Safer Dead

Safer Dead

James Hadley Chase

1954

CHAPTER ONE

I

Edwin Fayette, editor of Crime Facts, sat behind his desk in his luxurious office, a cigar between his teeth and an unfriendly gleam in his eyes.

‘Sit down,’ he said, waving impatiently. ‘What are you two guys working on?’

I folded myself down in the most comfortable armchair in the room while Bernie Low sat as far from Fayette as he could and began to bite his nails.

Bernie and I had been collaborating for the past two years, writing stories for Crime Facts, a monthly magazine of crime and detection stories with the biggest circulation of any of its rivals. I did the thinking and Bernie did the writing. The arrangement suited us both. I never could work up enough energy to commit ideas to paper, and Bernie never had any ideas.

An ex-Hollywood scriptwriter, Bernie was short, plump and impressive looking. He had a dome-shaped head, a massive forehead and his heavy horn spectacles made him look brainier than he was. He had once confided to me that it was entirely due to the shape of his head that he had remained in the movie business as long as he had.

Bernie had a horror of losing his job. Whenever he was called to Fayette’s office, he imagined he was going to get the gate. Saddled with an expensive, luxury-loving wife, an enormous house and a flock of debts, his life was one continual battle to keep the wolf from the door.

‘Right at this moment,’ I said, ‘we’re tossing an idea around in our minds and building up atmosphere. We’ll have something for you in a week or so and it’ll knock your eye out.’

‘Well, shelve it,’ Fayette said. ‘I’ve got something I want you two to work on. Will your story wait?’

‘Oh sure, it’ll wait. What have you got for us?’

Fayette produced a file from his desk.

‘I want a series of articles done on missing people,’ he said. ‘Do you realize thirty or more people walk out of their homes every day in this country and disappear? I’ve got Carson to dig up few of the more interesting cases, and I’ve a good one here for you. I want you to get moving on it right away.’

Bernie and I exchanged glances. We had been bogged down for the past week on a story idea and Fayette’s suggestion was welcome.

‘What’s the story then?’ I asked.

‘During August of last year, a girl named Fay Benson disappeared,’ Fayette said. ‘She was a song and dance artist, working at the Florian nightclub in Welden. Welden, if you don’t know, is sixty miles southeast of San Francisco. This girl had been a success. The manager of the club told her he would extend her contract so she had no reason to disappear as she did. On August 17th she came as usual to the club and went to her dressing room. At nine o’clock, the callboy warned her she had five minutes before her act began. He saw she was wearing her stage getup which consisted of a bra, a pair of spangled shorts, a top hat and some feathers. She said she was ready, and he left her. He was the last person to see her. When she didn’t appear on the stage he was sent to fetch her, but her dressing room was empty. The clothes she had arrived in were there, and more important still, her purse containing twenty dollars was on her dressing table, but she had vanished.

‘The manager asked the stage door man if he had seen her, but he hadn’t. The only other exit, apart from the customers’ exit which was through the restaurant, was in the basement. The man in charge down there hadn’t seen her either. Bearing in mind she was still wearing her stage getup, no one could have failed to have seen her if she had used the delivery exit, the stage door exit or if she had gone through the restaurant to the main exit. The manager decided she must still be in the club. The building was searched but they didn’t find her. The police were called in. They didn’t find her either. They learned that she had got the job at the club through an agency, but the agency didn’t know anything about her except she had told them she had worked at the

Swallow Club in San Francisco. When the police checked, the Swallow Club had never heard of her. She didn’t appear to have any friends. She stayed at the Shad Hotel, a moderate joint near the club, and the reception clerk said she never had any visitors nor any mail. The police kept at it for a couple of weeks, then as they didn’t get a lead or find her body, they dropped the case.’

Fayette closed the file and looked at me. ‘Doesn’t that sound like the makings of a good story?’

I thought it did, but I had learned not to show too much enthusiasm for Fayette’s ideas. They had a habit of blowing up in one’s face.

‘It sounds all right, but if the police couldn’t get a lead on her, how can we?’

‘Most people don’t like talking to the police. Besides, I like this story, and I’m willing to spend some money on it. People will talk if they think they’re going to get something out of it. I’m sure we’ve got something hot here, and I want you two to get after it.’

‘Okay,’ I said and held out my hand for the file. ‘All the dope here?’