‘What’s that to do with me?’ he asked, resting his elbows on the desk and cupping his bony chin between his not too clean hands.
‘Some time ago you were hired to watch a showgirl who worked at the Golden Apple club: Frances Bennett.’ I took out Fay’s photograph and laid it on the desk in front of him. ‘This girl.’
He looked down at the photograph, then up at me, and his lips turned down at the corners.
‘Look, Jack,’ he said, his voice suddenly tough, ‘you’re wasting your time. I don’t talk about my clients. If that’s all you have to say, pull up your anchor and steam out of here.’
‘Your client, Miss Forrest, is with the Welden police right now, giving them a statement. We want you to support her statement. I can put some money and a lot of publicity your way if you will go to Welden and see Police Captain Creed. You’ll be the first private dick to have his photograph in Crime Facts.’
He pushed his hat to the back of his head while he stared at me.
‘What is all this?’
‘Frances Bennett was murdered in Welden. You say Royce fingered her to Flemming, a Frisco killer. That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know any Flemming.’
‘But you saw Royce finger the girl to a guy in a car, didn’t you?’
‘Suppose I did?’
‘I want you to sign a statement to that effect.’
Andrews moved his plastic teeth while he did some fast thinking.
‘What’s it worth?’ he asked at last.
‘Publicity and thirty a day expenses.’
He brooded some more then shook his head.
‘I’ve got to live here, pal. You’re after Royce, aren’t you? You’re kidding yourself. You won’t get him: he’s too smart. How long do you imagine I’d last if he found out I’d made a statement about him to the Welden police? Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, but not more. That guy’s dangerous. The cops in this town love him. No: you don’t get any statement from me.’
‘You don’t seem to cotton on,’ I said patiently. ‘The girl was murdered. If you withhold information from the police you become an accessory.’
He frowned down at his desk.
‘I don’t know she’s murdered. I don’t know anything.’
By now I was sick of him and sick of his dirty little office. I gave it to him without gloves.
‘You either go to Welden right now and give Creed a statement or I’ll print your refusal to cooperate in Crime Facts. If I do that you’ll lose your licence.’
That seemed to hit him where he lived.
‘Now, wait a minute,’ he said hastily. ‘If you did that I’d sue you and your rag.’
I laughed.
‘Go ahead and sue us. We’d love it.’
He sat staring at me for a long moment, then he shrugged his shoulders.
‘Yeah, I guess you would. Well, okay, I know when I’m beat. It serves me right. I should never have taken on that job. Watching Royce was asking for trouble. I’ll see Creed.’
I took out my billfold and put twelve five dollar bills on the desk.
‘That’s two days retainer. I’ll call Creed and tell him you’re on your way in.’
He snapped up the bills and put them out of sight as if he were scared I might change my mind.
‘How long did you watch Miss Bennett?’ I asked.
‘Three days and two nights.’
‘During that time she was mostly with Royce?’
‘The first day she wasn’t. She went out to the Van Blakes’ place in the morning.’
I stiffened to attention.
‘When was this?’
He thought for a moment, then opening a drawer in his desk he took out a thick notebook, flicked through the pages, studied an entry and put the book back.
‘The morning of July 27th.’
‘Did she go in a cab?’
‘No. Lennox Hartley, the magazine artist, called for her. They went together in his car.’
‘How long did they stay?’
‘I don’t know. There was a guard on the gate and I couldn’t hang around. I picked her up at her apartment again in the late evening.’
‘You’re sure it was Hartley who was with her?’
‘Yeah; I know the guy well by sight.’
I asked more questions, but he hadn’t any further information to give me that Lydia Forrest hadn’t already told me.
‘Okay,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘Get off to Creed right away. He’ll be expecting you.’
