Джеймс Чейз - Safer Dead [= Dead Ringer]

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.

‘Gimme a beef sandwich and a coffee,’ he barked.

The barman appeared to recognize him.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, and had the order in front of Lassiter in a flash.

I got some money out of my pocket, shoved my way sideways to the bar, taking care not to touch Lassiter and laid the money on the bar. The barman swept it up, tossed it into the open drawer of the till and slapped down the change. As I picked up the change, Lassiter, his great rubbery mouth full of beef, turned his head and stared directly at me.

I met his eyes for a second, then I picked up my change and began to ease myself away from the bar. My shirt was sticking to my back and my mouth was dry. I expected him to reach out and grab me, but after scowling at me, he turned his back and went on munching.

Still holding the sandwich in my hand, I got out of the bar and crossed to the Lincoln.

A police car was parked just behind the Lincoln and a bored faced detective at the wheel looked at me without interest. I climbed into the Lincoln, put the sandwich on the seat beside me, started the engine, and shifted into gear.

As I drove away I looked into the driving mirror. The detective at the wheel of the police car was struggling with a gigantic yawn. I doubted if he had even seen me.

Driving steadily, I headed for Benn’s bar, and it wasn’t until I had put the car in the garage and had got down into the hide-out that my heart beats returned to normal.

I called Benn on the telephone.

‘Can you spare a minute?’

‘Not right now. Give me an hour, will you? This is my busy time.’

I said okay, hung up and poured myself a beer. I finished my sandwich, did a little thinking, and remembered Irene Jarrard had said she worked for Ryman Thomas, the advertising man. I turned him up in the book and put through a call.

Irene answered the telephone.

‘This is Sladen,’ I said. ‘Do you remember me?’

‘Of course I do.’ She seemed pleased I had called her. ‘Have you any news of Frankie, Mr. Sladen?’

‘Not yet, but I’m still trying. There was something I forgot to ask you: did Frankie ever mention Mrs. Cornelia Van Blake?’

‘Why, yes. Mrs. Van Blake was having her portrait painted and Frankie stood in for her.’

‘Do you know if Hartley did the painting at the Van Blakes’ residence?’

‘Oh, you know about it then.’

‘I heard.’

‘He didn’t finish the painting there. He made a number of sketches of Fay sitting on the balcony and he completed the portrait in his studio.’

I wished I had thought to ask her this when we first met, but I didn’t say so.

‘Did Frankie ever say how she got on with Mrs. Van Blake?’

‘Oh yes. She liked her very much. Mrs. Van Blake was very kind to her. She seemed to take a great interest in her.’

‘What kind of interest?’

‘Well, she wanted to know all about Fay’s background; who her parents were; whether she planned to get married: that sort of thing.’

‘Well, thanks, Miss Jarrard. I just wanted to check up on that. When I’ve got a little more time to myself, maybe we can have another sea food dinner.’

She said she would like that, and cutting her short, I hung up.

I lit a cigarette, sat down and did a little brooding. I was still at it when Benn came in.

‘Let’s talk about your pal Dillon,’ I said.

‘What about him?’ Benn asked, reaching for a can of beer and wrenching off the cap with his teeth.

‘I hear he used to go after the Van Blakes’ pheasants.’

Benn smiled.

‘I guess that’s right. Van Blake didn’t seem to give a damn. He’d got more pheasants than he knew what to do with.’

‘Van Blake was shot on August 6th. Where was Dillon on that morning?’

Benn shook his head.

‘I don’t know. The day before he told me he was going on a poach.’

‘That would be on the night before Van Blake was shot?’

‘Yeah. He asked me if I could use a brace of birds. I used to buy them off him sometimes. He said he’d be in after eleven, but he didn’t show up. I thought maybe he hadn’t had any luck.’

‘I want to get this straight,’ I said. ‘The last time you saw him was when he offered to get you a brace of pheasants, is that it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘He would have no reason to be on the Van Blakes’ estate at seven o’clock in the morning?’

‘Of course not. Ted poached with a flashlight and a catapult. He only worked in the dark. He didn’t even own a gun.’

‘He used his motorcycle when he went to the Van Blakes’ estate?’

‘Yeah. He went in by the gate on the Frisco-Tampa City highway, left his motorcycle in the bushes just inside the gate and walked over the hill, down to where the pheasants were.’

‘He wore a crash helmet and goggles, didn’t he? What else did he wear?’

‘Usually a leather wind cheater and corduroy trousers. Where’s this getting you?’

‘I think he was murdered on the estate.’

Benn shook his head.

‘Couldn’t have been. He was seen on the highway around eight o’clock coming from the Van Blake’s estate on the morning of Van Blake’s murder. I reckon he was murdered somewhere near the harbour where his motorcycle was found.’

‘A crash helmet and goggles makes a good disguise. Suppose it wasn’t Dillon who was seen, but the killer, laying a red herring?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that. You could be right.’

‘Was Dillon a big fella?’

‘No, he was like me; a shrimp, but tough and strong for all that.’

The telephone bell rang at this moment. I picked up the receiver.

‘New York wants you,’ the operator said. ‘Will you hold a moment?’ There were clickings on the line, then a girl said, ‘is Mr. Sladen there? Mr. Fayette wants him.’

‘Speaking,’ I said. ‘Go ahead.’

Fayette came on the line.

‘I’ve just had a cable from Low,’ he told me. ‘I thought maybe you’d want to know about it right away. I’ll read it to you.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Here’s what he says: Woman staying at George V on August 3rd last year, calling herself Cornelia Van Blake, positively, repeat positively, identified by reliable hotel witnesses as Fay Benson. Returning immediately with affidavits. Low.’ Fayette paused, then asked, ‘Is that any use to you?’

‘I’ll say it is,’ I said. ‘That’s the last nail in the coffin. I’ll have the case in the bag by tomorrow. Be seeing you then,’ and I hung up.

At ten-thirty, with a cloud covered moon spreading a faded light over the city, Benn and I drove fast along the Tampa City-San Francisco highway. It took us ten minutes or so to reach the gate to the Van Blake estate that Dillon had used on his last poaching expedition.

Benn stopped the car by the gate. The red spark of his cigarette lit up his face as he turned to look at me.

‘I’ll get rid of the heep and join you.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m going in there alone. You keep out of this, Sam. I may want you as a witness later on.’

‘What happens if you run into trouble?’

‘I’ll take good care I don’t.’ I got out of the car. ‘Leave this to me. I can handle it.’