Safer Dead

I

Edwin Fayette, editor of Crime Facts, sat behind his desk in his luxurious office, a cigar between his teeth and an unfriendly gleam in his eyes.

‘Sit down,’ he said, waving impatiently. ‘What are you two guys working on?’

I folded myself down in the most comfortable armchair in the room while Bernie Low sat as far from Fayette as he could and began to bite his nails.

Bernie and I had been collaborating for the past two years, writing stories for Crime Facts, a monthly magazine of crime and detection stories with the biggest circulation of any of its rivals. I did the thinking and Bernie did the writing. The arrangement suited us both. I never could work up enough energy to commit ideas to paper, and Bernie never had any ideas.

An ex-Hollywood scriptwriter, Bernie was short, plump and impressive looking. He had a dome-shaped head, a massive forehead and his heavy horn spectacles made him look brainier than he was. He had once confided to me that it was entirely due to the shape of his head that he had remained in the movie business as long as he had.

Bernie had a horror of losing his job. Whenever he was called to Fayette’s office, he imagined he was going to get the gate. Saddled with an expensive, luxury loving wife, an enormous house and a flock of debts, his life was one continual battle to keep the wolf from the door.

‘Right at this moment,’ I said, ‘we’re tossing an idea around in our minds and building up atmosphere. We’ll have something for you in a week or so and it’ll knock your eye out.’

‘Well, shelve it,’ Fayette said. ‘I’ve got something I want you two to work on. Will your story wait?’

‘Oh sure, it’ll wait. What have you got for us?’

Fayette produced a file from his desk.

‘I want a series of articles done on missing people,’ he said. ‘Do you realize thirty or more people walk out of their homes every day in this country and disappear? I’ve got Carson to dig up few of the more interesting cases, and I’ve a good one here for you. I want you to get moving on it right away.’

Bernie and I exchanged glances. We had been bogged down for the past week on a story idea and Fayette’s suggestion was welcome.

‘What’s the story then?’ I asked.

‘During August of last year, a girl named Fay Benson disappeared,’ Fayette said. ‘She was a song and dance artist, working at the Florian nightclub in Welden. Welden, if you don’t know, is sixty miles south-east of San Francisco. This girl had been a success. The manager of the club told her he would extend her contract so she had no reason to disappear as she did. On August 17th she came as usual to the club and went to her dressing-room. At nine o’clock, the call-boy warned her she had five minutes before her act began. He saw she was wearing her stage get-up which consisted of a bra, a pair of spangled shorts, a top hat and some feathers. She said she was ready, and he left her. He was the last person to see her. When she didn’t appear on the stage he was sent to fetch her, but her dressing-room was empty. The clothes she had arrived in were there, and more important still, her purse containing twenty dollars was on her dressing-table, but she had vanished.

‘The manager asked the stage door man if he had seen her, but he hadn’t. The only other exit, apart from the customers’ exit which was through the restaurant, was in the basement. The man in charge down there hadn’t seen her either. Bearing in mind she was still wearing her stage get-up, no one could have failed to have seen her if she had used the delivery exit, the stage door exit or if she had gone through the restaurant to the main exit. The manager decided she must still be in the club. The building was searched but they didn’t find her. The police were called in. They didn’t find her either. They learned that she had got the job at the club through an agency, but the agency didn’t know anything about her except she had told them she had worked at the Swallow Club in San Francisco. When the police checked, the Swallow Club had never heard of her. She didn’t appear to have any friends. She stayed at the Shad Hotel, a moderate joint near the club, and the reception clerk said she never had any visitors nor any mail. The police kept at it for a couple of weeks, then as they didn’t get a lead or find her body, they dropped the case.’ Fayette closed the file and looked at me. ‘Doesn’t that sound like the makings of a good story?’

I thought it did, but I had learned not to show too much enthusiasm for Fayette’s ideas. They had a habit of blowing up in one’s face.

‘It sounds all right, but if the police couldn’t get a lead on her, how can we?’

‘Most people don’t like talking to the police. Besides, I like this story, and I’m willing to spend some money on it. People will talk if they think they’re going to get something out of it. I’m sure we’ve got something hot here, and I want you two to get after it.’

