The Guilty Are Afraid

“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.

“Watch your step,” Candy said. “I’m telling you for my good rather than yours. The Captain gets into a rage easily, and it’s bad for us all when he does.”

He paused outside a door, rapped and waited. A voice as musical as a foghorn bawled, “Wadja want?”

Candy gave me a weak smile and lifted his shoulders. He turned the doorknob, opened the door and walked into a small, drab office full of cigar smoke.

“Lew Brandon, sir.”

A mountain of a man sat behind a battered desk. He was getting on in years, but he was still in hard physical shape, and there wasn’t much fat on him. His thinning grey hair was slicked down in a cow’s lick over his low forehead. His face was massive, leathery and brutal. He rested two enormous hairy hands on his desk and glared at me while Candy closed the door as if it were made of eggshells and moved silently behind me and leaned against the wall.

“Brandon?” Katchen said, reached out and viciously stubbed out his cigar. “Huh: the shamus. Yeah, the shamus.” He rubbed his face while he continued to glare at me. “To think we gotta have beetles like you crawling around our streets.” He leaned forward, screwing up his small eyes. “When are you getting out of town, shamus?”

“I don’t know,” I said mildly. “Within a week I’d say.”

“Would you? And what the hell are you going to do in this town for a week, shamus?”

“See the sights, swim, take a girl out and relax generally.”

He wasn’t expecting this and he hunched his shoulders.