James Chase - Safer Dead

‘I don’t know, but I want to find out. Check up on Joan Nichols too.’

‘Say, this sounds like hard work,’ Bernie protested. ‘There are other things to do in Paris besides work.’

‘Listen, you good-for-nothing punk! I’m in a jam here. The cops think I’ve knocked off a couple of guys and they’re hunting for me. They’re a tough, rough bunch, and if you don’t give me what I want, I’ll go to Paris myself and you can handle this end!’

‘Relax,’ Bernie said hurriedly. ‘I’ll give you what you want. Just tell me and you’ll get it.’

II

I left the hideout around nine-thirty, using the emergency exit. It was a dark, moonless night with a hint of rain in the air, and the darkness gave me a sense of security. I was glad to stretch my legs. The report I had written to Fayette was as complete as I could make it, and it had taken the best part of four hours. Getting it all down on paper had helped to clarify my mind on several points I had to clear up.

I had an idea that if I could find out why Lennox Hartley had been murdered I would find the solution to most of my problems. I had had time to think over the events of yesterday, and I recalled Cornelia’s reaction when I had remarked on the picture of her that Hartley had painted. I recalled too her reaction when I had given her Fay Benson’s photograph. Fay had been one of Hartley’s models. There was a hookup somewhere between the three of them. It occurred to me that Fay’s friend, Irene Jarrard, might be able to supply the key to this hookup. It was possible Fay had said something to her that might put me on the right lines. I told myself that at the first opportunity I would talk to her.

Hamilton Royce was another loose end that needed tying up. If his ex-girlfriend was willing to talk, she would be my best bet for tonight.

The Hey-Day club had a gaudy, neon decorated entrance that led down steep stairs into one of those airless, dark cellars that save rent and attract the tourist trade. I descended the stairs to where a hard-faced bouncer signed me in for a three dollar entrance and temporary membership fee and promptly lost interest in me.

I pushed aside the curtain that guarded the entrance to the bar and dance floor and made my way through the smoke laden air and the closely set tables to the bar. There weren’t more than twenty people in the club: most of them were over made up and underdressed girls on the lookout for male company. I could feel their eyes boring into me as I made my way to the bar.

The rat-faced barman nodded to me as I came to rest in front of him. He looked me over and didn’t seem to know what to make of me.

I ordered a straight whisky.

‘If you want company,’ the barman said as he set the whisky before me, ‘all you have to do is to smile at one of those babies and she’ll break her neck getting to you.’

‘Which one of them is Lydia Forrest?’ I asked, reaching for the whisky. ‘Or isn’t she on show?’

The barman touched his thin lips with the tip of a white coated tongue. His deepset eyes took on a sleepy look.

‘You want Miss Forrest?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘You a friend of hers?’ he asked and I could sense his hostility like a wall between us.

I leaned my elbows on the bar and smiled at him.

‘If you must know I am a friend of a friend of hers,’ I said mildly. ‘Is she around?’

‘No, and if you took my tip, you’d skip it. She has friends who are touchy about guys asking for her.’

‘Is that a fact?’ I said and shook my head. I drank the whisky and pushed the glass towards him. ‘Don’t let us get our lines crossed. I’ve plenty of girlfriends of my own. I don’t have to muscle in on someone else’s preserves. I have a message for her - that’s all.’

He refilled my glass and relaxed a trifle.

‘A lot of guys come in here pestering her,’ he said. ‘If it’s only a message.’

‘That’s it. Where do I find her?’

He took my money and accepted the dollar tip.

‘She’ll be doing her act in half an hour. Stick around, mister.’

I peeled off four more of Fayette’s dollar bills and showed them to the barman.

‘If I stay here for a half hour this atmosphere will put me into an iron lung. Can’t I call on her in her dressing room?’

He pulled at his right ear while he examined the four bills.

‘I guess so,’ he said finally. ‘Second door by the band. Don’t make it too obvious.’

He collected the four bills as easily as a vacuum cleaner picks up fluff.

I carried my drink to a table near the band, sat down and smoked a cigarette. A platinum blonde with a complexion like crepe rubber, jumped the gun and came over without an invitation.

‘Hello, honey,’ she said, flashing me a smile that might have been dazzling if her teeth had been better. ‘Going to buy me a drink?’

I said I was waiting for my mother. The sneer that distorted her face was something to see. She flounced back to the others and told them. Two men in tropical suits and hand painted ties came in at this moment, and the girls shifted their attention from me to them. When I had finished my drink I got up, wandered to the second door by the band, opened it and stepped into a passage.

There were two doors at the far end of the passage: one of them had a star painted on it. I rapped and waited.

A contralto voice told me to come in.

I pushed open the door.

The girl sitting before triple mirrors was blonde and lovely if you like features that could have been chiselled out of granite. She had the usual curves that you’d expect of a girl in show business. Three years ago she would have been sensational, but now the wear and tear of nightclub life had frayed the edges of her freshness. She was wearing a low cut scarlet and black gown.

A flat Turkish cigarette hung from her glistening lips.

She raised arched eyebrows as she said, ‘Well? What is it?’

‘Miss Forrest?’

‘Yes.’

‘The name’s Low,’ I said, borrowing Bernie’s name. I eased myself into the room and closed the door. ‘Can you spare me a minute?’

‘About what?’

She twisted around in her chair, rested one slim arm on the chair back and examined me without interest.

‘You and I may have things in common, Miss Forrest. I’m making inquiries about Hamilton Royce.’

Her eyelids narrowed and she tapped ash off her cigarette before saying, ‘Why?’

‘It’s a long story: cutting corners, he’s connected in some way with the disappearance of a girl. I’m looking for information and I’m authorized to pay for it.’

‘What girl?’ she asked.

‘Fay Benson or Frances Bennett. Maybe you’ve heard of her?’

Her full lips tightened.

‘Who are you - a detective?’

‘A private investigator.’

‘Who are you working for?’

‘Someone who has lots of dough and isn’t scared of spending it.’

She stubbed out the cigarette, turned to look at herself in the triple mirrors.

‘We can’t talk here,’ she said and picking up a comb she ran it through her fine, silky hair. ‘I’ve an apartment on Lennox Drive: 246 C. I’ll be there just after one o’clock.’

I heard a door down the passage click open. She heard it too to judge by the way she put down the comb and by the way her face tightened.

A tap sounded on her door and she turned and looked at me.

Her eyes were scared.

‘You’ve made a mistake. I don’t know anyone of the name of Morgan.’ she was saying in a high-pitched voice when the door opened and the hard-faced bouncer came in.

He looked at me.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked in a hoarse croak.

‘What’s it to you?’ I asked, backing away.