1949 - You're Lonely When You Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  ‘I’ll watch out. Anything else, Jack?’

  ‘I went along to that big service station near Santa Rosa Estate. I thought there might be a chance Anita had looked in there for gas before she skipped, but she hadn’t. While I was talking to one of the mechanics, Cerf’s Filipino chauffeur drove in. He had a loose tappet he was too lazy to fix himself, and while the mechanic was adjusting it I got talking to him. He’s one of those guys who likes to hear his own voice, and after I’d oiled him with a five-spot I got him on to Mrs. Cerf. I told him I was from the Herald and wanted to see Mrs. Cerf. He said she had gone away. This bit’s interesting. He said she ordered the Packard to be left at the side entrance of the house at ten o’clock last night. He waited up for her, but at two o’clock when she hadn’t shown up he decided she was staying out for the night and went to bed. She didn’t come back, and the car’s still missing.’

  ‘She didn’t come back?’ I repeated, staring at him.

  ‘That’s right. He says he reported to Cerf the car hadn’t been returned to the garage, and Cerf said it was all right and that he knew about it.’

  ‘Well, that is something,’ I said. ‘It looks as if she came out to see me and then went off somewhere and spent the night there. She couldn’t have been home when Cerf told Paula he was going to ship her out of town, although he made out to Paula she was home. It almost looks as if she knew about the murder and skipped quick.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I think,’ Kerman said. ‘Well, I nosed around the rest of the morning, but I didn’t get anywhere. I have the Packard’s registration number and I’ll keep at it. But up to the moment no one has seen the car or her for that matter. Still a car that size is difficult to hide up for long.’

  ‘Go after the car, Jack. That’s your best bet. You should check every garage, hotel and road house within ten miles radius.’

  Miss Bolus, who had been listening to all this with the same rapt interest as she had watched the negro boxer, said, ‘And don’t forget the night clubs.’

  ‘She’s right. Try L’Etoile, Jack.’ I looked over at Benny. ‘Did you get out there this morning?’

  Benny nodded.

  ‘Sure did, but there was no one around: no one I could talk to, that is. I saw Bannister, but he didn’t see me. The night staff don’t come on until six in the evening.’

  ‘Right.’ I turned to Kerman. ‘You look after L’Etoile. I want to find out if Dana went there. Sniff around and see if you can spot the Packard. It wouldn’t surprise me much if Anita was hiding there.’

  ‘I’ve got something,’ Benny said, pushing his plate away and pouring himself another slug of whisky. ‘I’ve got something really hot.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Anita was out at Dana’s place last night; right?’ I said and grinned.

  Benny threw up his hands in disgust.

  ‘Ain’t that something?’ he said. ‘I sweat my guts out all morning, dodge a frock of buttons, make myself amiable to an old whisky soak who lives opposite Dana’s apartment, and this punk, who hasn’t been near the place, spoils my entrance!’

  ‘Sorry, Ed,’ I said, patting him on the arm. ‘Brandon told me.’

  ‘Brandon?’

  ‘Yeah, Brandon. He thinks we’re protecting a client and he’s promised to turn his wrecking crew on me the next time we meet,’ and I told them the details of my talk with Brandon.

  ‘If he publishes a description of Anita someone’s bound to give her away,’ Kerman said, worried.

  ‘I know,’ I said and shrugged. ‘That’s something we’ll have to take care of when it happens. What else did you find out, Ed?’

  ‘Well, not much,’ he returned. ‘I thought I was going to create a sensation. The old dame - her name’s Mrs. Selby - who lives across the passage, facing Dana’s front door, spends most of her time watching her neighbours. She said she heard footsteps on the stairs about eleven-fifteen last night and peeped through her letterbox. I guess she was expecting to see Dana take a man into her rooms, and was ready to phone down to the janitor. She’s that kind of crab. She said Dana and a woman in a flame-coloured evening dress went into the apartment. She only had a glimpse of the woman and she couldn’t give me a description of her, except the dress and the diamond necklace she was wearing. They stayed in the apartment for about half an hour. Mrs. Selby wasn’t particularly interested, but when she heard the front door open she had a quick peep and was in time to see the woman in the evening dress going down the passage alone.

