The Guilty Are Afraid

I

It was suddenly very quiet on the verandah and the sun felt over hot. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the sound of the sea breaking on the shore: a whisper of sound that seemed loud in the silence around me.

There was also a sudden silence in the big lounge. I looked at Thrisby, who was standing motionless, staring at the gun, his eyes startled, his smile sliding from his face.

Bridgette slowly stood up. With the gun in her hand, she looked incongruous in the skimpy bikini swim suit. Her face was the colour of marble under her tan and her skin had a mottled look. Her silver-tipped finger was curled around the trigger of the gun.

“Yes, Jacques,” she said softly, “I’m going to kill you. I’ve suffered enough from you: now it’s your turn to share a little of the hell you’ve given me.”

“Don’t be a mad fool,” Thrisby said, speaking each word slowly and breathlessly. “Put that gun down. It won’t get you anywhere. The police will arrest you. Everyone knows I’m your lover. The first person they will think of is you.”

“Do you think I care? Do you think I’ll want to go on living after I’ve killed you, Jacques? Oh, no. When I have shot you, I’m going to shoot myself. That’s how I feel about it. I’m not afraid to die as you are.”

He passed his tongue over his lips.

“Put the gun down, Bridgette, and let’s talk about this. Maybe I’ve been a little hasty. We could pick up the threads. I was only fooling when I said...”

“You miserable, rotten coward,” she said contemptuously. “I thought that’s how you would talk once I had you cornered. It’s too late now. I have as much mercy for you as you’ve had for me.”

Very slowly he began to back away, his eyes starting out of his head, his face beginning to sweat. Equally slowly, she moved forward, stalking him across the big lounge.

Softly I stepped through the french doors into the lounge.

Thrisby, who was facing her, saw me at once. She had her back to me. He lifted his hands and half-turned away. I could see he was terrified that I might startle her into shooting him. I jumped forward, my hand slamming down on her wrist, forcing the gun to point to the floor.

The gun went off with a bang that rattled the windows and the slug made a neat hole in the fitted carpet.

I twisted the gun out of her hand as she spun around, her green eyes opening wide. For a long moment she stared at me, her face old, drawn and frightened. Then she moved to one side, walked past me, snatched up her beach bag and ran out on to the terrace.

Thrisby sat down abruptly on the settee. He hid his face in his hands.

I laid the gun on one of the cocktail tables, took out my handkerchief and wiped off my face and wrists.

The sound of a car starting up made a loud noise in the silence of the lounge.

For a long moment I didn’t say anything. I just stood looking at Thrisby.

“I doubt if she was going to kill you,” I said mildly. “She was probably only going to put a bullet in your leg.”

He made a tremendous effort to get hold of himself and he stood up abruptly, his mouth working, his eyes still dark with fright.

“These damned neurotics,” he said. “How the hell did she get hold of that gun?”

“Very often it’s the only way a woman can level the score,” I said. “Men are getting themselves shot every day all over the world by women who haven’t any other way of coping with certain situations. You should have thought of that before you planned to ditch her.”

He stared at me.

“Who are you and where did you spring from?” he demanded.

I dug out one of my business cards and offered it to him. He peered at it, not taking it. I was pretty sure he didn’t want me to see how badly his hands were shaking.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” he said, after he had read what was on the card. “The Star Agency... that’s the agency the fellow who...” He stopped abruptly, moved away from me, an alarmed, puzzled expression in his eyes.

“That’s right,” I said. “Sheppey was my partner.”

“Is she employing you to watch me?” he asked, not looking at me.

“No. I just happened along. I wanted to talk to you.”

He took out a handkerchief, mopped his face, then carried his glass over to the bar.

“Have a drink?”

“Thanks, I think I will.”

He gulped down the drink left in his glass, then made two very strong highballs, carried them over to a table, set them down and dropped into a lounging chair. He took a cigarette from an ebony box, set fire to it and dragged smoke down into his lungs.

“She had me rattled for a moment. Did you see the expression in her eyes? She meant to kill me,” he said, picked up his drink and took a long pull. “If you hadn’t walked in when you did...” He let it hang, while he grimaced.