From Andrews’ office I drove to a drug store and called Creed. I told him Andrews was on his way in.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ Creed said after I had told him Fay had been with Hartley to the Van Blakes’ house. ‘Two years ago, Mrs. Van Blake bought a green and cream Cadillac convertible from Manning and Howland, the San Francisco dealers. She traded it in on August 20th last year, three days after Fay’s disappearance, for a Bentley. Looks like she lent the car to
Royce, doesn’t it? No other car of that description has been sold in Tampa City. It must be the one Royce used in Welden.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Well, we seem to be making progress. I’m going after more witnesses now. I’ll keep in touch,’ and I hung up.
I turned up Irene Jarrard’s telephone number and put through a call, but there was no answer. That didn’t surprise me. She would be at work at this time in the morning.
I turned up the Hammerville Engineering Works and put through a call to Vincent Latimer. After a struggle, I persuaded Latimer’s secretary to let me talk to Latimer. When I told him I had urgent and private business to discuss with him, he said he could give me ten minutes if I called within the next half hour.
At thirty-three minutes past eleven, I was ushered into his office by a dark, cool-eyed lovely who said in a well-modulated voice, ‘Mr. Sladen is here, Mr. Latimer,’ as if he couldn’t see me, and went away, shutting the door as if it were made of icing sugar.
Vincent Latimer turned out to be a large-sized man, bursting with good living and self-importance, whose brick-red face and cold hard eyes put him into the top executive class even without the trappings of a massive desk and a battery of telephones. He waved me to a chair while he went through the standard formula of finishing reading a document, then jerking off his heavy shell spectacles, he stared at me and barked, ‘Well, what is it?’
‘I want your help, Mr. Latimer,’ I said. ‘I’m working with the Welden police. It may be possible you have information that will help solve a fourteen months old murder case.’
That took him out of his stride. For a moment his mouth fell open; then he snapped it shut and glared.
‘What information could I possibly have?’ he demanded.
‘Whose murder?’
‘A girl called Frances Bennett. Maybe you’ve heard of her.’
I could see by his expression the name struck a note.
‘Frances Bennett? That couldn’t be the girl who stood in for Mrs. Van Blake’s portrait, could it?’
It was my turn to stare.
‘This girl,’ I said, handing over Fay’s photograph. He studied the photograph, then nodded. He seemed a little shaken.
‘That’s the one. You say she’s been murdered?’
‘Yes. We found her body last week in a barrel of cement in a lake in Welden. She’s been dead fourteen months.’
He grimaced.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t see what this has to do with me.’
‘You said just now Miss Bennett posed for Mrs. Van Blake’s portrait. Was that the portrait painted by Lennox Hartley?’
‘It was, but that has nothing to do with her murder.’
‘Any light we can get on the girl is important. Why did she pose for the portrait?’
‘Mrs. Van Blake was always very occupied. This girl happened to have Mrs. Van Blake’s exact measurements. After Mr. Hartley had completed Mrs. Van Blake’s head, this girl posed for the rest of the picture.’
&nbs
p; My heart began to thump with excitement.
‘Was Miss Bennett like Mrs. Van Blake then?’
‘Certainly she was. She was extraordinarily like her. Not in features, but in build and the way she moved. As a matter of fact I saw her sitting on the balcony in Mrs. Van Blake’s dress while Hartley was painting her and I thought she was Mrs. Van Blake. It was only when I got close to her that I realized she wasn’t.’
I sat back and stared at him.
So here was the hook up at last!
II
The discreet buzz of one of the telephones gave me a moment to calm down. Latimer located the telephone, snapped into the receiver that he was not to be disturbed and replaced the receiver with an ominous click.
‘How many times did Miss Bennett pose for the portrait?’ I asked.
He seemed to find this an irrelevant question for he frowned impatiently, shot his cuff and looked at his gold strap watch.
‘Three or four times I think. I can’t give you much longer. Was there anything else you wanted to know?’
I knew now I was on the point of breaking the case and I wasn’t going to be hustled away. I played a card I was sure would nail his attention.
‘There is a question,’ I said. ‘Who do you think murdered Mr. Van Blake?’
He stiffened; his fleshy face darkened and he leaned across the desk to glare at me.