  ‘She decided there was nothing more to see and went to bed. The telephone, ringing in Dana’s apartment, woke her about one o’clock. About five minutes later she heard Dana’s front door open and shut. She reckons the killer rang Dana and got her to come out to the dunes on some pretext and killed her. That’s what she told the police.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘If Dana left her apartment at one o’clock, she couldn’t get to the dunes before one forty-five, and the police say she was murdered around twelve-thirty.’

  ‘That’s what Brandon told you,’ Benny said. ‘He’s such a liar he probably told you the wrong time to keep himself in practice.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said, ‘but I’ll check with Mifflin. He’ll tell me.’

  ‘Well, at least we’re breaking new ground,’ Kerman said.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know if it’s getting us anywhere,’ I said, frowning. ‘One thing does seem almost certain now. Anita succeeded in bribing Dana to tell her why she was watching her.’

  Benny sat forward.

  ‘Now wait a minute!’ he exclaimed heatedly. ‘That’s a pretty lousy thing to say, isn’t it?’

  ‘I know, but we must face facts, Ed. Anita offered me a thousand dollars to give her the information. I wouldn’t play. Half an hour later she and Dana are seen together at Dana’s apartment, and the next morning a necklace worth twenty thousand is found under Dana’s mattress. Maybe I have a suspicious mind, but to me that points to a bribe.’

  ‘It looks like it,’ Kerman said reluctantly. ‘She’d have to be pretty strong-minded if Anita offered her a necklace like that.’

  To hell with that for an idea,’ Benny broke in. ‘Not so long ago you said Natalie Cerf might have planted the necklace on Dana. Don’t you ever stick to a theory?’

  ‘But I didn’t know then that Anita had been to Dana’s apartment. This Mrs. Selby didn’t see or hear anyone visit Dana after Anita had gone, did she?’

  ‘No, but she was asleep, remember. She mightn’t have heard if someone sneaked up there.’

  ‘I know how you feel about this, Ed. We were all fond of Dana, but after all she was only a kid. That necklace would be a big temptation.’

  Benny grimaced.

  ‘Well, maybe, but I don’t like to think...’

  ‘Nor do I, but there it is. It’s an idea worth thinking about. We’ve got to find Anita. The two most likely places where she may be hiding are L’Etoile or Barclay’s house. Unless, of course, she’s left town. I’ll go out and see Barclay this afternoon. You, Ed, go back to Dana’s apartment and try and find out from Mrs. Selby if she noticed whether Anita was wearing the necklace when she left. Then from there go to the spot where Dana was found and check every yard of the way. Someone may have seen her. It’s a slight hope as not many people would be around at that time, but that cuts both ways. If anyone did see her they’ll remember her.’

  ‘Okay,’ Benny said.

  ‘And, Jack, you hunt for the Packard, and when you’ve got that going, have a crack at L’Etoile.’

  Miss Bolus said, ‘I could do that. I’m a member.’

  ‘Do you want to?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘Well, I’m going out there anyway for a swim. It won’t hurt me to look around.’

  ‘I bet you look cute in a swimsuit,’ Benny said admiringly.

  ‘I looked cuter without one,’ she said, giving him a calculating stare that made him gulp. She pushed back her chair. ‘Give me
a description of the car and I’ll see what can be done.’

  Kerman wrote down the registration number and description of the Packard on the back of his card.

  ‘If you are ever lonely,’ he said, ‘you’ll find my telephone number on the reverse side.’

  ‘Do I look as if I’m ever lonely?’ she asked, turned her chinky eyes on me and said, ‘Where do I get in touch with you?’

  I told her where I lived.

  She gave me an indifferent little nod, looked the other two over without apparently seeing them, and went away, moving with a long flowing stride that took her along as effortlessly as if she were being drawn forward on wheels.

  She went through the swing doors as remote and un-touchable as the Everest Peak.

  ‘My! My!’ Benny said, rubbing his hands enthusiastically.

  ‘My dreams will be in Technicolor tonight. Where did you find her, Vic?’

