had a talent for making friends with the wealthy, should force her company on Frances, thinking she was the famous and rich Mrs. Van Blake. You may be interested to know one of my colleagues has been to Paris, and we now have witnesses to prove Frances stayed at the George V under your name.’

  ‘I see.’ She moved restlessly. ‘But that doesn’t prove I killed my husband, does it?’

  ‘It upsets your alibi. But don’t let’s rush this. Let’s take it by dates. On August 2nd, you appeared to leave for Paris. I guess you got no further than Royce’s place where Frances was waiting. She went to the airport in your place and took off for France. You remained out of sight with Royce. You were pretty thorough in your plans. You and Royce had taken care to have watertight alibis. Who, then, from the police angle, had killed your husband? This is where you over played your hand. You supplied the killer. You knew Ted Dillon made a habit of poaching on the estate. On the night of August 5th, you came here with a gun and waited for him.’

  ‘Do you imagine anyone would believe that?’ she interrupted, her eyes glittering. ‘How was I to know he was coming?’

  That pulled me up short. This was a point a smart attorney would pick on. She would have to know for certain that Dillon planned to poach that night. The whole success of her plan relied on him coming.

  I stared at her, then looked around the room, and the nickel dropped. There could only be one explanation: she and Dillon had been lovers. That was why he had come so often, knowing, with her behind him, he wasn’t likely to run into trouble.

  ‘Yes; I had missed that point,’ I said. ‘Why else would you have a place like this, buried in the wood, nicely furnished, even to a bar, unless it was a meeting place? Did Van Blake know?’

  ‘You’re very quick, Mr. Sladen,’ she said. ‘Yes, he knew, but there was nothing he could do about it. He wouldn’t give me a divorce, no matter what I did. That was the main reason why I had to kill him.’

  My hands suddenly turned clammy. She was now admitting she had killed her husband, and that meant she had made up her mind to silence me.

  ‘How was it no one heard the shot when you killed Dillon?’ I asked.

  Her fixed smile began to get on my nerves.

  ‘If you must know,’ she said, ‘I muffled the gun with a cushion.’ She moved the gun so the barrel once more pointed at me. ‘It doesn’t make much noise.’

  ‘Did you experience a pang when you killed him?’ I asked. ‘Or did you feel he had served his purpose and it was just one of those things?’

  Her cold, lovely face was expressionless as she said, ‘What else have you found out? You certainly seem to have been very busy.’

  ‘Let’s talk about your husband’s murder. He was in the habit of taking an early morning ride,’ I said. ‘You spent the night here, with Dillon under the boards.’ I paused while I looked at her. ‘I wonder if you had bad dreams that night or perhaps you don’t dream?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’m one of those fortunate people who don’t dream.’

  Her cold bloodedness began to make me sweat.

  ‘Early the next morning you were on the hill waiting for your husband,’ I went on. ‘He thought you were in Paris, and it must have been a shock to see you sitting there, apparently admiring the view. He was so surprised he didn’t notice the shotgun, lying by your side. He only saw it when it was too late. Probably
he leaned from his horse to ask you what you were doing there, when you shot him. You had to act quickly. You had probably got yourself a pair of corduroy slacks and a leather wind cheater like those Dillon wore. You hid the gun, then you put on Dillon’s crash helmet and goggles, ran down the hill to where he had left his motorcycle and drove to the harbour. People saw you, as you wanted them to see you, and they mistook you for Dillon. All you had to do was to leave the motorcycle in a shed that was seldom used, change into clothes you had probably left in the shed, and catch the first train to New York where Royce was waiting for you. You knew Latimer would send a cable to the George V hotel with the news, and Frances had been instructed that if a cable did come, she was to return at once. Royce was there to meet her. You took her place outside the airport.’

  Without taking her eyes off me, she reached for the whisky bottle, splashed whisky into the lipstick-smeared glass and drank some of it. I saw her hand was unsteady.

