James Chase: The Guilty Are Afraid

I decided it was time to let him know I was more or less in the same line of business as he was. I took out my card and handed it to him.

“I’m not asking questions for the fun of it,” I said.

He read the card, frowned, rubbed his fat nose and handed the card back to me.

“Was he your partner?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve always wanted to get into your racket. There’s a lot more money in it than mine. How are you doing?”

“I can’t grumble until this happened. Now I’ll have to shut down until I find the killer.”

He stared at me.

“That’s police work. What do you think you can do?”

“It’d look good, wouldn’t it, if I went back to Frisco and carried on as if nothing had happened? What sort of advertisement would it be if I didn’t do something towards tracing the killer? Besides, Jack was my best friend. I couldn’t sit still and let the police handle it.”

Greaves pulled a face.

“Then watch out. Rankin isn’t so bad: he’s a reasonable cop, but Captain Katchen is in a class all by himself. If there’s one thing he hates more than a hotel dick, it’s a shamus. If he gets the idea you are poking around on his territory, you’re in for trouble, and I mean trouble.”

I finished my drink, then wiped my wrists with my handkerchief.

The room temperature was up in the eighties.

“What kind of trouble?”

“There was a private eye who came here from Los Angeles to check on a suicide case. The widow was convinced it was murder so she hired this guy to poke around. Katchen warned him off, but he still kept trying. One day when he was out driving, a prowl car slammed into him, wrecked his car, put him in hospital with a broken collarbone and when he came out he got six weeks for drunken driving. He swore the cops had poured half a pint of whisky over him before taking him to hospital, but no one believed him.”

“He sounds a nice type. Thanks for the tip. I’ll keep clear of him.”

Greaves finished his drink regretfully and put down the glass.

“You’d better. Well, I guess I’ll be hauling my butt. I’m supposed to be in the lobby around this time to make sure none of the old gentlemen smuggle in a floosie. They never have done it, but the manager is sure they’ll try some time. Thanks for the drink. Any time you want help, I’ll do what I can.”

I said I’d remember that.

As he was leaving the room, I said casually, “Does the name Lee Creedy mean anything to you?”

He paused to stare, then pushed the door to and leaned against it.

“He’s the biggest man we have in this town.”

I managed not to show my excitement.

“How big?”

“He’s worth a hundred million bucks for a start. He owns the Green Star shipping line. They have a fleet of tankers plying between Frisco and Panama. He owns the Air Lift Corporation that runs air taxis from here to Miami. He owns three newspapers and a factory that employs ten thousand men and women who turn out electrical components for cars. He owns a piece of the Casino, a piece of our lightweight champion, a piece of the Ritz-Plaza Hotel and a piece of the Musketeer Club, the only really exclusive night club in this lousy town, and when I say exclusive, I don’t mean expensive although it’s expensive enough. You have to have a five-figure income and maybe a blood test before you get in. That’s how big he is. Maybe he owns other things as well, but that will give you the general idea.”

“He lives here?”

“He’s got a place out at Thor Bay: about five miles along the coast: a fifteen-acre estate with a little shack of about twenty-five bedrooms, a swimming pool you could float an aircraft carrier on, six tennis courts, a zoo with lions and tigers, a staff of forty, all falling over their flat feet to give him service, and a little harbour just big enough to take his four-thousand ton yacht.”

“Married?”

“Oh, sure.” Greaves wrinkled his nose. “Remember Bridgette Bland, the movie star? That’s her.”

I had a vague recollection of once seeing her in some movie. If she was the girl I was thinking of, she had caused a minor sensation four years ago at the Cannes film festival. She had received a lot of publicity by riding a horse into the lobby of the Majestic Hotel and tossing the reins to the reception clerk before strolling to the elevator to be whisked up to her five-room suite. She had lasted about two years in pictures and then she had faded out. If I wasn’t confusing her with someone else, I remembered she had the reputation for being wild and tiresome. Greaves was regarding me with question marks in his eyes.

“What gives with Creedy?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “His name came up. Some guy mentioned him. I wondered who he was.”

Greaves stared thoughtfully at me, then nodding, he opened the door and went away.

I lit a cigarette and stretched out on the bed.

Jack had said the job was larded with money. If his client had been Lee Creedy then there would be money to be had. But why should a man in Creedy’s position hire an obscure inquiry agent three hundred miles from his hometown? With his set-up and bank balance he could have got Pinkerton or any other of the de luxe agencies. I ran my fingers through my damp hair.

A man like Creedy would be surrounded by secretaries, bouncers, flunkies and yes-men whose job it would be to keep people like me away from him. It wouldn’t be easy to get near him; it wouldn’t be easy to ask him if he had hired Jack and why.

I drank a little whisky to get me in the right mood, then I lifted the telephone receiver.

“Give me Greaves,” I said to the switchboard girl.

There was a delay, then Greaves came on the line.

“I have a call to make,” I said. “How clear is your switchboard?”

He didn’t need a blueprint to understand what I meant.

“You’ve nothing to worry about. There was a cop hanging around for a while, but he’s gone now.”

I thanked him, then flashed the operator and asked for directory inquiries. When the girl answered I said I wanted to be connected with Lee Creedy.

She told me to hold on and after a while a man’s voice said, “This is Mr. Creedy’s residence.”

He sounded as if he either had a plum in his mouth or should have had his adenoids snipped in the past.

“Put me through to Mr. Creedy,” I said briskly.

“If you will give me your name, sir,” the voice said distantly, “I will put you through to Mr. Creedy’s secretary.”

“My name is Lew Brandon. I don’t want Mr. Creedy’s secretary, I want Mr. Creedy in person.”

I didn’t think it would work and it didn’t.

“If you will hold on, sir, I will connect you with Mr. Creedy’s secretary.”

The boredom in his voice was as insulting as a slap in the face. There were a few clicks, then a curt voice, sharp enough to slice bread on, snapped, “Hammerschult here. Who is talking?”

“This is Lew Brandon. I want Mr. Creedy.”

“Hold it, please.”

By listening carefully I could hear his heavy breathing and could hear him turning the pages of what could have been an address book. This was a careful guy. He wasn’t going to get rude until he knew who he was talking to.

“Mr. Brandon?” he demanded, much more aggressive now. “What is your business? “

“Mr. Creedy will tell you if he wants you to know. Just put me through and stop wasting my time.”

I put some menace in my voice, making it sound tough.

It didn’t work, but it slowed him down a little.

“It isn’t possible for you to speak to Mr. Creedy,” he said, his tone quieter. “If you could give me some idea what you want, I will speak to him and he may call you back.”

I knew this was the dead-end. If I became too tough, he would guess I was trying to trample over him, so I played my last and none-too-strong card.