James Chase: Safer Dead

‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

She didn’t seem quite so hostile, but the gun remained pointing at me.

‘You don’t want my name, do you?’ I said, trying to look ashamed of myself. ‘If you’ll forget it this time, I promise I won’t come here again.’

‘Did you come here by car?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Give me your licence.’

‘I haven’t got it with me. I left it in the car.’

She studied me, then a puzzled look came into her eye that told me she was wondering where she had seen me before. I knew then I had either to rush her into letting me go or I’d lose the trick.

‘Sit down,’ she said curtly.

‘Now look,’ I said hurriedly, ‘I promise you I won’t come back. I haven’t touched anything. Let me go, won’t you?’

‘Sit down! I’m going to call the police.’

I moved towards her. I had a wild idea that if I could get close enough, I might grab the gun, but she moved away from me, sliding along the wall, the gun steady in her hand.

‘Sit down!’

I saw her knuckle turn white as her finger tightened on the trigger. I sat down.

I couldn’t let her call the police. Once I was in Lassiter’s hands I’d be in permanent trouble.

She backed away to the bar where the telephone was, and lifted the receiver.

I knew I had lost that trick. I had still one more to play.

‘I wouldn’t do it,’ I said quietly. ‘Even if Lassiter is on your payroll, he couldn’t do anything for you once he’s looked under the floor.’

Slowly she replaced the receiver. Her eyes turned into dark, expressionless holes in her face.

‘It’s Mr. Sladen, isn’t it?’ she asked in a polite, brittle voice.

‘That’s right. We’re both in a jam, aren’t we?’

‘I don’t think I am,’ she said, leaning against the bar, the barrel of the gun turned slightly away from me. ‘But you are, Mr. Sladen.’

‘I think we both are.’

‘You’re wanted for murder. I have only to call the police.’

‘You’re forgetting Dillon.’

Her lips came off her teeth in a mirthless smile.

‘No, I’m not. No one knows except you that he is here. My story will be that I saw a light here. I took my gun and came out to see who had broken in. I found you hiding here: a man wanted for murder. You attacked me, and I was forced to shoot you. Why should Sergeant Lassiter think to pick up the floor boards? He will be too occupied with your body to think of looking for another.’

‘You don’t imagine I was so crazy as to come here alone, do you?’ I asked, trying to sound more confident than I felt. ‘You’re through, Mrs. Van Blake. I’ve all the evidence I want. The case is written up, and if anything happens to me, my colleague will send the stuff to Crime Facts who will print it.’

She gave a harsh little laugh.

‘You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?’

‘I can convince you. We could make a deal. I’m not kidding myself you wouldn’t shoot me as you shot Dillon. It wouldn’t be difficult for you to lift the floor boards and drop me in alongside him for company.’

‘I don’t make deals.’

‘I can prove you killed your husband. Like to hear about it?’

‘You can’t prove it.’ A little white ring appeared around her mouth. I saw her finger tighten on the trigger of the gun. I had a sick feeling she was likely to shoot at any second.

‘But I can,’ I said, words spilling out of my mouth. ‘Get a load of this: Royce wanted the Golden Apple club, but your husband wouldn’t sell. You and Royce were lovers, and you wanted to help him. You also wanted to get your hands on your husband’s money. You thought it might be an idea to kill him: the old story of two birds with one shot.’

Her finger on the trigger relaxed. She was listening.

‘You knew you’d be the first to be suspected if your husband died violently,’ I went on. ‘You had the motive: five million dollars of motive. So you plotted and planned to kill him and yet be in the clear. It wasn’t until Lennox Hartley brought Frances Bennett to your house to stand in for your portrait that you saw the way you could do it. Frances was like you in size and colouring. In a few days you were going to Paris. You couldn’t swing it on your own so you told your plan to Royce. His payoff was the club, so he came in with you. It is probable you had already tried to persuade him to do the job himself, but he hadn’t yet arrived in the murder class and he funked it. If it was to be done, you were the one to do it because your alibi would be watertight.’ I paused to ask, ‘How am I doing, Mrs. Van Blake? Do you like it so far?’

‘You don’t imagine anyone will believe you, do you?’ she said scornfully. ‘You can’t prove a thing.’

‘Let’s go on a step or two before we get to the proof,’ I said, my eyes on the gun. ‘Royce gained Frances’s confidence. He kidded her he was in love with her. He had to be careful in case there was a slipup. He went around with her secretly so he couldn’t be connected with her if things went wrong. If she were going to take your place in Paris, she would know, when the news broke, that you two had planned Van Blake’s death, so she had to be taken care of once she had done her job. She had to disappear. It was to be a professional job: a barrel and cement job. Royce knew the guy to handle an assignment like that. He sent for Hank Flemming, a Frisco killer, and fingered Frances to him. When Frances came back from Paris, he was to do the job. The plan began to work. Royce cooked up some yarn that it was necessary for you to remain in Tampa City and yet appear to be in Paris. I don’t know what the yarn was, but when a girl like Frances falls for a smooth operator like Royce she would be prepared to swallow any yarn. You supplied her with money, clothes and your passport. A pair of dark glasses and a floppy hat would turn her into Mrs. Van Blake, leaving for Paris. Millionaires’ wives get preferential treatment at the passport barriers. No one looked at her twice. You took care to send her to the George V hotel instead of to your usual hotel, the Ritz. She was accepted at the George V because they didn’t know her, and she stayed there for four days. What you didn’t foresee was that a girl named Joan Nichols who had a talent for making friends with the wealthy, should force her company on Frances, thinking she was the famous and rich Mrs. Van Blake. You may be interested to know one of my colleagues has been to Paris, and we now have witnesses to prove Frances stayed at the George V under your name.’

‘I see.’ She moved restlessly. ‘But that doesn’t prove I killed my husband, does it?’

‘It upsets your alibi. But don’t let’s rush this. Let’s take it by dates. On August 2nd, you appeared to leave for Paris. I guess you got no further than Royce’s place where Frances was waiting. She went to the airport in your place and took off for France. You remained out of sight with Royce. You were pretty thorough in your plans. You and Royce had taken care to have watertight alibis. Who, then, from the police angle, had killed your husband? This is where you over played your hand. You supplied the killer. You knew Ted Dillon made a habit of poaching on the estate. On the night of August 5th, you came here with a gun and waited for him.’

‘Do you imagine anyone would believe that?’ she interrupted, her eyes glittering. ‘How was I to know he was coming?’

That pulled me up short. This was a point a smart attorney would pick on. She would have to know for certain that Dillon planned to poach that night. The whole success of her plan relied on him coming.

I stared at her, then looked around the room, and the nickel dropped. There could only be one explanation: she and Dillon had been lovers. That was why he had come so often, knowing, with her behind him, he wasn’t likely to run into trouble.