“Oh, I don’t know. She probably only intended to scare you,” I said, knowing she meant to kill him. “You must lead quite an eventful life.”

He smiled crookedly.

“That’s taught me a lesson: no more middle-aged neurotics for me. I’m going to stick to the young ones in future. They don’t take it so hard.” He leaned forward to stare at the .38 lying on the table where I had put it. “Now where do you imagine she got this from?”

“Anyone can get a gun these days.” I scooped up the gun and shoved it into my hip pocket. “Is that right she hired Sheppey to watch you?”

His face suddenly became expressionless.

“Did she? I wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t put it past her to hire a flock of dicks to watch me. She looked on me as her special possession.”

“Quite an expensive one if you owe her thirteen thousand bucks.”

He shrugged his broad shoulders.

“She’s crazy. I didn’t borrow anything like that amount from her. I dare say during the six months we’ve been around together it cost her something, but I was spending it on her, and that’s not quite the same thing as owing it to her, is it?”

“You said to her she had hired a private dick to watch you. That was Sheppey, wasn’t it?”

“Did I say that? I tell you I don’t know who it was.”

“If you’re bothered about getting mixed up with the police you can relax,” I said. “I’m carrying out my own investigation. You tell me what I want to know and I’ll keep it away from the police.”

He thought for a long moment, then asked, “Just what do you want to know?”

“Did Mrs. Creedy hire Sheppey to watch you?”

He hesitated.

“This isn’t going to get me a cop in my lap?”

“No.”

“Well, okay. Yes, she did.”

“Why?”

“Because she imagined I was running around with her step-daughter.”

“Were you?”

“Good grief, no! I’d had enough of her months ago.”

I took a pull at my glass, then I lit a cigarette.

“Then who was the girl you were running around with?” I asked, staring at him.

He grinned. By now he had got his nerve back, and also he was getting a little drunk.

“That would be telling. Just a girl.”

“Did Sheppey get on to her?”

Thrisby nodded.

“Yeah; he told Bridgette. She went along and tried to put the fear of God into her.”

“Did she succeed?”

“She must have done. I didn’t see her again.”

“Then what happened?”

“I let Bridgette put the ring back in my nose and lead me around again. Then a couple of nights ago I decided I d had more than enough and the rest you know.”

I had a feeling I was only getting half the truth, certainly not all of it.

“This is important, Thrisby,” I said. “Was this girl Sheppey was watching Thelma Cousins?”

I saw his eyes flicker as my words gave him a stab of surprise.

“Look, brother. I’m not getting snarled up in any police inquiries. I’ve told you: she was just a girl.”

“You’ll have to do better than that,” I said. “You’ve already said too much. Was she Thelma Cousins?”

“Okay, okay, so she was,” he said impatiently. “Now are you happy?”

I stared at him, feeling a little prickle of excitement run through me. At last I was really getting somewhere.

“From what I’ve been told, she never went around with men.”

He grinned.

“Those are the easy ones. When they fall, they fall hard. I had her eating out of my hand in a couple of days. We were all set for the big night when your pal Sheppey barged in.”

“How did you meet her?”

“At the pottery place. Bridgette took me there and I spotted this little thing. I saw she had fallen for me and when a girl falls for me I like to be obliging.”

He was beginning to sicken me, and it was only with an effort I kept from showing it.

“How did you find out Sheppey was watching you two?” I asked.

“Thelma told me. She called me up and said he’d been around to her place and had warned her to keep clear of me. I guessed Bridgette had slicked him on to me so I told Thelma we’d better pack it up. I knew Bridgette would start trouble if I didn’t give the girl up.”

“I thought you said Bridgette went to see her?”

He lit a cigarette.

“She went to see her after Sheppey had seen her. At least that’s what she told me.”

I had liked it fairly well up to now, but I began not to like it. There was something wrong with this story. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I had a growing feeling I wasn’t getting all the truth.

“Who killed them, Thrisby?” I asked, watching him.

“I wouldn’t know,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. “I’ve been wondering why she went with Sheppey to that bathing cabin. All I can think of is she took up with him after I had dropped her.”

That was possible, I thought. Sheppey had a way with women. If this girl had imagined she was going to have her first affair with Thrisby and then had been let down, she might well have rebounded into Sheppey’s arms.

