Джеймс Чейз - You’re Lonely When You’re Dead

‘That’s fine, so long as he doesn’t act very tough with us.’

I pushed open the gate and glanced around. The doves were still on the roof, and there was no one in the garden.

‘I wonder if he’s skipped,’ I said, looking towards the house.

‘Do I go first?’ Kerman asked.

‘Sure. Ring the bell, and if he’s there keep him amused until I’ve had time to get into his bedroom. I shouldn’t be two or three minutes.’

‘I hope you’re not,’ Kerman said, and went off briskly towards the house.

I watched his progress up the wooden steps to the front door and heard the bell ring sharply somewhere in the house. We waited, but nothing happened, and Kerman looked my way, lifted his hands and shook his head. I made motions, telling him to ring again. He rang again. Then without any warning a voice said, ‘What exactly do you think you’re up to?’

Maybe I didn’t jump more than a foot, but it felt like a yard. I swung around.

A tall hunk of male beef was standing just behind me; the kind of lad women would fall for in a big way. He had a lot of black curly hair, and his eyes seemed bluer than they were because of the rich golden tan of his skin. He had a complacent, smug air about him of a guy who’s been told so often he is handsome that he has at last come to believe it, and it hasn’t been such hard work at that.

I didn’t have to be Philo Vance to guess he was Barclay. Dana had said he dressed and looked like a movie star and that description about fitted him. He wore an apricot-coloured rugger shirt, white linen slacks with a crease sharp enough to slice bread with, and white buckskin shoes with brown explosions. Around his thick hairy wrist was a heavy gold-chain bracelet, and around his thick hairy neck was a green silk scarf with his initials neatly monogrammed just where I could read them.

‘Mr. Barclay?’ I asked, not perhaps as nonchalantly as I would have liked but near enough to make no difference.

‘What if I am?’ He had a Lawrence Tibbett baritone, very manly and rich; the kind of voice that would send shudders up the spines of bobby-soxers, but did nothing at all to mine.

I handed him my card: the one with the Universal Services’ crest in the corner, and stood back while he examined it as enthusiastically as if I’d handed him the business end of a skunk. He took his time about reading it, turned it and stared at the blank side for a moment or so, then returned it as if it soiled his fingers.

‘Sorry and all that,’ he said, and sneered thoughtfully at a Charlotte Collins dahlia that happened to be in his line of vision. ‘I have all the service I want. Thank you for calling: some other time perhaps.’

Kerman joined us. Barclay studiously ignored him.

‘We’re not offering service,’ I said. ‘We’re acting for a client whose wife happens to be a friend of yours. You may be able to help us.’

Although he managed to hold his bored, contemptuous attitude a wary expression now came into his eyes.

‘Still sorry,’ he said, waving his hand to the gate. ‘I’m a little pressed for time right now, and besides I don’t like snoopers.’

‘We can get our information from the police,’ I said. ‘But then you know what the police are; they haven’t any respect for the individual. We have.’

He took one hand from one trousers pocket, rubbed his square jaw thoughtfully and still managed to appear as unruffled and as calm as a mountain capped with snow.

‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘Let’s be quick about it.’

‘Sorry, but our business is a little too serious to discuss in a hurry. Shall we go and talk it over?’

He looked from me to Kerman and back to me again, and his eyes hardened.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ he exclaimed, losing his poise, and pushing past me, walked with long quick strides towards the house.

We went after him.

‘Do you still plant exhibit A?’ Kerman asked out of the corner of his mouth.

‘Not a hope. We’ll either have to trap a confession out of him or beat it out of him. I don’t know what else we can do.’

‘It should be fun beating it out of him,’ Kerman said gloomily.

Barclay opened the front door and entered the living room without bothering to see if we were following. He crossed over to a big cocktail cabinet, opened the double doors to reveal an interesting collection of bottles on the inside of the doors were racks that held cut-glass tumblers, and set in the middle of the cabinet was a tiny refrigerator. It was the most efficient drinking apparatus I had seen, and by the way Kerman reacted, rubbing his hands briskly and teetering up and down on his toes, he thought so too.

‘Well, say your piece and be quick about it,’ Barclay said, selecting a glass and half filling it with whisky. He added a splash of soda and an ice cube from the refrigerator, closed the cabinet doors with a sharp click that told me he wasn’t going to open them again until we had gone, and moved over to the settee where he stretched out his manly bulk.

I waited in silence until he had settled himself, then stripped the brown paper off the rolled-up coat and skirt and tossed them into his lap.

‘How did this suit get into your cupboard?’ I asked.

He put the whisky down on the occasional table at his side, poked at the coat doubtfully, a look of blank surprise on his face.

‘What was that again?’ he asked, and his head came round and he stared at me.

‘That suit was in your cupboard. I want to know how it got there.’

He brushed the suit from his lap on to the floor, picked up his whisky, took a long drink and set the glass down again.

‘Are you drunk or just crazy?’ he asked.

‘Look, don’t let’s have any of that,’ I said. ‘I called here about a couple of hours back. There was no one home so I had a look round, and I found that suit in the cupboard in your bedroom.’

‘Did you?’ He was getting over his surprise now. ‘So you took it away and brought it back again. Very clever,’ and he a lowed himself a small sneer.

‘I took it away because I wanted to have it examined for bloodstains.’

He lifted his head sharply at that. There was a sudden bright glitter in his eyes.

‘What do you mean — bloodstains?’

‘That suit belonged to Dana Lewis, the girl who was shot near East Beach last night.’

He swung his legs off the settee and sat up.

‘What the hell is all this?’

‘I’m asking you how it is that this suit, belonging to a girl who was murdered and stripped last night, happened to be in your cupboard.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about, and I don’t care. I’ve had enough of this. Take your old clothes and beat it!’

‘I have very definite evidence to connect you with Dana Lewis,’ I said quietly. ‘She was one of my operators and was watching Mrs. Cerf at the time she was murdered.’

That stopped him. He pulled up like an angry bull confronted by a barbed-wire fence.

‘What’s this — blackmail?’

‘Nothing as simple as that. The murdered girl was a friend of mine. I’m checking up on her death. I want to know how her clothes got into your cupboard.’

‘Well, well, well,’ he said and got slowly to his feet; very big, dangerously quiet and controlled. ‘But all the same it smells of blackmail to me. Before we go any further with this, let’s call the police. I’d like them to hear what you’ve just said, then you can produce your proof, and if you can’t they’ll know how to take care of you.’ His hand reached for the telephone, but Kerman was a shade too fast for him. He grabbed the telephone, yanked the cable loose from its moorings and threw the instrument across the room.

‘No phone, pal,’ he said.