Safer Dead

I

Outside and nearby a car door slammed and a car engine started up.

A man shouted, ‘It’s been a wonderful evening. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.’

I stared down at the dead yellow face. It hadn’t been a wonderful evening for him, I thought, aware that my shirt against my back felt damp and cold.

The car drove away; its noisy roar dwindled into the distance and silence came down on this dark, still house.

There was nothing I could do for the Filipino and I backed away from him. My mind jumped to Lennox Hartley: had he been shot too?

I moved across the hall to the lounge, reached for the light switch and turned it down.

For a brief moment I thought the big room was empty, then I saw a foot in an elegant doe skin sandal protruding from behind one of the lounging settees.

I went around the settee.

Lennox Hartley lay on his face, his fingers hooked and sunk into the pile of the carpet, a little patch of blood showing on the gay yellow silk dressing-gown he wore: a patch in the centre of his back.

I bent and touched one of his hands: his flesh was still warm. My fingers went to the artery in his neck: there was no pulse beat. He couldn’t have been dead for more than ten minutes or so.

My first reaction was to get out of this house of death. If the police found me here I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.

As I straightened up I saw the doors of the cupboard in which Hartley kept his files of sketches stood open. One of the files lay open on the floor: some of the sketches spilled out on to the carpet.

To the left of the cupboard was a small wall safe; a key was in the lock and the safe door was half open.

I went over to the safe and peered in. A thick packet of fifty-dollar bills lay on top of a pile of papers, neatly tied with white tape. I took out the packet of currency to look at the papers.

‘Don’t move,’ Sergeant Lassiter said from the doorway.

I remained motionless, the bundle of bills clutched in my right hand, my shoulders hunched, my heart hammering.

‘Okay, turn around and keep your hands still.’

I turned very slowly.

Lassiter stood in the doorway of the lounge, a .38 police special dwarfed in his big hand. The black nosed barrel pointed at my chest.

He looked at me and I looked at him. His small, hard eyes opened a trifle as he recognized me and his thin lips came off his teeth in a wolfish grin.

‘Hello, peeper,’ he said. ‘You’ve certainly found yourself some material to write about this time.’ He moved slowly into the lounge, his gun continuing to cover me. ‘Two killings and a robbery: pretty nice going.’

I cursed myself for touching the money. I opened my fingers and the packet of bills dropped with a little thud on the carpet. I was in the worst kind of jam, and I knew I wasn’t going to talk myself out of it.

‘I know it looks bad,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady, but I didn’t kill them. Hartley called me at my hotel. He wanted to see me. I came over and found him dead.’

‘Yeah? I knew he called you. I traced the number and came over to see what was cooking,’ Lassiter said, grinning. ‘Looks like it was a good idea I did. Where’s your gun?’

‘I haven’t got a gun. I didn’t shoot him!’

‘Who’s going to believe you?’ Lassiter said. ‘This is the easiest pinch I’ve ever had. Back up against the wall!’

I did as I was told, keeping my hands above my shoulders.

He went to the telephone, bent over it without taking his eyes off me. He lifted the receiver with his left hand.

‘Give me police headquarters,’ he said, ‘and snap it up.’

My shoe touched an electric light plug in the wall. Keeping my eyes on his I cautiously raised my right heel until it rested on top of the plug.

‘This is Lassiter,’ the sergeant barked into the receiver. ‘Get a patrol car out to 246, Cannon Avenue fast. Tell the lieutenant I’ve a guy here who’s just shot Lennox Hartley and his servant. I caught him red handed.’

I shifted the whole of my weight on to the plug. I felt it rip away from the wall. I gave it a quick side kick: there was a flash and the lights went out.

I dropped down on hands and knees as Lassiter’s gun roared, rattling the windows. Plaster came down on top of me as the slug smashed into the wall where I had been standing. Luckily for me the hall lights had gone out too. Thick darkness gave me a brief feeling of security, then Lassiter fired blindly again. The bullet nearly parted my hair.

I threw myself sideways where I knew a settee stood. I was behind it when he fired again. The gun flash showed me he was right by me. I reared up and hit out where his head should be. It wasn’t a bad shot. My fist caught him on the ear and sent him staggering. I dropped on hands and knees as he fired. The slug smashed one of the big windows.

I scrambled away, still on hands and knees, my breath whistling out through clenched teeth. I heard him blunder over to the door. Moving slowly, my hands outstretched for obstacles, I made my way towards the window.

