The Guilty Are Afraid

The sergeant told me to follow the corridor to the rear door, turn left and I’d see the morgue light straight ahead.

I followed his directions.

The entrance to the morgue was across the yard. A blue lamp above the door made a ghostly light. Two windows of the low building showed lights and, moving quietly, I crossed the dark courtyard and looked in through one of the windows.

Rankin was standing by a table on which lay Thelma Cousins’ body, covered to the neck by the sheet. Facing him was a slightly built man with a mass of corn-coloured hair and a chin beard to match. He was wearing a cowboy shirt of blue and yellow checks, black trousers, skin tight at the hips and that belled out around his ankles. On his feet he wore Mexican boots with high heels, and with some tricky inlaid silver work on them.

He was good looking if you could accept the long hair and the beard. He had a good nose, deep-set, intelligent eyes and a dome of a forehead.

While he listened to Rankin, he kept smacking the side of his boot with a thin riding whip.

Maybe if he had had a horse with him he would have been impressive. Without the horse, he looked just another Californian screwball.

Rankin seemed to be doing most of the talking. Hahn just nodded and uttered a word here and there. I could see from Rankin’s expression that he was getting nowhere. Finally he flicked the sheet over the dead girl’s face as a signal the interview was over, and Hahn started across the room for the door.

I stepped quickly back into the shadows.

Hahn came out, crossed the yard with long strides, flicking his leg with his whip. He disappeared through the doorway, leading to the street exit.

I moved around to the entrance to the morgue, pushed open the door and went in.

Rankin was just about to turn off the lights when he saw me and his hard, tight face showed his surprise.

“What do you want?”

“Was that Hahn?”

“Yeah: a phony if ever there was one, but he does all right with his pots. He must be making a small fortune out of the sucker trade.” Rankin suppressed a yawn. “Know what he told me? This will kill you.” He touched the dead girl’s arm. “She wasn’t only religious, but she never went around with men. She hadn’t even a boyfriend unless you can call her priest her boyfriend. He was the only one she went around with, and then only to help him collect for the poor. Doc says she’s a virgin. I’ll talk to the priest tomorrow, but I think we can believe Hahn.”

“And yet she went around with Sheppey.”

Rankin grimaced.

“Was he all that good? Could he have made a girl like her fall for him?”

“I wouldn’t put it beyond him. He had a technique all of his own, but I don’t like it a lot. He didn’t go for the religious type. Maybe he and she were on the level. She might have been helping him: giving him information.”

“Would they go swimming together; sharing the same cabin if it was only that?”

I shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, at least, it doesn’t look as if we’ll have to look for a boyfriend, does it?” He wandered over to the light switch and turned it off. “You playing along with Holding?” His voice came out of the semi-darkness. The light from the outside blue lamp made a silver puddle on the morgue floor.

“I said I would. He tells me I can look you up at your house if I want any information.”

“He didn’t tell you you could look him up at his house, did he?”

“No.”

Rankin moved over to me.

“He wouldn’t. He never takes chances.” He put his hand on my arm. “You want to watch him: you’re not the first guy he’s taken for a ride. He’s been in office now for four years and he hasn’t got there or stayed there without a lot of help. He has a nice, well-developed talent for getting someone else to row his boat for him. He’s the only punk I’ve ever known who hunts with the Administration and runs with the opposition and gets away with it. So watch him.”

He walked out of the morgue, his hands thrust deep in his coat pockets, his shoulders hunched, his head bent.

I stood for a long moment, turning this information over in my mind. Even if he hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t have trusted Mr. Holding. He hadn’t been born with the face of a ferret for nothing.

I left the morgue, closed the door and walked quickly down the passage and on to the street.

The time was now twenty-five minutes to two o’clock. I was pretty tired, and it was nice to sink into the upholstered seat of the Buick.

I got back to the hotel as the clock was striking two. The night clerk looked reproachfully at me as I crossed the lobby. I was too tired to bother with him. I got into the elevator, rode up to the second floor, tramped wearily down the corridor to my room. I unlocked the door, pushed it open and turned on the light.

Then I swore under my breath.

The room had been given the same treatment as Sheppey’s room. The drawers in the chest were hanging out, the mattress was ripped open, the pillows were slashed. My stuff had been tossed out of my suitcases and strewn all over the floor. Even Sheppey’s stuff had been thrown around too.