James Chase - Safer Dead

‘I represent Crime Facts,’ I said, but with no confidence.

Creed laughed.

‘Tell that to Doonan. It might amuse him.’

‘Maybe I’d better keep away from Tampa City.’

‘Please yourself. I wouldn’t ask you to go there, but if you want to get a story as badly as you seem to, that’s where you may find one. It’s up to you.’

I laughed uneasily.

‘You sound like my editor, only he would order me to go there. Okay, I’m a sucker: I’ll go, but I’ll take care to be cautious.’

‘Have you that gun I lent you?’ Creed asked, holding out his hand. ‘I want it. You need a permit from Doonan to carry a gun in his territory, and if they catch you with one without his permit you’ll spend six months in one of the toughest jails in the country.’

I reluctantly handed over the .45.

‘I was hoping to hang on to that,’ I said. ‘No one would put me in a wheelchair if I had that gun to show them.’

‘You’re safer without it. You can’t pull a gun on a cop. You should know that.’ He picked up an envelope lying on his desk and tossed it over to me. ‘That’s a note to Don Bradley, Tampa City ex-police captain. He and I used to be old friends. I haven’t seen him for a long time: too long. He’s a good guy. He might be able to steer you right. Anyway, he’ll bring you up-to-date on who to see and who to avoid. Go talk to him as soon as you hit town. He’ll tell you where to stay, and he’ll give you the geography of the place.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, put the envelope in my pocket and stubbed out my cigarette. ‘I’ll also go along and see Lennox Hartley and find out what he knows about Fay Benson. Any other letters come in about the girl?’

‘Sure, we’ve had a couple of dozen new ones. They don’t mean much. The writers only think they recognize her. None of them is as sure as Hartley seems to be. None of them come from Tampa City anyway. We’re working on them, and if we turn up anything, I’ll let you know. As soon as you’re settled in, call me, and give me your address.’ He stared thoughtfully at me. ‘I hope you stay long enough in town to get an address.’

‘So do I,’ I said, feeling he wasn’t encouraging. ‘Well, I’ll get off.’

He shook hands.

‘So long, Sladen, and good luck.’

He said it as if he thought I needed a lot of luck.

‘Thanks,’ I said and left him.

Scaife was still in his office as I passed and I put my head around the door.

‘I’m off to Tampa City. Be seeing you,’ I said.

He looked long and seriously at me.

‘You know I think your pal Low’s got a lot more sense than you have,’ he said, pushing back his chair. ‘Maybe you are the brains of the combination, but he’s got the sense. Me – I wouldn’t go to Tampa City if my wife was dying there - if I had a wife, which I haven’t.’

‘I’ve not only got the brains,’ I said with dignity, ‘but I have also the courage.’

As I walked down the passage to the exit, I heard his mournful hoot of laughter. It wasn’t an inspiring sound.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I

Around four o’clock in the afternoon, I hit the approach road to Tampa City: a four track highway that ran as straight as a foot rule alongside golden sands and the sun swept ocean.

At this hour, the road was fairly clear of traffic, and I coasted along at a steady sixty miles an hour until I saw ahead of me a forty foot hoarding whose blood red letters on a glittering white background made me snatch my foot off the gas pedal.

YOU ARE APPROACHING TAMPA CITY. SLOW DOWN OR SPEND A NIGHT IN OUR JAIL!

A mile further on I spotted two speed cops, sitting astride their motorcycles by the side of the road, their gauntlet covered hands resting on their handlebars as if they were itching to go into action: two beefy, red-faced men with eyes like sun baked pebbles. They both stared hard at me as I passed them at a sedate thirty-five miles an hour.

Another mile further on, the road dipped sharply and began to run downhill, and I had my first sight of Tampa City. It sprawled out around a sheltered bay: a white, glittering town of skyscrapers, beach huts, plushy looking hotels, gay sun umbrellas, tropical shrubs and trees. It looked as immaculate and as contented as a showgirl who has just been given a diamond bracelet.

A closer inspection, as I reached the long, busy main street, told me this was a rich man’s town. Rolls Royces, Bentleys, Cadillacs and Daimlers cluttered up the parking lots. Well fed, well-dressed men sat in the cars, drumming impatiently on the steering wheel while they waited for their wives to have done with their shopping, or sat at cafes, staring insolently at the lightly clad lovelies who displayed their charms with equal insolence.

I told myself Bernie would like this town. I didn’t dislike my first look of it myself. I spotted an empty place in one of the parking lots and swung the Buick into it, cut the engine and got out.

The sun beat down on me as I walked across to a drug store to ask the way to Havelock Drive where Don Bradley lived. The clerk told me as if he were doing me a favour. His sharp eyes appeared to have the facility of peeping into my wallet and counting my money. From his expression I gathered he didn’t think much of me, and it was obvious my arrival gave him no pleasure.

A tall girl in a backless blue swimsuit, doughnut sized sunglasses and a straw hat the size of a cartwheel drifted into the store as I was leaving. She had a bracelet of diamonds around her left ankle that must have set some sucker back a small fortune. The clerk went over to her with a deference that’s usually reserved for royalty. Money in Tampa City obviously talked. I went back to the car.

A cop who from the rear could have been mistaken for Primo Camera, leaned against the car and stared at me as I approached with a stolid, impersonal expression and with cold, unfriendly eyes.

‘This yours?’ he asked nodding at the car as if it were beneath his dignity even to notice it.

‘That’s right,’ I said mildly.

I didn’t know what his grouse was going to be, but I didn’t have to be psychic to see he had a grouse.

‘You’re in Tampa City now,’ he said, biting off each word. ‘We like cars parked straight here. Your rear wheels are over the white line.’

I looked over at the glittering Rolls Royce parked next to my car. Its offside wheels were over the white line by three feet, but after all it was a 1954 Rolls and not a 1940 Buick.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m a stranger in town.’

He held out a hand that could have been mistaken for a bunch of bananas in a poor light.

‘Licence.’

I gave him my licence. He brooded over it as if he wasn’t too sure of the longer words, then took out a leather case containing a pad of forms and began to write laboriously.

‘Staying long?’ he growled at me without looking up.

‘I don’t imagine so. I doubt if I’ll be able to afford to.’

He let that one drift, ripped out the sheet he had written on and poked it at me.

‘Five bucks.’

I gave him the five dollars without blinking an eyelash and accepted the receipt. I had been warned by Creed, and Fayette was paying, so why should I care?

The cop seemed surprised there was no fuss.

‘Be careful next time.’

‘I’ll buy myself a spirit level and a T-square,’ I said. ‘I’ll see she’s properly lined up next time I leave her.’

He licked the stub of pencil and wrote down my number. His eyes were no warmer than an iceberg. I could see he would look out for me in the future.

I got into the car.

‘Okay for me to move on?’

He gave me a long, hard stare and walked away. He looked from the back like a small mountain that had grown legs. A nudge from him would have shoved in my ribs.