Safer Dead

‘I don’t believe it. She inquired about Fay Benson, then went home and broke her neck. It’s too smooth. You people working on her?’

‘We haven’t anything to work on. Creed is leaving her lie until we can hook her into the case if we ever can.’

‘What about these other eight girls who went to Paris? Are they local girls?’

‘One of them is.’ Scaife flicked over the pages of the dossier. ‘Her name’s Janet Shelley. She lives at 25, Arcadia Drive.’

‘Have you seen her?’

‘Not yet. We’ve more important leads to cover. We’ll get around to her.’

‘I think Joan Nichols may be important. I’ve got a spare afternoon. I guess I’ll go and talk to this Shelley girl. Any objection?’

‘I haven’t, but don’t quote me,’ Scaife said, grinning. ‘Go and see her if you want to. I’ve got to get on. The old man is still sour tempered. He wouldn’t be pleased if he knew I was spending all my time talking to you.’

I got to my feet.

‘If I turn up anything, I’ll let you know.’

‘My pal,’ Scaife said sarcastically and settled down once more to brood over the bulky file.

III

Arcadia Drive was a quiet street on the outskirts of the town. A row of bungalows faced a large vacant lot, overgrown with weeds and dead grass, and on which stood several large advertising hoardings.

The bungalows might have been attractive when they had first been erected, but now they were past their prime. They had the dejected look of a man with a shrinking income, trying to keep up appearances and knowing he won’t be able to hold on much longer.

Already some of the owners of the bungalows had given up the pretence of being middle class. Two of the front gardens of the bungalows displayed a line of washing, and the gardens were competing in appearance with the vacant lot opposite.

No. 25 was still making a brave show. The lawn had been recently cut, and although the paintwork was at its last gasp, the curtains were bright and clean.

I dug my thumb into the bell push. There was a delay before the front door opened. A girl, blonde, bright looking, with the standard prettiness you would expect from a girl who earns her living in show business, looked inquiringly at me. She had on a blue housecoat, pulled in tight at her waist, and her small feet were in quilted satin blue bed slippers.

‘Miss Shelley?’ I said, raising my hat.

‘Yes. If you’re hoping to sell something you’re wasting your time,’ she said briskly. ‘Don’t tell me I haven’t warned you.’

‘I’m not selling anything. I’m Chet Sladen from Crime Facts. Ever read our paper. Miss Shelley?’

‘I don’t like crime.’

‘That’s as good a reason as any. I want to ask you a few questions. Would you mind? I’m trying to get some background dope on Joan Nichols.’

She lifted blonde, nicely shaped eyebrows.

‘But Joan’s dead. She died more than a year ago.’

‘That’s right. Would it be convenient if I stepped inside? I won’t keep you long.’

She stood aside.

‘If this is a stunt to rob me,’ she said, smiling, ‘it’ll be a waste of time. I haven’t anything of value in the house.’

I took out my billfold and gave her one of my business cards.

‘If that doesn’t set your mind at rest, you can call up Sergeant Scaife at police headquarters. He’ll vouch for me.’

She laughed.

‘Well, you do read odd things in the papers. Come in. I’m sorry I can’t offer you a drink.’ She led the way into the sitting room that was spick and span, but austere. It contained only the bare necessities. ‘Do sit down. I hope you won’t keep me long, I’ve got to go out in a little while.’

‘I won’t keep you long,’ I said, sitting down in an armchair that looked comfortable, but turned out to be far from it. If she had told me it had been stuffed with rocks I shouldn’t have been surprised. I took from my billfold the photograph of Fay Benson and offered it to her. ‘Ever seen this girl before?’

She took the photograph, studied it, shook her head and handed it back.

‘I don’t think I have. Her face is familiar, but that doesn’t mean anything. So many girls in show business look like that.’

I thought about this, studied Fay Benson’s features and was inclined to agree with her.

‘You’re sure she wasn’t one of the girls in your troupe when you went to Paris?’

‘Oh no, I’m quite sure of that.’

‘Joan Nichols went with you?’

‘Yes. It would be much more fun for me, Mr. Sladen, if I knew what this was all about.’

‘Sorry; briefly, this girl, Fay Benson, disappeared fourteen months ago under mysterious circumstances. Joan Nichols seemed to have known her. Anyway, she called at Fay’s hotel three days after Fay had disappeared. Miss Nichols asked the reception clerk to let her know if Fay showed up. She then returned to her apartment, fell downstairs and broke her neck.’

‘I know she fell downstairs,’ Janet Shelley said, looking questioningly at me. ‘It was an accident, wasn’t it?’

‘The coroner said so; the police think so, but I’m not so sure. She could have been pushed.’

‘But why - why do you think that?’