James Chase - The Guilty Are Afraid

My eyes shifted to the snakeback road below me: the road on which I had come up, leading from Franklyn Boulevard.

In the mid-morning heat of the sun the white road was deserted of traffic. I seemed to be the only one using the road, and it gave me a feeling of isolation to be up here, looking down at this rich, gangster-ridden town.

I hunched my shoulders, then started the engine, shifted into drive and continued on my way up the twisting road.

II

The White Chateau was at the end of a side road that cut sharply away from the mountain road and went down three hundred yards to an open tarmac just wide enough for a car to turn. There was a freshly painted sign at the head of the road announcing this was a private road and parking was forbidden.

There was a convertible Cadillac standing on the tarmac; a glossy thing of pale blue with dark blue nylon upholstery and glittering chromium. I parked the Buick beside it, got out and looked towards the house. It was screened by flowering shrubs and palm trees. I could just see the overhanging roof of green tiles but no more.

I walked to the wooden gate on which was written the name of the house. I pushed open the gate and walked up a path bordered on either side by a neatly clipped hedge, then I came to a stretch of lawn and to the house. It was a small, chalet type of building with green shutters, white walls, a wide verandah, window boxes with begonias in them under each window and a bright creeper climbing over the front entrance with a red and white, bell-shaped flower I had never seen before.

French doors stood open on to the verandah. A Siamese cat lay in the sun on the balustrade of the terrace. It lifted its head and its blue eyes stared without interest in my direction, then it laid its head once more on the hot stone and went off into its Valhalla of dreams. I walked across the lawn and up on to the verandah. The front door was to my left: a green, neat affair with chromium fitments and a pull-down bell.

As I moved towards it, a man’s voice, coming from the open french doors said, “Well, if you don’t want a drink, I do.”

I paused.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t start drinking now, Jacques,” a woman said. “I want to talk to you.”

“And that, darling, is exactly why I must have a drink. Do you imagine I can sit here listening to you unless I do have a drink? Be reasonable, please.”

“You’re a bit of a swine, Jacques.”

The note in the woman’s voice was ugly to hear. I moved quietly along the hot verandah and paused just outside the french doors.

“I suppose I could be called that, but it shouldn’t bother you, my pet,” the man said lightly. “You should be used to swine by now, surely.”

The sound of a siphon hissing told me he was mixing a drink. I moved another few inches closer and that allowed me to get a sight of the room.

It seemed, from where I stood, the room was over large. There was a pale blue fitted carpet on the floor and the furniture was of light oak. There were plenty of lounging chairs and two enormous settees.

Sitting in one of the lounging chairs was a woman of around thirty-six or seven. She had silky hair dyed a warm apricot colour, and she was beautiful in the way movie stars are beautiful without character in the face that gives interest. She was wearing a bikini swimsuit that revealed a lot of suntanned flesh, just going a little soft and losing its first elasticity of youth. She was stacked well enough, but it wasn’t the kind of body that made me want to look twice: maybe ten years ago it would have done, but not now.

She was wearing open-work sandals and her toenails were painted silver. She wore white coral earrings and a white coral choker around her suntanned throat. I didn’t have to guess who she was. I immediately recognized her. This would be Bridgette Creedy, ex-movie actress, Lee Creedy’s wife.

Jacques Thrisby moved into sight. He was just what I expected him to be. A big hunk of glamorous beef, heavily suntanned with dark curly hair, blue eyes, a hairline moustache and a handsome face. He was wearing a white singlet, dark red shorts and sandals. In his right hand he carried a highball and between his full, sensual lips hung a cigarette.

“Where were you last night, Jacques?” Bridgette asked, looking at him, her face set and hostile.

“My dear pet, how many more times? I told you: I was right here watching the fights on T.V.”

“I waited two hours for you at the club.”

“I know. You’ve already said that at least five times. I’ve said I’m sorry. Do you want me to pour ashes on my head? Our date wasn’t definite. I simply forgot.”

“Our date was definite, Jacques. I telephoned you and you said you would be there.”

He drank from his glass and put the glass down on an occasional table.

“Yes, you are quite right. You did telephone and I still forgot. I’m still sorry.” He yawned, putting his hand before his mouth. “Must we go over all this again?”

“You weren’t watching the fights, Jacques. I telephoned here and there was no answer.”

“I don’t always answer the telephone, Bridgette, darling. It’s so easy for some bore to trap me on the telephone. I heard the bell and I didn’t answer it.”

Her nostrils flared out.

“Am I a bore then?”

He smiled.

“You mustn’t jump to conclusions. You know as well as I do how easy it is for some bore to call up and trap you.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

He studied her, his smile remaining fixed, a meaningless thing.

“You are being a bore right now, darling,” he said at last. “I have told you what happened last night. I was here watching the fights. I heard the telephone bell ring I ignored it, and when the fights were over, I went to bed. I just forgot our date, and I’m very, very, very sorry.”

She sat up abruptly in her chair: her eyes smouldering.

“You’re lying! You weren’t here! I came out here and found the place in darkness and your car wasn’t in the garage. How dare you lie to me! What were you doing?”

His fixed smile suddenly went away and his face hardened. He was no longer the handsome playboy. The smooth veneer of his polish suddenly slid off him, showing the hard, unscrupulous man that lay below the surface.

“So you came out here, did you? Just how cheap are you going to make yourself, my pet? First, you hire a private dick to watch me, then when he gets murdered, you do your own spying. I’ve had enough of this. Let’s cut it out, shall we? I’m fed to the teeth if I may say so with all of it.”

She placed her silver-tipped fingers on her bare knees and squeezed. Her long thin fingers looked like claws.

“Who was the woman?”

He finished his drink and stubbed out his cigarette.

“I guess that will be all for today,” he said. “I’ve things to do even if you haven’t. So let’s break it up, shall we?”

“Was it Margot?” The hate in her voice was ugly to hear. “Have you started with her again?”

“Just because Margot is better looking than you and at least ten years younger, it doesn’t follow she means anything to me,” he said. “Between you and me, I find the Creedy women a drug on the market right now.” His smile widened. “If the truth must be told they are both oversexed, too possessive and utter bores. Now, would you mind very much running along, my pet? I have a lunch date.”

“It was Margot, wasn’t it? She’s still in love with you, isn’t she? She’s determined to take you away from me,”

Bridgette said, her voice shaking.

“Look, don’t let’s have a scene,” Thrisby said, and he moved out of my view. I heard the sound of a cork being twisted from a bottle. “Will you please go away now Bridgette?”