In the distance I could hear the faint sound of a police siren that grew in intensity as the prowl car rushed towards the house.

My groping hands must have passed over the top of a low table. My knee caught it and sent it over with a thud on the carpet I jumped wildly to the left, cannoning into a chair, sending that over too.

Lassiter fired and the slug whined close, then he came blundering forward, cursing savagely. He was on top of me before I could get out of his way.

His left hand grabbed my sleeve. I jerked away, stepped sideways and hit out. My fist scraped along the side of his jaw at the same time as his gun went off. The flash scorched my face and scared me half silly. My punch made him reel back. He must have got snarled up with an armchair for he went over with a crash that shook the room.

I bolted over to the window, dragged back the drapes and let in the moonlight.

Headlights of a fast moving car made two fingers of light in the dark road. The police siren was screaming now and I could see the red spotlight on the roof of the approaching car.

I shoved my foot through the window and kicked out the glass.

The police car pulled up with a screech of tortured tyres. Two policemen spilled out of the car, guns in hand, leaving the car doors hanging open.

One of them vaulted over the gate and ran up the path.

I could hear Lassiter cursing as he disentangled himself from the chair. I had intended to bolt out of the window and into the garden, but I saw now it was too late. The cop running up the path would be certain to see me as I dropped into the garden. I stepped back and got behind the window drapes.

I stood motionless, my heart hammering, and waited.

Lassiter came blundering to the window and leaned out. He was so close to me I could smell the stale tobacco smoke in his clothes.

‘He went this way!’ he bawled. ‘He can’t have got far.’

Then to my utter relief, he swung a great leg over the windowsill and dropped into the garden.

‘I can’t see him, sarg,’ one of the policemen called.

I didn’t wait to hear Lassiter’s cursing. Moving quickly, I made my way in the darkness across the room and into the hall. I groped my way up the stairs until I reached the landing, then I paused to listen.

More sirens howled in the night. More cars screeched to a standstill outside the house. I could hear Lassiter’s bull voice shouting, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

I flicked my cigarette lighter alight. A door faced the head of the stairs. I crossed the landing, turned the handle and stepped into Hartley’s bedroom.

The curtains were drawn. I shut the door and flicked down the light switch. The lights came on.

There was blood on the white carpet. A .38 automatic lay on the blue cover of the bed. The blood told me this was where the Filipino had been shot and the gun on the bed was the murder weapon. I took out my handkerchief and dropped it over the gun, lifted it and sniffed at the barrel. It reeked of exploded gunpowder. I felt I needed a gun so I shoved it into my hip pocket. Then turning off the light I pulled aside the curtain and looked down into the garden.

The moonlight made the close cut lawn look white. Three policemen, guns in hand, were moving cautiously in a line away from the house. There was no escape that way.

Then I heard the front door slam open and a tramping of feet in the hall.

I tip-toed across the room and eased open the door.

‘Get some lights on here,’ a voice growled.

I could see the beams of several flashlights stabbing into the darkness below. There was a short pause, then the lights flashed up.

A short, thickset man, his face brick red, a black fedora set squarely on his head, stood over the dead Filipino.

Lassiter stood by the front door; his brutal face was shiny with sweat.

‘You’re sure he went by the window?’ the short man asked without looking at Lassiter.

‘Yeah. I saw him go. He can’t get far,’ Lassiter snarled. ‘He kicked out a wall plug and fused the lights, Lieutenant.’

I guessed then that the short, thickset man was Lieutenant Joe Carson, ex-Police Captain Bradley had mentioned.

‘The captain will love this,’ Carson said. ‘If we don’t pick up this guy, you’ll be back pounding a beat.’

Lassiter moved uneasily.

‘We’ll pick him up all right,’ he said savagely.

‘Why didn’t you bring some men with you, you dope?’ Carson asked, moving away from the Filipino.

‘How was I to know he’d start a shindig like this?’ Lassiter snarled. ‘I was on my way home. When they told me he was going out to see Hartley I thought I’d look in and see what was cooking. I caught him robbing the safe.’

‘Then you let him go,’ Carson said and walked into the lounge.

Lassiter made a grunting noise, took out a soiled handkerchief and wiped his face, then he followed the Lieutenant into the lounge.

Two patrolmen, guns in hand, came up the steps and stood guard at the front door.

