The Guilty Are Afraid

The car pulled up and a tall, thin man got out. He came over to me. I couldn’t see much of him in the moonlight except he seemed reasonably young and he was wearing a slouch hat at the back of his head.

“Mr. Brandon?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Frank Hepple of the Courier. Mr. Troy told me to contact you. Is it too late for a talk?”

It was too late and I didn’t feel like talking, but Troy had said this guy was good and I needed help so I said for him to come on in.

“How did you know I was here?” I asked, as we walked over the sand towards the bungalow.

“I called Lieutenant Rankin this afternoon and he told me,” Hepple said. “I’ve got something for you. I thought I’d better get out here and let you have it right away.”

The bungalow was silent, and there was a feeling of emptiness about it. I could smell Margot’s perfume that still hung in the hot, stale air. I thumbed down the switch and led the way into the lounge, turning on the lights as I entered.

The clock on the mantelpiece showed twenty minutes past eleven. I thought a little sourly that if Rankin hadn’t come to drag me to Thrisby’s place, I would be lying in Margot’s arms by now.

I went over to the bar, found a full bottle of Vat 69 and I made two large highballs. I carried the drinks to a table and then sat down.

I looked over at Hepple, who was standing with his back to the fireplace, watching me.

He was around thirty, with a thin, pleasant face, shrewd eyes and a jutting jaw. He looked the kind of man that would want a lot of stopping once he got going.

“Help yourself,” I said, waving to the glasses, then I put my hands on my aching stomach and tried to relax.

He came over and picked up one of the glasses, took a long drink, then as I reached for my glass he said, “Mr. Troy told me to take a look at Hahn. I’ve been digging into his past and I’ve struck gold.”

“In what way?”

“I went out to his place and asked him if he’d give me an interview,” Hepple said. “He jumped at the chance of getting some free publicity. Make no mistake about this guy. He’s an artist and he knows his stuff. I persuaded him to do me a rough model in clay, and he let me take the model away. It was only a rough thing, but on it was a perfect set of his fingerprints.” Hepple grinned at me, delighted with his strategy. “This morning I took the model to the F.B.I. headquarters in Los Angeles. They checked the prints and out came the story.” He picked up his drink, took another pull at it and waved the glass excitedly. “Hahn’s real name is Jack Bradshaw. He served two years for drug smuggling back in 1941. When he came out, he went to Mexico and the F.B.I. lost sight of him. He turned up again four years later and was caught crossing the border with two suitcases loaded with heroin. This time he drew eight years. When he came out, the F.B.I. kept tabs on him, but this time he seems to have settled down and become legitimate. They know all about his School of Ceramics and they have even looked the place over, but they say there is something shady going on there.” He leaned forward and pointed a finger at me. “Now this is the part that’s going to interest you. While Hahn was serving his last sentence, he palled up with a guy called Juan Tuarmez, who was another drug operator. They left jail together. I had a hunch about Tuarmez and got the F.B.I. to show me his photograph, and guess who?”

“Cordez?”

Hepple nodded.

“That’s right: Cordez of the Musketeer Club. How do you like that?”

“Does the F.B.I. know he’s here?”

“Oh, sure, but there’s nothing they can do about that. He’s served his sentence and on the face of it, he’s running a successful club. They drop in every now and then and take a look around, but they are satisfied he isn’t up to his old tricks.”

“Do they wonder where the money came from to start the club?”

“They’ve gone into that. Cordez told them a group of financiers backed him.”

“And Hahn?”

“The same story.”

“Any idea who the financiers are?”

“Creedy, of course.”

“Doesn’t the F.B.I. think it fishy that these two jailbirds should have set up business in the same town?”

“They put a tail on them for some time. Cordez never goes to the School nor does Hahn go to the club. They haven’t met since they moved into St. Raphael.”

I thought for a moment, then said, “I hear Judge Harrison has quit politics.”

Hepple grimaced.

“The old snake. Creedy bought him out.”

“Are you printing that?”

“Not on your life. We have no proof, but that’s what has happened. It’s going to take some time to find anyone to take his place. In the meantime there’ll be no opposition and the present bunch will romp home. Looks as if we’re in for another term of rackets.”

“Maybe: maybe not. You heard about the shooting out at the White Chateau?”

Hepple nodded.

“But that hasn’t any connection with Cordez and Hahn, has it?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m working on it now. Have you a good safe in your office?”

“Sure.” Hepple’s face showed his surprise.