James Chase: The Guilty Are Afraid

“Creedy’s got one of his stooges watching the place,” Rankin said. “The stooge called him, told him he’d seen you go in and Creedy called Katchen and told him to slap a breaking and entering charge on you. He told him to scare you silly, give you the treatment and then run you out of town. We just missed you and found Thrisby. Katchen decided to scare you with a murder charge.”

“Not giving a damn who really killed Thrisby?”

Rankin shrugged.

“Oh, he’ll get around to it in his own time,” he said indifferently.

“Didn’t the stooge see the killer?”

“No. He only comes on duty at night.” He took Bridgette’s gun from his pocket and turned it over in his hand. “This the gun that killed Thrisby?”

“Yes.”

“Did she kill him?”

“You’d better ask her. I’d say no.”

“You don’t ask Creedy’s wife questions like that. You don’t ask Creedy’s wife any questions come to that if you want to keep your job in this town.”

“No man should have that amount of power. So Creedy has done a deal with Judge Harrison?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t so hard. The Judge hasn’t a dime to call his own and an extravagant wife. Creedy paid him off so he’s ready to pull out of the political racket. It’ll be in the newspapers tomorrow.”

“The Courier will be pleased.”

“Nothing they can do about it. You can drive back to the bungalow. Then you’d better pack, take your car and beat it.”

“I’m not ready to go yet,” I said, coming off the mountain road on to Franklyn Boulevard. “I’m leaving when I’ve cleared up Sheppey’s death and not before.”

“You’d better clear off tonight, Brandon. Katchen has given orders about you. If you’re not out of town within two hours you’ll be in trouble. Katchen’s prowl boys are expert at staging an accident. You could lose a leg in the kind of smash they can manufacture.”

I stared at him.

“Are you kidding?”

“I’ve never spoken a truer word,” he said soberly. “Be out of St. Raphael within two hours or you’ll be a hospital case. There’s nothing you can do about it. These boys come up on you so fast: we have thirty prowl cars in this town, and any one of them could nail you. Just don’t kid yourself. You wouldn’t have a chance for a kick back. You’d be lucky to survive. They are professionals at the job.”

I thought about that while we bumped over the uneven road that led to the bungalow.

As I pulled up and got out of the car, I said, “You want that gun, Lieutenant? I might be able to make use of it whereas you possibly won’t.”

“You still after Creedy?” Rankin asked, turning his head to look at me.

“I’m after Sheppey’s killer. The gun could have a connection. I’ll let you have it back.”

He hesitated then shrugged.

“Okay: it’s not much use to me. Katchen would lose it as soon as he found out it belongs to Mrs. Creedy.”

“Well, thanks, Lieutenant. You’ve been quite a pal. Here’s hoping you will get your promotion,” and I offered my hand.

He shook hands, gave me the gun, then slid under the driving wheel.

“You can’t buck this system, Brandon,” he said seriously, looking at me through the car window. “These punks are too big, too strong and too well organized for a loner to tackle them. I know. I’ve given up trying. Get out fast and stay out.”

He nodded, then U-turned and drove rapidly away into the darkness.

II

As I turned towards the bungalow I saw the headlights of a car coming fast down the rough road. Rankin’s car swerved aside and the other car passed it, and came on towards me.

I put Bridgette’s gun into my empty shoulder holster and waited. I was suddenly tired, the muscles in my stomach ached dully from Katchen’s punch and I didn’t feel like anything now except some sleep.

The car pulled up and a tall, thin man got out. He came over to me. I couldn’t see much of him in the moonlight except he seemed reasonably young and he was wearing a slouch hat at the back of his head.

“Mr. Brandon?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Frank Hepple of the Courier. Mr. Troy told me to contact you. Is it too late for a talk?”

It was too late and I didn’t feel like talking, but Troy had said this guy was good and I needed help so I said for him to come on in.

“How did you know I was here?” I asked, as we walked over the sand towards the bungalow.

“I called Lieutenant Rankin this afternoon and he told me,” Hepple said. “I’ve got something for you. I thought I’d better get out here and let you have it right away.”

The bungalow was silent, and there was a feeling of emptiness about it. I could smell Margot’s perfume that still hung in the hot, stale air. I thumbed down the switch and led the way into the lounge, turning on the lights as I entered.

The clock on the mantelpiece showed twenty minutes past eleven. I thought a little sourly that if Rankin hadn’t come to drag me to Thrisby’s place, I would be lying in Margot’s arms by now.

I went over to the bar, found a full bottle of Vat 69 and I made two large highballs. I carried the drinks to a table and then sat down.

I looked over at Hepple, who was standing with his back to the fireplace, watching me.

He was around thirty, with a thin, pleasant face, shrewd eyes and a jutting jaw. He looked the kind of man that would want a lot of stopping once he got going.

“Help yourself,” I said, waving to the glasses, then I put my hands on my aching stomach and tried to relax.

He came over and picked up one of the glasses, took a long drink, then as I reached for my glass he said, “Mr. Troy told me to take a look at Hahn. I’ve been digging into his past and I’ve struck gold.”

“In what way?”

“I went out to his place and asked him if he’d give me an interview,” Hepple said. “He jumped at the chance of getting some free publicity. Make no mistake about this guy. He’s an artist and he knows his stuff. I persuaded him to do me a rough model in clay, and he let me take the model away. It was only a rough thing, but on it was a perfect set of his fingerprints.” Hepple grinned at me, delighted with his strategy. “This morning I took the model to the F.B.I. headquarters in Los Angeles. They checked the prints and out came the story.” He picked up his drink, took another pull at it and waved the glass excitedly. “Hahn’s real name is Jack Bradshaw. He served two years for drug smuggling back in 1941. When he came out, he went to Mexico and the F.B.I. lost sight of him. He turned up again four years later and was caught crossing the border with two suitcases loaded with heroin. This time he drew eight years. When he came out, the F.B.I. kept tabs on him, but this time he seems to have settled down and become legitimate. They know all about his School of Ceramics and they have even looked the place over, but they say there is something shady going on there.” He leaned forward and pointed a finger at me. “Now this is the part that’s going to interest you. While Hahn was serving his last sentence, he palled up with a guy called Juan Tuarmez, who was another drug operator. They left jail together. I had a hunch about Tuarmez and got the F.B.I. to show me his photograph, and guess who?”

“Cordez?”

Hepple nodded.

“That’s right: Cordez of the Musketeer Club. How do you like that?”

“Does the F.B.I. know he’s here?”

“Oh, sure, but there’s nothing they can do about that. He’s served his sentence and on the face of it, he’s running a successful club. They drop in every now and then and take a look around, but they are satisfied he isn’t up to his old tricks.”

“Do they wonder where the money came from to start the club?”