James Chase - The Guilty Are Afraid

I sat for a long moment taking a look at what he had told me. This wasn’t anything new. It was happening in New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco and all over. In thirty-six hours I seemed to have moved a long way from Sheppey’s sudden death in a hot little bathing cabin to this. Had he found out something that might have put Cordez on a spot? Sheppey had been a good man with a nose for finding out things like that. I thought of the icepick that had been filed down to a razor-sharp point: a gangster’s weapon.

“I wanted you to get the picture,” Troy said. “That’s how it is. And another thing: watch this guy Holding. You can trust him the way you trust a rattlesnake: no more, no less. So long as you play it his way, he’ll be your friend, but move one step out of his way of thinking and you’ll wonder what’s hit you. So watch him.”

I said I would, then went on to tell him about the possible hookup between Creedy and Sheppey. I gave him all the facts and I also told him about the mysterious match holder.

“It’s my bet that Creedy hired Sheppey to do a job like watching his wife or something like that and Sheppey stumbled on something big that has nothing to do with Creedy,” I said. “I may be wrong, but I can’t imagine a man like Creedy having anyone killed.”

Troy shook his head.

“You’re right. He wouldn’t do that. He might have a guy beaten up if he got in his way, but killing would be out.” He leaned back in his chair. “This is quite a story, isn’t it? But there’s nothing yet we can print. With a little digging we might come up with a real humdinger.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got things to do, Mr. Brandon. I’ve got to get going. I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll turn young Hepple on to this set up. He’s one of my best men. You can use him when and how you like. He’s got a talent for nosing out information. Don’t be scared to work him hard, he thrives on it. He might dig into Hahn’s background for a start. I’ve always thought there was something fishy about that fella.”

“I’ll call him tomorrow and we’ll have a talk,” I said.

“Hepple did you say his name was?”

“That’s right: Frank Hepple.”

“I’ll call him.” I got to my feet. “You wouldn’t know anyone who is a member of the Musketeer Club, would you?”

“Me?” Troy laughed. “Not a chance.”

“I’d like to get in there and look around.”

“You haven’t a hope. Don’t kid yourself. No one goes in there unless he’s a member or a member takes him in.”

“Well, okay. We’ll keep in touch,” I said. “With any luck I’ll let you have something in a day or so.”

“If it’s anything about Creedy, it’s got to be solid facts: nothing else will do,” Troy said, leaning across his desk to stare at me. “I can’t afford a libel suit with him. He could put me out of business.”

“When I give you something on Creedy, it’ll be solid facts,” I said.

We shook hands and I left him.

At least now I felt I had someone I could rely on. It was a pretty comforting thought.

Chapter 8

I

I learned from a traffic cop that the Musketeer Club was on the top floor of the Ritz-Plaza Hotel, and this came as a surprise to me. I had imagined the club would be an ornate palace standing in its own grounds.

“You mean it’s just a collection of rooms on the top of a hotel?” I said. “I thought it was the Taj Mahal of this city.”

The cop took off his cap, wiped his forehead and squinted at me.

“Taj who?” he said. “What are you giving me, Mac?”

“I thought it was certain to have its own grounds and be a sort of palace.”

“I can’t help what you thought, can I? It’s way up on the twenty-fifth floor with a roof garden. But what are you worrying about? You’re not going up there, Mac. Me neither.”

I thanked him and went back to the Buick. I sat behind the wheel and thought for a few minutes. Then I remembered Greaves had said that at one time he had been a house dick at the Ritz-Plaza. It occurred to me he might have an idea as to how I could get into the club.

I drove to the nearest drug store and called him.

“I could use a little help if you can spare the time,” I said, listening to his heavy breathing coming over the line. “How about meeting me some place? I’ll buy you a beer.”

He said he would meet me in half an hour at Al’s Bar on 3rd Street.

I drove over to 3rd Street, left the car in a parking lot, found Al’s Bar and went in.

It was one of those intimate places with booths, and I took the end one against the wall, facing the entrance, and sat down. I ordered a beer and asked the barman if he had an evening paper I could look at.

He brought the beer and the paper.

There was an account of the inquest and a photograph of Rankin looking a little like Sherlock Holmes just after he’d given himself a shot in the arm. On the back page was a photograph of Thelma Cousins. The caption said the police were pursuing their inquiries concerning the second mysterious stabbing in a Bay Beach bathing station. While I was looking at the photograph, Greaves came in and spread his fat form on the bench seat opposite me.

After I had bought him a beer, I told him I was planning to gate-crash the Musketeer Club and had he any idea how I could do it.

He looked at me as if he thought I was crazy.

“You have as much chance of doing that as you have of gate-crashing the White House,” he said.

“I’m not convinced. I hear it’s on the top floor of the Ritz-Plaza. As you’ve worked in that hotel, you should know the layout of the club.”

Greaves swallowed half his beer, set down his glass and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

“That won’t help you. They have the whole of the top floor, and they have two private elevators. You go into the hotel, through the lobby, down a passage on the left.

At the far end there’s a grill guarded by a couple of guys who know all the answers. They damn well have to or they wouldn’t last five minutes. Unless they recognize you they don’t open the grill. It’s as simple as that. If they recognize you, they open up and you have to sign the book. Then you’re taken up in one of the elevators. What happens after that I wouldn’t know because I’ve never been up there. They wouldn’t recognize you so they wouldn’t open up. So skip it. You’re just wasting your time.”

“They have a restaurant up there?”

“Sure. It’s supposed to be the finest restaurant in the country. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never fed there. What’s that to do with it?”

“Don’t tell me they cart sides of beef and boxes of fish through the lobby of the hotel. I just won’t believe it.”

He rubbed his fat nose with the beer glass.

“Who said they did? They share the hotel’s goods entrance. It’s around the back, down an alley. It so happens the hotel has its kitchens on the tenth floor as the restaurant is up there. I don’t know what the club’s system is for delivering the stuff, but I’ve seen goods going up there and the guys who deliver the stuff go up with it.”

I smiled at him.

“I was hoping you’d say that. If I took a package up there I might get a chance to have a look around. You wouldn’t know any of the staff who could be persuaded to cooperate? I’d spring fifty bucks if I had to.”

Greaves thought for a long moment, then finished his beer before saying, “You’re sticking your neck out, but there was one guy I knew who worked there: Harry Bennauer. I don’t know if he’s still there. He was fourth barman or something like that. He was always right out of dough: a sporting man. I’ve never known a guy to bet the way he did. It wouldn’t surprise me if he mightn’t be willing to help.”