‘Okay,’ I said and held out my hand for the file. ‘All the dope here?’

‘There’s not much more than I’ve already told you: a few names and a photograph of the girl, but that’s all. You’ll have start from scratch.’

‘How about expenses?’ Bernie asked a shade too eagerly.

Fayette scowled at him.

‘Within reason, and I mean my reason and not yours. I want an account kept of every dime you part with — understand?’

Bernie smiled happily. He hadn’t been in the movie business for four years without learning how to pad an expense sheet.

‘You’ll get an account okay, Mr. Fayette,’ he said.

I was looking at the picture of Fay Benson I had found in the file. The glossy photograph was of a girl of about twenty-four in a spangled brassiere, spangled pants and a top hat. Her lovely face, framed by fair, silky hair was to my thinking as sensational as her figure was seductive. I handed the picture to Bernie.

‘Take a look at this,’ I said.

Bernie’s eyes popped and he pursed his lips in an appreciative whistle.

‘Well, come on, let’s go,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘If she’s as good as she looks, she’s worth finding.’

II

It was growing dark as we drove into Welden in the Roadmaster Buick I had hired in San Francisco.

At first sight, Welden appeared to be a compact, well-laid-out town, prosperous and clean, with broad streets and crowded sidewalks.

‘For a hick town, this doesn’t look so bad,’ Bernie said, screwing his head around to catch a last glimpse of a tall, willowy blonde who was waiting at the traffic signals to cross the street and who had given him a long, bold stare as we passed. ‘Anyway, the women don’t appear to be repressed, and that’s always a good sign.’

‘Will you shut up?’ I said impatiently. ‘That’s all you think about — women. For a married man you should be ashamed of yourself.’

‘If you were married to Clair, you’d act the same way,’ Bernie said. ‘That girl drives me nuts. She’s always yelling for something. If I didn’t circulate among other women now and then I’d begin to imagine they were all like her.’

‘You shouldn’t have married her.’

Bernie laughed bitterly.

‘Do you think I’m that crazy? I didn’t marry her; she married me.’

I slowed down and pulled to the sidewalk to ask a patrolman where the Shad Hotel was. He directed me, and after about five minutes driving, we came to the hotel.

It didn’t look much. It was a tall building sandwiched between a block of offices and a hardware store. Opposite was the hotel garage, and when we had parked the car, we carried our bags across the street and entered the hotel.

Potted palms, basket chairs and tarnished spittoons gave the lobby a seedy, down-at-the-heel look, and the reception clerk, a shabby, elderly man with a network of fine red veins decorating his over large nose, didn’t do anything to raise the tone of the place.

‘What a dump,’ Bernie said, ‘I’ll bet there are beetles in the bedrooms.’

‘What do you expect? Silkworms?’ I said and crossed over to the desk.

The clerk seemed surprised when I asked for two rooms and told him we were likely to stay a week.

‘I have two rooms on the first floor,’ he said. ‘Would they do?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Have these bags taken up. Where’s the bar?’

‘Through there; second on your right.’

The bar was a long, narrow room with more potted palms, tarnished spittoons and basket chairs. There was no one in it except the barman who was reading the evening paper which he folded with a resigned air when he saw us.

‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said. He was big and tough with a brick red face and the bright blue eyes of a drinker.

I ordered two highballs.

‘Looks festive enough to hold a funeral in,’ Bernie said looking around. ‘Don’t the folks in this hotel ever drink?’

‘It’s early yet,’ the barman said as if accusing us of disturbing his peace. ‘You staying here?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Ever read Crime Facts?’

He showed his surprise.

‘Why sure, it’s my favourite reading.’

I finished my highball at a swallow and pushed the glass back to him. Bernie, who believed in keeping pace with me, hurriedly downed his too.

‘Fill them up,’ I said. ‘We work for Crime Facts. We’re covering the Fay Benson case. Remember her?’

The barman had picked up my glass. It suddenly slipped out of his hand and smashed on the floor.

