James Chase: The Guilty Are Afraid

“Tell him I am the senior partner of the Star Agency of San Francisco. He’s waiting for me to report to him.”

“Is he?” The voice sounded surprised and less confident. “All right, Mr. Brandon, I’ll speak to him and we’ll call you. What is your number?”

I gave him the hotel number and he hung up.

I stubbed out my cigarette, finished my whisky and closed my eyes.

I would have, I thought, an hour’s wait, possibly longer. I might not hear at all. There seemed no point at the moment in doing anything. I relaxed, and after a while, I dozed off.

The sharp and violent ringing of the telephone bell brought me awake with a start that nearly threw me off the bed. I grabbed up the receiver, looking at my wristwatch. I had been asleep for fifteen minutes.

“Mr. Brandon?”

I recognized Hammerschult’s voice.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Creedy will see you at three o’clock this afternoon.”

I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Three o’clock?”

“Yes. Will you please be punctual? Mr. Creedy has several appointments for this afternoon, and he will only be able to spare you a few minutes.”

“That’ll be long enough,” I said, and hung up.

For a long moment I lay staring up at the ceiling, then I swung my legs to the floor. Creedy had to be Jack’s client. That could be the only reason why a man of his position would bother to see me I looked at my watch again.

I had just under the hour to get out to his place.

I went over to my suitcase to unpack my best suit.

Chapter 3

I

Lee Creedy’s estate was built on the far end of a mile-long, narrow peninsula that projected into the exact centre of Thor Bay.

You could get a good view of it from Bay Boulevard. Before I turned off on to the private road that ran the length of the peninsula to the estate, I slowed down and took a look at it.

The house was massive: three stories high with vast windows, terraces, a blue-tiled roof and white walls covered with flowering climbers. The rear of the house appeared to hang over the cliff face. It had a magnificent view of the two arms of the bay.

I was driving the office Buick. The police had left it outside the hotel. There was a bad scratch on one of the door panels and a hubcap was dented. I didn’t know if the police were responsible or if Jack had bumped something on his drive down from Frisco. It was possible that Jack had done the damage. He had never been much of a driver, cutting in too close and taking too many chances. But I was glad to have the car. It would save me the cost of taking taxis, and from what I had been told, the cost of living in St. Raphael City was so high I would need every cent I had.

I turned off Bay Boulevard on to the road to the peninsula. A hundred yards or so further on I came to a big sign that told me that this was a private road and only visitors to the Thor Estate could go beyond this point. A quarter of a mile further on I came on one of those red and white poles you see on the continent blocking the road. Nearby was a small white guardhouse. Two men in white shirts, white cord breeches, black shiny knee-high boots and peak caps watched me come. Both of them looked like ex—cops: both of them were wearing ‘45 Colts at their hips.

“I’ve an appointment with Mr. Creedy,” I said, looking out of the car window.

One of them moved over to me. His cop eyes ran over me, and by his curt nod I knew he didn’t approve of the Buick nor, come to think of it, of me.

“Name?”

I told him.

He checked a list he had in his hand, then he waved to the other guard, who lifted the barrier.

“Straight ahead, turn left at the intersection and park your car in Bay 6.”

I nodded and drove on, aware they were both staring at me as if to make sure they would know me again. A half a mile further on I came to massive gates of oak, fifteen feet high and studded with iron nails, that stood open. I then hit the sanded carriageway and I drove through woodland, and then past the ornate, magnificent gardens with their acres of close-mown lawns, their beds of flowers, their sunken rose gardens and their fountains.

Chinese gardeners were at work on one of the big beds, planting out begonias: taking their time as the Chinese do, but making a good job of it. Each plant was exactly equidistant from the other: each plant planted at the same level: an exactitude that no other gardener in the world can do as well as the Chinese.

At the intersection I turned left as directed. I came to a vast stretch of tarmac divided by white lines into fifty parking places. Some of the places had signs made of oak with glittering gilt letters.

I left the Buick in Bay 6, got out and took a quick look at some of the signs. No. 1 sign said: Mr. Creedy. No. 7, Mrs. Creedy. No. 23, Mr. Hammerschult. There were a lot more names that meant nothing to me.

“Hot stuff, huh?” a voice said behind me. “Important people: big-shotting themselves to death.”

I looked around.

A short, thickset man in a white guard’s uniform, his peaked cap at the back of his head, gave me a friendly grin. His face was red and sweaty, and as he came closer, I smelt whisky on his breath.

“It takes all kinds to make up the world.”

“Damn right. All this crap though is so much waste of good money.” He waved his hand at the signs. “As if they should care who parks where.” His small, alert eyes travelled over me. “You looking for anyone in particular, buster?”

“Old man Creedy,” I told him.

“That a fact?” He blew out his cheeks. “Rather you than me. I’ve had all I can stomach. This is my last day here and am I rejoicing!” He leaned forward and tapped me lightly on the chest. “Why is it money always goes to the punks? This guy Creedy: nothing ever pleases him. His shoes aren’t shined enough, his car isn’t clean enough, the roses aren’t big enough, his food either isn’t hot enough or cold enough. He’s never happy, never satisfied; always moaning, yelling or cursing and driving a guy nuts. If I had the tenth of his money I’d be as happy as a king, but not him.”

I sneaked a look at my watch. The time was four minutes to three.

“That’s the way it is,” I said. “Just one of those things. I’d like to continue this theme, but I’m due to meet him at three and I’m told he takes it badly if he’s kept waiting.”

“He certainly does, but don’t kid yourself that being punctual will mean you’ll see him when he’s fixed for you to see him. I’ve known guys wait three or four hours before they get to him. Well, you’re welcome. I’d rather have a meeting with a dose of cholera.” He pointed. “Up those steps and to the left.”

I started off, then I had a sudden idea and I turned back.

“Would you have anything to do around six o’clock tonight?”

He grinned.

“I’ll have plenty to do around six o’clock tonight. I’m celebrating. I’ve been with this old punk for twenty months. I’ve got a lot of drinking to get in to soothe the pain out of that stretch. Why?”

“I’ve some celebrating to do myself,” I said. “If you’re not tied up with anyone, maybe we could do it together.”

He stared at me.

“Are you a drinking man?”

“On special occasions: this could be one.”

“Well, why not? My girl doesn’t approve of me drinking. I was planning to have a lone bender, but I’d as soon have a guy with me. Okay. Where and when?”

“Say seven. You know a good place?”

“Sam’s Cabin. Anyone will tell you where it is. The name’s Fulton. First name, Tim. What’s yours?”

“Lew Brandon. Be seeing you.”

“Sure thing.”

I left him, took the steps three at a time, turned left, walked the length of an ornate terrace to the front entrance. I had a minute in hand as I tugged at the chain bell.