Safer Dead

‘There’s not much more than I’ve already told you: a few names and a photograph of the girl, but that’s all. You’ll have start from scratch.’

‘How about expenses?’ Bernie asked a shade too eagerly.

Fayette scowled at him.

‘Within reason, and I mean my reason and not yours. I want an account kept of every dime you part with - understand?’

Bernie smiled happily. He hadn’t been in the movie business for four years without learning how to pad an expense sheet.

‘You’ll get an account okay, Mr. Fayette,’ he said.

I was looking at the picture of Fay Benson I had found in the file. The glossy photograph was of a girl of about twenty-four in a spangled brassiere, spangled pants and a top hat. Her lovely face, framed by fair, silky hair was to my thinking as sensational as her figure was seductive. I handed the picture to Bernie.

‘Take a look at this,’ I said.

Bernie’s eyes popped and he pursed his lips in an appreciative whistle.

‘Well, come on, let’s go,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘If she’s as good as she looks, she’s worth finding.’

II

It was growing dark as we drove into Welden in the Roadmaster Buick I had hired in San Francisco. At first sight, Welden appeared to be a compact, well laid out town, prosperous and clean, with broad streets and crowded sidewalks.

‘For a hick town, this doesn’t look so bad,’ Bernie said, screwing his head around to catch a last glimpse of a tall, willowy blonde who was waiting at the traffic signals to cross the street and who had given him a long, bold stare as we passed. ‘Anyway, the women don’t appear to be repressed, and that’s always a good sign.’

‘Will you shut up?’ I said impatiently. ‘That’s all you think about - women. For a married man you should be ashamed of yourself.’

‘If you were married to Clair, you’d act the same way,’ Bernie said. ‘That girl drives me nuts. She’s always yelling for something. If I didn’t circulate among other women now and then I’d begin to imagine they were all like her.’

‘You shouldn’t have married her.’

Bernie laughed bitterly.

‘Do you think I’m that crazy? I didn’t marry her; she married me.’

I slowed down and pulled to the sidewalk to ask a patrolman where the Shad Hotel was. He directed me, and after about five minutes driving, we came to the hotel.

It didn’t look much. It was a tall building sandwiched between a block of offices and a hardware store. Opposite was the hotel garage, and when we had parked the car, we carried our bags across the street and entered the hotel.

Potted palms, basket chairs and tarnished spittoons gave the lobby a seedy, down-at-the-heel look, and the reception clerk, a shabby, elderly man with a network of fine red veins decorating his over large nose, didn’t do anything to raise the tone of the place.

‘What a dump,’ Bernie said, ‘I’ll bet there are beetles in the bedrooms.’

‘What do you expect? Silkworms?’ I said and crossed over to the desk.

The clerk seemed surprised when I asked for two rooms and told him we were likely to stay a week.

‘I have two rooms on the first floor,’ he said. ‘Would they do?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Have these bags taken up. Where’s the bar?’

‘Through there; second on your right.’

The bar was a long, narrow room with more potted palms, tarnished spittoons and basket chairs. There was no one in it except the barman who was reading the evening paper which he folded with a resigned air when he saw us.

‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said. He was big and tough with a brick red face and the bright blue eyes of a drinker.

I ordered two highballs.

‘Looks festive enough to hold a funeral in,’ Bernie said looking around. ‘Don’t the folks in this hotel ever drink?’

‘It’s early yet,’ the barman said as if accusing us of disturbing his peace. ‘You staying here?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Ever read Crime Facts?’

He showed his surprise.

‘Why sure, it’s my favourite reading.’

I finished my highball at a swallow and pushed the glass back to him. Bernie, who believed in keeping pace with me, hurriedly downed his too.

‘Fill them up,’ I said. ‘We work for Crime Facts. We’re covering the Fay Benson case. Remember her?’

The barman had picked up my glass. It suddenly slipped out of his hand and smashed on the floor. He swore as he bent to kick the bits of glass under the counter. When he straightened up I had an idea he had lost some of his colour.

‘What was that again?’ he asked.

‘Fay Benson. Remember her?’

‘Why, sure.’ He turned to fix another drink. ‘You mean you’re writing up the case?’

‘That’s the idea if we can get a new angle.’

He put two more drinks before us and then leaned against the counter while he began to arrange some glasses in a more orderly group.

‘What sort of angle would that be?’ he asked without looking at me.

‘Search me. We’re just looking around and seeing what we can pick up. It’s an interesting case. A girl, wearing only pants and bra, suddenly vanishes. Where did she go? Why did she go? Have you any ideas?’

‘Me?’ the barman scowled. ‘Why should I have any ideas?’

‘You knew her?’