Джеймс Чейз - Safer Dead [= Dead Ringer]

She wasn’t in the room.

As I ran out into the passage, shouting her name, I heard the sound of an approaching police siren.

I jerked open the cabin door and ran out on to the verandah. Away through the trees I could see the blaze of approaching car headlights.

A yellow flash of flame came from across the lawn, something zipped past my face and carved splinters from the front door. The crash of gunfire shattered the silence of the night, and I hurriedly ducked back under cover.

I had forgotten the second gunman, and he had nearly fixed me. I bolted down the passage into the back room for my gun.

The sight of the empty room made my nerves crawl.

Borg had made a pretty quick recovery. He was either hiding in the cabin or he had left by the window. I snatched up the gun, jumped across the room and turned off the light.

Cautiously I made my way down the passage to the front door again.

I heard a car pull up with a screeching of tyres. Car doors slammed, then two policemen, guns in hand, came running down the cinder path.

From across the lawn, behind the shelter of a cabin, there was a flash and a bang of gunfire.

The two policemen scattered like startled hens, diving behind trees. One of them fired at the cabin. There was a crash of glass and a woman screamed.

Lights began to flash up in the cabins, spilling through the windows on to the lawn.

I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure, squat and thickset moving stealthily towards the trees. It was Borg. Lifting my gun, I fired at him. He broke into a run, but before he could reach the shelter of the trees, one of the policemen fired at him, and his shooting was more accurate than mine.

Borg went down on one knee, struggled up, then came slowly out into the open. The gun in his hand blazed. The two policemen both fired at him. Staggering back, he dropped his gun and spread out on the grass.

The second gunman made a dash for the cinder path. One of the policemen spun around, jerked up his gun and fired. The gunman dropped, rolled over, tried to get up on hands and knees, then slumped down on the cinders.

‘You’ve got both of them now,’ I shouted and moved out on to the verandah.

The two policemen came cautiously towards me, covering me with their guns.

‘I’m Sladen,’ I said, careful not to move. It struck me these two might be trigger-happy.

‘Drop that gun!’ one of them rapped out.

I put the gun on the verandah floor.

‘Okay; now identify yourself.’

I gave him my press card and driving licence.

‘Okay, Mr. Sladen,’ the policeman said. ‘Looks like we turned up about right. Sergeant Scaife’s sending another car. It should I be here any moment.’

‘Did you see a girl around?’ I asked.

‘Didn’t see anyone except those two punks.’

Then I caught sight of Lydia as she came out of the shadows. She walked unsteadily and slowly towards me.

‘There she is,’ I said and ran over to her.

Before I could reach her, she folded at the knees and dropped on the grass. The two policemen joined me as I bent over her. For a moment I thought she had been shot, but there was no sign of blood. One of the policemen felt her pulse.

‘She’ll be okay,’ he said. ‘She’s fainted.’

By this time people were crowding out of the cabins and were forming groups around the two dead gunmen.

Approaching sirens brought two more squad cars bouncing down the drive-in.

‘I’ll get her to my car,’ I said, picking Lydia up.

With the two policemen either side of me, I carried her to the car park where the squad cars were unloading.

A sergeant came over to me.

‘Sladen?’

‘That’s right.’

‘The Captain wants you back at headquarters. Who’s the girl? Is she hurt?’

‘No; just fainted.’ I got Lydia into the Lincoln. ‘She’s part of the story. Are you going to give me an escort?’

‘I’ll send someone with you.’

He told one of his men to drive us to headquarters, then calling to his men, he went off down the cinder path.

It took us under an hour to reach headquarters. On the way, Lydia came out of her faint. She seemed pretty badly shocked and after I had assured her she had nothing to worry about, she relaxed against me, her head on my shoulder.

Scaife was waiting as we pulled up outside headquarters. He stared blankly at me as I helped Lydia out.

‘The guy hiding behind this moustache is your old pal Sladen,’ I said.

‘Pretty smart,’ he said, grinning. ‘You had me foxed for a moment. Looks as if you’ve been having fun. Come on in. The Captain’s just shown up. I got him out of bed. Better watch your step. He’s as mad as a bear with a boil.’

While he was talking he looked curiously at Lydia who leaned against me and stared at him with scared eyes.

‘Let’s go on in,’ I said.

We climbed the stairs to Creed’s office.

‘While I talk to the Captain, will you look after Miss Forrest?’ I said. ‘She’s had a shock and needs a rest.’

‘Sure,’ Scaife said. ‘You come with me.’ He went on to Lydia. ‘I’ll fix you up.’

Leaving them I rapped on the police captain’s door, pushed it open and walked in.

Creed sat at his desk. His heavy face was drawn and tired. The wall clock told me it was twenty minutes past three. I felt quite a wreck myself.

For a moment he stared hard at me.

‘Sladen reporting,’ I said.

‘You seem to have got yourself into a pretty fine mess,’ Creed growled.

‘I guess I have,’ I said, hooking a chair towards me with my foot. ‘Mathis is after me, and I had to change my appearance to keep my freedom of movement. I’ve brought a witness along with me. Her name’s Lydia Forrest. She’s the ex-girl friend of Hamilton Royce. Have you read my report?’

He nodded.

‘Let me bring you up to date,’ I said, sitting down.

I gave him a detailed account of what had happened since writing the report and concluded by saying, ‘Miss Forrest can prove Royce and Fay knew each other, and I can get hold of this private investigator, Andrews, who can prove Royce fingered Fay to Flemming.’

Creed took out a cigar, bit off the end before saying, ‘That won’t do us much good. So long as he remains in Tampa City we can’t touch him. I’ve checked the gun you sent in. It was stolen from a gunshop in Frisco eight years ago. It could have belonged to anyone. There’re no prints on it.’ He lit his cigar, then asked, ‘What’s the motive behind Hartley’s murder?’

‘As far as I can make out the motive behind all these murders is panic,’ I said, shaking a cigarette from the pack and lighting it. ‘Since Fay disappeared there have been five murders that can be linked to her. Let’s look at them in rotation: first was Joe Farmer. He helped kidnap her. He was a lush; the kind of guy who might talk when he was drunk. He was dangerous, so he was knocked off by a hit and run car. Joan Nichols was next. She was a blackmailer, and it’s my bet she picked up some information when she was in Paris and tried to cash in on it. She too was silenced. Then fourteen months later, just when everything had quietened down, Jake Hesson made a mistake. He admitted to me he knew Fay. He was promptly knocked off before I could put pressure on him. Hartley offered you information. When I first called on him he hadn’t much to tell me, but later, he may have thought of something. Anyway, he called me and said he had a theory that might interest me. But he was knocked off before I could get to him. Probably his servant saw the killer and he had to go too. The whole setup smells to me of panic. Someone is desperately trying to keep a murder quiet. I have an idea it’s Van Blake’s murder and not Fay’s that the killer is trying to cover up. There must be a pretty good reason why six people have been murdered, and five million bucks is a good reason. That’s what Van Blake left his wife.’