The Guilty Are Afraid

“You said it, brother! I’ve got me a nice little job now driving an old lady to the shops, holding her shopping bag and generally helping to make life easier for her. She’s a nice old thing, and, after Creedy, I reckon she’s going to do my ulcer a lot of good.”

“Talking about nice old ladies,” I said, “who is this character Hertz?”

Fulton grimaced.

“What are you trying to do—spoil my evening? Have you run into him?”

“He was with Creedy when I blew in. He struck me as a pretty tough egg. Who is he? What’s Creedy doing mixing with a type like that?”

“He takes care of people,” Fulton said. “Creedy employs him now and then as a bodyguard.”

“What’s Creedy want with a bodyguard?”

Fulton shrugged.

“These rich punks get inflated ideas. They think people are going to shoot or stab them. Have a bodyguard and people imagine you’re important: window dressing, like the signs in his parking lot. Big-shotting himself to death. But you don’t want to get the wrong idea about Creedy. He’s tough. Maybe he doesn’t look like it, but he’s as tough and as dangerous as any of the gun-and-knife punks who come in here. He practically runs this town. It was his idea to have a gambling ship in the bay. He reckoned it would encourage the tourists and it certainly did. He couldn’t care less if it also brought the tough boys as well. He owns half the ship anyway, and takes half the profits.”

“And Hertz is as tough as he looks?”

Fulton nodded.

“He certainly is. Creedy has no use for a phony. When he hires a tough guy that guy has to be tough. Hertz is that and more. He scares me. I reckon he has a bat in his attic.”

If what he was saying was true, there didn’t seem much to choose from between Katchen and Hertz.

“Did you read about the guy who was killed out at Bay Beach this morning?” I asked.

“I did see something in the evening paper,” Fulton said. “Why bring that up?”

“He was my partner. I have an idea he called on Creedy during the past few days and I’m wondering if you saw him.”

Fulton showed interest.

“Come to see the old man? Well, maybe I did. I was on the gate most of this week. What was he like?”

I described Sheppey carefully. He had flaming red hair and I was pretty sure if Fulton had seen him he wouldn’t have forgotten him, and I was right.

“Sure,” he said. “I remember him: big guy with red hair. That’s right. Logan passed him through. I was on the barrier and I didn’t get his name.”

“Would you swear to seeing him? This is important. You might have to, and in a court of law.”

Fulton finished his drink, then said, “Of course I’d swear to it. He came last Tuesday: a big, redheaded guy with a crew cut, wearing a grey flannel suit and driving a Buick convertible.”

That was good enough. The car was a clincher. So I had been right. Jack had been to see Creedy. Now I had to find out why, and that wouldn’t be easy.

“You say he was murdered?” Fulton said, looking curiously at me.

“Yes. The police think he was fooling around with some thug’s girl and the thug fixed him. Could be: he was over fond of women.”

“Well, what do you know? You had to go to the cops about it?”

“I went. That Captain Katchen is quite something, isn’t he? Belsen missed a great boss in him.”

“You’re right. Every so often he comes out to see Creedy: about four times a year. It’s my guess he comes for his rake—off. You’d be surprised at the number of nightclubs and high-toned brothels that stay open because Katchen looks the other way.”

“What are nightclubs and brothels to do with Creedy?”

“I tell you he owns most of this town. Maybe he doesn’t collect the gravy direct from the rats who run these places, but indirectly he gets the rents, and Katchen gets his cut.”

“He’s married, isn’t he?”

“Who—Creedy? As far as I know he’s been married four times, but it could be more. His present wife is Bridgette Bland, the ex-movie star. Ever seen her?”

“Once, I think. If I remember rightly she was quite a looker.”

“She still is, but she can’t hold a candle to her stepdaughter. Now there’s a beaut, about the loveliest dish I’ve seen, and I’ve seen quite a few in my day.”

“Does she live at home?”

Fulton shook his head.

“Not now: she used to, but the other one couldn’t take it. Whenever the old man threw a party, Margot, that’s the daughter, took all the limelight, and the other one was left out in the cold. She didn’t like it. They were always quarrelling, so Margot packed and cleared out. She has an apartment on Franklyn Boulevard. From what I hear the old man misses her. I miss her too. She was the one bright light in that lousy place. Bridgette gave me a pain: just like Creedy: never happy, always moaning, stays up all night and sleeps all day.”

I was learning things. We had the evening before us and there was no point in rushing at it. I turned the conversation to the coming world championship fight and let Fulton sound off on why the Champ couldn’t lose. From that we went on to ball games and finally to the old, old standby: women.