James Chase - The Guilty Are Afraid

“Yes, I suppose I will.”

“This is a little off the beaten track, isn’t it?” I said, as the car bumped over the uneven road. Palm trees on either side blocked out the moon and there was only darkness each side of the headlight beams.

She opened her bag and took out a cigarette and lit it.

“That’s why I wanted it. If you had lived in this town as long as I have, you would welcome a little seclusion. Don’t you like being alone?”

Thinking of a possible visit from Hertz and his thugs, I said with reservation, “Within reason.”

We drove for a quarter of a mile in silence, then the headlights picked out a squat bungalow within twenty yards of the sea.

“Here we are.”

I pulled up.

“Have you a flashlight?” she asked. “We’ll need it until I can find the light switch.”

I got a big flashlight out of the door pocket. We both got out and together we walked up the path to the bungalow’s door.

The moon was brilliant and I could see a mile-long strip of empty sand, palm trees and the sea. In the distance I could see lights of a house that was built up on a rocky hill, projecting into the sea.

“What’s out there?” I asked as Margot opened her bag and hunted for the door key.

“That’s Arrow Point.”

“Those lights from Hahn’s place?”

“Yes.”

She found the key, pushed it into the lock and turned it. The door swung open. She groped, and then a light sprang up on a big luxuriously furnished lounge with a small cocktail bar in the distant corner, a radiogram and television combination, plenty of comfortable lounging chairs, a three-foot wide padded window seat that ran the length of one of the walls and a blue and white mosaic floor.

“This is quite something,” I said, walking in and pausing in the middle of the big room to look around. “Are you sure you mean me to move in here?”

She walked over to the double french doors and threw them open. She touched a light switch and lights came up on a thirty-foot long terrace that had a magnificent view of the sea and the distant lights of St. Raphael.

“Do you like it?”

She came back to stand in the doorway and she again gave me her small bewitching smile. Just to look at her got my blood running around in my veins like a car on a roller coaster.

“It’s terrific.”

I was looking at the bar. There was an assortment of bottles on the shelves. It seemed to me there was every drink you could want there.

“Are those bottles the property of your dad or are they yours?”

“They’re his. I took them from the house. Four bottles at a time.” She smiled. “He has everything. I don’t see why I shouldn’t help myself sometimes, do you?”

She went behind the bar, opened the door of a refrigerator and took out a bottle of champagne.

“Let’s celebrate,” she said. “Here, you open it. I’ll get the glasses.”

She went out of the lounge. I broke the wire around the cork of the bottle and, as she returned with two champagne glasses on a tray, I eased the cork out. I poured the wine and we touched glasses.

“What do we celebrate?” I asked.

“Our meeting,” she said, her eyes sparkling at me. “You’re the first man I’ve met who doesn’t care if I’m rich or poor.”

“Now wait a minute . . . what makes you think that?”

She drank the champagne and flourished the empty glass.

“I can tell. Now go and look at your new home and tell me what you think of it.”

I put my glass down.

“Where do I begin?”

“The bedroom is through there to the left.”

We looked at each other. There was an expression in her eyes that could have meant anything.

I went to look at the bedroom, finding I was a little short of breath. I told myself I was letting my imagination run away with me, but the feeling that she wasn’t here merely to show me the bungalow persisted.

It was a nice bedroom: a double bed, closets and a mosaic floor. The closets were full of her clothes. The room was decorated in pale green and fawn.

The bathroom was right next door and looked as if it had been built for a Cecil B. de Mille movie with a sunken bath and a shower cabinet in pale blue and black.

I returned to the lounge.

Margot was lying full length on the window seat, her head supported by two cushions. She was staring out across the expanse of moonlit sea.

“Do you like it?” she asked, without looking at me.

“Yes. Are you quite sure you want me to have it?”

“Why not? I don’t use it now.”

“You have your things here still.”

“There’s nothing I want immediately. I’m a little bored with them. Later, I’ll use them again. I like giving clothes a rest. There’s plenty of room for your things.”

I sat in a lounging chair by her. Having her alone in this bungalow gave me a feeling of acute excitement. She turned her head and looked at me, then she said, “Are you making any progress with your murder?”

“I don’t think I am, but you can’t expect me to keep my mind on my job with this sort of thing happening to me, can you?”

“What is happening to you?”

“This—the bungalow. And, of course, you. . .”

“Am I so disturbing then?”

“You could be. You are.”

She looked at me.

“But then so are you.”

There was a long pause, then she swung her long legs off the window seat.

“I’m going to have a swim. Coming?”

“Why sure.” I got up. “I’ll get my bag. It’s in the car.”

Leaving her, I went out into the darkness, got my bag out of the car and came back.

I carried the bag into the bedroom where I found her standing before the full—length mirror. She had taken off her dress and she had on now a white negligée. She was looking at herself, her hands lifting her hair off her shoulders.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said, setting down the bag. “I’ll do it for you.”

She turned slowly. There was that look in her eyes I’ve seen from time to time in the eyes of a woman who is making a proposal.

“You think I’m beautiful?”

“More than that.”

I felt myself sliding over the edge. I made a poor attempt to stop this from developing into something I could be sorry about in the morning, by saying, “Maybe we’d better skip the swim and I’ll take you home.” I was aware of feeling suddenly short of breath. “We might be sorry. . .”

She shook her head.

“Don’t say that. I’m never sorry for anything I do.” Still looking at me, she walked slowly towards me.

II

Give me a cigarette,” Margot said from out of the darkness. I reached for my pack on the bedside table, shook one out, gave it to her, then flicked my lighter alight. In the tiny flame, I could see her with her golden head resting on the pillow. There was a relaxed, peaceful expression on her face and she looked at me, our eyes meeting above the flame and she smiled.

I snapped out the flame, and all I could see of her was the faint outline of her nose as she drew on the cigarette, making the spark burn redly.

“I wonder what you think of me?” she said out of the darkness. “I don’t want to make any excuses. I’m not all that free and easy, but sometimes it happens, and then it’s a must. The moment I saw you I felt something I haven’t felt for months, and this is the result. I don’t expect you to believe me, but it’s true. One of those mad, uncontrolled impulses, and I am shamelessly glad.” She reached out her hand and took mine. “I want to say you are nicer than I hoped you would be, and a better lover than I dreamed you would be.”

I was still pretty confused and surprised at the sudden way this had happened. Her words pleased me, but at the same time I was aware that I had fallen for her too easily. I had imagined I had got beyond the point where I could be swept off my feet. It disturbed me to know I hadn’t. I lifted myself on my arm and bent over and kissed her.