‘What do you mean by that? What has Mr. Van Blake’s death to do with you?’
‘Are you aware that Captain Bradley thinks Mrs. Van Blake was responsible for her husband’s death?’
‘Captain Bradley had no right to say such a thing! He had no proof, and he lost his job because he was stupid enough to suspect her.’
‘Do you think Dillon killed Mr. Van Blake?’
He hesitated, then said curtly, ‘How do I know? It’s not my business to be a policeman. The police thought so: what more do you want?’
‘Mr. Van Blake was supposed to have horsewhipped Dillon. Captain Bradley thought this was unlikely.’
‘Of course it was: it was absurd. Mr. Van Blake was always extremely lenient with poachers. I caught Dillon several times on the estate, but Mr. Van Blake wouldn’t prosecute him. Of course it was utter nonsense.’
‘And yet Mrs. Van Blake said he horsewhipped Dillon, and that supplied the motive to the murder.’
Latimer moved uneasily.
‘I know that. I told Commissioner Doonan that Mr. Van Blake would never have done such a thing, but it was my word against hers, and Doonan preferred to believe her.’ He frowned down at his snowy blotter, then went on, ‘Another reason why I thought it was unlikely that Dillon had done it was that he didn’t use a gun when he poached. He worked at night with a flashlight and a catapult, blinding the pheasants with the light and knocking them down with his catapult. In this way, he could work close to the house without us hearing him. Mr. Van Blake was murdered in a clearing beyond the woods where there were no pheasants. Dillon always poached by the summer house on the west side of the estate.’
‘Would that be far from where Mr. Van Blake was killed?’
He got up, went to a filing cabinet and took out a folded map.
‘This is a map of the estate,’ he said, spreading it out on his desk. ‘This is where Mr. Van Blake was shot. Here’s the summer house. It’s a good half mile between the two places as you can see.’
I studied the map.
‘How was it that Dillon could get into the estate? Weren’t there guards patrolling?’
‘We had a guard on the gate and a guard patrolling the gardens near the house. Dillon used to come in through this gate by the main road, up through the clearing, into the wood and down to the summer house,’ Latimer said, tracing the route with his finger on the map.
‘Then he did pass the place where Mr. Van Blake was shot?’
‘Yes, but he came only at night. He wouldn’t have been there at seven o’clock in the morning, when Mr. Van Blake was shot.’
‘I wonder if you would lend me this map for a couple of days?’
‘All right; you can have it, but I want it back.’
‘You’ll have it back. I think Captain Bradley was right. I’m convinced Mrs. Van Blake is responsible for the death of her husband.’
He sat down, stared at his hands for a long moment before saying, ‘She couldn’t have done it. She was in Paris at the time. I admit she has the motive. She didn’t get on well with Van Blake. Although he was extremely fond of her, he didn’t approve of her extravagance and they quarrelled. There were rumours that she and this fellow Royce were lovers. She tried to persuade her husband to sell the Golden Apple club to Royce, but Van Blake wouldn’t have it. I know he was planning to get rid of Royce before he died.’ He drummed on the desk with well-manicured fingers, went on, ‘At the time, I was in a difficult position. Van Blake left me in a position of trust. It was difficult to contradict Mrs. Van Blake’s statements to the press. Anyway, I didn’t want to get mixed up in the case. I was glad to leave.’
As I folded the map, I said, ‘Mrs. Van Blake tells me she stayed at the George V hotel in Paris. I suppose she and her husband often went to Paris?’
‘At least twice a year.’
‘They always stayed at the George V?’
‘Well, no. They always stayed at the Ritz. I was surprised when Mrs. Van Blake asked me to book a suite at the George V. She said she wanted a change.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘There’s one more question, Mr. Latimer. While Mrs. Van Blake was in Paris she met a showgirl named Joan Nichols. Does the name mean anything to you?’
He thought for a moment.
