The Guilty Are Afraid

I

I drove back to the bungalow with plenty on my mind. I put the car in the garage to be out of the blazing sun, unlocked the front door of the bungalow and went into the bedroom.

I stripped off, put on a pair of swimming trunks, collected a towel and then walked down to the sea.

I had a twenty-minute swim, then returned to the bungalow and sat down on the verandah in the shade, put my feet up on the rail and considered the various points I had discovered.

I had to make up my mind if it was Thrisby or Bridgette Creedy who was lying. Thrisby’s story was acceptable to me and Bridgette had every reason to lie, but I wasn’t absolutely sure she had been lying.

What I had to decide was whether Thelma Cousins was being dangled in front of me to take my attention away from something else. I was quite sure the match folder meant nothing to Bridgette, but it meant a lot to Thrisby.

I wondered if it would pay off to go to his place, wait until he went out then search the house. I might turn up something that would give me the key to the mystery. I wondered if he had a servant living with him. I thought it would be a good idea to go out there this night.

I was lighting a cigarette when I heard the telephone bell ring. I got up and went into the lounge, lifted off the receiver and said, “Hello.”

“Is that you, Lew?”

Margot’s voice.

“Why, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you,” I said. “Where are you?”

“I’m in my apartment. I’ve been thinking about that match folder.”

I sat on the arm of a lounging chair, holding the telephone on my knee.

“I’m pretty sure it belongs to Jacques Thrisby,” she went on.

I didn’t say I thought it might too.

“What makes you say that, Margot?”

“I remember now that he was sitting opposite me at the table. I remember he took out his cigarette-case. It had a lighter attached and the lighter wouldn’t work. He took this match folder out of his pocket, then a waiter came up and gave me a light. He left the match folder and the cigarette-case lying on the table beside him. He left them there when he danced with Doris. I am pretty sure now I took the folder to light my cigarette. It’s quite possible I put the folder into my bag without thinking. I can’t say definitely that I did so, but I am sure Jacques put a folder of matches on the table.”

“It adds up,” I said. “I let him see the folder when I went out there this afternoon. He reacted like a man who has sat on a tack.”

“Did you talk to him, Lew?”

“Bridgette was there. I arrived at the dramatic moment when she was about to shoot him.”

“Shoot him?” Margot’s voice went up. “Oh, Lew, surely not!”

“She may have been planning to scare him, but I had the idea she meant to give him the full treatment. He had just handed her a pretty brutal brush-off.”

“She must be out of her mind! What are you going to do about it, Lew? You haven’t told the police?”

“No. I doubt if Thrisby would admit she tried to kill him. I’d only be landing myself into more trouble, and I can’t imagine the police filing a charge against her. Did you know she had a gun?”

“No.”

“I think she was the one who hired Sheppey. Thrisby said so. I talked with her this afternoon, but she says Thrisby is lying. He told me he was going around with Thelma Cousins, the girl who was murdered. Bridgette found out and hired Sheppey to watch them. That’s his story, but she denies it.”

“This is fantastic. Will the police find out about it?”

“They could do. It’s something you’ll have to face up to, Margot. This is a murder case.”

“Do you think Bridgette had something to do with Sheppey’s death?”

“I don’t know what to think at the moment.”

“What are you going to do?”

I could hear a note of alarm in her voice.

“Tackle Thrisby again. Do you know if he has a servant at his place, Margot?”

“Yes: a Filipino, but he doesn’t sleep there. He comes in early, and leaves around eight o’clock.”

“I’ll go out there to-night and take a look around.”

“What do you expect to find then, Lew?”

“I don’t know, but it’s surprising what you can dig up if you take the trouble to look. When am I seeing you again, Margot?”

“Do you want to?”

“You mustn’t ask trifling questions. You wouldn’t like to come out here after half past ten? I might be able to tell you what I’ve found in Thrisby’s place.”

She hesitated, then said, “Well, I might be able to.” The thought of seeing her again this night sent a hot wave of excitement through me.

“Then I’ll expect you around ten-thirty.”

“All right. Be careful, Lew. Don’t go near the house unless you’re sure he’s out. Don’t forget what I told you: he’s dangerous and ruthless.”

I said I wouldn’t forget and she hung up.

I sat and thought, then after a while I called St. Raphael police headquarters. When I got a connection, I asked if Lieutenant Rankin was in.

After a pause, Rankin came on the line.

“What do you want?” he growled when I told him who was talking.

“Traced that ice pick yet?” I asked.

“What do you think I am — a miracle worker? You can buy those picks anywhere in town. There must be hundreds of them lying around.”

