James Chase: Safer Dead

As I folded the map, I said, ‘Mrs. Van Blake tells me she stayed at the George V hotel in Paris. I suppose she and her husband often went to Paris?’

‘At least twice a year.’

‘They always stayed at the George V?’

‘Well, no. They always stayed at the Ritz. I was surprised when Mrs. Van Blake asked me to book a suite at the George V. She said she wanted a change.’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘There’s one more question, Mr. Latimer. While Mrs. Van Blake was in Paris she met a showgirl named Joan Nichols. Does the name mean anything to you?’

He thought for a moment.

‘A girl of that name did call on Mrs. Van Blake at her house two days after she had returned from Paris,’ he said. ‘The guard at the gate called me and asked if Mrs. Van Blake would see her.’

‘Did she?’

‘Oh yes. I didn’t see her myself. I was busy with Mr. Van Blake’s affairs, but she told me to ask the guard to send the girl up to the house.’

‘You wouldn’t happen to know if this girl gave her address as well as her name when she called?’

‘It was in the visitor’s book. The town I believe, not the address.’

‘Was it Welden?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Mr. Van Blake was killed on August 6th; on August 8 thMiss Nichols called. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Miss Bennett, using the name of Fay Benson, turned up in Welden on August 9th and the same evening Royce, under the name of Henry Rutland, also appeared. On August 17th, Miss Bennett was kidnapped and murdered. The same evening Royce left Welden. On August 20th Miss Nichols, presumably pushed, fell downstairs and broke her neck, and the stagedoor keeper to a club where Miss Bennett was working and who helped kidnap her was also killed by a hit and run driver on the same evening. Interesting sequence of dates, don’t you think?’

Latimer stared at me, his eyes bewildered.

‘I don’t understand. What exactly are you driving at?’

‘If I have any luck,’ I said, getting to my feet and sliding the map of the Van Blake estate into my hip pocket, ‘I’ll be able to tell you that in a day or two; but I’ll have to have some luck first.’

‘But look here.’

‘Give me a couple of days.’

I left him staring after me. He looked a little like a codfish caught on a gaff.

III

On my way back to Tampa City, I did some heavy thinking. At long last, I was getting the breaks. My visit to Latimer had paid heavy dividends. I now felt I was in the position to pry the lid off the case. When I reached Tampa City’s main street, I parked the Lincoln outside a quick snack lunch bar, bought a midday newspaper and went into the bar. I ordered a chicken sandwich and a coffee, and while I was waiting, I looked over the front page of the paper.

The shooting at Glyne Beach had caused less sensation than I had expected. The account stated that two gunmen, thought to have come from Tampa City, had been cornered last night in a motel on the Glyne Beach road and had been shot to death. Police Captain Creed stated that the Tampa City police were being invited to cooperate in identifying the gunmen.

While I read the newspaper I ate my sandwich. I wondered how Royce was reacting to this news. He must have guessed that Lydia had slipped through his fingers, but he wasn’t to know that she was in the hands of the police. After a little thought, I decided it might be a good idea to tell him.

‘Give me another sandwich,’ I said to the barman as I slid off the stool, ‘while I use the phone.’

I shut myself in a pay booth, turned up the number of the Golden Apple club and dialled.

A girl’s voice that sounded like thick honey, oozed over the line.

‘This is the Golden Apple club: good morning; can I be of service?’

‘Give me Royce, and snap it up, sister,’ I said, making my voice sound tough.

The honey congealed.

‘Who is calling?’

‘Tell him it’s an old pal of his from Sing Sing,’ I said.

There was a long pause, then a man barked, ‘Who’s this?’

‘Royce?’

‘Yes: what is it?’

‘This is a tipoff, pal. The Welden cops have got Lydia, and she’s singing. She’s tying you in with the Van Blake murder, so watch your foothold.’

The startled grunt that came over the line made music in my ears, but I didn’t wait for more. I gently hung up. That should give him a little uneasiness.

I returned to the bar where my sandwich was waiting. The place was filling up, and a big man, with shoulders on him that a prize fighter would envy, jostled me as I took a bite at the sandwich.

I set myself to jostle back when I took a look at the big man’s face. My heart skipped a beat and I nearly dropped the sandwich when I saw it was Sergeant Carl Lassiter.

He was leaning forward, glaring at the barman and rapping on the counter to attract attention. My first impulse was to nip smartly to the door and out into the Lincoln, but I hadn’t paid for my meal and I still had the sandwich in my hand. The crush at the bar was pushing me against Lassiter who had caught the barman’s eye.

‘Gimme a beef sandwich and a coffee,’ he barked.

The barman appeared to recognize him.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, and had the order in front of Lassiter in a flash.

I got some money out of my pocket, shoved my way sideways to the bar, taking care not to touch Lassiter and laid the money on the bar. The barman swept it up, tossed it into the open drawer of the till and slapped down the change. As I picked up the change, Lassiter, his great rubbery mouth full of beef, turned his head and stared directly at me.

I met his eyes for a second, then I picked up my change and began to ease myself away from the bar. My shirt was sticking to my back and my mouth was dry. I expected him to reach out and grab me, but after scowling at me, he turned his back and went on munching. Still holding the sandwich in my hand, I got out of the bar and crossed to the Lincoln.

A police car was parked just behind the Lincoln and a bored faced detective at the wheel looked at me without interest. I climbed into the Lincoln, put the sandwich on the seat beside me, started the engine, and shifted into gear. As I drove away I looked into the driving mirror. The detective at the wheel of the police car was struggling with a gigantic yawn. I doubted if he had even seen me. Driving steadily, I headed for Benn’s bar, and it wasn’t until I had put the car in the garage and had got down into the hideout that my heart beats returned to normal.

I called Benn on the telephone.

‘Can you spare a minute?’

‘Not right now. Give me an hour, will you? This is my busy time.’

I said okay, hung up and poured myself a beer. I finished my sandwich, did a little thinking, and remembered Irene Jarrard had said she worked for Ryman Thomas, the advertising man. I turned him up in the book and put through a call.

Irene answered the telephone.

‘This is Sladen,’ I said. ‘Do you remember me?’

‘Of course I do.’ She seemed pleased I had called her. ‘Have you any news of Frankie, Mr. Sladen?’

‘Not yet, but I’m still trying. There was something I forgot to ask you: did Frankie ever mention Mrs. Cornelia Van Blake?’

‘Why, yes. Mrs. Van Blake was having her portrait painted and Frankie stood in for her.’

‘Do you know if Hartley did the painting at the Van Blakes’ residence?’

‘Oh, you know about it then.’

‘I heard.’

‘He didn’t finish the painting there. He made a number of sketches of Fay sitting on the balcony and he completed the portrait in his studio.’

I wished I had thought to ask her this when we first met, but I didn’t say so.

‘Did Frankie ever say how she got on with Mrs. Van Blake?’