More sirens wailed. A car pulled up outside, a car door slammed and three men came into the hall. The patrolmen stiffened to attention and saluted the tallest of the three who I guessed would be Police Captain Mathis.

Carson came out of the lounge.

‘We haven’t found him yet,’ he said to the tall man. ‘All the roads are being watched. He left his car. His name’s Chet Sladen: he’s a writer for Crime Facts.’

Mathis, lean-faced with a black moustache in odd contrast to his chalk white hair, took out a cigarette pack and put a cigarette between his thin lips.

‘Crime Facts?’ he repeated. ‘You sure?’

‘I’ve read some of-the stuff the guy’s written myself.’

‘We’ve got to be careful, Carson. That rag has plenty of influence. Why should he knock Hartley off?’

‘Search me,’ Carson said, shrugging. ‘Lassiter caught him taking money out of the safe.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

Lassiter came out of the lounge.

‘I saw him, Captain. It’s my bet he’s digging into the Van Blake murder. Maybe Hartley caught him poking his snout into the safe and Sladen lost his head and shot him.’

‘What makes you think he’s digging into the Van Blake murder?’ Mathis asked, his voice sharp.

‘Mrs. Van Blake had a visit from him tonight. He’s been talking to Bradley,’ Carson said. ‘He called on the Golden Apple club.’

‘You’d better let me have a detailed report in writing,’ Mathis said. ‘The Commissioner will want to hear about this.’

‘Yes, Captain,’ Carson said.

Mathis turned on his heel and went to the front door. He looked back over his shoulder.

‘You’d better find Sladen,’ he said, ‘or there’ll be trouble.’

He went down the steps into the night.

‘While we’re waiting for the doc,’ Lassiter said, ‘I’ll take a look upstairs. The guy didn’t have a gun. Maybe he left it in one of the upstairs rooms.’

Carson grunted and walked back into the lounge.

I moved quickly across the landing and into Hartley’s bedroom.

I heard Lassiter come up the stairs.

II

With my back against the wall, the window drapes concealing me, I waited.

I heard Lassiter pound across the landing and go into the next door room. He spent a few minutes in there, then I heard him come out and go into another room.

I was in a bad state of nerves. From where I stood I could see into the garden. The three patrolmen were still moving aimlessly about and there was no out there for me that way. My only hope now hung on the fact that Lassiter seemed convinced I wasn’t in the house. I hoped his search wouldn’t be thorough.

The door jerked open and I heard him come in. The light snapped on, then I heard him grunt. He went out again, leaving the door open.

‘Hey, Lieutenant! Will you come up?’ he called.

I moved the curtain aside. He was leaning over the banister rail, his back turned to me. But even as I watched him, he turned and I hurriedly let the curtain fall into place. A moment or so later I heard Carson come in.

‘This is where the servant got shot,’ Lassiter said. ‘He bled on the rug. And look, the killer put his gun down on the bed, you can see the impression.’

‘Better get Maxwell up here for prints,’ Carson said. ‘I’m going back to headquarters. I want to be sure this guy Sladen doesn’t slip through our fingers. You stick around until I call you.’

The two men went out of the room, leaving the door open. I watched them go downstairs, then leaving my hiding place, I swiftly crossed the room, opened a door across the landing and stepped into a front spare bedroom. I shut the door, groped my way across to the uncurtained window and looked down into the street below.

Three police cars and an ambulance stood outside. There was a fair sized crowd of men and women, some of them in evening dress, standing on the opposite sidewalk. Four or five patrolmen stood with their backs to the crowd, looking up at the house.

There was no chance of climbing down the stack pipe to the garden with that audience to watch me, and I went back to the door, eased it open an inch or so and waited.

Lassiter and another plain-clothes man came up the stairs and went into Hartley’s bedroom.

‘Get all the prints you can find,’ Lassiter said. ‘It doesn’t look as if anyone’s been in the other rooms. I gotta talk to the press. Let’s have some action, Max.’

The other man grunted and Lassiter went down the stairs again.

I waited in darkness for more than half an hour, then Lassiter came up again and went into Hartley’s bedroom.

‘I’m through now,’ the fingerprint man said. ‘I’ve only found Hartley’s and the servant’s prints.’

‘Well, okay. Carson wants us back,’ Lassiter said. ‘They haven’t found Sladen yet.’ His voice sounded worried. ‘He can’t get out of town. The lieutenant wants a report in writing tonight — my luck! I’m leaving a couple of men here. We’ll go over the place again in daylight.’

