The Guilty Are Afraid

I tagged along on their heels, and as soon as I had passed through the turnstile, I sidestepped them and walked over to where I had left the Buick.

Leaving the School of Ceramics, I drove fast along the promenade to the Franklyn Arms. I took Margot’s bag from the glove compartment, put the match-folder in it, then, leaving the car, I entered the lobby of the apartment block.

I asked the reception clerk to send my name up to Margot, asking her to see me. After he had called her, he told me she would meet me in the bar in five minutes. He showed me where the bar was and I went in and sat down at a corner table.

It was a good ten minutes before Margot appeared. By then the time was a quarter past twelve. The bar was fairly full, but there was no one sitting close to my table.

She came towards me. She was wearing a short beach coat over a swimsuit and sandals. Her hair was tied back with red ribbon and she carried her big beach bag.

Most of the men turned and stared at her. She was worth staring at: I stared myself.

I got up as she reached the table and pulled out a chair for her.

“I can’t stay more than ten minutes, Lew,” she said, smiling at me. “I have a lunch date the other side of the town.”

I asked her what she would drink and she said a gin gimlet. I had one too.

“I’d like to tell you, you look wonderful,” I said as soon as the waiter had gone away. “I expect you get tired of being told that.”

She laughed.

“It depends who says it. Did you bring my bag?”

I had it lying on a chair beside me, and I lifted it into sight and laid it on the table.

“I’ll claim the reward for it later,” I said.

Her eyes sparkled.

“And I’ll willingly pay the reward. Thank you, Lew. I’m terribly careless with my things.” She picked up the bag and began to put it in her beach bag.

“Wait a moment. You’d better check to see there’s nothing missing.”

She looked inquiringly at me.

“What could be missing?”

Her mauve black eyes were entirely without guile and that pleased me.

“Margot, there’s a folder of matches in that bag that interests me.”

“Is there?” She looked surprised. “A folder of matches? Why does it interest you?” She opened the bag, pushed aside the handkerchief and took out the match-folder. “You mean this?”

“Yes. Where did you get it from?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t even know it was in here. Why, Lew? Why so much interest?”

“I have reason to know that’s the folder I found in Sheppey’s luggage. Later someone ransacked my room, found it and substituted another folder for it. Now it turns up in your bag.”

“Are you quite sure it’s the same folder? I’ve seen dozens like this in the club.”

“Look at it. On the back of the matches you’ll find a row of numbers. They are the same numbers that were on the matches in Sheppey’s folder.”

She opened the folder and bent back the matches and frowned at the numbers.

“It’s odd, isn’t it? Perhaps all the matches in all the folders have these numbers on them.”

“They haven’t. I checked that. Where did you get that folder from?”

“I must have got it from the club last night. I was dining there.” She thought for a moment, frowning. “Yes, that’s right. I remember I had forgotten to bring my lighter with me. I never use matches unless I forget my lighter. I suppose I must have picked up the folder from the tray on the hatcheck counter.”

I shook my head.

“You didn’t do that. This is a special folder, Margot. Someone committed a murder for it. It wouldn’t be in any tray.”

She was beginning to look worried.

“I don’t know then. Unless I asked someone for a light and they gave me the folder.”

“I can’t imagine anyone doing that. Who did you dine with?”

“There was a party: there were five people and myself. Bridgette and Thrisby, a man called Donaghue, Harry Lucas, who I play tennis with sometimes, and Doris Little, a friend of mine.”

“Any of these people could have put the match-folder absentmindedly on the table and you could have picked it up?”

“I suppose so. I just can’t remember picking it up, but, of course, it’s the sort of thing one could do without thinking.”

“I don’t like it a lot. This folder is worth money. I can’t imagine anyone laying it on the table for you to pick up.”

“They might have been under the impression it was an ordinary match-folder. The waiters leave them on every table.”

“Maybe. Well, okay. I want the folder, Margot. I’ll have to show it to Lieutenant Rankin.”

Her eyes widened.

“But, Lew, if you do that you’ll mix me up in this,” she said. “I mustn’t get mixed up with the police, darling. Daddy would be livid.”

“I’ll have to tell Rankin. He’ll want to know where I got it from. You don’t have to worry. He’s far too scared of your father to involve you.”

“But, darling, suppose he does? You mustn’t do it. Don’t you see that? He’ll want to know how you found the folder in my bag. You’re not going to tell him what happened last night for heaven’s sake!”

I thought for a moment.

“Okay, I’ll handle it myself. I’ll go and talk to Thrisby before I see Rankin. Maybe I can get a line on it from Thrisby.”

She handed me the match-folder.