James Chase: Safer Dead

‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Bernie said, getting to his feet. ‘I could do with some sleep. Don’t start work too early. I have an idea I’m going to have a hangover.’

‘Go to bed!’ I said and turned out the light.

II

At nine-thirty the following morning, I opened Bernie’s bedroom door and looked at him as he lay on the bed, still dressed, his mouth hanging open, dead to the world. I decided there was no point in waking him. He wouldn’t be in a fit state to work. I shut the door softly and went down to the lobby. I told Larson not to disturb him, then went over to the garage, collected the Buick and drove over to Joan Nichols’s apartment house.

The house was in a quiet street on the other side of the town: a tall, grey building with faded green curtains at the windows and a flight of stone steps to the front door.

Leaving the Buick, I mounted the steps and paused to examine the row of mailboxes in the lobby. Failing to find Joan Nichols’s card on any of them, I crossed the lobby to the janitor’s office and rapped on the door.

A fat man in shirtsleeves, a dead cigar clamped between his teeth, opened the door and looked at me without interest.

‘Full up,’ he said curtly and began to shut the door.

‘I’m not looking for a room,’ I said, wedging my foot in the door. ‘I’m looking for Miss Nichols. I understand she lives here.’

‘Joan Nichols, do you mean?’ he asked, staring at me.

‘That’s right. I couldn’t find her name on any of the mailboxes.’

‘You won’t. You won’t find her here either. If you really want to find her you’ll have to go out to the Welden graveyard. That’s where she lives now.’

A chill crawled up my spine.

‘Are you telling me she’s dead?’

‘Well, I hope for her sake she is. They put her in a coffin and buried her.’ He frowned. ‘She gypped me out of a month’s rent. She didn’t have a nickel and the cops took her luggage.’

‘Did she get sick or something?’

‘She fell downstairs.’ The janitor jerked his head to the steep flight of stairs that faced him. ‘Those stairs. I guess she was drunk although the cops said, she wasn’t, but they don’t know everything. She certainly fit hard. I thought the house was coming down.’

‘When was this?’

‘Last August.’

‘Do you remember the date?’

The janitor moved restlessly. I could see the conversation was boring him.

‘Why should I? I’m not that interested. The cops will tell you if you must know.’ He began to close the door. ‘I’ve got to get on.’

I was too shaken to think of anything else to ask him and I let him shut the door in my face. I walked slowly back to the car, got in and lit a cigarette. I stared through the windshield at the dingy street ahead, my mind busy.

Was this a coincidence? Two people connected with Fay Benson were now dead: both of them had died soon after the girl had disappeared; both of them apparently had met accidental deaths.

‘Very, very fishy,’ I said, half aloud, then treading on the starter I drove back to Main Street, and getting my bearings from a cop, I headed for Bay Street. No. 27 turned out to be a delicatessen store. I assumed Jake Hesson had a room above, but as there was no street door at the side, I went into the store.

A dark, heavily built girl in a grubby white overall looked at me over a mountain of cooked food, sandwiches and bowls of gherkins.

‘What’s yours?’ she asked as I came to rest before her.

‘I’m looking for Jake Hesson,’ I said, giving her my boyish smile. ‘I was told he hangs out here.’

She gave me a quick, appraising stare.

‘What do you want him for?’

‘I’ll get him to tell you if he wants you to know,’ I said, smiling to take the curse off it. ‘Is he still in bed?’

‘No. Are you from the cops?’

‘Do I look like a cop?’ I asked indignantly. ‘What’s it to you who I’m from? Are you Jake’s pal or something?’

She made a face.

‘I’m not all that hard up for pals.’ She suddenly smiled. ‘I can see you’re not a cop. Jake’s gone.’

‘You mean he’s gone to work?’

‘No, I don’t. He’s skipped; packed and scrammed. Don’t you understand English? He went late last night. I guess he’s in some kind of trouble. It won’t be the first time.’

I lit a cigarette, put the match carefully in the ashtray on the counter while I looked at the girl.

‘Did he say where he was going?’

She shook her head.

‘No. He paid his rent, packed his bag and beat it. You don’t ask Joe questions unless you want a new set of teeth.’

‘How long has he been staying here?’

‘About a couple of years.’

I took out my wallet and produced a five-dollar bill. ‘I would like to look at his room. Would five bucks cover your expenses?’

Fingers with grubby knuckles and nails stained dark red snapped up the bill. The girl turned, took a key from the cash register and handed it to me.

‘Through that door, upstairs. Second door on the left. If my old man catches you, you’ll have to talk yourself out of it. He’s got a mean disposition.’

‘You might not guess it to look at me,’ I said as I moved to the door, ‘but so have I.’

I walked into a passage, mounted dirty, uncarpeted stairs and stopped outside the second door on the left. I slid the key into the lock, turned it and pushed the door open. The room showed every sign of a hurried departure. The doors of the wardrobe hung open, drawers had been pulled out of the bureau and left on the floor. There was dirty, soapy water in the bowl on the washstand.

I shut the door and looked around. I was sure now I had started something. Hesson had panicked. He had lied about knowing Fay Benson, probably because he was off guard and said the first thing that came into his head. Realizing his mistake, he had packed and bolted.

I went over the room methodically and carefully. It wasn’t until I moved the bed from the wall that I found anything to excite my interest. I caught a glimpse of something that gleamed through a thick layer of dust. I bent and picked it up. Moving over to the window I examined my find.

It was a miniature replica of an apple, made of gold; the kind of thing you might find on a charm bracelet women wear.

Engraved on one side of it in letters so small I could scarcely read them was the following: F.B. from H.R. June 24th.

F.B. - Fay Benson?

I rolled the tiny apple across my palm, then I dropped it into my pocket. As I turned to renew my search, the door pushed open and a thickset man, his dark swarthy face set in a hard scowl, stood in the doorway.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he growled.

‘Looking for Hesson,’ I said, guessing he was the girl’s papa. He looked as if he had a mean disposition. ‘Know where he is?’

‘You can see he’s not here. Get out before I toss you out!’ He looked tough and strong enough to do it so I moved to the door.

‘I want to find him. I’ll spring five bucks for his address,’ I said.

He looked less hostile.

‘It’ll cost you twenty.’

I shook my head.

‘I’ll pay ten, but not a nickel more.’

‘Okay, ten.’

I groped in my wallet without taking it out of my pocket, found two fives and folded them.

‘Where is he?’

‘He’s gone to Sam Hardy’s place. 3, Lennox Street, Frisco.’

‘Would you be sure of that?’

‘That’s where he told me to send his mail.’ He reached for the bills. ‘If he isn’t there, he’ll be there sometime.’

I handed over the ten dollars. I wasn’t sure if I were parting with the money for nothing, but as it was Fayette’s money and not mine, I thought the risk was justified.