They went downstairs together.

I crept out on to the landing and peered down into the hall.

The body of the Filipino had been taken away. Lassiter and three plain-clothes men stood in a group by the front door.

Lassiter said to the beefy patrolman who had just come in from the street, ‘Okay, Gesserter. I’ll be back around nine. You stick around and keep your eyes open. Lock up after us and don’t let anyone in. Webb’s patrolling outside. I’ve told him to keep the press away, but some of those punks are so smart they may try to get in when he’s at the back. No one’s to come in here until I get back. Understand?’

‘Yes, sarg.’

‘If anyone does get in, I’ll make you sorry,’ Lassiter growled. He went down the steps followed by the other three detectives.

Gesserter closed the front door and locked it. He stood listening. When the sound of the police cars had died away, he shoved his cap to the back of his head, took out a pack of cigarettes and wandered into the lounge. After a few moments, dance music came softly up the stairs from a late broadcasting station.

I went back to Hartley’s bedroom, groped my way to the window and looked into the garden.

A patrolman paced slowly up and down the flagged path that led from the terrace to the lawn.

I went into the front bedroom and looked into the street. The crowd had gone home. There were no cars to be seen. The Buick had gone. I decided it was time to go myself. I went to the head of the stairs and listened. Gesserter was still in the lounge. It looked a long way down the stairs to the front door.

With my left hand on the banister rail, I started down. Halfway down, I heard the patrolman clear his throat and my heart skipped a beat, but I kept moving.

I stopped at the bottom stair. I had to pass the open doorway of the lounge before I could reach the front door. I edged forward so I could just see into the lounge.

Gesserter was smoking, his back turned to me, his right hand beating time to the soft swing music. I took a step forward, then another. I had the .38 automatic in my jacket pocket, my hand on the butt. Two more steps and I would be out of his range; then he suddenly turned.

I stopped dead.

We looked at each other across the space of the hall and the lounge. His fleshy, weather-tanned face turned a rich purple, and his small eyes grew as round as marbles.

It flashed through my mind that if I threatened him with the gun I would be fixed. I still had a remote chance of proving I didn’t kill Hartley, but threatening a cop with a gun was something I wouldn’t be able to talk myself out of.

I took my hand from my pocket slowly, and somehow managed to smile at him.

I watched his hand grope feverishly at his gun holster. His movements were slow and confused.

‘Hello there,’ I said as casually as I could, ‘where’s everyone?’

He got the gun out and pointed it at me.

‘Don’t move!’

‘Take it easy,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I was hoping to find Lieutenant Carson. Isn’t he around?’

‘Who are you?’ he demanded and came forward slowly, his thick finger on the gun trigger.

‘My name’s Sladen. I’m a staff writer for Crime Facts,’ I said, hoping he didn’t know I was the guy they were looking for. ‘You’ve heard of me, haven’t you?’

I saw him relax a trifle, but the gun continued to cover me.

‘Let’s see your press card.’

I took out my billfold, flicked it open and handed it to him. He examined the press card, then handed back the wallet.

‘How did you get in here?’

‘Webb let me in the back way,’ I said. ‘I wanted to take a look around. That okay with you?’

‘Webb let you in?’ The barrel of the gun sagged so it was no longer pointing at me. ‘It’s against orders. He should have known that. You can’t come in here.’

‘Who’ll know? Is this where Hartley was shot?’ I wandered into the room. ‘He lived in style, didn’t he?’

The patrolman shoved his gun back into his holster.

‘Come on! Outside! I’ve got my orders.’

‘I’m only doing my job,’ I said, backing away.

‘Yeah; and I’m doing mine.’ He moved past me and went into the hall. ‘Come on — get out of here!’

I followed him into the hall and watched him unlock the front door.

‘Beat it!’ he said, holding the door open.

‘I’m on my way,’ I said and stepped cautiously past him.

I started down the drive-in, making an effort not to break into a run. I was expecting the other patrolman to show up, but he didn’t.

At the gate I paused to look back.

Gesserter stood in the lighted doorway watching me. For a brief moment we looked at each other, then he stepped back and slammed the front door.

III

Once clear of the house, I broke into a run. The long, empty avenue stretched away into the darkness. I avoided the pools of yellow light thrown by the widely spaced street lamps.