“Sounds to me as if you’re making no progress.”

“I’m not, but it’s early days yet. This isn’t going to be a fast job. Have you got anything?”

“Only a pain in the neck for you,” I said. “I’m beginning to think it wasn’t Creedy who hired Sheppey. It looks as if his wife did.”

“Why do you say that?”

“From the odd talk I have picked up. Would you know if she has a gun permit?”

“What are you getting at, Brandon?” There was a rasp in his voice. “Don’t you know you’re fooling around with dynamite with the Creedys?”

“I know that, but dynamite doesn’t scare me. Has she a gun permit? It’s important, Lieutenant.”

He told me to hold on. After a long delay, he came back on the line.

“She has a permit for a .38 automatic: serial number 4557993. She’s had the permit now for three years,” he told me.

I reached for a scratch pad and jotted down the number.

“Thanks, Lieutenant. One more thing: did you get anywhere with your digging into Thelma Cousins’s background?”

“No. She just hasn’t any background. We’ve asked around. Hahn seems to be right. She didn’t go with men. It beats me what she was doing with Sheppey.”

“You have her last address, Lieutenant?”

“She had a room at 379 Maryland Road. The landlady’s name is Mrs. Beecham. You won’t get anything out of her. Candy spent an hour with her. She had nothing to tell him.”

“Thanks,” I said. “If anything new turns up, I’ll call you.” And I hung up.

I went into the bedroom, put on a suit, shoved the .38 in my shoulder holster, then left the bungalow, locked the door after me and got the Buick out of the garage.

The time was now a quarter past five. There was still plenty of heat in the sun, and as I drove along the promenade I could see the long stretch of beach was crowded. I pulled up by a cop who was resting his feet on the edge of the kerb and asked him where Maryland Road was. He gave me directions. The road lay at the back of the town and it took me some twenty minutes of fighting traffic to get there.

Mrs. Beecham was a fat, elderly body with a friendly smile and an inclination to gossip.

I told her I was connected with the St. Raphael Courier and could she give me some information about Thelma Cousins.

She invited me into a room full of plush-covered furniture, a canary in a cage, three cats and a collection of photographs that looked as if they had been taken fifty years ago.

When we had sat down I told her I was writing a piece about Thelma and I was interested to know if she had a boy friend.

Mrs. Beecham’s fat face clouded.

“The police officer asked that. She hadn’t. I often told her she should have some nice young man, but she was so bound up in the church...”

“You don’t think she had a secret boy friend, Mrs. Beecham?” I asked. “You know how it is. Some girls are shy and they don’t let on they have someone.”

Mrs. Beecham shook her head emphatically.

“I’ve known Thelma for five years. If there had been anyone, she would have told me. Besides, she very seldom went out. The only time she did go out after she had finished her work was on Tuesdays and Fridays. It was then she went to the church to help Father Matthews.”

“She might have told you she was going to the church but she could have been going out with a boy friend. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Beecham said, and looked shocked. “Thelma wasn’t like that at all. She wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“Did she ever have visitors here, Mrs. Beecham?”

“She had her friends from time to time. Two girls from the School of Ceramics and a girl who did church work.”

“No men?”

“Never.”

“Did a man ever call on her here?”

“No. I wouldn’t have encouraged it. I don’t believe in young girls having men in their rooms. Besides, Thelma wouldn’t have done such a thing.”

I took out my billfold and produced a photograph of Sheppey.

“Did this man ever call on Miss Cousins?”

She studied the photograph and then shook her head.

“I’ve never seen him before. No man ever called on her.”

“Did a blonde, smartly dressed woman ever call on her? A woman of about thirty-six... wealthy?”

She began to look bewildered.

“Why, no. Just her three friends and Father Matthews; nobody else.”

It looked then to me as if Thrisby had been lying when he had said both Sheppey and Bridgette had gone to Thelma’s place.

“On the day she died, did anything unusual happen? Did anyone come to see her, did she get a letter, or did someone call her on the telephone?”

“The police officer asked that. Nothing happened out of the way. She left as usual at eight-thirty to get to the School at nine. She always came back here for lunch. When she didn’t come back as usual, I got worried. When she didn’t turn up at her usual time after work I first called Father Matthews, and then the police.”

Rankin was right. It was like digging into concrete. I thanked the old girl, said she had helped me and got away with difficulty.

As I walked back to the Buick, I was feeling a little depressed. I realized I hadn’t made the progress I thought I had. It seemed pretty certain to me now that Thrisby had been lying.

