James Chase - The Guilty Are Afraid

Against the white sand and with the moonlight, I would be in sight for miles.

I had covered about five hundred yards when I heard the siren come to a wailing stop. This was the time for a spurt, but running through the soft yielding sand was tougher than I had imagined. I was beginning to pant and my legs were aching. I made my spurt, but it was nothing to get excited about.

It was then that I saw the beach sloped sharply to the sea, making a razorback in the form of a long sand dune.

In a few seconds the cops would have left their car and be down on the beach, and then the fun would start. If I could get on the lower level of the beach before they spotted me I would be out of their sight.

I turned and legged it for the top of the dune, running as I had never run before. Reaching the top, I dived head first down the slope, arriving nearly to the edge of the sea in a cloud of dry sand.

There had been no shout to tell me if I had been seen.

For a moment I lay still, gasping air into my lungs. Then I got to my feet and, bending low, I climbed back until I could just see over the top of the dune.

I looked towards the cabins.

Standing in the moonlight was a patrolman, his back turned to me. The door leading into the cabin where the dead girl was stood open, and as I watched another cop came out. He joined his companion, and they talked for a few moments, then the one who had been waiting outside started to run back to the promenade.

It would only be a matter of a few minutes before the whole beach would be crawling with the law. I didn’t have to be told what would happen to me if they found me.

Captain Katchen would know what to do with a gift like me. He had already told me what to expect. Even if he didn’t ride me into the gas chamber, I’d be in his hands for weeks, and that was something I was going to avoid if I could.

Keeping below the top of the ridge, I started to run again.

By the time I had put a mile between me and the row of cabins, I was pretty near bushed, but I was now far enough away to strike back inland, knowing I wasn’t likely to be seen.

I walked across the sand, trying to control my labored breathing. A flight of steps took me up on to the promenade.

A few courting couples were dotted along the front, sitting under the palm trees: too busy with their own affairs to notice me. I crossed the road and then began to walk back to where I had left my car.

It took me close on ten minutes to draw level with the entrance to the bathing station. By that time there was a big crowd, blocking the road, gaping as crowds will gape. I saw three police cars parked along the kerb.

This was only the beginning. Two murders in one day at the same place was a sensation that would really pack the crowd in once the news got around.

As I stood there watching, four more police cars came tearing up. I saw Lieutenant Rankin get out of one of them and hurry across the promenade towards the row of cabins.

I felt I could leave him in charge, and I legged it to my car and then drove along the back street at a steady clip until I reached the Adelphi Hotel.

I left the car in the hotel parking lot, got a duster from the glove compartment and wiped away all traces of sand I had picked up on the beach. Then I entered the hotel.

The time was now just after midnight.

The night clerk, an elderly man with the springy air of a jovial priest, smiled at me as he handed me my key. He said it was a fine night, and had I noticed the effect of the moon on the sea? He was just trying to be friendly, but I wasn’t in the mood. I grunted at him, took the key and headed for the elevator.

As I waited for the cage to come down, I heard the telephone bell on the desk ring. The night clerk answered it, then as the cage appeared and as I was about to get in, he called out, “Mr. Brandon, a call for you. Will you take it in your room or in the booth across the way?”

I said I’d take it in the booth.

Wondering who could be calling me, I went into the booth, shut the door and took the receiver off the cradle.

“Hello—yes?”

“Is that Mr. Brandon?”

A woman’s voice, clear, but low-pitched and familiar.

“Yes.”

“This is Margot Creedy.”

I pushed my hat to the back of my head and blew out my cheeks. How had she found out where I was staying, was the first thought that jumped into my mind.

“Glad to have you call me, Miss Creedy.”

“I am speaking from the Musketeer Club,” she said. “I looked in the visitors’ book. Mr. Sheppey’s name doesn’t appear in it.”

I was surprised, but not too surprised to say, “He could have used another name, of course.”

“I thought of that. The man on the door tells me no one with red hair has been to the club for months. He is very good at that sort of thing. If Mr. Sheppey had been to the club, he would have remembered him.”

I tried to recall if the newspaper account of the murder had mentioned that Jack had red hair. I decided it had been mentioned.

“So it looks as if he didn’t go there.”

“Why did you think he had?”

“I found a folder of matches from the club in his suitcase.”

“Someone, of course, could have given it to him.”

“Yes. Well, thank you for helping me, Miss Creedy. I really am very . . .”

The soft click over the line told me she had hung up. I stood for a long moment staring through the glass panel of the booth while I wondered why she had changed her mind about helping me, then I replaced the receiver, pushed open the booth door and walked over to the elevator.

So Jack hadn’t gone to the Musketeer Club. I saw no reason why I should doubt her word. Greaves had said it wasn’t likely. I had been through Sheppey’s things, and I knew he hadn’t brought a tuxedo down with him. He wouldn’t have got beyond the doorman without wearing a tuxedo if I was to believe what Greaves had said about the exclusiveness of the club.

Then where had the match-folder come from? Why had Jack kept it? He hadn’t a magpie mentality. He didn’t keep anything unless it was of some use.

I left the elevator, walked down the corridor, unlocked my bedroom door and entered the room. I shut and locked the door, chucked my hat on the bed and went over to Jack’s suitcase. I got the match-folder from the suitcase and then sat down in the armchair and took a closer look at the folder. It contained twenty-five tear off matches: each matchstick carried the name of the Musketeer Club. The inside back of the folder carried an advertisement for one of those arty pottery shops that spring up like mushrooms wherever there are tourists.

The advertisement ran:

You should not miss visiting

Marcus Hahn’s School of Ceramics

The Treasure House of Original Design.

The Chateau

Arrow Point

St. Raphael City.

I wondered why an advertisement so obviously aimed at the tourist trade should be displayed in a match-folder of an exclusive club that would not tolerate a tourist in any shape or form within its high-tone portals. I wondered if I were on to something or whether it was just one of those things.

I tore off one of the matches. On examining it I found printed on the back a row of ciphers: C451136. I bent back the other matches and saw they too were numbered and the numbers were consecutive up to C451160.

I wedged the loose match back into the folder, sat for several minutes wondering why the matches were thus numbered, then coming to no conclusion I put the match-folder into my wallet.

The time was now twenty minutes to one o’clock. It had been quite a day. There didn’t seem anything else for me to do now but to wait for the morning. With any luck the newspapers would tell me who the girl in the swim suit was. Until then, it seemed a good idea to go to bed.