James Chase: Safer Dead

‘What a dump,’ Bernie said, ‘I’ll bet there are beetles in the bedrooms.’

‘What do you expect? Silkworms?’ I said and crossed over to the desk.

The clerk seemed surprised when I asked for two rooms and told him we were likely to stay a week.

‘I have two rooms on the first floor,’ he said. ‘Would they do?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Have these bags taken up. Where’s the bar?’

‘Through there; second on your right.’

The bar was a long, narrow room with more potted palms, tarnished spittoons and basket chairs. There was no one in it except the barman who was reading the evening paper which he folded with a resigned air when he saw us.

‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said. He was big and tough with a brick red face and the bright blue eyes of a drinker.

I ordered two highballs.

‘Looks festive enough to hold a funeral in,’ Bernie said looking around. ‘Don’t the folks in this hotel ever drink?’

‘It’s early yet,’ the barman said as if accusing us of disturbing his peace. ‘You staying here?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Ever read Crime Facts?’

He showed his surprise.

‘Why sure, it’s my favourite reading.’

I finished my highball at a swallow and pushed the glass back to him. Bernie, who believed in keeping pace with me, hurriedly downed his too.

‘Fill them up,’ I said. ‘We work for Crime Facts. We’re covering the Fay Benson case. Remember her?’

The barman had picked up my glass. It suddenly slipped out of his hand and smashed on the floor. He swore as he bent to kick the bits of glass under the counter. When he straightened up I had an idea he had lost some of his colour.

‘What was that again?’ he asked.

‘Fay Benson. Remember her?’

‘Why, sure.’ He turned to fix another drink. ‘You mean you’re writing up the case?’

‘That’s the idea if we can get a new angle.’

He put two more drinks before us and then leaned against the counter while he began to arrange some glasses in a more orderly group.

‘What sort of angle would that be?’ he asked without looking at me.

‘Search me. We’re just looking around and seeing what we can pick up. It’s an interesting case. A girl, wearing only pants and bra, suddenly vanishes. Where did she go? Why did she go? Have you any ideas?’

‘Me?’ the barman scowled. ‘Why should I have any ideas?’

‘You knew her?’

He hesitated, then as he began to polish another glass, he said, ‘I didn’t know her. She came in for a drink now and then.’

‘Was she alone?’

‘She was always alone. I guess she came in here for company.’

‘Didn’t she have a boyfriend?’ I asked, aware that the barman wasn’t at ease. I sensed his tension rather than saw it, but I was pretty sure it was there.

‘She didn’t seem to know anyone. She kept to herself.’

‘But you don’t know for certain she didn’t have a boyfriend,’ Bernie put in. ‘She might have without you knowing about it.’

The barman scowled at him.

‘Maybe. What’s the idea of writing up the case again?’

‘We won’t write it up unless we can find out why she disappeared,’ I said.

‘The cops didn’t find out - why should you?’ He looked quickly at me, then away, but not fast enough for me to miss his furtive expression. This guy was beginning to interest me.

‘We’re the guys who put Sherlock Holmes out of business,’ Bernie said airily. ‘You’d be surprised at the number of unsolved cases we’ve solved. Surprises us sometimes. The cops know how good we are: they work with us now.’

‘Is that right? Well, you’ll have to be pretty smart to crack this one,’ the barman said curtly and turning, he moved away to the end of the bar and fetched out his paper.

I finished my drink.

‘Know where the Florian club is?’ I asked.

‘Hundred yards down on the right,’ the barman said without looking up.

As we left the bar, Bernie muttered, ‘He didn’t seem too friendly. Did you notice it?’

‘He looked scared to me,’ I said, letting the barroom door swing to behind me. ‘Wait a second.’ I turned and peered through the glass panel of the door. I watched for a moment, then joined Bernie. ‘He’s using the telephone.’

‘Maybe he’s putting a buck on a horse.’

‘At this hour? Come on, let’s eat.’ I was thoughtful as we crossed the lobby and walked down the steps to the street. ‘I’m not so sure now my approach was right. I wouldn’t have told him about Crime Facts if I’d known he was going to react like that.’

‘Like what?’ Bernie said, bewildered. ‘He happened to drop a glass. Okay, anyone can do that. I admit he wasn’t too friendly, but maybe he didn’t like our faces. Some people don’t.’

‘Will you stop drivelling and let me think?’ I said impatiently.

‘Okay, okay,’ Bernie said in a resigned voice. ‘Go ahead and think. Anyone would imagine I wasn’t in this combination the way I’m treated.’

‘Shut up!’ I said fiercely.

III

There was quite a crowd moving through the brightly lit lobby of the Florian club. The hatcheck girl who took our hats was wearing a frilly little frock, a low neckline and a come-hither look.

Bernie leered at her.

‘What’s the food like in this joint, babe?’ he asked. ‘Come to that, you look good enough to eat, yourself.’

The girl giggled.

‘The food’s fine,’ she said, then lowering her voice, she went on, ‘but don’t take the goulash. The kitchen cat’s missing.’

‘Come on!’ I said, dragging him away. ‘Lay off. We’re working.’

‘When don’t we work?’ he said bitterly. ‘Why did I ever get into this racket?’

The captain of waiters led us to a corner table.

The restaurant was fairly large with a five-piece band, a small dance floor and pink diffused lights.

After we had ordered, Bernie said, ‘What’s the next move?’

‘I want to talk to the manager,’ I said. ‘He might have something for us. Then there’s the callboy. He might know more than he told the cops.’

‘Those wrens huddled in the corner over there must be the hostesses. Would it be an idea if I made myself pleasant to one of them while you talk to the manager? No need for both of us to talk to him, and I might find out something.’

‘You might,’ I said, ‘but make sure it’s to do with this case.’

‘You’ve got a horrible mind,’ Bernie said indignantly.

A half an hour later, I paid the bill and got to my feet.

‘Don’t get into trouble,’ I said to Bernie.

‘She’s the one who’ll be in trouble,’ Bernie said, staring fixedly at a red head whose pretty painted face was stiff with boredom. ‘I’ve always wanted to third degree a dance hostess.’

I left him and searched out the manager’s office.

He turned out to be a short, dark man whose name was Al Weiman. When I told him I was from Crime Facts, he seemed pleased to see me.

‘What can I do for you, Mr. Sladen?’ he asked, waving me to a chair.

‘I’m trying to dig up some new facts about Fay Benson,’ I said. ‘We want to write up the case if we can find out any new angles.’

‘You have a job on, haven’t you? She disappeared fourteen months ago.’

‘I know.’ I accepted the cigarette he offered me and lit it. ‘But sometimes when one starts digging into an old case, you get on better than if it had just happened. If this girl met with foul play, the guy who did it is sitting pretty. Then he suddenly discovers, just when he is certain he is safe, that a new investigation has started up. The chances are he’ll get rattled. He might even make a mistake and give himself away. It’s happened before.’