‘A girl of that name did call on Mrs. Van Blake at her house two days after she had returned from Paris,’ he said. ‘The guard at the gate called me and asked if Mrs. Van Blake would see her.’
‘Did she?’
‘Oh yes. I didn’t see her myself. I was busy with Mr. Van Blake’s affairs, but she told me to ask the guard to send the girl up to the house.’
‘You wouldn’t happen to know if this girl gave her address as well as her name when she called?’
‘It was in the visitor’s book. The town I believe, not the address.’
‘Was it Welden?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Mr. Van Blake was killed on August 6th; on August 8th Miss Nichols called. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Miss Bennett, using the name of Fay Benson, turned up in Welden on August 9th and the same evening Royce, under the name of Henry Rutland, also appeared. On August 17th, Miss Bennett was kidnapped and murdered. The same evening Royce left Welden. On August 20th Miss Nichols, presumably pushed, fell downstairs and broke her neck, and the stagedoor keeper to a club where Miss Bennett was working and who helped kidnap her was also killed by a hit and run driver on the same evening. Interesting sequence of dates, don’t you think?’
Latimer stared at me, his eyes bewildered.
‘I don’t understand. What exactly are you driving at?’
‘If I have any luck,’ I said, getting to my feet and sliding the map of the Van Blake estate into my hip pocket, ‘I’ll be able to tell you that in a day or two; but I’ll have to have some luck first.’
‘But look here.’
‘Give me a couple of days.’
I left him staring after me. He looked a little like a codfish caught on a gaff.
III
On my way back to Tampa City, I did some heavy thinking. At long last, I was getting the breaks. My visit to Latimer had paid heavy dividends. I now felt I was in the position to pry the lid off the case. When I reached Tampa City’s main street, I parked the Lincoln outside a quick snack lunch bar, bought a midday newspaper and went into the bar. I ordered a chicken sandwich and a coffee, and while I was waiting, I looked over the front page of the paper.
The shooting at Glyne Beach had caused less sensation than I had expected. The account stated that two gunmen, thought to have come from Tampa City, ha
d been cornered last night in a motel on the Glyne Beach road and had been shot to death. Police Captain Creed stated that the Tampa City police were being invited to cooperate in identifying the gunmen.
While I read the newspaper I ate my sandwich. I wondered how Royce was reacting to this news. He must have guessed that Lydia had slipped through his fingers, but he wasn’t to know that she was in the hands of the police. After a little thought, I decided it might be a good idea to tell him.
‘Give me another sandwich,’ I said to the barman as I slid off the stool, ‘while I use the phone.’
I shut myself in a pay booth, turned up the number of the Golden Apple club and dialled.
A girl’s voice that sounded like thick honey, oozed over the line.
‘This is the Golden Apple club: good morning; can I be of service?’
‘Give me Royce, and snap it up, sister,’ I said, making my voice sound tough.
The honey congealed.
‘Who is calling?’
‘Tell him it’s an old pal of his from Sing Sing,’ I said.
There was a long pause, then a man barked, ‘Who’s this?’
‘Royce?’
‘Yes: what is it?’
‘This is a tipoff, pal. The Welden cops have got Lydia, and she’s singing. She’s tying you in with the Van Blake murder, so watch your foothold.’
The startled grunt that came over the line made music in my ears, but I didn’t wait for more. I gently hung up. That should give him a little uneasiness.
I returned to the bar where my sandwich was waiting. The place was filling up, and a big man, with shoulders on him that a prize fighter would envy, jostled me as I took a bite at the sandwich.
I set myself to jostle back when I took a look at the big man’s face. My heart skipped a beat and I nearly dropped the sandwich when I saw it was Sergeant Carl Lassiter.
He was leaning forward, glaring at the barman and rapping on the counter to attract attention. My first impulse was to nip smartly to the door and out into the Lincoln, but I hadn’t paid for my meal and I still had the sandwich in my hand. The crush at the bar was pushing me against Lassiter who had caught the barman’s eye.
1954 - Safer Dead Page 20