“You have no idea who killed her?”

He hesitated, then said, “Well, I’ve thought about it. It seems to me it’s possible the killer wasn’t after Sheppey, but after the girl. Sheppey might have tried to protect her and got killed instead of her. That would explain why she had left her clothes there. She probably was so scared she bolted for her life.”

“Then why didn’t she tell the police?”

“Well, ask yourself. She was a religious kid: it says so in the newspapers. How was she going to explain what she was doing with a man in a bathing cabin meant for a married couple? I think she bolted down to the sand dunes and hid there. The killer, after fixing Sheppey, went after her, caught her and took her some place. Later she was killed and her body brought back to the cabin. That’s my idea, but I could be wrong.”

“And you think Bridgette killed Sheppey and the girl?” I asked.

He stiffened, frowning at me.

“I didn’t say that. I can’t see Bridgette sticking an ice pick into Sheppey, can you?”

I thought about it and decided I couldn’t either.

“But she could have hired someone to do it: one of her husband’s thugs: Hertz, for instance.”

Thrisby grimaced.

“That thug! Yes, she could have done that. It wouldn’t surprise me if she doesn’t slick him on to me. That would be her idea of levelling scores.” He began to look worried. “Maybe I’d better get out of this town. It might not be safe to stay here.”

Then I had a sudden idea.

I took a cigarette from my pack, put it between my lips, then took from my hip pocket the Musketeer Club match folder. I held it between my fingers so he could see it as I said, “What do you know about Hertz?” I bent one of the matches, tore it out of the folder and laid the head against the scraper.

I didn’t take my eyes off him.

His reaction was immediate. He made a movement as if to stop me lighting the match, but checked it. His face was suddenly tense and his eyes stared fixedly at the folder.

I struck the match, lit my cigarette, flicked the flame out and laid the match in the ash tray, being careful to lay it cipher side up.

His eyes went to the row of ciphers and he drew in a quick, sharp breath.

“Anything wrong?” I asked, slipping the match folder into my hip pocket.

He got hold of himself.

“No. I... I didn’t know you were a member of the Musketeer Club.”

“I’m not. You mean the match folder? Just something I picked up.”

“I see.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. “Well, I’ve got to be moving. I have a lunch date.” And he stood up.

“You didn’t answer my question. What do you know about Hertz?”

“Only that Creedy uses him for his rough stuff. I don’t know a thing about him except that. Well, thanks for walking in when you did. I’ve really got to be going. Do you mind seeing yourself out? I’m late as it is.”

“That’s okay.” I got to my feet. “I’ll be seeing you.”

Nodding to him, I crossed the lounge and went through the french doors on to the verandah.

The jigsaw pieces were beginning to fall into shape, I thought, as I started across the verandah.

The Siamese cat raised its head to stare at me. I paused to tickle its tummy. Its paw with the claws out made a quick dab at my hand, but I got it out of reach just in time.

“Take it easy,” I said to the cat. “You don’t have to be neurotic too.”

I set off across the lawn, aware that Thrisby was watching me from behind the curtains.

II

I drove slowly back to St. Raphael City, my mind busy. There now seemed a reasonable possibility that I had two separate investigations on my hands: Sheppey’s murder and the mystery of the match folder. It was possible that neither of them had any direct bearing on the other.

Thrisby’s theory that Sheppey had been killed by mistake seemed to me to be an acceptable one. Having seen the murderous, uncontrolled expression on Bridgette Creedy’s face, I couldn’t now rule out the possibility that she had hired someone to kill the girl who was taking Thrisby away from her. Sheppey might have tried to protect the girl and had got killed instead.

I decided it was time to have a talk to Bridgette Creedy, but before doing so I had to make up my mind what line to take with her.

The time was now half past one and I was hungry. I pulled up outside a small sea-food restaurant, left the car and went in.

I gave myself a nice meal and took my time over it. The food was good, even though the check, when it came, made me look three times to be sure the waiter hadn’t added in the date by mistake. By the time I had left the restaurant, it was close on half past two. I drove over to a drug store, shut myself in a telephone booth and called Creedy’s residence.

The butler answered. His adenoids were no better nor, come to think of it, no worse. I asked for Mrs. Creedy.