II

Around nine o’clock I drove out to the White Château. It was growing dusk as I got on to the mountain road, and as the sun set, the sky and the sea turned an orange red. From the height of the road, the view of St. Raphael City was magnificent.

But I wasn’t in much of a mood to admire the view. I had too much on my mind, and I couldn’t help thinking from time to time that in an hour and a half I would have Margot with me in the isolation of the bungalow.

I drove fast, using my spotlight to warn traffic coming in the opposite direction that I was on my way.

I reached the branch road down to the White Château soon after nine-thirty. Leaving the Buick on the road side, I walked down the road until I came to the wooden gate. I pushed this open and walked quietly up the path. By now the sun had set, and it had grown suddenly very dark.

I had brought with me a flashlight and a couple of tools for opening a window or a locked drawer. I paused at the edge of the lawn to look at the house, which was in darkness.

Crossing the lawn and moving silently, I walked around the house. No lights showed anywhere, but before attempting to break into the place, I walked over to the double garage and tried one of the doors. It slid back at my touch, and I was surprised to see a Packard Clipper in there.

I touched the hood and found it cold. It obviously hadn’t been out all day.

Moving even more cautiously, I crossed the lawn again and went up on to the terrace. I walked to the front door, and rang on the bell.

For three minutes I waited. Nothing happened. No one answered the bell. I moved along to the french doors. Out of the darkness the Siamese cat suddenly appeared and walked along by my side. I paused outside the french doors, tried the handles but found the doors locked. The cat took this opportunity to twine itself around my legs. I bent to rub its head, but it moved quickly away, jumped up on to the balustrade of the terrace and watched me warily.

I took a flat jemmy from my pocket, inserted it between the french doors, exerted pressure while I pulled steadily on the door handle. There was a sudden clicking sound and the door swung open.

I pushed the door further open and stood listening, but I heard nothing. The room was in darkness. I took out my flashlight and shot the beam into the room.

I was a little uneasy about the Packard being in the garage. It might be that Thrisby hadn’t left the house — but why the darkness? I told myself it was more than likely that someone had picked him up in their car, and that was the reason why his Packard was in the garage.

I stepped into the lounge, crossed to the light switch and turned it on. Then I got a shock. Standing across one of the corners of the big room was a desk. All the drawers hung open, and a mass of papers, letters, old bills, lay scattered on the top of the desk and on the floor. Across the room was a cupboard containing a nest of drawers: these drawers hung open too and more papers were scattered on the floor.

It looked as if someone had beaten me to it, and I swore softly under my breath.

I crossed the lounge to the door, opened it and stepped into a big hall. Facing me were stairs leading to the upper rooms. Across the way were two more doors. I opened one and looked into a fair-sized dining-room. Here again the drawers of the sideboard hung open and table ware had been bundled out on to the floor.

I tried the other door and looked into a luxury equipped kitchen that hadn’t been disturbed.

I returned to the hall and stood at the foot of the stairs, holding the beam of the light on the stairs while I listened. Somewhere in the house a clock ticked busily, but otherwise there was an oppressive silence.

As I stood there, I wondered what it was the intruder had been looking for and if he had found it. I wondered, too, how Thrisby would react when he returned and found the disorder. It would be interesting to see if he called the police or if he did nothing about it.

I would be in an unpleasant position if he suddenly walked in on me, and for a moment I hesitated about going up the stairs. I was pretty sure that anything that might have interested me in this house had already been taken.

But I finally decided to have a quick look over the rest of the house and then get out fast. I mounted the stairs two at a time and arrived on a broad, dark landing.

Then I got a shock that pretty nearly lifted me to the ceiling.

As I swung the beam of my flashlight around, I saw in a far corner of the landing the figure of a crouching man. He looked as if he were about to spring on me.

My heart did a somersault. I jumped back and the flashlight fell out of my hand. It rolled across the floor and then went bumping down the stairs sending the beam flashing against the wall, then the ceiling, then the banisters, until it landed in the hall below, leaving me in total darkness.

I stood rooted, my breath whistling between my teeth, my heart slamming against my side.

Nothing happened. The clock downstairs continued to tick busily, making an enormous sound in the tomblike silence of the house.

I slid my hand inside my coat and my fingers closed around the butt of the .38. I eased it out of the holster and my thumb slid the safety catch forward.

“Who’s there?” I said, and I was annoyed to hear that I sounded like a flustered old maid who finds a man under her bed.

The silence continued to press in on me. I listened, standing motionless, my eyes staring into the darkness ahead of me where I had seen the crouching man.