He swore as he bent to kick the bits of glass under the counter. When he straightened up I had an idea he had lost some of his colour.

‘What was that again?’ he asked.

‘Fay Benson. Remember her?’

‘Why, sure.’ He turned to fix another drink. ‘You mean you’re writing up the case?’

‘That’s the idea if we can get a new angle.’

He put two more drinks before us and then leaned against the counter while he began to arrange some glasses in a more orderly group.

‘What sort of angle would that be?’ he asked without looking at me.

‘Search me. We’re just looking around and seeing what we can pick up. It’s an interesting case. A girl, wearing only pants and bra, suddenly vanishes. Where did she go? Why did she go? Have you any ideas?’

‘Me?’ the barman scowled. ‘Why should I have any ideas?’

‘You knew her?’

He hesitated, then as he began to polish another glass, he said, ‘I didn’t know her. She came in for a drink now and then.’

‘Was she alone?’

‘She was always alone. I guess she came in here for company.’

‘Didn’t she have a boyfriend?’ I asked, aware that the barman wasn’t at ease. I sensed his tension rather than saw it, but I was pretty sure it was there.

‘She didn’t seem to know anyone. She kept to herself.’

‘But you don’t know for certain she didn’t have a boyfriend,’ Bernie put in. ‘She might have without you knowing about it.’

The barman scowled at him.

‘Maybe. What’s the idea of writing up the case again?’

‘We won’t write it up unless we can find out why she disappeared,’ I said.

‘The cops didn’t find out — why should you?’ He looked quickly at me, then away, but not fast enough for me to miss his furtive expression. This guy was beginning to interest me.

‘We’re the guys who put Sherlock Holmes out of business,’ Bernie said airily. ‘You’d be surprised at the number of unsolved cases we’ve solved. Surprises us sometimes. The cops know how good we are: they work with us now.’

‘Is that right? Well, you’ll have to be pretty smart to crack this one,’ the barman said curtly and turning, he moved away to the end of the bar and fetched out his paper.

I finished my drink.

‘Know where the Florian club is?’ I asked.

‘Hundred yards down on the right,’ the barman said without looking up.

As we left the bar, Bernie muttered, ‘He didn’t seem too friendly. Did you notice it?’

‘He looked scared to me,’ I said, letting the bar-room door swing to behind me. ‘Wait a second.’ I turned and peered through the glass panel of the door. I watched for a moment, then joined Bernie. ‘He’s using the telephone.’

‘Maybe he’s putting a buck on a horse.’

‘At this hour? Come on, let’s eat.’ I was thoughtful as we crossed the lobby and walked down the steps to the street. ‘I’m not so sure now my approach was right. I wouldn’t have told him about Crime Facts if I’d known he was going to react like that.’

‘Like what?’ Bernie said, bewildered. ‘He happened to drop a glass. Okay, anyone can do that. I admit he wasn’t too friendly, but maybe he didn’t like our faces. Some people don’t.’

‘Will you stop drivelling and let me think?’ I said impatiently.

‘Okay, okay,’ Bernie said in a resigned voice. ‘Go ahead and think. Anyone would imagine I wasn’t in this combination the way I’m treated.’

‘Shut up!’ I said fiercely.

III

There was quite a crowd moving through the brightly lit lobby of the Florian club. The hatcheck girl who took our hats was wearing a frilly little frock, a low neckline and a come hither look.

Bernie leered at her.

‘What’s the food like in this joint, babe?’ he asked. ‘Come to that, you look good enough to eat, yourself.’

The girl giggled.

‘The food’s fine,’ she said, then lowering her voice, she went on, ‘but don’t take the goulash. The kitchen cat’s missing.’

‘Come on!’ I said, dragging him away. ‘Lay off. We’re working.’

‘When don’t we work?’ he said bitterly. ‘Why did I ever get into this racket?’

The captain of waiters led us to a corner table.

The restaurant was fairly large with a five piece band, a small dance floor and pink diffused lights.

After we had ordered, Bernie said, ‘What’s the next move?’

‘I want to talk to the manager,’ I said. ‘He might have something for us. Then there’s the call-boy. He might know more than he told the cops.’

