James Chase - Safer Dead

‘Don’t smoke, punk, when I’m talking to you,’ he snarled.

The fat man stiffened; his deepset eyes glittered, but he didn’t say anything nor did he move.

‘This guy’s tall, dark, around thirty-three or four,’ the policeman went on. ‘He’s wearing a dark grey suit and a matching slouch hat. If you spot him call headquarters - understand?’

‘Yes,’ the fat man said.

‘You’d better understand.’

The two policemen turned and walked out, leaving the door open. They went on down the street. The fat man came from behind the counter, crossed to the door and looked out, then he shut the door and went back to the counter. He didn’t look once in my direction.

I took out my handkerchief and wiped my sweating face, then I opened the pay booth door and came out.

The fat man said, ‘They may be back. There’s a cop at the corner. Go in there,’ and he jerked his thumb to a door near the pay booth.

‘Thanks,’ I said, opened the door and walked into a comfortably but shabbily furnished sitting room. A big black cat lay sleeping in an armchair. It opened its eyes to examine me, decided I was harmless and went back to sleep. I took out my pack of cigarettes, lit one and drew in a lungful of smoke. My knees felt as if I had been running hard for a couple of miles and my breath was laboured.

The fat man came in with a cup of coffee which he put on the table. He opened a drawer in the table and took out a half pint bottle of Haig.

‘You got friends?’ he asked, pushing the bottle towards me.

‘Someone’s coming to pick me up. Thanks for what you did.’

‘That’s nothing. I wouldn’t help the cops in this town even if it cost me money.’ He moved back to the door. ‘You’ll be okay here. Stick around,’ and he went out.

I poured a slug of whisky into the coffee and drank it. I felt a lot better for it. Then I sat down. This was the first moment of quiet that I had had since I had found Hartley shot to death. Even now my mind was still too uneasy by my own predicament to give much thought to the reason why he had been murdered. I remembered his last words to me: ‘I have a theory that might interest you.’ He knew I was hunting for information about Fay Benson and it seemed

reasonable to assume that the theory he had mentioned had to do with Fay Benson. Had he been killed because of this theory?

Unless the killer had been with him when he had telephoned to me, how could the killer have known Hartley was going to talk? It looked as if the killer was someone Hartley knew. I took out the .38 automatic and examined it. It looked either new or else it had been well looked after. Its serial number was 3347890. I took out the clip. Only two shots had been fired from the gun. The killer was either a first class shot or else the killing had been done at close quarters.

No doubt Creed would be able to get some information from the gun. As soon as I could I would send the gun to him. I put the gun, carefully wrapped in my handkerchief, back in my jacket pocket.

What was my next move to be? The solution of Fay Benson’s kidnapping and murder was to be found in Tampa City: I was sure of that. But every hour I remained in the city increased the risk of my being arrested. I was now Suspect No.1 for Hartley’s killing and unless I found the killer, there would be no town in the country where I would be safe.

The thought made me sweat. It seemed to me whatever happened I had to stay in Tampa City. It looked as if I would have to dream up some kind of disguise if I was to have any freedom of movement. If I dyed my hair a darker shade, wore dark glasses and a change of clothing I might get by. Tampa City was teeming with visitors. I should be able to lose myself in the crowd.

I was still making plans when the fat man put his head around the door.

‘Benn’s out here asking for you - okay?’

I got up.

‘Sure. Can he come in?’

The fat man nodded and went away. A moment or so later Sam Benn came in.

He was a little man, small boned, with a shock of iron-grey hair, a thin pointed face and deepset, expressionless eyes. He was wearing a leather windcheater, zipped up to his chin and a pair of dirty grey slacks. He came over to me and shook hands.

‘Just how bad is it?’ he asked. How hot is the heat?’

‘I was caught in a house with two dead men in it,’ I said. ‘The police are convinced I did the killing.’

Benn grimaced.

‘That’s nice. What do you want me to do? Get you out of town?’

‘No. I want somewhere safe where I can operate. I’ve got to find the killer if I’m to beat the rap.’

‘You’re kidding yourself. You’d better get out of town.’

‘Not for a day or so. Captain Bradley said you could take care of me. Can’t you?’

‘Oh, I guess so. The things I do for that man.’ Benn suddenly grinned. ‘I’ll hide you up for a while, but not for long. I’m sticking my neck out. Now listen, my car’s parked at the end of the street. I’ll go and fetch it and come past here slowly. Fats will give you the tip when to move. I’ll have the car door open. Dive in quick. Okay?’

I said it was okay.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I

It was after eleven o’clock before I rolled out of the wall bunk in Benn’s hideout, and walked, yawning, to the toilet basin to sluice water over my face.

The hideout was a professional job and I wondered what its history was. Located under Benn’s barroom and made of concrete and steel, it had an elaborately concealed entrance, an emergency exit that led to an alley behind the bar, a refrigerator full of food, a radio, a television set, a telephone, a table, three armchairs and a comprehensive stock of liquor.

While I shaved I had the radio on to the short wave police signals, but the routine stuff that came out of the speaker wasn’t concerned with me.

Benn came in as I was cleaning the razor. He had a couple of brown paper parcels which he put on the table. From his pockets he produced four small packages and a folded newspaper.

‘I guess I haven’t forgotten anything,’ he said, wandering over to plug in the electric kettle.

I unfolded the newspaper. The double murder had been given a spread. Lieutenant Carson said in his statement that the police had a number of important clues and they were anxious to interview a tall, dark, well-built man, wearing a dark grey suit and dark hat who they thought might be able to give them information that would lead to the solution of the murders. They didn’t mention my name, and I was surprised that the description was so vague.

‘That you?’ Benn asked as he put two eggs in a saucepan.

‘Yeah,’ I said and taking the hair dye he had got me over to the toilet basin I started to tone my hair down to a darker shade. By the time he had soft boiled the eggs, made some coffee and toast I was through. The extra shade made a difference. He had brought me a twist of black hair and a small bottle of spirit gum, but before I made myself a moustache I sat down to breakfast.

Benn leaned against the wall, a cigarette between his fingers and watched me eat.

‘Have you known Captain Bradley, long?’ I asked him as I decapitated an egg.

‘Twelve years. He was my commanding officer during the war. He saved my life twice, talked me out of a court martial, got me three weeks leave when my wife was dying and when the General said no one was to have leave,’ Benn said, staring at the glowing end of his cigarette. ‘I’d cut my right arm off for him if it would do him any good.’

‘Some place you have here.’

He grinned.

‘Don’t get wrong ideas, Bud. This was here when I bought the joint. It used to be one of Capone’s liquor dumps. Now and then someone wants to cool off and it comes in handy. When Cap Bradley was in charge I kept it shut, but now these skates are running the police force I oblige where I can.’ He took a drag from his cigarette. ‘It’ll cost you twenty a day. I’m saving up for a trip to Europe, otherwise I wouldn’t charge you.’