Safer Dead

‘There’s an essential clue missing,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘Maybe Low will dig it up in Paris. I’ve sent him over there to trace Mrs. Van Blake’s movement. I’m hoping he’ll find out what Joan Nichols found out. I’m now going back to Tampa City. Royce was pretty anxious to silence Miss Forrest and he’s failed. He and Mrs. Van Blake might panic, and I want to be there if they do.’

‘You’re sticking your neck out, Sladen,’ Creed said seriously. ‘If Mathis arrests you for murder, there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘I’ll chance it. The solution to this case is in Tampa City. Until we crack the case, don’t let Miss Forrest leave here. She’ll be an important witness, and we can’t afford to lose her.’

‘I keep telling you,’ Creed said impatiently, ‘we haven’t any say-so in Tampa City. Royce and the Van Blake woman could get away with this even if you got proof. I can’t see Doonan putting a millionairess on trial.’

‘He’ll put her on trial if I can prove she killed her husband,’ I said. ‘You might not be able to do anything about it, but I can. We’ll print the whole story with statements and photographs in Crime Facts. That’ll smoke Doonan out. He’ll have to put her on trial.’

Creed’s face brightened.

‘That’s an idea, but you’ll have to get proof that’ll stand up.’

‘When I get it, my proof will do more than stand up: it’ll jump right at him and bite him,’ I said as I made for the door.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I

A girl in a grubby white sweater looked at me from over a portable typewriter and raised pencilled eyebrows.

‘If you want Mr. Andrews,’ she said distantly, ‘he isn’t in.’

The office was big enough to swing a cat in, but only just. Behind where the girl sat was a door marked Private. A fireproof filing cabinet stood by the window. An armchair for clients, its headrest greasy from the impact of hair oil spread over many years faced me.

‘I did want to see him,’ I said, closing the door. ‘Will he be long?’

She looked at the fly blown clock on the wall. It told her it was twenty minutes past ten.

‘He’s usually here by now.’

‘Then I’ll wait.’

I sat on the arm of the chair which creaked ominously under my weight and set fire to a cigarette. The girl looked doubtfully at me, decided I was no business of hers and turned her attention to the typewriter. Time drifted by, punctuated by the clicks of the typewriter keys. I mentally dozed.

I had got back to Tampa City around five-thirty this morning and had gone to ground in the hideout. I had slept until nine-thirty, then after a cup of coffee and a brief word with Benn, I had driven over to Murrow Street where Benn had told me Andrews had his office.

After seeing Andrews, I intended to talk to Irene Jarrard, Fay’s girlfriend, and if I could get any new information from her, to persuade her to see Creed. Then I thought a call on Vincent

Latimer, Van Blake’s ex-secretary, might pay dividends in spite of Captain Bradley’s warning that Latimer was no talker. The hands of the wall clock stood at ten forty-five when the outer office door jerked open and a lanky man in a light grey suit, much creased and spotted, entered hurriedly.

He looked sharply at me, and his small, close set eyes alerted. Then he smiled hopefully, revealing big plastic teeth. He looked exactly what he was: a man who had spent half a lifetime sneaking up and down hotel corridors, listening at keyholes and standing out in the cold and rain with stoic patience.

‘You wanted me?’ he asked, looked at the girl and then back to me.

‘Mr. Andrews?’

‘That’s right. Come on in.’

His long thin legs took him to the door marked Private. He produced a key, unlocked the door, turned and said to the girl, ‘As soon as this gentleman has gone, Miss Fairely, I’ll have my mail.’

She stared blankly at him.

‘There isn’t any,’ she said.

He tried not to show how much he would like to slap her, and waved me into the office.

I walked into a room the size of a cupboard and squeezed against the wall to let him get around the battered desk.

‘I didn’t get your name,’ he said, waving me to an upright chair.

I sat down. My knees touched the front of the desk.

‘I’m a staff writer on Crime Facts, and at the moment I am working with the Welden police.’

The fixed smile vanished like a rat down a hole, and the small green eyes turned stony.

‘What’s that to do with me?’ he asked, resting his elbows on the desk and cupping his bony chin between his not too clean hands.

‘Some time ago you were hired to watch a showgirl who worked at the Golden Apple club: Frances Bennett.’ I took out Fay’s photograph and laid it on the desk in front of him. ‘This girl.’

He looked down at the photograph, then up at me, and his lips turned down at the corners.

‘Look, Jack,’ he said, his voice suddenly tough, ‘you’re wasting your time. I don’t talk about my clients. If that’s all you have to say, pull up your anchor and steam out of here.’