‘Those wrens huddled in the corner over there must be the hostesses. Would it be an idea if I made myself pleasant to one of them while you talk to the manager? No need for both of us to talk to him, and I might find out something.’

‘You might,’ I said, ‘but make sure it’s to do with this case.’

‘You’ve got a horrible mind,’ Bernie said indignantly.

A half an hour later, I paid the bill and got to my feet.

‘Don’t get into trouble,’ I said to Bernie.

‘She’s the one who’ll be in trouble,’ Bernie said, staring fixedly at a red head whose pretty painted face was stiff with boredom. ‘I’ve always wanted to third degree a dance hostess.’

I left him and searched out the manager’s office.

He turned out to be a short, dark man whose name was Al Weiman. When I told him I was from Crime Facts, he seemed pleased to see me.

‘What can I do for you, Mr. Sladen?’ he asked, waving me to a chair.

‘I’m trying to dig up some new facts about Fay Benson,’ I said. ‘We want to write up the case if we can find out any new angles.’

‘You have a job on, haven’t you? She disappeared fourteen months ago.’

‘I know.’ I accepted the cigarette he offered me and lit it. ‘But sometimes when one starts digging into an old case, you get on better than if it had just happened. If this girl met with foul play, the guy who did it is sitting pretty. Then he suddenly discovers, just when he is certain he is safe, that a new investigation has started up. The chances are he’ll get rattled. He might even make a mistake and give himself away. It’s happened before.’

‘Yes, I can see that. Well, how can I help?’

‘Have you any idea how the girl, dressed as she was, could have left here without being seen?’

Weiman shook his head.

‘I’ve often thought about it, but it foxes me. Both the rear exits were guarded, and she couldn’t have gone through the restaurant without being seen.’

‘Who were the men on the rear exit?’ I asked.

‘Joe Farmer was on the stage door exit and Pete Schultz was on the basement exit.’

‘Did it occur to you one of them might have been lying? If one of them lied, there’s no mystery to this at all. Didn’t the police think of that?’

‘Oh sure. They worked on both of them, but they couldn’t shake them. They both swore they didn’t leave their posts nor did they see the girl.’

‘Got anything against either of them?’

‘Schultz was all right. Besides, he was taking a delivery of beer and the police checked with the driver of the beer truck. He said Schultz was on the door at the time the girl disappeared.’

‘So that leaves Farmer. Anyone to support his story?’

‘No. I’ve often wondered about Farmer. He used to drink more than was good for him. Before this happened, he used to slip across the road to Mike’s bar, and I caught him at it. I told him if he did it again, I’d give him the gate.’

‘That’s not in your statement,’ I said.

‘I know it.’ Weiman smiled. ‘I didn’t want to get the guy into trouble. I talked to him before I called the cops and he convinced me he hadn’t been across the road.’

‘You caught him at it once. He knew if you caught him again he’d go. He would be pretty convincing, wouldn’t he?’

‘Before I questioned him, I went over to Mike’s bar. The barman there said he hadn’t seen him. I’m sure Joe was telling the truth.’

‘If he wasn’t, there’s no mystery. The girl could have gone that way.’

‘She couldn’t have gone far without being seen.’

‘Why not? If a car was waiting for her, she wouldn’t have had any trouble in getting away. I’d like to talk to Farmer.’

‘He’s dead.’

I stared at Weiman.

‘Dead? When did he die?’

‘Two days after the girl disappeared. He was killed by a hit and run driver. They never did find the driver.’

‘Well, that’s that,’ I said, disappointed. ‘I thought I was getting somewhere. Is the call-boy still with you?’

‘Spencer? Yes, he’s with us. Want to talk to him?’

‘He was the last one to see her, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes. You stick here, Mr. Sladen. I’ve got business to look after. I’ll send him to you.’

‘What did you think of Fay Benson?’ I asked as he got up. ‘Was she the type who could get into trouble?’

He shook his head.

‘I wouldn’t have thought so. She was a fine kid and her act was a success. She wasn’t like the usual girl we get here. She kept to herself, but she wasn’t unfriendly, and she behaved herself. No, she wasn’t the type to get into trouble.’