I had no idea if the two patrolmen would get together. If they did, it wouldn’t be long before they reported to headquarters.

I had a good two miles to cover before I reached the centre of the town. My one chance was to get under cover as quickly as I could before the prowl cars came after me. Bradley had told me to go to Sam Benn’s place on Maddox Street if I had to duck out of sight. This seemed to me now to be sound advice, but I had no idea where Maddox Street was. I might be running away from it for all I knew.

Still keeping to the shadows and walking now, I turned the corner and started down the street that led directly to the town.

A faint haze hung over the town from the lights of the all-night neon signs: they seemed a long way off. I peered at my strap watch. It was coming up for three o’clock. It wouldn’t be long now before it was light.

At the bottom of the street, bright lights suddenly cut up the darkness as a car swung out from a side turning.

I was passing a house when I saw the lights. I put one hand on the low garden wall, vaulted over and crouched down.

The car roared up the street: its headlights raking the wall, making me duck lower. I heard the car brake violently, then turn into Cannon Avenue.

I straightened, vaulted back on to the sidewalk and started to run again. I was breathing like an asthmatic by the time I reached the bottom of the street which led into the outskirts of the shopping centre.

Here I knew was danger: this was the territory of the patrolling cop, and every one of them would have my description.

Keeping to the back streets I made my way past the dark faces of small shops, dingy eating houses and apartment houses. This was the district, tucked away as if ashamed of itself, that housed the workers who were at the beck and call of the rich of Tampa City.

Ahead of me a shadow moved, bringing me to an abrupt stop. I silently stepped into a shop doorway as a bulky patrolman walked to the edge of the sidewalk and balanced himself on the kerb while he swung his nightstick and stared up at the grey-black canopy of the sky.

He rested his feet for five minutes or so while I watched him, then he moved on, going away from me.

At the next intersection I turned right. Across the road a yellow light shining through a glass panelled door made a rectangle pattern on the greasy sidewalk. A neon sign above the door read: Good Eats. Open All Night.

I crossed the street, made sure no one was in sight before I stepped into the rectangle of light and looked through the glass panel of the door.

A fat man with black greasy hair, his chin bristly with black stubble, his hairy arms resting on the counter, stared vacantly at a newspaper spread out before him. There were no customers and most of the lights were off.

I pushed open the door and walked in.

The fat man glanced up, his eyes heavy with boredom.

‘May I use your phone, bud?’ I asked.

He jerked a dirty thumb to the end of the room.

‘Go ahead and help yourself,’ he said and yawned, showing big white teeth.

I shut myself in the pay booth and leafed through the telephone book. I found Sam Benn’s number and I dialled. While I waited, listening to the calling tone, I stared through the glass panel of the door at the fat man.

A voice heavy with sleep said, ‘Hello?’

‘Is Sam Benn there?’

‘You’re talking to him. What do you want?’

‘Captain Bradley told me to call you. I have a flock of buttons hunting for me and I’ve got to get under cover fast.’

The man at the other end of the line sighed.

‘Well, okay, if Cap Bradley said so, who am I to object? Where are you?’

‘At an eating house on Sherratt Street.’

‘Know where I am?’

‘No. I’m walking and dodging cops as I go.’

The man groaned.

‘That means I’ve got to come and fetch you, does it?’

‘It would be an idea.’

‘Yeah; an idea for you, but not for me. Well, okay. The things I do for Cap Bradley! Stick where you are. I’ll be along in half an hour; maybe sooner.’

‘Thanks.’

The line went dead. I replaced the receiver. As I turned to open the booth door I saw a shadow fall across the rectangle of light on the sidewalk. A moment later the door pushed open and two big men came in. They walked heavily over to the fat man who looked up. He slowly straightened and placed two big, hairy hands on the counter. His face was expressionless.

Faintly through the glass panel of the pay booth I heard one of the men say, ‘Police. We’re looking for a guy. Anyone been in?’

I felt a cold dampness on my face as I squeezed myself into the darkness of the booth.

‘No one’s been in for the past two hours,’ the fat man said woodenly.

‘You sure?’

‘I’m telling you, aren’t I?’ the fat man said curtly. He put a cigarette between his lips and began to search for a match.

The policeman who had spoken leaned forward and smacked the cigarette away, catching the fat man’s cheek with his thick fingers as he did so.

‘Don’t smoke, punk, when I’m talking to you,’ he snarled.

The fat man stiffened; his deepset eyes glittered, but he didn’t say anything nor did he move.