  ‘And what’s the big idea?’ Kerman asked.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ I said. ‘It was her idea, not mine. She used to go round with Caesar Mills. Kruger introduced us. I wanted to find out how Mills got the money to buy himself a house at Fairview. She didn’t know, but thought she could find out. You know how it is: one thing led to another. She has a way with her. She could get information out of a deaf mute. The point is she wants to get even with Mills. That makes two of us. I have a feeling she’ll be useful.’

  Benny and Kerman exchanged glances.

  ‘The one outstanding point you have made in that little speech,’ Benny said, ‘is the gag line that one thing leads to another, and boy going around with a Popsie like that you can bet your sweet life one thing will lead to another!’

  III

  As I walked over to the parking lot to collect my car it occurred to me that I was thinking far too much about Caesar Mills and far too little about Dana’s killer. I reminded myself that my outraged feelings towards Mills were personal and private, and I had no business even to think of him until I had found Dana’s killer. But I couldn’t help thinking how nice it would be if in some way I could involve Mills in the murder so I could concentrate on him with an easy conscience.

  Although I was aware that my immediate job was to go out to Wiltshire Avenue and take a look at George Barclay, there was another little job concerning Caesar Mills that also needed my care and attention, and after wrestling with my conscience I decided it mightn’t be such a waste of time if I looked into the Mills affair first.

  I got into my car, drove over to the nearest drug store, parked, went inside, and consulted a telephone book. A little wave of satisfaction flowed over me when my finger, running down a column, stopped at a line that read: Mills, Caesar, 235 Beechwood Avenue. Fairview 34257.

  I put the telephone book back on the rack, lit a cigarette and gently massaged the back of my neck. I stood like that for a moment or so, then hurried out, climbed into the car and drove over to the County Buildings at the corner of Feldman and Centre Avenue.

  The Land Record Office was on the second floor, and in charge of a sad-looking old clerk in a black alpaca coat and a querulous frame of mind. After a little persuasion he got me the record I wanted. 235 Beechwood Avenue had been bought by Natalie Cerf a year ago. There was no mention of Comrade Mills having any part in the transaction.

  I pushed the record book across the counter, passed a remark about the weather to show the clerk what nice manners I had, and went slowly down the stone steps into the afternoon sunshine.

  I sat in my car for a while exercising my brain. The more I thought about my discovery the happier I became. It looked as if the drag-hook I had thrown out into the unknown depths had caught something big. The cream-and-blue Rolls belonged to the Cerfs. 235 Beechwood Avenue belonged to Natalie Cerf, and both were being used by a guard, employed by Cerf to lounge at the main entrance and kick callers in the neck. And in his spare time this guard went around looking like a million dollars, and kept his cigarettes in a gold combined case and lighter that must have set him back at least a couple of months’ salary.

  Maybe all this hadn’t anything to do with Dana’s killing, but the setup interested me. Kruger had told me that Mills had been broke when he first came to Orchid City. Well, since those days he had certainly got on. Blackmail is one of the short cuts to wealth and seemed to offer the most satisfactory explanation of his sudden opulence. Maybe he was blackmailing the whole Cerf Family. He had every opportunity of finding out if Anita was a kleptomaniac. Why was he using Natalie’s house unless he had something on her?

  Keep at it, Malloy, I said to myself, you’re doing fine.

  Take it one step farther. You’ve made up your mind to drag Mills into this mess, so go ahead and drag him in.

  So I began to reason like this: if Mills is a blackmailer, couldn’t he be the guy who shot Dana? It was guesswork, but the kind of guesswork that suited my present mood.

  Nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to watch that bright boy take a walk to the gas chamber.

  I then decided I had spent enough time on Comrade Mills, anyway for the immediate present, and conscious that my visit to George Barclay’s place would now be something of an anti-climax, I drove over to Wiltshire Avenue, a nice, quiet, snobby road, screened on either side by high box hedges that concealed the houses lurking behind them. Barclay’s house stood at the far end of the circular cul-de-sac, facing me as I drove down the long, shady avenue.

  I pulled up outside the iron-studded oak tree gate, got out of the car and looked to right and left to see if anyone was watching me. No one was. The road was as quiet and as lonely as a pauper’s grave, but a lot more decorative.

  The latch of the oak gate yielded to pressure and the gate swung open. I peered around into a large, well-kept garden.

