James Chase - The Guilty Are Afraid

He smiled sourly, got up, edged around his table and went to a cupboard. After rummaging around for a few moments, he offered me a small book, bound in faded red water-silk with the same gold lettering on it as the match-folder.

“I found it in one of the rooms at the Ritz-Plaza and thought it might come in useful one day. It’s two years out of date.”

“I’ll let you have it back,” I said, retrieving the match-folder from the table and putting it and the members’ book in my pocket. “Thanks.”

“Who gave you the shiner?”

“Nobody you’d want to know,” I said, and went out and up to the lounge. I found an armchair away from the old ladies and gentlemen and read through the names in the book. There were about five hundred names to wade through. Four hundred and ninety-seven of them meant nothing to me: the other three did: Mrs. Bridgette Creedy, Mr. Jacques Thrisby and Miss Margot Creedy.

I closed the book and slapped it gently against my hand.

I sat for some minutes thinking. Then out of the blue came an idea. I considered it, decided after a moment or so that it wasn’t perhaps a brilliant idea, but at least it wasn’t a bad one, and I got to my feet.

I went over to the hall porter and asked him where Franklyn Avenue was.

He told me to take the second on the right, then the first on the left by the traffic lights.

I thanked him and went down the steps to where I had left the Buick.

Chapter 5

I

The Franklyn Arms turned out to be one of those snooty, high-toned apartment blocks reserved only for those in the upper social register, and who have more than a six-figure income.

There were, at a guess, not more than thirty apartments in the block. The building was three stories high, and sat with the dignity of a dowager duchess in an elaborately cultivated acre of land with lawns, a fountain in which stood a reproduction of Donatello’s Boy with a Dolphin, floodlit to underline the architect’s good taste, and set beds with silver centaurea and sky blue petunias.

I steered the Buick into a vacant space between a Silver Wraith and a Silver Dawn Rolls-Royce, got out and walked past a Continental Bentley, a sixty-two coupe Cadillac, and a Packard Clipper. There was enough money rolled up in all that hardware to keep me happy for ten years.

I pushed my way through the revolving doors into an oak-panelled lobby decorated with carnations growing in chromium-plated boxes set against the walls, and a small fountain with half a dozen well-fed, contented-looking goldfish swimming in the lighted water.

Over in the far corner was the reception desk behind which stood a tall blond man in an immaculate tuxedo, who wore a bored, disdainful expression on his handsome, effeminate face.

I went over to him and gave him one of my friendly smiles. This was probably a mistake, for he reared back as if I had hung a decayed fish under his aristocratic nose.

“Miss Creedy please,” I said.

He fingered his immaculate tie while his brown eyes travelled over me. He would know to the exact cent what my suit, tie, shirt and hat cost. The valuation didn’t seem to impress him.

“Is Miss Creedy expecting you?”

“No. Will you call her and tell her I have just been talking to her father and would now appreciate a word with her. The name is Lew Brandon.”

He tapped his beautifully manicured fingernails on the top of the polished counter while he thought. From the strained expression in his eyes, I could tell this was a process that would never come naturally to him.

“Perhaps you had better write first,” he said at length. He lifted his arm and consulted a solid gold Omega. “It is a little late for a call.”

“Look, buster,” I said, making my voice suddenly tough, “you may be a thing of beauty, but don’t kid yourself you’re a joy forever. Just call Miss Creedy and let her make her own decisions.”

He stared at me for a brief moment, surprise and alarm in his eyes, then he went into a room behind the counter and shut the door.

I took a cigarette from my pack and pasted it on my lower lip. I wondered if he were going to call the law. I’d look pretty sick if some ambitious cop rushed me down to headquarters on a charge of annoying the elite of St. Raphael City. But a couple of minutes later, he came out looking as if he had swallowed a bee. He indicated an automatic elevator across the way and said curtly, “Second floor. Apartment seven.” Then, tossing his blond curls, he turned his back on me.

I found apartment seven after walking down a long oak-panelled corridor. As I paused outside the front door, I could hear a radio playing something from Mozart. I pushed the bell button, and after a moment or so the door was opened by an elderly, pleasant-looking woman in a black silk dress and a frilled white apron.

“Mr. Brandon?”

“Yes.”

I surrendered my hat as I walked into a small hall, which was furnished with an oval-shaped table on which stood a silver bowl of orchids.

The maid opened a door, said, “Mr. Brandon,” and stood aside for me to enter.

I walked into a big lounge, decorated in white and apricot. The walls and drapes and the leather lounging chairs were in apricot; the carpet and Miss Creedy were in white.

She stood by a big radiogram, looking towards me, slim and quite tall, with ash-blonde hair, the quality of spun silk. She was sensationally beautiful in the classic tradition and her eyes were the colour and seemed to have the same texture as those giant mauve-black pansies you see from time to time at the better flower shows.

She was high-breasted, long-legged, with hips that had curve and just the right weight. She was wearing a white evening gown with a plunging neckline, and around her throat was a string of diamonds that had probably been given to her on her twenty—first anniversary and must have set old man Creedy’s bank balance back quite a long way.

She wore elbow-length gloves, and around one wrist was a diamond-and-platinum watch, and on her little finger, worn over the glove, was a long flat ruby set in a thin gold hoop.

She looked what she was: every inch a multi-millionaire’s daughter. All in all I could understand why Mrs. Creedy had found her hard to compete with. She must have flung her bonnet over the roof when this young woman had packed her bags and left home.

“I would be glad if you would excuse me for making such a late call, Miss Creedy,” I said. “I wouldn’t be troubling you only my business is urgent.”

She gave me a small smile. It was neither friendly nor hostile: a hostess welcoming a stranger in her home, a show of good manners; no more, no less.

“Has it something to do with my father?”

“Well, no: remotely perhaps, but to be honest I didn’t think you would see me unless I mentioned your father’s name.” I gave her a boyish smile, but it made no impression.

She was now looking straight at me and her dark eyes had a disconcerting directness. “I am head of the Star Inquiry Agency,” I went on. “I’m hoping you might be willing to help me.”

She stiffened a little and frowned. Although she looked severe, she still managed to look beautiful.

“You mean you are a private detective?”

“That is right. I am working on a case and you could help me, Miss Creedy.”

I could see she was beginning to freeze.

“Help you? I really don’t know what you mean. Why should I help you?” The freeze was now in her voice.

“No reason at all except some people don’t mind helping others now and then.” I tried the boyish smile again, but still with no results. “This business might interest you if you will let me tell you about it.”

She hesitated, then she waved to a chair.

“Well, all right,” she said. “Perhaps you had better sit down.”