Джеймс Чейз - Safer Dead [= Dead Ringer]

‘Captain Bradley told me to call you. I have a flock of buttons hunting for me and I’ve got to get under cover fast.’

The man at the other end of the line sighed.

‘Well, okay, if Cap Bradley said so, who am I to object? Where are you?’

‘At an eating house on Sherratt Street.’

‘Know where I am?’

‘No. I’m walking and dodging cops as I go.’

The man groaned.

‘That means I’ve got to come and fetch you, does it?’

‘It would be an idea.’

‘Yeah; an idea for you, but not for me. Well, okay. The things I do for Cap Bradley! Stick where you are. I’ll be along in half an hour; maybe sooner.’

‘Thanks.’

The line went dead. I replaced the receiver. As I turned to open the booth door I saw a shadow fall across the rectangle of light on the sidewalk. A moment later the door pushed open and two big men came in. They walked heavily over to the fat man who looked up. He slowly straightened and placed two big, hairy hands on the counter. His face was expressionless.

Faintly through the glass panel of the pay booth I heard one of the men say, ‘Police. We’re looking for a guy. Anyone been in?’

I felt a cold dampness on my face as I squeezed myself into the darkness of the booth.

‘No one’s been in for the past two hours,’ the fat man said woodenly.

‘You sure?’

‘I’m telling you, aren’t I?’ the fat man said curtly. He put a cigarette between his lips and began to search for a match.

The policeman who had spoken leaned forward and smacked the cigarette away, catching the fat man’s cheek with his thick fingers as he did so.

‘Don’t smoke, punk, when I’m talking to you,’ he snarled.

The fat man stiffened; his deepset eyes glittered, but he didn’t say anything nor did he move.

‘This guy’s tall, dark, around thirty-three or four,’ the policeman went on. ‘He’s wearing a dark grey suit and a matching slouch hat. If you spot him call headquarters — understand?’

‘Yes,’ the fat man said.

‘You’d better understand.’

The two policemen turned and walked out, leaving the door open. They went on down the street. The fat man came from behind the counter, crossed to the door and looked out, then he shut the door and went back to the counter. He didn’t look once in my direction.

I took out my handkerchief and wiped my sweating face, then I opened the pay booth door and came out.

The fat man said, ‘They may be back. There’s a cop at the corner. Go in there,’ and he jerked his thumb to a door near the pay booth.

‘Thanks,’ I said, opened the door and walked into a comfortably but shabbily furnished sitting-room.

A big black cat lay sleeping in an armchair. It opened its eyes to examine me, decided I was harmless and went back to sleep. I took out my pack of cigarettes, lit one and drew in a lungful of smoke. My knees felt as if I had been running hard for a couple of miles and my breath was laboured.

The fat man came in with a cup of coffee which he put on the table. He opened a drawer in the table and took out a half pint bottle of Haig.

‘You got friends?’ he asked, pushing the bottle towards me.

‘Someone’s coming to pick me up. Thanks for what you did.’

‘That’s nothing. I wouldn’t help the cops in this town even if it cost me money.’ He moved back to the door. ‘You’ll be okay here. Stick around,’ and he went out.

I poured a slug of whisky into the coffee and drank it. I felt a lot better for it. Then I sat down.

This was the first moment of quiet that I had had since I had found Hartley shot to death. Even now my mind was still too uneasy by my own predicament to give much thought to the reason why he had been murdered. I remembered his last words to me: ‘I have a theory that might interest you.’ He knew I was hunting for information about Fay Benson and it seemed reasonable to assume that the theory he had mentioned had to do with Fay Benson. Had he been killed because of this theory? Unless the killer had been with him when he had telephoned to me, how could the killer have known Hartley was going to talk? It looked as if the killer was someone Hartley knew.

I took out the .38 automatic and examined it. It looked either new or else it had been well looked after. Its serial number was 3347890. I took out the clip. Only two shots had been fired from the gun. The killer was either a first class shot or else the killing had been done at close quarters.

No doubt Creed would be able to get some information from the gun. As soon as I could I would send the gun to him.

I put the gun, carefully wrapped in my handkerchief, back in my jacket pocket.

What was my next move to be? The solution of Fay Benson’s kidnapping and murder was to be found in Tampa City: I was sure of that. But every hour I remained in the city increased the risk of my being arrested. I was now Suspect No.1 for Hartley’s killing and unless I found the killer, there would be no town in the country where I would be safe.

The thought made me sweat. It seemed to me whatever happened I had to stay in Tampa City. It looked as if I would have to dream up some kind of disguise if I was to have any freedom of movement. If I dyed my hair a darker shade, wore dark glasses and a change of clothing I might get by. Tampa City was teeming with visitors. I should be able to lose myself in the crowd.

I was still making plans when the fat man put his head around the door.

‘Benn’s out here asking for you — okay?’

I got up.

‘Sure. Can he come in?’

The fat man nodded and went away. A moment or so later Sam Benn came in.

He was a little man, small boned, with a shock of iron-grey hair, a thin pointed face and deep-set, expressionless eyes. He was wearing a leather windcheater, zipped up to his chin and a pair of dirty grey slacks.

He came over to me and shook hands.

‘Just how bad is it?’ he asked. How hot is the heat?’

‘I was caught in a house with two dead men in it,’ I said. ‘The police are convinced I did the killing.’

Benn grimaced.

‘That’s nice. What do you want me to do? Get you out of town?’

‘No. I want somewhere safe where I can operate. I’ve got to find the killer if I’m to beat the rap.’

‘You’re kidding yourself. You’d better get out of town.’

‘Not for a day or so. Captain Bradley said you could take care of me. Can’t you?’

‘Oh, I guess so. The things I do for that man.’ Benn suddenly grinned. ‘I’ll hide you up for a while, but not for long. I’m sticking my neck out. Now listen, my car’s parked at the end of the street. I’ll go and fetch it and come past here slowly. Fats will give you the tip when to move. I’ll have the car door open. Dive in quick. Okay?’

I said it was okay.

It was after eleven o’clock before I rolled out of the wall bunk in Benn’s hide-out, and walked, yawning, to the toilet basin to sluice water over my face.

The hide-out was a professional job and I wondered what its history was. Located under Benn’s bar-room and made of concrete and steel, it had an elaborately concealed entrance, an emergency exit that led to an alley behind the bar, a refrigerator full of food, a radio, a television set, a telephone, a table, three armchairs and a comprehensive stock of liquor.

While I shaved I had the radio on to the short wave police signals, but the routine stuff that came out of the speaker wasn’t concerned with me.

Benn came in as I was cleaning the razor. He had a couple of brown paper parcels which he put on the table. From his pockets he produced four small packages and a folded newspaper.