The Guilty Are Afraid

“You wanted to see me?” she asked, her eyebrows lifting as she took in the rolled-up sleeves and the slacks. “Isn’t there some mistake?”

I went over to a lounging chair and sat down. I was a little tired of neurotic women. I had had dealings with them in the past. They run to type. In some ways they are pathetic; in other ways they are a plain pain in the neck. This afternoon I was completely out of sympathy with them, and that went for Mrs. Creedy too.

“I didn’t tell you to sit down,” she said, drawing herself up and giving me the standard Hollywood freeze.

“I know you didn’t,” I said, “but I’m tired. I have had too much excitement for one day and excitement always makes me tired. I’ve brought your gun back.” I fished the .38 from my pocket, removed the magazine, shook the slugs into my palm, put the magazine back and offered the gun to her. She hesitated for a brief moment, then took the gun.

“I suppose you now want money,” she said disdainfully.

“Well, you haven’t much else to offer, have you?” I said, and smiled at her.

That really got her mad, as I intended it to. I was glad I had removed the slugs from the gun, otherwise I believe she would have shot me.

“How dare you talk to me like that!” she said, almost spitting at me. “If you think you can blackmail me . . .”

“Of course I can blackmail you,” I said. “Stop kidding yourself and stop acting like a 1948 Oscar winner. Sit down and listen to me.”

She stared at me as if she couldn’t believe her ears.

“My husband . . .” she began, but I cut her short with a wave of my hand.

“Don’t throw your husband in my face,” I said. “Even if he is the hot shot of this town, he couldn’t keep this setup out of the Courier.”

She put the gun down on a table and then moved over to a lounging chair away from me and sat down.

“What exactly do you mean by that?” she said, steel in her voice.

“You know what I mean. If I hadn’t happened along this morning when I did, Thrisby would be dead by now. A murder attempt by Creedy’s wife would hit the headlines of every newspaper in the country.”

“They wouldn’t dare print!” she said furiously.

“Don’t be too sure about that.”

She controlled her anger, and for a long moment she studied me.

“Well, all right: how much do you want?”

“I’m not another of your boyfriends, Mrs. Creedy, looking for money. I want some information out of you.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“What information?”

“I understand you hired my partner to watch Thrisby.”

She stiffened, her silver fingernails like claws on her knees.

“If Jacques told you that, he is lying. I did nothing of the kind!”

“He says you did.”

“He is and has always been a liar,” she said fiercely. “It’s a lie! I didn’t hire anyone to watch him!”

“Did you hire Sheppey to watch anyone?”

“No!”

“Did you know Thrisby was going around with a girl named Thelma Cousins?” I asked.

Her mouth tightened and I saw her eyes flinch.

“No.”

“Did you see Thelma Cousins and warn her to keep away from Thrisby?”

“No. I’ve never heard of the woman!”

“You can’t kid me to believe that. She was found murdered yesterday. It was in the papers with her photograph.”

“I tell you I’ve never seen nor heard of her,” she said and I could almost hear her heart beats as she glared at me.

I stared at her for a long moment and she met my gaze, her eyes smouldering. I could see I had come up against a wall of resistance I wasn’t going to penetrate. She had plenty of nerve, and she must have realized that I had no proof except Thrisby’s word.

“You would have no objection if I told Lieutenant Rankin what Thrisby has told me?” I said. “If you didn’t hire Sheppey and you know nothing about the girl you would have nothing to worry about if I did tell him, would you?”

Her eyes flickered and I thought for a moment she was going to lose her nerve, then she snapped, “You can tell him what you please, but I warn you if you start trouble for me I’ll sue you out of existence, and don’t imagine I can’t do it: I’m not listening to any more of this rubbish, so please go!”

I played my last card. I took out the match-folder.

“Is this yours, Mrs. Creedy?”

I was watching her closely, but she gave no sign of surprise nor of tenseness as Thrisby had done.

III

On my way out I was surprised to be asked to step into Mr. Creedy’s office.

“Were you seeing my wife?”

“I should ask her if you are all that interested,” I said. “Is that all you want to see me about? If it is I must be running along. I have my living to make and time presses.”

He studied me for some seconds, then picked up a sharp letter opener and studied it with lifted eyebrows as if he had never seen it before.

“I have been making inquiries about your agency,” he said, not looking at me. “I learn that you are solvent, that you have a reasonably profitable business and your assets are worth three thousand dollars.”