“I’ll put you through to her secretary,” he said, and after a few clicks and pops a cool efficient, voice said it belonged to Mrs. Creedy’s secretary.

“I want an appointment to see Mrs. Creedy,” I said. “I met her this morning. I have something that belongs to her. Will you ask her when she can see me?”

“What is your name, please?”

“The name doesn’t matter: just tell her what I’ve told you.”

“Will you hold on, please?”

There was a longish pause. I looked through the glass door of the booth and admired a blonde girl, wearing a French swim suit, who came into the drug store, climbed up on a high stool and ordered a hamburger with onions. I was glad I wasn’t going to be the boy to be taking her out this night.

The cool, efficient voice said, “Mrs. Creedy will see you at three o’clock if that will be convenient.”

I smiled into the receiver.

“I’ll be there,” I said, and hung up.

I walked out of the drug store, got into the Buick and, driving slowly, I drifted along the crowded promenade, packed with glittering Cadillacs and Clippers, until I was within sight of the Creedys’ residence. I pulled into a space between two cars, lit a cigarette and let the sun, coming through the open car window, add another layer to my sunburn.

At five minutes to three, I started the engine and drove along the private road leading to the Creedy estate.

The two guards came over as I pulled up before the barrier.

“Mrs. Creedy,” I said to one of them.

He looked me over. I could see my rolled-up shirt-sleeves and slacks were causing him pain, but he decided against making remarks. He walked over to the barrier and raised it. There was no list to be consulted, no telephoning the house, no nothing. Mrs. Creedy wasn’t important, but ask for her husband and then see the trouble you’d buy yourself.

I drove up the now-familiar drive, past the massed rose beds and the Chinese gardeners, who had just finished the third bed of begonias and were sitting on their haunches, staring at the begonias as if willing them to remain on their best behaviour and produce large and continuous blooms.

I parked the car next to a big black Rolls-Royce, got out and walked up the steps, along the terrace to the front door.

The butler opened the door two minutes after I had rung the bell. He gave me his steady, searching stare, said, “Mr. Brandon?” But not in the way an old friend greets another.

“Yes,” I said. “I have an appointment with Mrs. Creedy.”

He took me down a passage, through a door, up some stairs, along another passage, then opened a door and stood aside.

“You should buy yourself a Vespa,” I said, as I moved past him. “It would save your legs.”

He went away smoothly as if he were on wheels, not looking back and with no change of expression. Frivolous remarks were a sprinkle of rain in a desert to him.

I walked into a small room, fitted as an office with filing cabinets and a desk. At the desk was the girl I had seen at the inquest. She was wearing the same grey linen frock, set off by white cuffs and a white collar, and, of course, the rimless glasses.

“Mr. Brandon?”

“How did you know?”

“I recognized you.”

“Oh, yes: we were at the inquest together.”

She flushed a little and looked pretty and slightly confused.

“Will you sit down? Mrs. Creedy won’t keep you long.”

I sat down on an upright chair and tried to look less like a tourist than I knew I looked. I decided I should have gone back to the bungalow and put on my best suit: a shirt and slacks were scarcely the right attire to be in a place like this.

The girl busied herself with a typewriter. Every now and then she looked over the top of her glasses at me as if to assure herself she was seeing a man in shirt-sleeves and slacks and wasn’t just imagining it.

At a quarter past three, I decided not to be pushed around any longer.

I got to my feet.

“Well, thanks for the chair,” I said, with a wide, friendly smile. “It’s been nice breathing the same air as you. It’s been nice too to see how quick you are on the typewriter. Tell Mrs. C. any time she would like to talk to me I can be found in the bungalow out at Arrow Point.” And I started towards the door.

I thought that would get some action and it did.

“Mr. Brandon...”

I paused, turned and looked pleasantly inquiring.

“Yes?”

“I think Mrs. Ceedy will see you now. Please let me go and ask her.”

She looked flustered and worried. In spite of her rimless glasses she was a pretty thing and I didn’t want to distress her.

“Sure, go ahead,” I said, and looked at my watch. “I’ll be out of here in two minutes, so let’s snap it up.”

She crossed the room, opened the door, went into a room and closed the door behind her.

