James Chase - The Guilty Are Afraid

It was in disorder. The closet doors stood open. Clothes had been bundled on to the floor. The drawers of the chest hung open: shirts, socks, ties, collars and scarves spilled out of the drawers.

Stiff-legged, I walked over to the bed.

The cat spat at me as I came and crouched down; its eyes wide. I reached out and touched Thrisby’s hand. It was hard and cold: at a guess, he had been dead five to six hours.

As I stood over him, my foot kicked against something, lying just under the bed: something hard. I bent, pushed aside the sheet and lifted into sight a .38 automatic. It was the gun I had returned to Bridgette Creedy. I was sure of that, but to make absolutely certain, I carried it over to one of the lamps and looked for the serial number.

I found it under the barrel: 4557993.

I slid out the magazine. Four shots had been fired: at least two of them had been fatal.

I stood for a moment, thinking. The whole set-up was a little too good to be true. Why leave the gun where the police would find it? I thought. Bridgette would know the police would have the serial number logged. I tossed the gun from hand to hand, frowning. Too pat, I kept thinking; then on a sudden impulse I dropped the gun into my pocket, crossed the room, turned off the lights and walked down the stairs.

I went into the lounge. Crossing over to where the telephone stood on the bar, I dialled Creedy’s number.

As I waited for a connection I glanced at my watch.

The time was a quarter to ten.

Hilton’s voice came over the line.

“This is Mr. Creedy’s residence.”

“Connect me with Mrs. Creedy.”

“I’ll put you through to her secretary if you will hold on, sir.”

A few clicks, then the cool, efficient voice I now recognized said, “Who is calling, please?”

“This is Lew Brandon. Is Mrs. Creedy there?”

“Yes, but I don’t think she will speak to you, Mr. Brandon.”

“She’s got to speak to me,” I said, “and I’m not fooling. Put me through to her.”

“I can’t do that. Will you hold on? I’ll ask if she will come to the telephone.”

Before I could stop her, she went off the line. I waited, holding the receiver against my ear with unnecessary pressure.

After a long pause, she came back on the line.

“I ‘m sorry, Mr. Brandon, but Mrs. Creedy says she doesn’t wish to talk to you.”

I felt my mouth form into a mirthless smile.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to, but she’s got to. Tell her an old friend of hers has just died. Someone shot him in the back and the law could be on its way to talk to her.”

I heard a faint gasp over the line.

“What was that?”

“Look, give me Mrs. Creedy. She can’t afford not to talk to me.”

There was another long pause, then there was a click on the line and Bridgette Creedy said, “If I have any further trouble from you, I’m going to speak to my husband.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “He’ll love it. If that’s the way you feel about it, you’d better speak to him now because you’re heading for a whale of a lot of trouble and it’s not of my making. Right at this moment, Jacques Thrisby is lying on his bed with a .38 automatic slug in him. He’s as dead as your last year’s tax return and your .38 automatic is right by his side.”

I heard her draw in a long, shuddering breath.

“You’re lying!”

“Okay, if you think I’m lying, sit tight and wait until the law descends on you,” I said. “I couldn’t care less. I’m sticking my neck out calling you. I should be calling the cops.”

There was a long pause. I listened to the hum on the line and to her quick, frightened breathing, then she said, “Is he really dead?”

“Yeah; he’s dead all right. Now listen, where were you between five and six this evening?”

“I was here in my room.”

“Anyone see you?”

“No. I was alone.”

“Didn’t your secretary see you?”

“She was out.”

“What did you do with the gun I gave you?”

“I put it away in a drawer in my bedroom.”

“Who could have got at it?”

“I don’t know—anyone. I just left it there.”

“Did anyone come to see you?”

“No.”

I stared at the wall, frowning, then I said, “I don’t know why I’m doing this for you, but I’m taking the gun away. They might be able to trace the gun through the bullet; if they do, you’ll be in trouble, but there’s a chance they won’t. I think someone is framing you for Thrisby’s murder, but I could be wrong. Sit tight and pray. You have a chance of sliding out of this, but not much of one.”

Before she could say anything I dropped the receiver back on to its cradle.

Then I turned out the lights in the lounge, lit my way to the french doors with the aid of my flashlight, pulled them shut behind me and then walked quickly down the path, through the gateway up the road to where I had left the Buick.

No cars passed me as I started down the mountain road. I could see the bright lights of St. Raphael City every time I turned into a bend: it looked deceptively lovely.

It was nudging ten-fifteen when I pulled up outside the dark, quiet bungalow. As I got out of the car I saw a convertible Cadillac standing under the palm trees, its lights out. I stared at it for a moment, then walked up the steps leading to the front entrance of the bungalow, took out my keys, then, on second thoughts, turned the handle first. The door swung open and I stepped into the dark hall.

I thumbed down the light switch and stood listening, my hand on my gun butt.

For a long moment there was silence, then Margot said out of the darkness, “Is that you Lew?”

“What are you doing in there in the dark?” I said, moving to the doorway.

The light from the hall made enough light for me to see her shadowy outline. She was lying on the long window seat, her head outlined against the moonlit window.

“I came early,” she said. “I like to lie in the moonlight. Don’t put on the light, Lew.”

I stepped away from the doorway and shed the two guns. I slid them into the drawer of the hallstand that stood just by the front door, then I took off my hat and dropped it on to the hall chair.

I walked into the lounge, picked my way past the various pieces of furniture until I reached her.

From what I could see of her, she was wearing only a dark silk wrap. I could see her bare knee through the opening of the wrap. She reached out her hand.

“Come and sit down, Lew,” she said. “It’s so lovely here, isn’t it? Look at the sea and the patterns of the moonlight.”

I sat down, but I didn’t take her hand. Thrisby’s face still haunted me. It spoilt the mood for intimacy.

She was quick to sense that. “What is it, darling? Is there something wrong?”

“Margot. . . .” I paused, then went on. “You were once in love with Thrisby, weren’t you?”

I felt her stiffen. Her hand dropped to her side.

“Yes,” she said after a long hesitation. “I was once. It was one of those inexplicable things. I think I fell for his vitality and his colossal conceit. It didn’t last long, thank goodness. I’ll never forgive myself for being such a fool.”

“We all do things we regret,” I said, and groping for a cigarette, I lit it. In the light of my lighter I saw she had raised her head from the cushions and was staring at me, her eyes wide.

“Something has happened, hasn’t it? You’ve been out there? Something has happened to Jacques?”

“Yes. He’s dead. Someone shot him.”

She dropped back on to the cushion and covered her face with her hands.

“Dead?” She gave a strangled little moan. “Oh, Lew! I know he treated me shamefully, but there was something about him . . .” She lay still, breathing quickly, while I stared out of the window. The only light coming between us was from the red glow of my cigarette. Then she said, “It was Bridgette, of course.”