The Guilty Are Afraid

For a moment I lay still, gasping air into my lungs. Then I got to my feet and, bending low, I climbed back until I could just see over the top of the dune.

I looked towards the cabins.

Standing in the moonlight was a patrolman, his back turned to me. The door leading into the cabin where the dead girl was stood open, and as I watched another cop came out. He joined his companion, and they talked for a few moments, then the one who had been waiting outside started to run back to the promenade.

It would only be a matter of a few minutes before the whole beach would be crawling with the law. I didn’t have to be told what would happen to me if they found me.

Captain Katchen would know what to do with a gift like me. He had already told me what to expect. Even if he didn’t ride me into the gas chamber, I’d be in his hands for weeks, and that was something I was going to avoid if I could.

Keeping below the top of the ridge, I started to run again.

By the time I had put a mile between me and the row of cabins, I was pretty near bushed, but I was now far enough away to strike back inland, knowing I wasn’t likely to be seen.

I walked across the sand, trying to control my labored breathing. A flight of steps took me up on to the promenade.

A few courting couples were dotted along the front, sitting under the palm trees: too busy with their own affairs to notice me. I crossed the road and then began to walk back to where I had left my car.

It took me close on ten minutes to draw level with the entrance to the bathing station. By that time there was a big crowd, blocking the road, gaping as crowds will gape. I saw three police cars parked along the kerb.

This was only the beginning. Two murders in one day at the same place was a sensation that would really pack the crowd in once the news got around.

As I stood there watching, four more police cars came tearing up. I saw Lieutenant Rankin get out of one of them and hurry across the promenade towards the row of cabins.

I felt I could leave him in charge, and I legged it to my car and then drove along the back street at a steady clip until I reached the Adelphi Hotel.

I left the car in the hotel parking lot, got a duster from the glove compartment and wiped away all traces of sand I had picked up on the beach. Then I entered the hotel.

The time was now just after midnight.

The night clerk, an elderly man with the springy air of a jovial priest, smiled at me as he handed me my key. He said it was a fine night, and had I noticed the effect of the moon on the sea? He was just trying to be friendly, but I wasn’t in the mood. I grunted at him, took the key and headed for the elevator.

As I waited for the cage to come down, I heard the telephone bell on the desk ring. The night clerk answered it, then as the cage appeared and as I was about to get in, he called out, “Mr. Brandon, a call for you. Will you take it in your room or in the booth across the way?”

I said I’d take it in the booth.

Wondering who could be calling me, I went into the booth, shut the door and took the receiver off the cradle.

“Hello—yes?”

“Is that Mr. Brandon?”

A woman’s voice, clear, but low-pitched and familiar.

“Yes.”

“This is Margot Creedy.”

I pushed my hat to the back of my head and blew out my cheeks. How had she found out where I was staying, was the first thought that jumped into my mind.

“Glad to have you call me, Miss Creedy.”

“I am speaking from the Musketeer Club,” she said. “I looked in the visitors’ book. Mr. Sheppey’s name doesn’t appear in it.”

I was surprised, but not too surprised to say, “He could have used another name, of course.”

“I thought of that. The man on the door tells me no one with red hair has been to the club for months. He is very good at that sort of thing. If Mr. Sheppey had been to the club, he would have remembered him.”

I tried to recall if the newspaper account of the murder had mentioned that Jack had red hair. I decided it had been mentioned.

“So it looks as if he didn’t go there.”

“Why did you think he had?”

“I found a folder of matches from the club in his suitcase.”

“Someone, of course, could have given it to him.”

“Yes. Well, thank you for helping me, Miss Creedy. I really am very . . .”

The soft click over the line told me she had hung up. I stood for a long moment staring through the glass panel of the booth while I wondered why she had changed her mind about helping me, then I replaced the receiver, pushed open the booth door and walked over to the elevator.

So Jack hadn’t gone to the Musketeer Club. I saw no reason why I should doubt her word. Greaves had said it wasn’t likely. I had been through Sheppey’s things, and I knew he hadn’t brought a tuxedo down with him. He wouldn’t have got beyond the doorman without wearing a tuxedo if I was to believe what Greaves had said about the exclusiveness of the club.

Then where had the match-folder come from? Why had Jack kept it? He hadn’t a magpie mentality. He didn’t keep anything unless it was of some use.