Джеймс Чейз - Safer Dead [= Dead Ringer]

‘August 20th.’

‘She called at the Shad Hotel on the 20th inquiring after Fay. Then she goes home and falls downstairs. Come to that, wasn’t the 20th the night Farmer died?’

Creed looked sharply at me, consulted the Fay Benson dossier and then nodded.

‘Correct,’ he said, frowning.

‘It smells to high heaven to me; doesn’t it to you?’

‘You’re right, it does,’ Marshall broke in. ‘I think he’s got something, captain.’

Creed lifted his shoulders.

‘There’s still no evidence, but I agree there’s no harm if we dig some more.’

‘You have a picture of Fay Benson?’ I asked.

‘I have several in the dossier — why?’

‘When she disappeared did you cover the national press or just the local press?’

‘The local papers only.’

‘I think it might be an idea to get the national press on the job. Print a picture of her in every paper in the country and ask if anyone knows her. We’ll go to town on it too. We might get something that way. She’s been in show business for some time according to Al Weiman. She’s probably been working under another name. Let’s see if we can find out something more about her.’

Creed nodded.

‘Okay. I’ll see what I can do.’

I got to my feet.

‘I’d like to work with you on this,’ I said. ‘I won’t get in your way, and anything I find out I’ll pass to you. This has the makings of a sensational story, and I want to be in on it from the beginning. How about it?’

‘Sure,’ Creed said. ‘You carry on. Come and see me whenever you want to.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘If my partner’s turned up anything, I’ll give you a call.’

I shook hands with him, exchanged winks with Marshall and then went down to the car.

When I walked into the lobby of the Shad Hotel, Larson told me Bernie was in his bedroom.

‘There’s been a guy in here asking for you,’ Larson went on. ‘I told him you’d be back sometime tonight.’

‘What did he want?’ I asked, pausing as I was about to cross the lobby for the stairs.

‘He didn’t say. He struck me as a tough character. Do you want to see him if he comes in again?’

‘Not tonight. Tell him to come in tomorrow morning. If it’s urgent call my room and I’ll speak to him on the ‘phone. I want some sleep tonight.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Larson said.

I went upstairs, along the passage to Bernie’s room. I found him sitting in an armchair, his feet in a basin of hot water. By his side, on a table, stood a bottle of Scotch, two glasses, one of them half full, and a bottle of charge water. He gave me a wan smile as I stood in the doorway, gaping at him.

‘What do you imagine you’re doing?’ I asked, coming in and shutting the door.

‘Resting my dogs,’ he said. ‘Have you forgotten you had the car? I’ve been tramping my feet into the sidewalk. You wouldn’t believe it, but there are fourteen hotels in this dump. Think of it! Fourteen! They’re spread out all over the town. I’ve called on the lot.’

‘Did you find him?’

Bernie laughed bitterly.

‘There’s not a sign of him. I wore my feet out for nothing.’

I lit a cigarette and poured myself a drink.

‘You didn’t miss one hotel? You’re sure?’

‘I’m sure. I got Larson to make out a list. He swears it’s complete. The guy didn’t stay at a hotel in Welden. I’m telling you. It’s now an established fact. He either lives in an apartment or a house or else he came in from Frisco or some place, but he didn’t stay at a hotel!’

‘The cops are looking for him now,’ I said, and went on to tell Bernie of my visit to Welden’s police headquarters. I broke the news as gently as possible that Hesson had been murdered.

‘You see what I mean?’ Bernie said, starting to dry his feet. ‘That’s three of them knocked off. If we keep sticking our noses into this, we’ll get knocked off too.’

‘Relax,’ I said. ‘The police are taking care of it now. I’m disappointed you didn’t find that guy in the camel-hair coat, Bernie. I would have liked to have talked to him before Creed got on to him.’

‘Well, he didn’t stay in any of the hotels in this town,’ Bernie said. ‘You’d better let the cops hunt for him.’

‘You asked Larson if he stayed here, of course?’ I asked casually.

Bernie started as if someone had touched him with a red-hot poker. He turned the colour of an over-ripe tomato as he stared at me, his eyes bulging.

‘Why should he stay here?’ he demanded hoarsely.

‘Why shouldn’t he? Did you ask Larson?’

‘No, I didn’t!’ Bernie clutched at his hair. ‘Mercy! If he did stay here...! To think I’ve been tramping the streets all day, wearing myself to a shadow and it never crossed my mind to ask Larson.’

I picked up the telephone.

‘This is Sladen,’ I said when Larson answered. ‘Do you remember if a guy stayed here around August of last year who wore a camel-hair coat? He’s tall, sun-tanned and has a small moustache.’

‘Sure,’ Larson said. ‘I remember him well. What about him?’

‘I’ll be right down. I want to talk to you about him.’ I hung up and looked accusingly at Bernie. ‘You big mutton head! He did stay here!’

Bernie closed his eyes.

‘How was I to know?’ he wailed. ‘To think of the miles I’ve walked!’

I left him and ran down the stairs.

‘Tell me about this guy,’ I said, coming to rest at the reception desk. ‘What was his name?’

Larson opened the register.

‘He booked in on August 9th. His name’s Henry Rutland. Here’s the entry. He came from Los Angeles. What’s the excitement about?’

‘He arrived the same day as Miss Benson did?’

‘Yes. Miss Benson booked in at noon. Rutland booked in at six in the evening.’

‘Did he own a green and cream Cadillac?’

‘That’s right. He garaged it across the way.’

‘Would they have the licence number?’

‘They might. I wouldn’t know.’

‘When did he leave?’

‘The morning of the 17th.’

‘That’s the day Miss Benson disappeared.’ I ran my fingers through my hair. ‘I believe this guy had something to do with her disappearance. Did you ever see them together?’

‘I don’t think so. He went out early and Miss Benson didn’t leave her room until late.’

‘Where was his room? Near Miss Benson’s?’

‘Their rooms were opposite on the second floor,’ Larson said after consulting the register.

‘So they could have got together without you knowing it?’

‘I guess so. We haven’t any permanent floor staff. After eight, none of the staff goes upstairs.’

‘Did Rutland say why he had come to Welden?’

‘No. He didn’t mention what his business was.’

‘Did he have much luggage?’

‘Just a suitcase.’

‘Any visitors, mail or telephone calls?’

‘I don’t think so. I’m sure he didn’t.’

‘Would there be anyone at the garage now?’

‘Joe will be there. We don’t shut down until one o’clock.’

‘I’ll have a word with him.’

But the garage attendant didn’t remember the licence number of the Cadillac. He remembered the car and he remembered Henry Rutland.

‘He had plenty of dough,’ he told me, ‘and he was pretty free with it. He took the car out every morning around ten and brought it back any time between midnight and one o’clock. He wanted it cleaned every day. He was fussy about how it looked. Sorry I can’t remember the licence number. It’s fourteen months ago, and I get a lot of cars through my hands.’

I gave him half a buck and went back to the hotel. I found Bernie lying on his bed, a look of anguish on his fat face.