James Chase: The Guilty Are Afraid

I took out my handkerchief and wiped my face.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” I said. “You certainly made me hit the ceiling. I thought my last hour had come.”

“I’m so sorry. I’ve been asleep. I woke up just in time to see the light go off. I thought it might be you, but I was afraid to call out just in case it wasn’t. So I crept to the door to listen. When you called out in that awful voice, you terrified me.”

“That makes two of us.”

She came swiftly to me and slid her arms around my neck. The feel of her soft, yielding body against mine set my heart hammering. My hands moved down the length of her long back, over the curve of her hips and I pulled her close to me.

“Kiss me, Lew. . .”

My mouth found hers and she moaned softly, pressing herself against me.

“Oh, darling. . .”

It needed a lot of will power to push her away, but I did it.

“Get into bed, Margot,” I said. “You’ll catch cold. . .”

She put her head on one side as she looked at me. Her face was slightly flushed, her lips were parted and there was that look in her eyes I had seen before. She looked the most devastatingly desirable woman in the world.

“I won’t catch cold, but I’ll go back to bed. And you?”

“What do you think? Let me have a shower first. Then I’ll be right with you.”

“Oh, Lew, you haven’t told me . . . what happened? Why did the police . . .?”

I lifted her and carried her across the lounge and into the bedroom. There was an impression where her head had lain on the pillow and the sheet had been thrown back as she had slid out of bed. I laid her on the bed, covered her with the sheet and looked down at her. I thought how beautiful she looked.

“The police? I have orders to get out of town right away,” I said. “They think I’m getting too close to Sheppey’s killer, Margot.”

Her dark eyes opened wide and she reached out and touched my face.

“You’re going away, Lew?”

“I guess so. It won’t be healthy to stay, but before I go I’m going to close up at least one racket here. I’ve found out what that match-folder means.”

“You have? What does it mean then?”

I sat on the side of the bed and took her hands in mine.

“The matches are drug vouchers.”

“Drug vouchers? What do you mean?”

She stared up at me: her eyes puzzled.

“It’s simple enough. Cordez and Hahn are dope peddlers. They are well known to the Narcotic Squad and they are being constantly watched. They’ve already served a sentence for drug smuggling, and they know their next sentence will be for life. They entered into partnership and worked out what seemed to them to be a safe scheme. This is what they did: they moved into one of the richest cities in the country. They got financial backing to open a club and to open a ceramic shop: both legitimate businesses. The Narcotic Squad investigated and found nothing suspicious. Hahn and Cordez were watched, but they didn’t meet nor did they appear to have any association of any kind together. But, of course, they were still in the drug trade together and this is how they worked it: Hahn got the drugs and Cordez supplied the customers. A lot of rich people used Cordez’s club; some of them wanted to buy drugs. Cordez sold them a folder of matches. They then went over to Hahn’s place—safe enough because there’s always a steady flow of people going in and out—and in exchange for a match, the customer received so many ounces of drug. Hahn returned the matches to Cordez who then paid him his share of the take. In this way everyone is happy and safe. Cordez gets the money, the customer his regular supply of drugs and Hahn gets paid for supplying the drugs.”

“It’s fantastic, Lew.”

“Not all that fantastic. Drug operating is a tough racket, Margot. The Narcotic Squad knows nearly all the answers. A successful peddler has to be one jump ahead all the time, and Cordez and Hahn were one jump ahead with this idea until now. Hahn’s place is ideally situated to receive supplies of drugs. A boat can come in at night and no one would be any the wiser. Well, there it is. I’ll bet my last buck that’s the mystery of the match-folder.”

I reached in my hip pocket and took the folder out. “Each customer probably has a different set of ciphers so he or she can be identified. If the folder is lost, no one else can use it. It is like a season ticket to hell. Sheppey got hold of one of these folders. That’s why he was killed and that’s why his room and mine were searched.”

“Then Jacques took drugs?” Margot asked, staring at me.

“It’s possible. Anyway, he knew about the folder. When I set fire to a match he nearly gave himself away. He knew I was throwing away so many ounces of drugs.”

I put the folder back into my hip pocket. “Well, tomorrow finishes it. I’m turning the folder over to the Los Angeles Narcotic Squad, and they’ll handle it.”

“And then you’ll go away?” she said, her hand closing over mine. “I don’t want you to go, Lew.”

I smiled at her.

“I can’t stay here. I have my work to do in Frisco. That’s where my roots are. What’s to stop you coming to Frisco?”

“Daddy, of course. He wouldn’t let me.”

I stood up.

“You know what the trouble with you is, don’t you? You want your fun and your dollars. Think about it. It might be an idea for you to forget your old man and see what it’s like to earn your own living.”

She lay back, her eyes suddenly bright and inviting.

“I might try, darling, but what about that shower you said you wanted to take?”

“I’ll be right with you.”

I stripped off my coat, slid out of my trousers and shirt and dropped them on a chair, then, clad only in my shorts, I went into the bathroom. I closed the door, turned on the shower and stood by the door, my heart beginning to thump.

I waited for perhaps ten seconds, then I took hold of the door handle and turned it very gently. I inched the door open so I could see into the bedroom.

Margot was out of bed, standing by the chair on which I had thrown my clothes. Her hand was in the hip pocket of my trousers and, as I watched her, she took out the folder of matches. There was an expression of terror and relief on her face that made me feel pretty bad.

I reached out, cut the shower, opened the door wide and moved into the bedroom.

Margot spun around, her eyes widening, and she caught her breath in a tight little scream.

I didn’t even look at her. I walked across to the bed and caught hold of the pillow that still held the impression of her head. I jerked it on to the floor.

Lying on the sheet where the pillow had hidden it was a yellow-handled icepick.

II

In a silence I could almost feel, I looked over at Margot, who stood as if turned to stone, the folder of matches in her hand, her eyes enormous.

“Did you really imagine you could get away with it, Margot?” I said. “Did you really imagine it would be third time lucky?”

Her lips moved, but no words came.

I picked up the icepick and turned it over in my fingers. The point of the blade had been filed and it looked as sharp as a needle. A little chill snaked up my spine as I realized what a close escape I had had.

“You were good, but not quite good enough,” I said, watching her. “As an actress you were superb, but you were only a second-rate liar. You were doing fine until you tried to sell me the idea that Thrisby owned the match-folder. That dinner you described never took place. Thrisby was fooling around with a new girlfriend on that particular night and Bridgette was up at his house. That was a clumsy lie, Margot, and it led me right to you.”

She sat down abruptly and hid her face in her hands.