James Chase: Safer Dead

‘Yes; I had missed that point,’ I said. ‘Why else would you have a place like this, buried in the wood, nicely furnished, even to a bar, unless it was a meeting place? Did Van Blake know?’

‘You’re very quick, Mr. Sladen,’ she said. ‘Yes, he knew, but there was nothing he could do about it. He wouldn’t give me a divorce, no matter what I did. That was the main reason why I had to kill him.’

My hands suddenly turned clammy. She was now admitting she had killed her husband, and that meant she had made up her mind to silence me.

‘How was it no one heard the shot when you killed Dillon?’ I asked.

Her fixed smile began to get on my nerves.

‘If you must know,’ she said, ‘I muffled the gun with a cushion.’ She moved the gun so the barrel once more pointed at me. ‘It doesn’t make much noise.’

‘Did you experience a pang when you killed him?’ I asked. ‘Or did you feel he had served his purpose and it was just one of those things?’

Her cold, lovely face was expressionless as she said, ‘What else have you found out? You certainly seem to have been very busy.’

‘Let’s talk about your husband’s murder. He was in the habit of taking an early morning ride,’ I said. ‘You spent the night here, with Dillon under the boards.’ I paused while I looked at her. ‘I wonder if you had bad dreams that night or perhaps you don’t dream?’

She shook her head.

‘I’m one of those fortunate people who don’t dream.’

Her cold bloodedness began to make me sweat.

‘Early the next morning you were on the hill waiting for your husband,’ I went on. ‘He thought you were in Paris, and it must have been a shock to see you sitting there, apparently admiring the view. He was so surprised he didn’t notice the shotgun, lying by your side. He only saw it when it was too late. Probably he leaned from his horse to ask you what you were doing there, when you shot him. You had to act quickly. You had probably got yourself a pair of corduroy slacks and a leather wind cheater like those Dillon wore. You hid the gun, then you put on Dillon’s crash helmet and goggles, ran down the hill to where he had left his motorcycle and drove to the harbour. People saw you, as you wanted them to see you, and they mistook you for Dillon. All you had to do was to leave the motorcycle in a shed that was seldom used, change into clothes you had probably left in the shed, and catch the first train to New York where Royce was waiting for you. You knew Latimer would send a cable to the George V hotel with the news, and Frances had been instructed that if a cable did come, she was to return at once. Royce was there to meet her. You took her place outside the airport.’

Without taking her eyes off me, she reached for the whisky bottle, splashed whisky into the lipstick-smeared glass and drank some of it. I saw her hand was unsteady.

‘Now Frances had to be taken care of,’ I went on. ‘Royce took her to Welden. He was a reluctant killer. He didn’t want to wipe her out unless he had to. He wanted to make sure first that you were going to get away with it: that your nerve wouldn’t crack if police pressure was put on you. So he persuaded Frances to alter her appearance, take another name and get work at the Florian club. By then Frances must have known she had made herself an accessory to murder. She was probably so scared she did what she was told to do. Then Joan Nichols called on you. It must have been a shock to you and to her when she found you weren’t the girl she had worked on in Paris. She probably tried to put the bite on you. You told Royce what was happening, and he decided both Frances and Joan had to go. He gave Flemming the signal to go ahead, and Flemming went ahead.’

I paused and watched her set down her glass. She seemed suddenly relaxed now, and she rested her elbows on the bar, the gun held loosely in her hand.

‘And you can prove all this?’ she asked mockingly.

‘Yeah, I can prove it,’ I said. ‘You made it too complicated. The more complicated a case becomes the easier it is to unravel, providing you get the essential lead. I got it when I learned how alike you and Frances Bennett were. I could see then how you fixed your alibi. You had a big advantage: the police were on your side. If you had kept your head and done nothing after

Frances’s death you might have got away with it. When I started to stir up the past, you panicked. When Flemming called you and told you someone was making inquiries, and that Hesson had talked out of turn, you told Flemming to fix Hesson and me. When you heard I’d been to see Hartley you panicked again. In Hartley’s filing cabinet there were sketches he had made of Frances, sitting on your balcony. You thought I would see the likeness between you two, but you forgot I might get the information from Latimer. You went to Hartley and tried to get the sketches from him. Maybe he wouldn’t part. Maybe he realized that Frances had supplied your alibi. Anyway, he called me and asked me over. Were you hiding in the room when he called?’

She nodded. The fixed smile went away, leaving her face bony and old looking.

‘And you shot him,’ I went on. ‘His servant heard the shot and ran upstairs, trying to get away from you. You followed him and shot him too. You thought you’d get away with it as I was on my way over and you knew Lassiter was keeping tabs on me. You thought I was going to be your fall guy as Dillon was.’

‘And I have got away with it, Mr. Sladen,’ she said. ‘The police still think you killed Hartley; and they are still looking for you. This is where we came in, isn’t it? Have you quite finished?’

I had been talking solidly to gain time, and now I knew I had bought all the time I was going to get. In a second or so she would shoot. The range was about fifteen feet. Even with a .22 fifteen feet could be difficult shooting if the target was on the move.

While I had been talking I had also been frantically trying to find a way out of this jam. I was within ten feet of the light switch, and it looked an awful long way away. If I could get to the switch and turn off the light I had a chance.

‘Let’s talk about a deal,’ I said, bracing my muscles. A big cushion lay on the settee by my side. As casually as I could I let my hand drop on it while I stared at her, trying to hold her attention away from my hand.

‘No deals, Mr. Sladen.’ She lifted the gun, her knuckle turned white as she took up the slack of the trigger. ‘I think you’re bluffing. Anyway, you’ll be safer dead.’

III

Time stood still while we stared at each other. I could see by the glitter in her eyes and the loose movement of her mouth that she was about to shoot. I snatched up the cushion and threw it at her with one movement, and at the same time, my heart hammering, I rolled off the settee and scrambled frantically to get behind it.

She fired as the cushion whizzed through the air at her, but she dodged at the same time. I heard the vicious little bark of the .22, and a big glass ashtray that stood on the occasional table near me flew into splinters.

I was behind the settee by now.

She fired again. The slug ploughed through the back of the settee, missing me by less than six inches.

This couldn’t go on. I knew her next shot must get me. Sweat was pouring off my face. I saw her shadow, slim and long, moving very slowly across the carpet towards me. I got hold of the side of the settee and waited. She couldn’t see me, but she knew I was there. She was within six feet of me when I heaved the settee up and towards her. I saw her jump clear; the settee crashed down, only just missing her.

I had thrown away my only cover. I stood facing her, and she smiled at me. She was out of my reach. I was still ten feet from the light switch; fifteen feet from Juan’s gun, lying by the window. It seemed to me that I was within a heartbeat of death when a voice barked from the window: ‘Drop that gun!’