‘She didn’t mention her people? She didn’t give you a lead to where she came from?’

‘She didn’t talk about herself. I liked her act. She obviously had plenty of experience. She must have been in the game for some years. You can always tell if a girl’s had experience, and she had.’

‘It looks to me as if she was hiding from someone. She had no friends, no mail, kept to herself and lied about her background. It points to it. Well, okay, I mustn’t keep you. I’ll talk to Spencer.’

When Spencer came into the office, I waved him to a chair. He was tall and lanky and in his early twenties. He looked pop-eyed at me, and there was a mixture of nervousness and admiration in his gaze.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but are you the Chet Sladen who writes for Crime Facts?’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘You read my stuff?’

‘Read it! Gosh! I’ll say I do. I think it’s terrific. I’ve been reading it for years.’

‘I’ve been reading it for years myself, so that makes two of us,’ I said grinning. ‘I’m working on the Fay Benson case, and I’m hoping you can help me. How did you get on with her?’

‘I got on fine with her. She was a sweet kid, Mr. Sladen. She never made trouble for me.’

‘When you went to her room to call her the second time, was the room all right — no sign of a struggle?’

‘It was just the way I had seen it when I gave her her first call; except she wasn’t there.’

‘When you called her the first time, you’re sure she was there?’

‘Why, sure. After I knocked and she had called out, I opened the door and looked in. She was standing by the mirror. She had on her stage get-up and she said she would be right along. She asked about a telephone call she was expecting and I told her she’d have to take it when it came through in Joe’s office.’

‘She was expecting a call?’

‘Yes; she seemed anxious about it.’

‘Did it ever come through, do you know?’

‘I don’t think it did.’

‘Can I take a look at her dressing-room?’

‘You can see the outside, Mr. Sladen. There’s a girl using it right now.’

‘The outside will do.’

He took me along a passage down some stairs and to the back of the building. He opened a door and I found myself in a lobby that contained among other things wooden crates, odd spotlights and musical instrument cases.

The dressing-room door didn’t tell me anything. It was only fifteen yards from the stage door exit and the stage door office was just around the bend in the passage out of sight of the dressing-room door.

‘You’re sure she didn’t have any other clothes in her room? She couldn’t have changed out of her stage get-up?’

‘I’m sure, Mr. Sladen. One of my jobs is to clean out the dressing-rooms, and the cupboard was always empty. There was nowhere for her to keep anything except in the cupboard.’

‘It’s a baffler, isn’t it?’

‘It certainly is, Mr. Sladen.’

‘Well, thanks. If I can think of anything I’ll look in and see you again. Where’s Mike’s bar?’

‘I’ll show you.’

He took me past the stage door office, opened the stage door and pointed across the alley.

‘That’s it.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, crossed the alley and pushed open the bar door.

There were three men, sitting at a table drinking beer; another man lolled up against the bar, a whisky in front of him.

The barman, a beefy looking man with a red humorous face, was fiddling with a radio set.

I entered and going to the far end of the bar away from the four men, waited for the barman to come to me.

‘I’ll have a double Scotch and water,’ I said, ‘and if you have nothing better to do, have one yourself.’

He grinned.

‘Glad to, mister, and thanks.’

When he came back with the drinks, I said, ‘I haven’t been in Welden for over a year. I used to know Joe Farmer. I hear he’s dead.’

The barman nodded.

‘That’s right. He got killed by a hit and run artist. The driver was never found. The cops in this town couldn’t find their own names in a telephone book.’

‘You knew him, didn’t you?’

‘No. I’m new here. He died a couple of days before I came here. But I heard about it.’

‘What happened to the barman who used to serve Joe?’ I asked, suddenly interested.

‘Jake Hesson? He left; got himself a better job.’

‘Know where?’

‘Some hotel. I forget the name.’

I had a sudden inspiration.

‘Was it the Shad Hotel?’

The barman nodded.

‘That’s right. The Shad Hotel.’

‘Go on, drink up,’ I said, beaming at him, ‘and have another.’

I knew now I was making progress.