James Chase - Safer Dead

She frowned and moved impatiently.

‘It’s possible. I really don’t remember,’ she said, giving an irritable little shrug. ‘How do you know this?’

I couldn’t make up my mind if she really didn’t remember or if she were lying. I had an idea that behind the expressionless mask there was tension, but it was only an idea.

‘Miss Nichols told her friends she had dinner with you,’ I said, ‘but it isn’t important. I don’t want to bother you with this. I was hoping you would remember, but of course you must meet a lot of people. I can easily check at the Paris hotel.’

A little of the brandy suddenly jumped out of her glass and made a spot on her skirt. I didn’t see her start, but the splash of brandy was a giveaway. She looked up.

‘But you wouldn’t go all the way to Paris to find out if she dined with me or not, surely?’ she said, staring.

‘It’s the policy of the magazine I work for to check every fact before we print it. I was hoping you would remember the girl and save me the time of going to Paris, but as you can’t, I’ll have to go.’

‘How extraordinary. Why is it so important?’

‘I’m trying to fill in the girl’s background. It seems she had a talent for making friends with rich people. I’ve no proof of this. Her friends tell me she claimed to know you and dined with you. That’s quite a story, Mrs. Van Blake. After all she was just an ordinary showgirl, and to have become friendly with you shows she must have had a lot of talent. On the other hand, she may have been lying. If I go to Paris, I might dig up other wealthy people who met her.’

‘I would like to help you,’ she said, passing her slim fingers across her forehead. ‘Let me think now. I do vaguely remember meeting a girl. She was rather pretty if she’s the one. Yes, I think I do remember her.’

‘You did meet her then?’

‘I suppose I must have. I don’t recall her name, but I’m not good about people’s names.’ She drank a little brandy before saying, ‘Yes, I’m sure I met her. I can’t remember just how. I was on my own in Paris. I was waiting for my husband. I dare say the girl amused me. I do vaguely recollect asking her to dine with me.’

It was quite nicely done, but not well enough to fool me. She had remembered Joan Nichols as soon as I had mentioned her. I was sure of that. Why had my bluff about going to Paris suddenly smoked her out?

‘What was your hotel, Mrs. Van Blake?’

She looked up and for a brief flash there was a wary, angry expression in her eyes.

‘I stayed at the George V.’

‘You don’t remember how this girl made friends with you?’

‘I don’t. We probably met in a shop. I believe that was it.’ I could almost hear her thinking. ‘Yes, of course. I do remember. She didn’t speak French and was in trouble with a shopkeeper. I came to the rescue. Yes, that was it.’

I was sure now she was lying, and I had trouble in keeping my own expression deadpan.

‘Did you like her?’

‘For goodness sake!’ Her eyes flashed. ‘I must have liked her to have invited her to dinner, Mr. Sladen. I scarcely remember the girl. I meet so many people. Is that all, because if it is . . .’ She got to her feet and stood looking at me.

I got up.

‘I guess that is all. It was just a matter of checking. It was nice of you to see me.’

‘Why are you interested in this girl? Didn’t you say you were a crime writer? Is she in trouble?’

‘Not now: she’s dead. She was murdered on August 20th of last year: a few days after her return from Paris. The police tell me she was a blackmailer,’ I said, watching her closely, but she didn’t bat an eyelid.

‘I see. It just shows how careful one should be in making acquaintances of strangers.’

‘That’s right,’ I said and as she moved towards the wall bell, I went on, ‘That’s a fine portrait of you. I had no idea Lennox Hartley, could do work like that.’

For some reason known to herself, this chance remark registered. She turned quickly and her eyes were suddenly as hard as the emeralds at her throat.

‘Do you know Mr. Hartley?’ she asked, and I saw her small hands turn into fists.

‘I’ve talked to him,’ I said. ‘I can’t say I know him. In my job, I talk to a lot of people.’

‘Yes, I suppose you do. Well, good night, Mr. Sladen. Jameson will show you out,’ and again she moved to the bell. Then I had a sudden idea and as she rang the bell I acted on the idea without thinking.

‘I nearly forgot,’ I said and took out my billfold. ‘I have a photograph of Joan Nichols right here. Maybe you could identify her for me.’

I took Fay Benson’s photograph from the wallet and handed it to her. She took it and moved to the light, turning her back on me. Although I couldn’t see her face, her reaction startled me. If I had put a hairy tarantula into her hand she wouldn’t have reacted more violently. She dropped the photograph and I saw a shudder pass through her. For a brief moment, she stood motionless, then with a tremendous effort of will, she pulled herself together, bent quickly and picked up the photograph. She turned and handed it to me. Her face was as white as porcelain. She looked less lovely, older, and the look in her eyes wasn’t pleasant to see.

‘I don’t recognize her,’ she said, and the words came out of stiff, bloodless lips. ‘All these showgirls look so much alike. Good night, Mr. Sladen.’

She turned and walked out of the room, a little unsteadily, but with her head held high.

She left the door wide open.

I stood there for a long moment, feeling a surge of triumph run through me. I had got my hook up! I was sure of it. She knew Fay Benson. In some way the hook up was between Fay and her and not as I had imagined between Fay and her husband. Before I could begin to wonder what it was all about the butler came in and escorted me to the waiting cab.

III

In the cab there was a faint but persistent smell of hundreds of other fares who had been driven to unknown destinations and who had left in the cab a thin strata of their presence to keep me company on my way back to the Beach Hotel.

I sat in a corner, a cigarette between my fingers, and I thought about my discovery. The pieces of the jigsaw puzzle were falling into place. They didn’t make sense yet, but I had a feeling they soon would.

For some reason or other Hamilton Royce and Fay Benson had left Tampa City and had gone to Welden. There someone had paid Hank Flemming to kidnap and murder Fay, and Royce had returned to Tampa City on the day she died.

I liked him for the role of the man who had paid Flemming to kill Fay, but until I found out why she had been killed, I could take no action against him.

Then suddenly out of the blue Cornelia appears in this so far motiveless drama. According to ex-Police Captain Bradley she was his suspect No.1 for Van Blake’s murder. If she had murdered her husband even by proxy she would be wide open to blackmail. She had dined twice in Paris with an unsuccessful showgirl, and that showgirl had been a blackmailer. Blackmail could be the only reason, so far as I could see, why Cornelia had met Joan Nichols twice. It would explain too why she had hesitated to admit knowing her, and why she was anxious that I shouldn’t go to Paris to stir up more trouble for her. But where did Fay Benson fit in? Why had her photograph been like the cold finger of a ghost on Cornelia’s conscience? People don’t show fear the way she had done unless there was a pretty powerful reason.

I had wanted a hook up between Fay Benson and the Van Blakes and I had got it. Now I had it, what was I going to do with it? My time was running out. I couldn’t continue the investigation with a flock of police on my heels.