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

I discovered suddenly that the front of my dress shirt was soaked with whisky and that explained where the awful stink came from. I got unsteadily to my feet, ripped off my collar and dropped it on the floor with a grimace of disgust.

‘And get me some coffee,’ I said as Miss Bolus came over with the whisky. ‘Strong enough to lie on and plenty of it.’

‘Did you hear what I said?’ Brandon snarled, starting out of his chair.

‘Sure, but that doesn’t mean you’ll get an answer,’ I said, sending Miss Bolus away with a wave of my hand. ‘You have no right here. What’s it to you who she is? What’s it to you what’s going on?’ While I was talking I stripped off my tuxedo and shirt. ‘I’m getting myself a shower. Stick around if you have to. I shan’t be long.’

It was only when I was opening the bathroom door that I wondered if the body was in there. I kept right on, shut the door and shot the bolt. No body. I reached out and pulled the shower curtain aside. Still no body. There was nowhere else to look, so I stripped off the rest of my clothes and got under the shower. Two minutes of hissing cold water cleared my head the way nothing else could have cleared it. I was beginning to get things under control. The electric clock on the wall told me it was twenty minutes past eleven. Anita Cerf had been shot at three forty-five a.m. I had been unconscious for nine hours. My fingers explored the back of my head. It was tender and felt a little soft, but so far as I could judge it was still all in one piece, and that was something to be thankful for.

The body was gone. That seemed pretty obvious. If it had been hidden anywhere in the cabin Brandon would have found it. Who had taken it, and why? I flicked the electric razor into life and began to shave. Why take the body away? Why? Was the killer crazy? If he had left the body and the gun he could have been practically certain that Brandon would have nailed me for the murder. But maybe the gun could be traced. Was that it? Or maybe the killer hadn’t taken the body. Maybe someone else had. Miss Bolus? I couldn’t see Miss Bolus carrying away a body across her square young shoulders. She might have done. She had enough nerve, but I couldn’t quite sec her doing it. Who then? And who was the guy in the slouch hat who had sapped me? The killer?

That was as far as I got: not very far, but then I wasn’t in the condition for brilliant deductions. Brandon hammered on the door.

‘Come out of there, Malloy!’ he shouted.

I put down the razor, felt my chin and decided it was smooth enough, slipped on a bath robe and opened the door.

Brandon was standing just outside. He looked as amiable as a tiger and a lot more ferocious.

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he said violently. ‘You either talk here or you’ll come down to the station.’

‘I’ll talk here,’ I said, moving over to the table where Miss Bolus had put the coffee. ‘What is it?’

I could hear her humming in the kitchen. She wouldn’t hum like that, I thought, pouring coffee, if she had seen Anita Cerf, let alone handled her. It couldn’t have been her. Who then?

Brandon said, ‘Where’s Benny?’

I wasn’t expecting that one. I wasn’t aware that he even knew Benny. I picked up the cup of coffee, held it a few inches below my nose and stared at him through the steam. It was good strong coffee. The smell of it made my mouth water.

‘You mean Ed Benny?’

‘Yes. Where is he?’

‘He’s in San Francisco.’

‘What’s he doing there?’

‘What’s it to you?’ I asked, sitting on the bed.

‘The San Francisco Police Department are asking.’

‘They are? Well, why don’t they ask him? What’s the idea?’

For no reason at all I felt a cold chill run up my spine. I put the cup of coffee down on the bedside table.

‘It’s no use asking him,’ Brandon said harshly. ‘He’s dead.’

The cold chill spread right across my back.

‘Benny? Dead?’ The voice didn’t sound like mine.

‘Yeah. The harbour police fished him out of Indian Basin,’

Brandon said, his eyes glued to my face. ‘His hands and feet were tied with piano wire. They reckoned he died around nine o’clock last night.’

I stood at the window and watched them go.

Brandon stamped down the path to the gate, the dead and chewed cigar pinched between clenched teeth and tight lips, an angry, frustrated look on his smooth, fat face. The uniformed cop who opened the car door for him, saluted, but even that didn’t seem to please him. He bundled himself into the car and glared back at the cabin as if he would like to set fire to it and kick the ashes into the sea.

Mifflin followed him into the car. Mifflin didn’t look angry, but he looked very thoughtful, and he was still apparently thinking when the car drove away.

I remained at the window, looking at the ocean without seeing it. Dana, Leadbetter, Anita and now Benny. The thing had suddenly gone mad: it wasn’t a murder case anymore. It was a massacre case.

I felt rather than heard Miss Bolus as she came to the door, and I could feel her watching me.

‘How did you get here?’ I asked without turning.

‘I called you around nine o’clock this morning,’ she said. ‘The operator said your receiver was off and no one was answering.’ She joined me at the window. ‘I hadn’t anything better to do so I came over. You were lying on the floor. The lights were on; the doors open. I got you on to the bed and was trying to bring you round when I heard them drive up. I poured whisky over you and told them you had been celebrating. I kept them away from you as long as I could. I didn’t want them to know you had been sapped. I didn’t think you would want them to know either. I don’t think they did, do you?’

‘No.’ I took a package of Camels from my pocket, shook out two, gave her one and lit up. ‘The whisky was a good idea. You didn’t see anyone else here when you came in?’

‘There wasn’t anyone else here. What happened?’

‘Someone was waiting for me. I walked in, and, Bingo! That’s all there was to it.’

She went over and began straightening the bed.

‘You make it sound pretty simple,’ she said.

‘Being hit on the head with a sock full of sand is simple. There’s nothing to it. You should try it some time.’

‘Don’t you have anyone to look after you?’

I had forgotten Tony, my Filipino boy, then I remembered it was Sunday. He didn’t come in on Sundays. That was a break. I wouldn’t have liked him to have walked in here and found me lying on the floor. He was a respectable boy. He would probably have quit.

‘Not on Sundays. On Sundays I have a beautiful redhead who comes in and does for me,’ I said, and went into the sitting room. I stood over the casting couch and stared at it. If the yellow cushion had been there I should have been convinced that I had had a nightmare, but the yellow cushion wasn’t there.

It was a pity about the casting couch. I had grown fond of it, but I would have to get rid of it. It was lucky there were no bloodstains on it, but it did smell of death. At least it smelt of death to me. You don’t make love to a girl on a couch that smells of death. Even a Malloy has his finer feelings at times, and this was one of the times.

I wandered around the room. Nothing out of place. There was no sign that Anita Cerf had been here: no sign whatsoever. I examined the carpet where the Colt automatic had lain. There were no oil stains. I got down on hands and knees and put my nose on the carpet and sniffed. There seemed to be a faint smell of gunpowder, but I couldn’t be sure if I was imagining it.

Miss Bolus stood in the bedroom doorway and watched me. A troubled little frown wrinkled her brow.