James Chase - Safer Dead

‘What do you think you’re up to?’

‘Get him out,’ the cop said. He had a husky low voice that came strangely from his bull throat.

The guard on the offside now had his gun in his hand.

‘Get out,’ he said, ‘and keep your hands still.’

I slid out.

‘You guys crazy?’ I said. ‘I’m a temporary member.’

‘Shut up!’ the cop snarled. ‘Look in the car,’ he went on to one of the guards; to the other, he said, ‘Get him inside.’

The guard with the gun jabbed my spine.

‘Move,’ he said, and I walked around the car and into the lodge by the gates; into a large room with a desk, and a rack of rifles, two chairs and an unlit coke stove.

The cop followed me in and looked me over in the harsh light. He took a police badge from his pocket and flashed it, then he said, ‘I’m Sergeant Lassiter. Who are you?’

‘My name’s Sladen,’ I said. ‘What’s the big idea?’

He held out a hand the size of a bath chap.

‘Wallet.’

I gave him my wallet. He took it over to the desk, hooked one huge finger inside it and shot out the contents. He sat down at the desk, shoved his hat to the back of his head, and went through my papers slowly and with police thoroughness.

After he had gone through everything, and there wasn’t much except my business cards, some money, my driver’s licence and a list of my expenses I had jotted down on an odd scrap of paper, he shoved the lot back to me.

While I returned the papers and money to my wallet, he sat staring at me. His scrutiny was the most uncomfortable experience I have ever had. I put the wallet back into my pocket and looked up and met the granite hard pig eyes.

‘Satisfied?’ I asked.

‘You a peeper?’ he asked, biting off each word as if he hated them.

‘I’m a writer.’ I took out one of my business cards and put it down in front of him. ‘Haven’t you heard of Crime Facts? We cooperate with most police forces.’

‘Must be nice for them.’ He heaved his bulk out of the chair and came around the desk. I’m not exactly a midget, but his height and size made me feel like one. The second guard came in at this moment and shook his head at Lassiter.

The sergeant stared at me.

‘Let’s have the rod,’ he said and held out his hand.

‘What rod?’ I asked blankly. ‘What do you mean?’

His coarse brutal face went a deep purple and his eyes gleamed.

‘Lift your arms.’

I did so, and he ran his hands over me quickly and expertly. It was like being patted by a sledge hammer.

‘Where did you dump it?’ he snarled.

‘Dump what?’ I asked, trying to keep the blank expression on my face.

He reached out his huge hand and took hold of my shirtfront.

He breathed garlic and whisky fumes in my face.

‘Where did you dump it?’ he grated, and gave me a little shake. He nearly broke my neck.

I kept still. I knew if I gave him the slightest excuse he would start some rough stuff, and I wasn’t fool enough to imagine I could handle him.

‘I haven’t a gun; I’ve never had a gun. Isn’t that clear?’

He lifted his left hand and slapped me across the face. It was like being whacked with a baseball bat.

I very nearly hit back, but just stopped myself in time. I might have taken him if he had been on his own, but not with the other two guys to step in and hold me while he worked over me.

‘Go on - hit me!’ he snarled into my face. ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘I don’t want to hit you,’ I said. ‘You crazy or something?’

He gave me another shake that loosened most of my wisdom

teeth, then he let go of me.

‘What are you doing in this town?’

‘Having a look around. Trying to pick up material for a story. Anything wrong in that?’

He hunched his huge shoulders as he glared at me.

‘What material?’

‘Anything that might crop up,’ I said. ‘What are you getting so excited about? Can’t a writer visit a town for background material without the cops getting tough?’

A look of exasperated disgust came over his face.

‘We don’t like peepers in this town,’ he said. ‘Watch your step. I won’t tell you a second time. Now get out and keep away from this club. Understand?’

I shrugged myself back into my coat.

‘Okay, sergeant,’ I said. ‘I understand.’

‘Beat it!’ he snarled. ‘Go on - get out of my sight.’

I went to the door.

I half expected it, but I didn’t think a guy of his size could move so fast. Before I could dodge, his great boot caught me on my tail and lifted me out of the hut and sent me sprawling on hands and knees in the drive.

Lassiter came out slowly and stood looking at me, his teeth showing in a snarling grin.

‘Write about that, peeper,’ he said. ‘And I’ll give you something more to write about if I see you again.’

I could have killed him: I would have killed him if I had had the gun on me.

I got slowly and painfully to my feet.

The two guards opened the gate.

Lassiter swung his great boot and caught the fender of the car a kick that dented it and flaked off the paint.

‘Get this heep out of my sight too,’ he said.

I got in the car and drove away.

I was shaking with rage.

I was still shaking when I got back to the hotel.

III

Around ten o’clock the following morning, after I had had a late breakfast, I borrowed a telephone book from the reception desk and turned up Mrs. Cornelia Van Blake’s number and address. The address was simply: Vanstone, West Summit.

I asked the clerk how I got to West Summit.

‘You know the Golden Apple club?’ he asked.

I said I knew the Golden Apple club.

‘You go past the club, along the sea road and you’ll come to a finger post. West Summit covers the whole of the cliff top to the San Francisco highway.’

I thanked him, collected the Buick from the garage, paused at a florist to send Suzy a half a dozen orchids and a note apologizing for my hasty retreat, then I drove down to the promenade.

The Golden Apple was fast asleep when I drove past. The gates were shut; the door of the guard house was shut. No one took a potshot at me.

I kept on along the lonely beach road that climbed steadily to the cliff top.

A finger post with West Summit on it showed up at a fork and I turned left, leaving the sea road and climbed steeply up a wide, snake back road that brought me up on the cliff top.

Vanstone was the last of the estates down the broad tree-lined avenue. It partly overlooked the sea and its grounds sloped away at the back into wooded country and then, I assumed, down to the Frisco highway.

I knew it was Vanstone because of the nameplate on the high wrought iron gates. High walls, heavily guarded by wicked looking spikes, arranged along the top of the walls like vicious daggers, their points heavenwards, hid the house. A guard house by the gates told me there was no question of just driving up the carriageway, ringing on the bell and asking for Mrs. Van Blake. When one becomes a millionaire, one has to take precautions.

A lot of spontaneity must go out of one’s life, I thought.

I drove past the gates and turned left, following the wall.

After a mile or so, the road dipped and I could see the Frisco highway a half a mile ahead of me.

I stopped the car, got out and took off my shoes. Then I climbed up on to the roof of the car. From this vantage point I could see over the wall and had a good view of the garden and house.

It was everything that a millionaire’s place should be; with set gardens, lush, billiard table lawns, masses of flowers, a sanded carriageway and a regiment of Chinese gardeners working in the sunshine.