The Guilty Are Afraid

I got out of the car and, with Candy plodding at my heels, I walked up the steps, pushed open the door, turned on the light and crossed over to the hallstand. I tried to block Candy away from the drawer, but he shoved me aside, opened it and took out my .38.

“This it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

I was looking into the now-empty drawer, feeling a little prickle run up my spine: Bridgette’s gun had vanished!

Candy broke open my gun and looked down the barrel. Then he sniffed at it, grunted and dropped the gun into his pocket.

“Who owns the Caddy out there?”

“You’d better ask the Lieutenant,” I said.

He looked at me, grimaced and shrugged his shoulders.

“Let’s go.”

“What is all this?” I said, wondering if Margot were listening.

“Who do you imagine you’re kidding?” he said, disgust in his voice. “We saw you go into Thrisby’s place and we saw you come out.”

“You did? Then why didn’t you arrest me, Sergeant?”

“We had no orders to arrest you,” Candy said, “but we have now.”

“Whose orders?”

“The Captain’s.”

“Does Holding know?”

Candy shifted his gum around in his face.

“You can forget Holding. Situations change from hour to hour in this city. Come on, we don’t want to keep the Captain waiting.”

We went back to the car.

Rankin said as we got in, “Did you get it?”

“Yeah.” Candy slid my gun to Rankin. “It’s been recently fired.”

“I can explain that,” I said. “You’re not trying to make out I killed those two, are you?”

“I’m not trying to make out anything,” Rankin said in a tired, flat voice. “Just shut up, will you? I’ve been told to bring you in, and I’m bringing you in.”

“What’s this about Holding?”

“You’ll find out.” Rankin settled back in the corner of the car. “Just shut up.”

Nothing further was said during the fast run up to the Crest.

During the run, I did some thinking. Then I suddenly realized I might have the key to the whole case: I couldn’t be absolutely sure, but all of a sudden the bits of the jigsaw that had made no sense, suddenly meant something. It was one of those sudden flashes one gets when one mentally steps back and looks over all the bits and pieces and suddenly sees a connecting link which before hadn’t meant anything.

I hadn’t time to get excited about this discovery because we arrived at the White Chateau.

We got out.

Rankin said to Candy, “Take the car and go back to the bungalow. Take Jackson with you. Search the place. Bring anything you find back here. Get moving.”

Candy looked surprised, but he got back into the car and the driver slid under the driving wheel.

“Think she’ll be gone by now?” Rankin asked as the police car drove off.

“Yeah. What’s happened to Holding?”

“You’re way out on a limb, Brandon. Creedy’s done a fast deal with Judge Harrison. Holding is back with the Administration. There’s no opposition just now.”

That really set me back on my heels.

“Come on,” Rankin said. “We don’t want to keep the Captain waiting. Don’t let’s have any trouble. You were told not to push this thing so you can’t say you weren’t warned.”

“Holding told me to go ahead.”

“Couldn’t you see the kind of rat he is?” Rankin said impatiently. “Come on.”

We walked up the path, across the lawn to the house. All the lights were on. Three uniformed policemen were pacing up and down on the terrace.

We walked through the open french doors into the lounge. A squad of fingerprint men and photographers were at work. None of them bothered to look at me.

Rankin said to one of them, “Captain here?”

“Upstairs, Lieutenant,” the detective said as he peered at a fingerprint he had discovered on the edge of one of the cocktail tables.

We went out into the hall.

Two men in white coats were bringing down a stretcher on which lay a body covered with a sheet. From the size of the body I guessed it was the Filipino’s.

We stood aside and I watched the two men tramp across the hall and out through the french doors.

“Come on,” Rankin said. “You first.”

I climbed the stairs, and at his nod I walked into Thrisby’s bedroom.

Thrisby still lay across the bed. Standing, looking out of the window was the enormous figure of Captain Katchen. Two plainclothes men were going through the various drawers in the room. There was no sign of the Siamese cat. I moved into the room and stopped by the foot of the bed. I didn’t look at Thrisby.

Rankin leaned against the doorpost, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on Katchen’s broad back. Katchen didn’t turn. He continued to stare out of the window. Cigar smoke drifted from his mouth and crawled across the room in a small grey cloud, passing close to me.

It smelt rank and strong.

Nothing happened for two long, unpleasant minutes, then Katchen growled, “Got his gun?” He still remained with his back towards me. The old technique of breaking down nerves and softening-up resistance.

As Rankin left the doorway, one of the other detectives moved over to take his place. It was a hint that they didn’t expect me to make a sudden dive for the stairs.