James Chase - Safer Dead

I was still brooding over the problem when the cab pulled up outside the Beach Hotel. I paid off the driver and walked up the steps and into the lobby.

The time by the clock above the reception desk was twelve twenty-two. There was no sign of the thickset cop who had been sitting in the basket chair when I left the hotel. The reception clerk handed me my key. He looked past me, remote and distant, as if I hadn’t settled my account for the past six months.

As I crossed the lobby to the elevator the house dick materialized from behind a pillar.

‘Have they gone home or are they waiting for me in my room?’ I asked him out of the corner of my mouth.

‘They’ve gone home,’ he told me. ‘They’ve put a tap on your telephone line. This hotel has got a reputation. I guess you’ll want to move out tomorrow.’

‘Don’t tell me you want my room?’

‘I don’t, but the manager does.’

‘Okay, so I move out.’

I rode up in the elevator, unlocked my door and turned on the electric light. I was a little jumpy and wouldn’t have been surprised to find a couple of tough cops waiting for me, but the room was empty. I shut the door, crossed over to the bottle of Scotch and poured out two fingers of liquor. I took the drink to the armchair and sat down. There was no point in trying to find another hotel. I wouldn’t be allowed to stay. The pressure was on. I was being firmly eased out of town. If I bucked, I would run into trouble.

The memory of Sergeant Lassiter’s methods of persuasion made me feel lonely. I wished Bernie was with me to give me some moral support. I spent a hide time nursing my drink and turning the situation over in my mind. I finally decided to leave town in the morning and sneak back when it was dark. Bradley had said Sam Benn would hole me up if I wanted to go underground, and that seemed my best bet. I couldn’t hope to get anywhere if I worked in the open. From now on, I would have to do my investigating the hard way.

The sudden clamour of the telephone bell made me start so violently I slopped my drink. I reached for receiver.

‘This is Sladen,’ I said.

‘There you are,’ a voice I recognized said. ‘Suzy gave me your telephone number. If you’ve got nothing better to do, old fella, come out here and have a drink. I’ve a theory that might interest you.’

I had a mental picture of a hard-faced cop straining to catch every word, and I said sharply, ‘Don’t mention your name, and don’t say anything more. I’ll be out right away.’

‘What’s the excitement?’ Lennox Hartley asked, mildly interested. ‘Is someone listening on the line?’

‘Could be,’ I said. ‘I’ll be right over,’ and I hung up.

On my way down to the lobby, I wondered why he had called me at this hour. It was quite a run out to Cannon Avenue. I decided to take the Buick. If the police tailed me I stood a better chance of losing them if I did my own driving.

The garage was at the back of the hotel. A solitary light in the rafters made a yellow halo that was surrounded by shadows and darkness. The garage attendant came out of his office, sleepy eyed and surly. He told me where I could find the Buick, then went back to his disturbed doze. I drove out of the garage with only the parkers on and headed along the beach road. I drove for a half a mile, my attention focused on the driving mirror. No headlights came after me. I turned off the beach road and drove into the town.

The traffic was light now. A few nightclubs, an all night movie house and several cafes still showed signs of activity. The clock on the dashboard showed ten minutes past one. I drove aimlessly around, keeping to the back streets, until I convinced myself no car was following me, then I headed out to Cannon Avenue.

As I drove up the long, sedate avenue, the lights in the houses I passed told me night life in Tampa City was spent at home. There were cars parked outside most of the houses and the night air was full of the sound of dance music from overworked radio sets.

I reached the end of the avenue, made a U-turn and drove slowly back, passing Hartley’s Swiss chalet. No lights showed from the windows, but that didn’t mean anything. I had noticed on the two occasions I had been in his lounge that the window drapes were thick and heavy.

I stopped the Buick behind a Packard convertible, parked outside the house next to Hartley’s. I got out and walked back, pushed open his gate and walked up the drive-in.

When I came to rest before the front door, I paused to look back over the dark garden. The only sounds I could hear now were from the distant radio sets down the road. I lifted the bear’s head and knocked. I felt the door move. I pushed and the door swung open. I looked into darkness and silence.

Steadying the door, I knocked again. Nothing happened. The darkness moved out towards me. I leaned against it, listening, suddenly uneasy.

‘Anyone in?’ I asked and moved forward, my fingers groping in my pocket for my cigarette lighter.

The busy ticking of a clock nearby was the only sound I could hear. I got my lighter out and snapped it alight. The small yellow flame showed me a light switch near the door and I turned it on. I closed the front door, crossed the hall and peered into the dark lounge. As I reached forward to grope for the light switch I heard a sound that made me spin around: the sound of slow, dragging footfalls that came from above; sounds that made the hair on the nape of my neck bristle and my heart skip a beat.

‘Is that you, Hartley?’ I said, stepping into the light and looking up. My voice sounded little better than a hoarse croak. Only the sound of the dragging footfalls answered me, then I saw a small figure come out of the darkness and stand motionless at the head of the stairs. It was Hartley’s Filipino houseboy. His hand clutched on to the banister rail. A bright red trickle of blood ran down his chin from the corner of his mouth. There was a patch of blood about the size of my fist on the left side of his white coat.

I stared up at him, my mouth turning dry.

His small yellow face tightened, his legs went rubbery, his knees hinged, his hand slid off the banister rail.

Then he fell.

He hit the middle stair with his shoulder and slithered the rest of the way on his back to land at my feet.

I didn’t have to touch him to know he was dead.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I

Outside and nearby a car door slammed and a car engine started up. A man shouted, ‘It’s been a wonderful evening. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.’

I stared down at the dead yellow face. It hadn’t been a wonderful evening for him, I thought, aware that my shirt against my back felt damp and cold.

The car drove away; its noisy roar dwindled into the distance and silence came down on this dark, still house. There was nothing I could do for the Filipino and I backed away from him. My mind jumped to Lennox Hartley: had he been shot too?

I moved across the hall to the lounge, reached for the light switch and turned it down.

For a brief moment I thought the big room was empty, then I saw a foot in an elegant doe skin sandal protruding from behind one of the lounging settees.

I went around the settee.

Lennox Hartley lay on his face, his fingers hooked and sunk into the pile of the carpet, a little patch of blood showing on the gay yellow silk dressing gown he wore: a patch in the centre of his back.

I bent and touched one of his hands: his flesh was still warm. My fingers went to the artery in his neck: there was no pulse beat. He couldn’t have been dead for more than ten minutes or so. My first reaction was to get out of this house of death. If the police found me here I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. As I straightened up I saw the doors of the cupboard in which Hartley kept his files of sketches stood open. One of the files lay open on the floor: some of the sketches spilled out on to the carpet.