The Guilty Are Afraid

I pushed my hat to the back of my head and blew out my cheeks. The atmosphere in the booth was thick enough to lean against. This looked as if I was at a dead end. Then I had a sudden idea. I remembered Jack’s habit of doodling whenever he talked to anyone on the telephone. Give him a pencil and a telephone and he had to doodle. He either drew nudes—and he had talent in this direction—or he wrote down snatches of the conversation that was taking place. It was second nature to him to scribble while he used the telephone.

“Go into his office, Ella, and take a look at his blotter. There’s a chance he wrote down the client’s name. You know how he doodled.”

“Yes. I’ll look.”

I waited, feeling sweat running down my spine. It was so hot in the booth that I had to open the door to let in a little fresh air. That was when I saw the flatfoot. He was leaning against the soda bar. He had cop written all over him, and by the exaggerated way he was staring at a cup of coffee I knew he was anxious not to let his glance stray in my direction.

I cursed myself for not thinking that Rankin would slap a tail on me. This guy must guess I was calling my office. Ella’s voice jerked my attention back to the telephone.

“There’s a lot of stuff on the blotter,” she said. “I have it right here. But there’s only one name. It’s Lee Creedy, written in block letters.”

“Okay, Ella. It might be something or it might not. Get rid of the blotter right now, will you? I’ll hold on. Tear it up and flush it down the toilet. You could have a call from the cops any moment and they mustn’t find it.”

I waited for three minutes, then she came on the line again.

“I’ve got rid of it.”

“Good girl. Now listen, I’ve told the police here you’re a dimwit and we don’t tell you anything. Play it that way. Tell them Jack had a telephone call and he told you he was going to St. Raphael City, but you don’t know why or who called him. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t let them faze you. They’ll probably get tough and talk about accessories after the fact, but don’t worry. Stick to your story. They can’t prove anything and they’ll soon get tired of trying.”

“All right, Lew.”

“One more thing. I don’t like asking you to do it, Ella, but I can’t do it from here. Will you break the news to Jack’s wife? Tell her I’m writing. I’ll get a letter off tonight. I’ll fix the funeral. When she’s got over the shock, I’ll call her.”

“Aren’t you coming back yet?”

“No. I’m going to find out why Jack was killed and who killed him. Will you go around and see her, Ella?”

“Yes, of course.” Then she said in a lower tone, “Two men have just come in. I think they are detectives . . .” and the line went dead.

I took out my handkerchief and wiped my face, then I left the booth and crossed over to the counter and stood close to the waiting detective. He gave me a stony stare, then turned his back on me.

I ordered a sandwich and a coffee.

He finished his coffee, lit a cigarette, then, with exaggerated nonchalance, he went out of the drug store, got into a black Lincoln and drove away.

II

I got back to the hotel soon after one-thirty and went straight up to my room. I had to pass Jack’s room and seeing the door was open, I looked in.

A heavily built man in a baggy suit was standing by the window, his hands on his broad hips, looking around. He turned and stared at me, his eyes hard and hostile. He looked like an ex-cop. I guessed he would be the house dick.

“Have they folded their tent and stolen away?” I asked, coming into the room.

“What do you want in here?” he demanded in a rasping, bass voice.

“I’m Brandon. My room’s next door. You Greaves?”

He relaxed a little and nodded.

The room had been tidied up to some extent. At least the feathers had been swept up, although a few still remained.

The drawers in the chest were shut, the stuffing had been put back into the mattress cover and the papers had been collected.

Jack’s belongings were piled in a corner of the room: two shabby suitcases, a raincoat, a hat and a tennis racket in a frame. They looked a pathetic little heap: not much to show in place of a guy with his looks, strength and fun.

“They finished with that lot?” I said.

Greaves nodded.

“I’ll have to send them back to his wife. Will someone do it for me?”

“Joe will, the bell hop, if you ask him.”

“If you have nothing better to do, come into my room. I have a bottle of Vat 69 that needs a workout.”

His fat face brightened. It wouldn’t have surprised me to learn he hadn’t many friends.

“I guess I can spare a few minutes.”

We went into my room and I shut the door.

Greaves sat on the upright chair while I sat on the bed. The ice had long since melted. I didn’t bother to phone for more. I gave him three fingers of whisky and myself one.

I studied him as he sniffed at his glass. His round, fat face was devoid of guile. His moustache had a few white hairs. His eyes were hard, suspicious and a little weary. It couldn’t be much fun to be a house dick to a hotel of this standing.