James Chase - The Guilty Are Afraid

I smiled at him. I had got over his searchlight gaze, the big room and the awe-inspiring atmosphere. I was more angry now than I had ever been before in my life, and that is saying a lot.

“Yes, I have something to say,” I said, resting my hands on his desk and staring him in the face. “First, Mr. Creedy, I thought you would be smarter than you are. I didn’t know for certain that you had hired Sheppey, now I do. It so happened Sheppey wrote your name down on his blotter: that was the only clue I had to work on. I thought it was possible someone had mentioned your name to him and while he was talking to this someone he had doodled your name in the rather senseless way he had. Now I know different. When I called this afternoon, I was pretty sure you wouldn’t see me. A man with your money doesn’t grant an interview to a small-time inquiry agent unless he either wants to employ him or else he has something on his mind that is keeping him awake at nights. By giving me priority over six important-looking businessmen, one who has been waiting three hours, told me the thing on your mind was not only keeping you awake nights, but was giving you inward jitters in no mean way. You obviously couldn’t wait three minutes to hear just how much I knew. When you found out how little I knew, you called in your tame gorilla and waved him in my face. You hoped I’d be so scared that I would rush back to my hotel, pack my bag and get the hell out of here. Not very smart, Mr. Creedy. You should know by now that some men don’t scare easily. I happen to be one of them.”

He leaned back in his chair, his expressionless face telling me nothing, his bony fingers still busy with his handkerchief and glasses.

“Is that all?” he asked.

“Not quite. I am now sure that you hired Sheppey. While he was working for you, he turned up something that someone didn’t like so he got killed. For all I know you hold the clue that could lead the police to his killer, but not unnaturally you don’t wish to be involved in a murder case. You know if you did become involved you would have to come out with the reason why you hired Sheppey. From my experience, when a millionaire takes the trouble to hire an agent who lives three hundred miles from the millionaire’s home ground, the millionaire is asking him to dig into something pretty smelly that he wouldn’t want the local agents to know about. Sheppey is dead. He was a good friend of mine. If the police can’t find his killer, then maybe I can. Anyway, Mr. Hertz or no Mr. Hertz, Mr. Creedy or no Mr. Creedy, I’m going to have a damn good try.” I straightened, pushing myself away from his desk. “That’s all. Don’t bother to call your flunkey, I can find my own way out.”

I turned and started down the long room towards the door.

Creedy said in his soft, effeminate voice, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Mr. Brandon.”

I kept on, reached the door, opened it and tramped into the lobby where the butler was waiting. As he conducted me to the exit, Creedy’s last words banged around inside my skull like demented ping-pong balls.

III

It took me forty minutes to get back to my hotel. For one thing I was in no hurry, and for another the afternoon traffic was heavy.

I was satisfied now that Creedy had hired Sheppey, but I still didn’t know if Sheppey had been murdered because of something he had turned up while working for Creedy or because he had been fooling around with some cutthroat’s girl. I mentally cursed his weakness for women. It made the job of finding his killer that more difficult.

I was glad now I had made a drinking date with Tim Fulton. Very often, a dissatisfied employee could give away some useful information, and that was something I needed badly.

As I pulled up outside the hotel, I saw a prowl car parked a few yards ahead of me. I got out of the Buick. The door of the prowl car swung open and Candy appeared. He came towards me, moving heavily, his jaw working as he chewed.

“Captain Katchen wants to talk to you,” he said, when he was within a yard of me. “Let’s go.”

“Suppose I don’t want to talk to him?” I asked, smiling at him.

“Let’s go,” he repeated. “I can take you in smooth or rough—please yourself.”

“Did he say what he wanted?” I asked, moving with him to the prowl car.

“If I needed proof that you were a stranger in this town, that dopey remark would have clinched it,” Candy said, sliding his bulk into the back seat.

There was a uniformed cop at the wheel. He turned to look me over.

I got in beside Candy and the car took off as if it were answering a four-alarm fire call.

“You mean the Captain doesn’t tell his subordinates why he wants anything, only that he wants it?”

“Now you’re being bright,” Candy said. “If you don’t want to come out of headquarters a permanent cripple, you’ll watch your step, speak only when you’re spoken to, answer all the questions quickly and truthfully, and generally behave as if you were in church.”

“Which would suggest that the Captain has a hasty temper.”

Candy smiled sourly.

“I think that’s a fair statement. I’d say Captain Katchen is a little quick tempered, wouldn’t you, Joe?”

Joe, the driver, spat out of the window. I “No more than a bear with a boil on its ass,” he said.

Candy laughed.

“Joe talks like that all the time, except when the Captain’s around, then he never says a word, do you, Joe?”

Joe spat out of the window again.

“I like my food. I’ve only eight good teeth in my mouth as it is.”

“See? A comedian.” Candy took out a cigarette and lit it. “So watch out. Don’t go sounding off.”

“Have you found the killer yet?” I asked.

“Not yet, but we will. In the past ten years we have had five homicides in this town, and we haven’t found one killer yet. We must break that record sometime and this could be the time. What do you think, Joe?”

“It depends,” Joe said cautiously. “It’s not as if we haven’t the men because we have: good, bright, clever detectives who know a clue when they see it, but there’s a bottleneck of bad luck somewhere. I wouldn’t bet my salary we’ll find the killer, but we might.”

“There you are,” Candy said, smiling at me. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Like Joe says, he wouldn’t bet his salary, but we could crack it.”

“Captain Katchen think so?”

“No one ever asks what Captain Katchen thinks. He’s a mite touchy about sharing his thoughts with anyone. I wouldn’t ask him if I were you.”

We rode on for a fast half-mile before I said, “Did you find the icepick?”

Candy shook his head.

“No. The Lieutenant thinks the killer took it with him. He’s probably right, but I wouldn’t bet Joe’s salary on it. It could have got buried somewhere. There’s a whale of a lot of sand on that beach.”

“You didn’t find the girl’s body?”

Again Candy shook his head.

“No, and I didn’t expect to. We looked because there was a slight chance she got knocked off too, but the Lieutenant thinks she slid out of the picture just before your pal got stuck.”

“Maybe she killed him.”

Candy blew out his cheeks.

“The pick was driven home with a lot of force. I doubt if a woman could have done it.”

“Women aren’t all that frail. If the pick was sharp enough and she was angry enough it wouldn’t be so tough.”

Candy flicked his cigarette out of the window.

“Don’t bet your salary on it.”

The car swerved to the kerb and pulled up outside the police headquarters. We got out, walked up the steps, through double swing doors and along a stone passage that gave off the usual smell that all police headquarters have.