James Chase: Safer Dead

‘Suppose I go out there and see what I can dig up?’

Creed nodded.

‘I was going to suggest that. We’d get on quicker. You’ll have to watch your step. Doonan hates private investigators worse than he hates poison. They are a tough bunch of boys, and they might discourage you if they know what you’re up to.’

‘I’ll watch out,’ I said. ‘Know anyone there who could be helpful?’

‘You might do worse than call on Don Bradley. He used to be chief of police at Tampa City before he retired. He’s a good guy; one of the best police officers in the country. He was retired two years before his time. He had trouble with Doonan about some murder case. I never did hear the details, but he would be helpful. I’ll give you a letter to him.’

‘Fine. I’ll get off today.’

‘There may be nothing in this, Sladen. This guy who’s written to us has probably made a mistake. If it wasn’t that Flemming had a return ticket to Tampa City I’d say he had made a mistake.’

‘Who is he?’

‘His name’s Lennox Hartley. He lives at 246, Cannon Avenue, Tampa City.’

I made a note of the name and address. ‘I’ll talk to him.’

A tap sounded on the door and Scaife opened it. A policeman said something to him; Scaife nodded and turned to Creed. ‘There’s a guy outside, captain, who says he knows something about Flemming. Want to see him?’

‘You bet,’ Creed said, pushing back his chair. ‘Shoot him in.’

A minute or so later, a short, fat man came in, uneasily twirling his hat between red, roughened fingers. He was wearing brown corduroy trousers, and an old, stained coat and a cowboy shirt.

‘My name’s Ted Sperry, captain,’ he said, nervously. ‘I saw the picture of the gunman in the paper. He came to see me about a year ago. I thought I’d better come along, but if I’m wasting your time.’

‘Sit down, Mr. Sperry,’ Creed said. ‘What’s your line of business?’

Rather surprisingly, Sperry said he was a market gardener.

‘I have a nursery out on Dalmatian Road, captain. I sell fruit trees and garden equipment. I have a pretty nice little business. Me and the wife run it between us.’

‘You say Flemming called on you? You’re sure it was Flemming?’

‘I’m sure it was the man in the picture, captain. As soon as I saw him I wondered what he wanted. He struck me then he wasn’t any good.’

‘What did he want?’

‘I’ve been working up a new line, and it’s paid off pretty well: growing strawberry plants in barrels. I’ve been selling the equipment, and I’ve advertised widely. This guy said he’d read my advertisement and he was interested. I supply the plants, the barrel with the necessary holes in it, and the soil. It’s been a pretty fast selling line: saves space and keeps the slugs off the fruit.’

‘Sounds fine,’ Creed said a little impatiently. ‘But Flemming didn’t want strawberry plants, did he?’

‘No, he didn’t. He just wanted the barrel. We got into an argument. I told him I didn’t sell the barrel without the plants or the soil. I make my profit on the plants and soil. The barrel I put in at cost.’

The three of us were listening now with interest.

‘What happened then?’ Creed asked.

‘We argued back and forth. He said he had strawberry plants. I didn’t believe him. A guy like him wouldn’t even have a garden. I can tell a gardener a mile off. Well, in the end, he agreed to pay me for the whole outfit and just take the barrel. He collected it in a truck the next day.’

‘Do you remember the exact date, Mr. Sperry?’

‘Yes. I looked it up before I came here. It was August 17th.’

Creed looked over at me: the date Fay Benson disappeared.

‘You didn’t get the number of the truck?’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t. Was it important?’

‘Maybe not. What kind of truck was it?’

‘A green, open truck; a one tonner. I didn’t notice much about it.’

Creed looked at Scaife.

‘Take Mr. Sperry to the morgue. Let him see Flemming, I want to be sure he identifies him.’ He got up and shook hands with Sperry. ‘Thanks for coming. If every citizen acted the way you’ve done, my work would be a lot easier.’

When Scaife had led Sperry, beaming and perspiring, from the office, I said, ‘A barrel - that doesn’t look too good for Fay Benson, does it?’

‘That was what I was thinking,’ Creed said, his eyes thoughtful. ‘I wonder if anyone in town sold him cement.’ He picked up the telephone and gave instructions for all cement sellers in the district to be checked. When he hung up, he went on to me, ‘That’s probably why we never turned up her body. She’s somewhere in a cement overcoat.’

I got up and went over to the wall map.

‘Is there any local water around where he could have dumped her?’

Creed joined me. He tapped the map.

‘Here; that’s Lake Baldock. There’s about sixty foot of water in the middle. It’s a favourite spot for picnic parties, and it’s only two miles from here.’

‘Anywhere else?’

‘Only the reservoir, and he wouldn’t try there because they are continually dragging it. Besides, there’s a high fence all around it. If she’s anywhere in water, she’ll be in Lake Baldock.’

‘Do we go and look?’

Creed scratched his head as he stared at the map.

‘I guess so. One of my men has a frogman’s outfit. He can take a look, and if he sees anything we’ll have to rig up some kind of hoist. That barrel’s going to be heavy.’

‘I’ll stick around, captain, until he’s had a look,’ I said. ‘No point in leaving town with this coming up. It’ll make headlines if we find her. When will you do it?’

‘Not before tomorrow. It’s too late in the day now. We don’t want a crowd watching us. I’ll start at six o’clock tomorrow.’

It meant my getting up at five o’clock and my instincts recoiled at the thought, but I could see it wouldn’t be wise to argue about it.

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’ll be there at six.’

II

The sun was climbing above the belt of trees as I drove up to the two cars parked near the stretch of water, known as Lake Baldock. It was a pretty spot, surrounded by weeping willows that leaned over the still water which reflected their leafy, green heads. I got out of the car and joined Scaife who was leaning against a tree, placidly smoking.

‘Pretty nice spot, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I bet you hated getting up at this time in the morning.’

‘Well, I did, but it’s worth it. I didn’t know the day could smell so nice.’ I looked over to where Creed, two cops and a guy who was putting on a frogman’s outfit were standing.

‘I’d leave them alone,’ Scaife said. ‘The old man is never at his best in the mornings, and he didn’t get to bed until three o’clock.’

I sat on the bank, nursing a miniature camera I had brought along.

‘I want some art for my rag, but I’ll wait until they come back.’

We watched Creed, the two cops and the frogman embark in a small rowing boat. The two cops rowed out to the middle of the lake, then the frogman lowered himself into the water and disappeared.

‘I bet it’s cold,’ Scaife said, huddling further into his overcoat. ‘I’m glad I didn’t tell the captain what I did during the war. He’s got a long memory. Harris thought he would get promotion if he told the old man what a hero he had been, but all he’s getting is a cold bath. Ugh!’

I reached down and dipped my fingers in the water.

‘Oh, it’s not that bad. I wouldn’t say it is more than ten degrees below freezing.’

Scaife laughed heartlessly.

‘It’ll do him good.’

We sat side-by-side, smoking and watching the little boat for twenty minutes or so, then suddenly Harris’s head appeared above the surface. He swam up to the boat, hauled himself in. He and Creed talked for a moment or so, then the two cops began to row towards shore.