  ‘Now Frances had to be taken care of,’ I went on. ‘Royce took her to Welden. He was a reluctant killer. He didn’t want to wipe her out unless he had to. He wanted to make sure first that you were going to get away with it: that your nerve wouldn’t crack if police pressure was put on you. So he persuaded Frances to alter her appearance, take another name and get work at the Florian club. By then Frances must have known she had made herself an accessory to murder. She was probably so scared she did what she was told to do. Then Joan Nichols called on you. It must have been a shock to you and to her when she found you weren’t the girl she had worked on in Paris. She probably tried to put the bite on you. You told Royce what was happening, and he decided both Frances and Joan had to go. He gave Flemming the signal to go ahead, and Flemming went ahead.’

  I paused and watched her set down her glass. She seemed suddenly relaxed now, and she rested her elbows on the bar, the gun held loosely in her hand.

  ‘And you can prove all this?’ she asked mockingly.

  ‘Yeah, I can prove it,’ I said. ‘You made it too complicated. The more complicated a case becomes the easier it is to unravel, providing you get the essential lead. I got it when I learned how alike you and Frances Bennett were. I could see then how you fixed your alibi. You had a big advantage: the police were on your side. If you had kept your head and done nothing after

  Frances’s death you might have got away with it. When I started to stir up the past, you panicked. When Flemming called you and told you someone was making inquiries, and that Hesson had talked out of turn, you told Flemming to fix Hesson and me. When you heard I’d been to see Hartley you panicked again. In Hartley’s filing cabinet there were sketches he had made of Frances, sitting on your balcony. You thought I would see the likeness between you two, but you forgot I might get the information from Latimer. You went to Hartley and tried to get the sketches from him. Maybe he wouldn’t part. Maybe he realized that Frances had supplied your alibi. Anyway, he called me and asked me over. Were you hiding in the room when he called?’

  She nodded. The fixed smile went away, leaving her face bony and old looking.

  ‘And you shot him,’ I went on. ‘His servant heard the shot and ran upstairs, trying to get away from you. You followed him and shot him too. You thought you’d get away with it as I was on my way over and you knew Lassiter was keeping tabs on me. You thought I was going to be your fall guy as Dillon was.’

  ‘And I have got away with it, Mr. Sladen,’ she said. ‘The police still think you killed Hartley; and they are still looking for you. This is where we came in, isn’t it? Have you quite finished?’

  I had been talking solidly to gain time, and now I knew I had bought all the time I was going to get. In a second or so she would shoot. The range was about fifteen feet. Even with a .22 fifteen feet could be difficult shooting if the target was on the move.

  While I had been talking I had also been frantically trying to find a way out of this jam. I was within ten feet of the light switch, and it looked an awful long way away. If I could get to the switch and turn off the light I had a chance.

  ‘Let’s talk about a deal,’ I said, bracing my muscles. A big cushion lay on the settee by my side. As casually as I could I let my hand drop on it while I stared at her, trying to hold her attention away from my hand.

  ‘No deals, Mr. Sladen.’ She lifted the gun, her knuckle turned white as she took up the slack of the trigger. ‘I think you’re bluffing. Anyway, you’ll be safer dead.’

  III

  Time stood still while we stared at each other. I could see by the glitter in her eyes and the loose movement of her mouth that she was about to shoot. I snatched up the cushion and threw it at her with one movement, and at the same time, my heart hammering, I rolled off the settee and scrambled frantically to get behind it.

  She fired as the cushion whizzed through the air at her, but she dodged at the same time. I heard the vicious little bark of the .22, and a big glass ashtray that stood on the occasional table near me flew into splinters.

  I was behind the settee by now.

  She fired again. The slug ploughed through the back of the settee, missing me by less than six inches.

  This couldn’t go on. I knew her next shot must get me. Sweat was pouring off my face. I saw her shadow, slim and long, moving very slowly across the carpet towards me. I got hold of the side of the settee and waited. She couldn’t see me, but she knew I was there. She was within six feet of me when I heaved the settee up and towards her. I saw her jump clear; the settee crashed down, only just missing her.

  I had thrown away my only cover. I stood facing her, and she smiled at me. She was out of my reach. I was still ten feet from the light switch; fifteen feet from Juan’s gun, lying by the window. It seemed to me that I was within a heartbeat of death when a voice barked from the window: ‘Drop that gun!’