She was gone fifty-five seconds by my watch, then she appeared, holding the door open.

“Mrs. Creedy will see you now.”

As I passed her to enter the room I gave her a quick wink. It may have been my imagination, but I fancied her eyelid flickered in return.

Bridgette Creedy was standing in the bay window that overlooked the rose garden. She was wearing a pale green shirt and yellow slacks. She had the figure for slacks and she knew it.

She turned slowly the way they are taught to turn in Hollywood and gave me a careful, cold stare. This was scene 234 of a heart-throb movie directed by Cecil B. de Mille, complete with the ornate room, rose beds seen through the window and the slightly fading actress who, in the past, has won a number of Oscars and is still considered pretty sound, but possibly slipping.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked, her eyebrows lifting as she took in the rolled-up sleeves and the slacks. “Isn’t there some mistake?”

I went over to a lounging chair and sat down. I was a little tired of neurotic women. I had had dealings with them in the past. They run to type. In some ways they are pathetic; in other ways they are a plain pain in the neck. This afternoon I was completely out of sympathy with them, and that went for Mrs. Creedy too.

“I didn’t tell you to sit down,” she said, drawing herself up and giving me the standard Hollywood freeze.

“I know you didn’t,” I said, “but I’m tired. I have had too much excitement for one day and excitement always makes me tired. I’ve brought your gun back.” I fished the .38 from my pocket, removed the magazine, shook the slugs into my palm, put the magazine back and offered the gun to her.

She hesitated for a brief moment, then took the gun.

“I suppose you now want money,” she said disdainfully.

“Well, you haven’t much else to offer, have you?” I said, and smiled at her.

That really got her mad, as I intended it to. I was glad I had removed the slugs from the gun, otherwise I believe she would have shot me.

“How dare you talk to me like that!” she said, almost spitting at me. “If you think you can blackmail me...”

“Of course I can blackmail you,” I said. “Stop kidding yourself and stop acting like a 1948 Oscar winner. Sit down and listen to me.”

She stared at me as if she couldn’t believe her ears.

“My husband...” she began, but I cut her short with a wave of my hand.

“Don’t throw your husband in my face,” I said. “Even if he is the hot shot of this town, he couldn’t keep this setup out of the Courier.”

She put the gun down on a table and then moved over to a lounging chair away from me and sat down.

“What exactly do you mean by that?” she said, steel in her voice.

“You know what I mean. If I hadn’t happened along this morning when I did, Thrisby would be dead by now. A murder attempt by Creedy’s wife would hit the headlines of every newspaper in the country.”

“They wouldn’t dare print!” she said furiously.

“Don’t be too sure about that.”

She controlled her anger, and for a long moment she studied me.

“Well, all right: how much do you want?”

“I’m not another of your boy friends, Mrs. Creedy, looking for money. I want some information out of you.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“What information?”

“I understand you hired my partner to watch Thrisby.”

She stiffened, her silver finger-nails like claws on her knees.

“If Jacques told you that, he is lying. I did nothing of the kind!”

“He says you did.”

“He is and has always been a liar,” she said fiercely. “It’s a lie! I didn’t hire anyone to watch him!”

“Did you hire Sheppey to watch anyone?”

“No!”

“Did you know Thrisby was going around with a girl named Thelma Cousins?” I asked.

Her mouth tightened and I saw her eyes flinch.

“No.”

“Did you see Thelma Cousins and warn her to keep away from Thrisby?”

“No. I’ve never heard of the woman!”

“You can’t kid me to believe that. She was found murdered yesterday. It was in the papers with her photograph.”

“I tell you I’ve never seen nor heard of her,” she said, and I could almost hear her heart beats as she glared at me.

I stared at her for a long moment and she met my gaze, her eyes smouldering. I could see I had come up against a wall of resistance I wasn’t going to penetrate. She had plenty of nerve, and she must have realized that I had no proof except Thrisby’s word.

“You would have no objection if I told Lieutenant Rankin what Thrisby has told me?” I said. “If you didn’t hire Sheppey and you know nothing about the girl you would have nothing to worry about if I did tell him, would you?”

