The Guilty Are Afraid

“Well, ask yourself. She was a religious kid: it says so in the newspapers. How was she going to explain what she was doing with a man in a bathing cabin meant for a married couple? I think she bolted down to the sand dunes and hid there. The killer, after fixing Sheppey, went after her, caught her and took her some place. Later she was killed and her body brought back to the cabin. That’s my idea, but I could be wrong.”

“And you think Bridgette killed Sheppey and the girl?” I asked.

He stiffened, frowning at me.

“I didn’t say that. I can’t see Bridgette sticking an icepick into Sheppey, can you?”

I thought about it and decided I couldn’t either.

“But she could have hired someone to do it: one of her husband’s thugs: Hertz, for instance.”

Thrisby grimaced.

“That thug! Yes, she could have done that. It wouldn’t surprise me if she doesn’t sick him on to me. That would be her idea of levelling scores.” He began to look worried. “Maybe I’d better get out of this town. It might not be safe to stay here.”

Then I had a sudden idea.

I took a cigarette from my pack, put it between my lips, then took from my hip pocket the Musketeer Club match-folder. I held it between my fingers so he could see it as I said, “What do you know about Hertz?” I bent one of the matches, tore it out of the folder and laid the head against the scraper.

I didn’t take my eyes off him.

His reaction was immediate. He made a movement as if to stop me lighting the match, but checked it. His face was suddenly tense and his eyes stared fixedly at the folder.

I struck the match, lit my cigarette, flicked the flame out and laid the match in the ashtray, being careful to lay it cipher side up.

His eyes went to the row of ciphers and he drew in a quick, sharp breath.

“Anything wrong?” I asked, slipping the match-folder into my hip pocket.

He got hold of himself.

“No. I—I didn’t know you were a member of the Musketeer Club.”

“I’m not. You mean the match-folder? Just something I picked up.”

“I see.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. “Well, I’ve got to be moving. I have a lunch date.” And he stood up.

“You didn’t answer my question. What do you know about Hertz?”

“Only that Creedy uses him for his rough stuff. I don’t know a thing about him except that. Well, thanks for walking in when you did. I’ve really got to be going. Do you mind seeing yourself out? I’m late as it is.”

“That’s okay.” I got to my feet. “I’ll be seeing you.”

Nodding to him, I crossed the lounge and went through the french doors on to the verandah. The jigsaw pieces were beginning to fall into shape, I thought, as I started across the verandah.

The Siamese cat raised its head to stare at me. I paused to tickle its tummy. Its paw with the claws out made a quick dab at my hand, but I got it out of reach just in time.

“Take it easy,” I said to the cat. “You don’t have to be neurotic too.”

I set off across the lawn, aware that Thrisby was watching me from behind the curtains.

II

I drove slowly back to St. Raphael City, my mind busy. There now seemed a reasonable possibility that I had two separate investigations on my hands: Sheppey’s murder and the mystery of the match-folder. It was possible that neither of them had any direct bearing on the other.

Thrisby’s theory that Sheppey had been killed by mistake seemed to me to be an acceptable one. Having seen the murderous, uncontrolled expression on Bridgette Creedy’s face, I couldn’t now rule out the possibility that she had hired someone to kill the girl who was taking Thrisby away from her. Sheppey might have tried to protect the girl and had got killed instead.

I decided it was time to have a talk to Bridgette Creedy, but before doing so I had to make up my mind what line to take with her.

The time was now half past one and I was hungry. I pulled up outside a small seafood restaurant, left the car and went in.

I gave myself a nice meal and took my time over it. The food was good, even though the check, when it came, made me look three times to be sure the waiter hadn’t added in the date by mistake. By the time I had left the restaurant, it was close on half past two. I drove over to a drug store, shut myself in a telephone booth and called Creedy’s residence.

The butler answered. His adenoids were no better nor, come to think of it, no worse. I asked for Mrs. Creedy.

“I’ll put you through to her secretary,” he said, and after a few clicks and pops a cool efficient, voice said it belonged to Mrs. Creedy’s secretary.

“I want an appointment to see Mrs. Creedy,” I said. “I met her this morning. I have something that belongs to her. Will you ask her when she can see me?”

“What is your name, please?”

“The name doesn’t matter: just tell her what I’ve told you.”

“Will you hold on, please?”