‘This guy’s tall, dark, around thirty-three or four,’ the policeman went on. ‘He’s wearing a dark grey suit and a matching slouch hat. If you spot him call headquarters — understand?’

‘Yes,’ the fat man said.

‘You’d better understand.’

The two policemen turned and walked out, leaving the door open. They went on down the street. The fat man came from behind the counter, crossed to the door and looked out, then he shut the door and went back to the counter. He didn’t look once in my direction.

I took out my handkerchief and wiped my sweating face, then I opened the pay booth door and came out.

The fat man said, ‘They may be back. There’s a cop at the corner. Go in there,’ and he jerked his thumb to a door near the pay booth.

‘Thanks,’ I said, opened the door and walked into a comfortably but shabbily furnished sitting-room.

A big black cat lay sleeping in an armchair. It opened its eyes to examine me, decided I was harmless and went back to sleep. I took out my pack of cigarettes, lit one and drew in a lungful of smoke. My knees felt as if I had been running hard for a couple of miles and my breath was laboured.

The fat man came in with a cup of coffee which he put on the table. He opened a drawer in the table and took out a half pint bottle of Haig.

‘You got friends?’ he asked, pushing the bottle towards me.

‘Someone’s coming to pick me up. Thanks for what you did.’

‘That’s nothing. I wouldn’t help the cops in this town even if it cost me money.’ He moved back to the door. ‘You’ll be okay here. Stick around,’ and he went out.

I poured a slug of whisky into the coffee and drank it. I felt a lot better for it. Then I sat down.

This was the first moment of quiet that I had had since I had found Hartley shot to death. Even now my mind was still too uneasy by my own predicament to give much thought to the reason why he had been murdered. I remembered his last words to me: ‘I have a theory that might interest you.’ He knew I was hunting for information about Fay Benson and it seemed reasonable to assume that the theory he had mentioned had to do with Fay Benson. Had he been killed because of this theory? Unless the killer had been with him when he had telephoned to me, how could the killer have known Hartley was going to talk? It looked as if the killer was someone Hartley knew.

I took out the .38 automatic and examined it. It looked either new or else it had been well looked after. Its serial number was 3347890. I took out the clip. Only two shots had been fired from the gun. The killer was either a first class shot or else the killing had been done at close quarters.

No doubt Creed would be able to get some information from the gun. As soon as I could I would send the gun to him.

I put the gun, carefully wrapped in my handkerchief, back in my jacket pocket.

What was my next move to be? The solution of Fay Benson’s kidnapping and murder was to be found in Tampa City: I was sure of that. But every hour I remained in the city increased the risk of my being arrested. I was now Suspect No.1 for Hartley’s killing and unless I found the killer, there would be no town in the country where I would be safe.

The thought made me sweat. It seemed to me whatever happened I had to stay in Tampa City. It looked as if I would have to dream up some kind of disguise if I was to have any freedom of movement. If I dyed my hair a darker shade, wore dark glasses and a change of clothing I might get by. Tampa City was teeming with visitors. I should be able to lose myself in the crowd.

I was still making plans when the fat man put his head around the door.

‘Benn’s out here asking for you — okay?’

I got up.

‘Sure. Can he come in?’

The fat man nodded and went away. A moment or so later Sam Benn came in.

He was a little man, small boned, with a shock of iron-grey hair, a thin pointed face and deep-set, expressionless eyes. He was wearing a leather windcheater, zipped up to his chin and a pair of dirty grey slacks.

He came over to me and shook hands.

‘Just how bad is it?’ he asked. How hot is the heat?’

‘I was caught in a house with two dead men in it,’ I said. ‘The police are convinced I did the killing.’

Benn grimaced.

‘That’s nice. What do you want me to do? Get you out of town?’

‘No. I want somewhere safe where I can operate. I’ve got to find the killer if I’m to beat the rap.’

‘You’re kidding yourself. You’d better get out of town.’

‘Not for a day or so. Captain Bradley said you could take care of me. Can’t you?’

‘Oh, I guess so. The things I do for that man.’ Benn suddenly grinned. ‘I’ll hide you up for a while, but not for long. I’m sticking my neck out. Now listen, my car’s parked at the end of the street. I’ll go and fetch it and come past here slowly. Fats will give you the tip when to move. I’ll have the car door open. Dive in quick. Okay?’

I said it was okay.