Her eyes flickered and I thought for a moment she was going to lose her nerve, then she snapped, “You can tell him what you please, but I warn you if you start trouble for me I’ll sue you out of existence, and don’t imagine I can’t do it: I’m not listening to any more of this rubbish, so please go!”

I played my last card. I took out the match folder.

“Is this yours, Mrs. Creedy?”

I was watching her closely, but she gave no sign of surprise nor of tenseness as Thrisby had done.

“Were you seeing my wife?”

“I should ask her if you are all that interested,” I said. “Is that all you want to see me about? If it is I must be running along. I have my living to make and time presses.”

He studied me for some seconds, then picked up a sharp letter opener and studied it with lifted eyebrows as if he had never seen it before.

“I have been making inquiries about your agency,” he said, not looking at me. “I learn that you are solvent, that you have a reasonably profitable business and your assets are worth three thousand dollars.”

“They are worth more than that,” I said, smiling at him. “That’s what they are worth on paper. Personality and goodwill are the backbone of a business like mine. I have the goodwill and I am cultivating a personality. Three thousand isn’t a fair estimate.”

“I’m interested in buying a going concern,” Creedy said, suddenly staring at me. His eyes went through me like twin bullets through chiffon. “I’m prepared to take over your agency. Shall we say ten thousand dollars to include the goodwill and what there is of the personality?”

“And what happens to me if I sold you the business?” I asked.

“You carry on, subject to my supervision, of course.”

“I don’t supervise easily, Mr. Creedy: not on an offer of ten thousand dollars.”

“I might be prepared to raise the purchase price to fifteen thousand dollars,” he said, and began to puncture holes in his snowy blotter with the letter opener.

“I take it I wouldn’t be encouraged to continue to investigate my partner’s death?”

He pursed his lips and did more damage to his blotter.

“That is a police matter, Mr. Brandon. You are not getting paid to investigate your partner’s death. I think it would be reasonable, if I bought your business, to expect you to exert your talents on something that made a profit.”

“Yeah.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I’m sorry. Thanks for the offer. I appreciate it, but I’m solving this case, profit or no profit.”

He laid the letter opener down, placed his finger-tips together and rested his chin on them. He stared at me the way you might stare at a spider that has dropped into your bath.

“I intend to buy your business, Mr. Brandon. Perhaps you will name your price.”

“On the theory that every man has his price providing the price is big enough?”

“That is an accepted fact. Every man does have his price. Don’t let us waste time. I have a lot to do to-day. What is your price?”

“For my business or for not going ahead with the investigation?”

“For your business.”

“It amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it?”

“What is your price?”

“I’m not selling,” I said, and got to my feet. “I’m going ahead with this investigation and no one is stopping me.”

He leaned back in his chair and began to drum gently on the desk with his finger-tips.

“Don’t be hasty about this,” he said. “I have made inquiries about your partner. I am told he was an utterly worthless person. I am told that if you hadn’t worked with him the business wouldn’t have survived for very long. I am told he was a womanizer, if I may use the term. He wasn’t even a good investigator. Surely you are not going to pass up a very good opportunity because of a man like that. I want your business, Mr. Brandon. I’ll give you fifty thousand dollars for it.”

I stared at him, not believing I had heard aright.

“No,” I said. “I’m not selling.”

“A hundred thousand,” he said, his face intent.

“No,” I said and I felt my hands turn moist.

“A hundred and fifty thousand?”

“Cut it out!” I said, and I put my hands on his desk and leaned forward to stare into his expressionless eyes. “You are bidding too cheap, Mr. Creedy. A hundred and fifty thousand isn’t much to keep your name out of the biggest scandal on this coast, is it? A million would be more like it, but don’t offer it to me because I wouldn’t take it. I’m going through with this investigation and you and your money won’t stop me. If you’re all that anxious to keep me from finding out the truth why don’t you give your lackey Hertz a couple of hundred bucks and tell him to fix me? Probably he would do it for less. Sheppey was my partner. I don’t give a damn if he was a good or a bad partner. In my racket no one kills an investigator and gets away with it. We feel the same way about it as the police feel when a cop gets killed. Get that into your money-riddled mind and stop trying to buy me off!”

I turned around and started my long walk towards the exit. The silence I left behind me was painful.