  About fifty yards ahead of me, facing a lawn that looked like a billiard table to end all billiard tables, was the house. It was a two-storey, chalet-style, brick-and-wood building, nice if you like phoney imitations of Swiss architecture. A flight of wooden steps ran up the side of the house to a verandah, and on the roof four fat, white doves balanced on the overhang and regarded me with their heads on one side as if they were hoping to hear me yodel.

  The afternoon sun was hot, and no breeze penetrated the thicket of Tung blossom trees that surrounded the garden. I sweated a little. Nothing moved: even the doves looked as if they were holding their breath.

  Mounting the steps to the front door, I dug my thumb into the bellpush and waited. Nothing happened, and I rang again. But, this afternoon, no one was at home.

  The house wasn’t particularly difficult to break into, and I wondered how much time I had before Barclay returned. I decided a quick look around might pay dividends, but not with my car at the gate to advertise that Prowler Malloy was inside and up to no good.

  Reluctantly I went down the steps, along the garden path and out through the gateway to my car. I drove rapidly to the end of the Avenue, parked under a beech tree, removed the registration card from the steering post, and walked back to Barclay’s house.

  The doves were still there to watch me mount the steps to the front door. I rang the bell again, but there was still no one at home, and I found a window that wasn’t bolted. It took me half a minute to lever it open with the blade of my knife, take one more look around, wink at the doves who didn’t wink back, and slide over the sill into a nice quiet atmosphere of green sunblinds and shadows.

  There appeared to be only the one room downstairs. At the far end of this room was a broad stairway leading to a balcony and the upper rooms.

  I moved around, using my eyes, making no noise and listening intently. No one screamed, no bodies fell out of the cupboards, no one shot me in the back. After a moment or so I became a lot less tense and much more interested in my surroundings.

  The room was overpoweringly masculine. Old swords, battleaxes and other ancient weapons cluttered up the walls.

  A pair of fencing foils and mask
decorated the overmantel.

  There were at least half a dozen pipe racks full of well-used pipes, a barrel for tobacco stood on an occasional table alongside a bottle of Black and White whisky, White Rock soda and glasses.

  To judge by the weapons, the golf clubs, the pipes, the stuffed birds, the sporting prints and the other undergraduate atmospheric novelties that littered the place, I didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that Barclay belonged to the rugged, hairy-chested, outdoor school of manly men.

  I didn’t think I would find anything of interest in this room. It was too open and above board; nothing-in-my-hand, nothing-up-my-sleeve kind of room, so I went up the stairs on tiptoe and paused on the balcony to listen.

  It crossed my mind there was a possibility that Barclay might be sleeping off his lunch in one of the upstairs rooms: a thought that disturbed me. My nerves hadn’t entirely recovered from my encounter with Mills, and I had no wish to walk into a guy who collected battleaxes as a hobby and who might take a pot shot at me with a crossbow or pat me on the dome with an iron-studded mace. So I listened, but no sounds of heavy breathing reached me, and I plucked up enough courage to open the door nearest to me and glance in.

  A very male bathroom greeted my eyes; a bath, a shower, a mechanical rowing machine and a Turkish bath cabinet, but no bath salts, no powder, no perfume bottles, and the towels hanging on the hot rail as if they were made from sharp wire thread.

  I went to the next room, peeped around the door and decided this was where Barclay spent his nights.

  There was a big double bed, a dressing-table and mirror, a fitted wardrobe, a trousers press, and over the bed hung a sporting print of an old guy with whiskers, holding an ancient fowling piece and looking as if he had a cold in his nose.

  I left the door ajar, sneaked over to the dressing-table and opened one of the drawers. A large glossy photograph in a morocco-leather frame lay face up to greet me. It was an intimate photograph that struck a false note in this atmosphere of wide open spaces and clean manly fun. It was a picture of Anita Cerf, a full-length shot, with a spotlight full on her and the background blacked out. She had nothing on but a pair of dark, fur-backed gloves, which she used the way a fan dancer uses her fans but with much more effect. It was a novelty picture and would have sold in gross lots to the members of the Athletic Club at five dollars a throw. Across the foot of the picture was scrawled in white ink: For darling George, with love from Anita.