  I saw Cornelia’s eyes dilate. She looked quickly towards the window, her gun swinging around.

  The roar of a .45 swamped the bang of the .22. I only knew she had fired because I saw the gun flash.

  The shock of the .45 slug as it hit her threw her backwards.

  The .22 fell from her hand as she cannoned against the bar. She was dead before she reached the lush pile of the carpet.

  ‘Don’t move!’ Lassiter said from the window. He thrust one long thick leg over the window sill, the smoking .45 pointing at me. He slid into the room, covering me with the gun. His coarse, brutal face creased into a jeering smile as he looked at me.

  ‘Hello, peeper,’ he said. ‘You seem to be having yourself a good time.’

  I didn’t say anything. My tongue was as dry as scorched leather, and my knees were buckling. I watched him walk over to Cornelia, turn her over with his foot and look down at her.

  ‘Well, she won’t cash any cheques where she’s gone,’ he said, and to my relief, he shoved the .45 back into his shoulder holster. ‘Take a drink, peeper; you look like you could use one.’

  I ploughed my way across to the bar, poured myself three fingers of Scotch and gulped it down. The liquor did something to unfreeze my panic.

  ‘You’re a lucky guy, peeper,’ Lassiter said, reaching for a glass. He poured himself a stiff whisky. ‘If I hadn’t showed up when I did, you’d have been playing a harp by now.’

  ‘That’s a fact,’ I said, wiping my face with my handkerchief. I kept my back turned to Cornelia’s body. ‘How did you happen to look in?’

  He grinned at me, showing big white teeth.

  ‘I was keeping tabs on you like she said. I had an idea you were shacking up at Benn’s place. I figured it this way: you’ve been talking to Bradley. Benn and Bradley work together. Benn has a hideout; so that’s where you were.’

  ‘Pretty smart,’ I said. ‘Then why didn’t you grab me at Benn’s place if you knew I was there?’

  ‘What for? You don’t imagine I think you knocked off Hartley, do you? I’m not that dumb. Okay, it looked bad, but why should you knock him off? I figured if I kept near you, you’d crack the case
and save me some trouble. I couldn’t crack it myself. She was in too close with Doonan for any Tampa City cop to handle her.’

  ‘Well, it’s fixed now. You won’t let Royce get away?’

  ‘He won’t get away.’ He reached out a huge hand for the telephone. ‘Give me police headquarters,’ he told the operator. While he waited he helped himself to another drink, then he said into the mouthpiece, ‘This is Lassiter. I want Royce picked up and fast. I’ll be right over to charge him. Just get him.’

  He replaced the receiver, finished his drink, then taking out a pack of cigarettes, he offered me one.

  ‘You weren’t kidding when you told her you could prove she did the job?’ he asked, as we lit up.

  ‘I wasn’t kidding. The case is in the bag. Captain Creed is handling the witnesses.’

  ‘Creed, huh?’ Lassiter grinned. ‘Making sure of it? That’s swell. And you’re going to print the story in your rag?’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘Then it’s goodbye Doonan. I’ve been waiting for that punk to run into something he couldn’t talk himself out of, and this is it. Do you know how our system works? I’ll tell you. Doonan will take the buck: he can’t avoid it, and he’ll go. Mathis will move into his place; Carson will move into Mathis’s place, and I’ll move into Carson’s place. In six months’ time, Mathis will move out and I’ll be the boss.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten Carson,’ I said.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ He showed his teeth in a wolfish grin. ‘I’ll take care of him. He won’t worry me.’ He reached out a hand that felt like a hunk of concrete and patted my shoulder. ‘Go away and write your story. Make it good. Don’t forget to tell them how I saved your life.’ He turned to look at Cornelia. ‘Baby, if you only knew the shakeup you’re going to cause; if you only knew.’

  ‘Then you don’t want me for the Hartley killing?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t be a dope. You’re as free as the air.’ His huge hand reached out and took in the slack of my coat front. ‘I’ve been looking at that rag of yours, pally. It’s a nice layout. How’s about a photograph of me on the cover when you break the story?’