Was he creeping towards me? Would I suddenly have him on top of me with his fingers searching for my throat? I suddenly remembered how Sheppey had died with an ice pick driven into his throat. Was this Sheppey’s killer facing me? Had he an ice pick in his hand?

Then something moved across my leg. My nerves leapt practically out of my body. My gun went off with a bang that rattled the doors and I sprang back, sweat starting out on my face.

I heard a low growling sound and a scuffle, and I knew the cat had come up in the dark and had rubbed itself against my leg.

I stood still, my back pressed against the banister rail, cold sweat oozing out of me, my heart hammering.

I put my hand in my pocket, and took out my cigarette-lighter.

“Stay where you are,” I said into the darkness. “One move and you’ll get it!”

Pushing the .38 forward, I lifted my left hand above my head and flicked the lighter alight.

The tiny flame gave me enough light to see the man in the corner hadn’t moved. He still crouched there on his heels: a little, dark man with a brown wrinkled face, slit eyes and a big, grimacing mouth that showed some of his teeth.

There was a stillness about him that gave me the creeps. No one could stay so completely still unless he were dead.

The lighter flame began to fade.

I moved to the head of the stairs, then went down them to where the flashlight lay, its beam pointing across the hall to the front door.

I picked up the flashlight, turned around and forced myself up the stairs again. When I reached the head of the stairs, I swung the beam of the flashlight on to the crouching man.

I guessed he was Thrisby’s servant. Someone had shot him through the chest and he had crawled into the corner to die.

There was a puddle of blood by his feet and a dark patch of blood on his black linen coat.

I walked slowly over to him, pushing the gun back into my holster. I touched the side of his face with my fingertips. The cold skin and the board-like muscles under the skin told me he had been dead for some hours.

I drew in a long slow breath and swung the beam of the flashlight away from the dead face. Two big sparks of living light lit up in the beam of the flashlight as the cat paused at the head of the stairs, crouching and growling the way Siamese cats do when they disapprove of anything.

I watched the cat cross the landing, walking slowly, its head held low with the sinister wild-cat movement, its tail trailing.

It passed the Filipino without even pausing and stopped outside a door, facing me. It reached up, standing on its hind paws and tapped the door handle with its front paw. It tapped three times, then let out its moaning growl and then tapped again.

I moved forward slowly, reached the door, turned the handle and gave the door a little push.

It swung wide open.

Darkness and silence came out of the room. The cat stood on the threshold, its ears pricked, its head slightly on one side. Then it walked in.

I stood where I was, my heart hammering, my mouth dry.

I turned the beam of the flashlight on the cat. The beam held it in its clear-cut circle of light across the room to the foot of the bed.

The cat jumped up on the bed.

I shifted the circle of light and my heart skipped a beat.

Thrisby lay across the bed. He was still in his white singlet, his dark red shorts and his sandals.

The cat moved over to him and began to sniff inquiringly at his face.

In the beam of the flashlight I could see the terrified, fixed grimace on his face, the clenched hands and the blood on the bedsheet.

There was no sign of a wound or of blood on the white singlet, but I was sure if I turned him over I would find the wound.

Someone had shot him in the back as he had tried to get away. As he had died, he had fallen across the bed.

III

I swung the flashlight beam around until I found the light switch, then I turned on the lights.

I turned again to the bed.

Thrisby looked a lot more dead in the shaded lights than he had done in the beam of the flashlight.

The cat moved slowly around his head, crouching, its tail outstretched, its ears flat. It stared angrily at me over the dead man’s face.

I looked around the room.

It was in disorder. The closet doors stood open. Clothes had been bundled on to the floor. The drawers of the chest hung open: shirts, socks, ties, collars and scarves spilled out of the drawers.

Stiff-legged, I walked over to the bed.

The cat spat at me as I came and crouched down; its eyes wide. I reached out and touched Thrisby’s hand. It was hard and cold: at a guess, he had been dead five to six hours.

As I stood over him, my foot kicked against something, lying just under the bed: something hard. I bent, pushed aside the sheet and lifted into sight a .38 automatic.

It was the gun I had returned to Bridgette Creedy. I was sure of that, but to make absolutely certain, I carried it over to one of the lamps and looked for the serial number. I found it under the barrel: 4557993.

I slid out the magazine. Four shots had been fired: at least two of them had been fatal.

I stood for a moment, thinking. The whole set-up was a little too good to be true. Why leave the gun where the police would find it? I thought. Bridgette would know the police would have the serial number logged. I tossed the gun from hand to hand, frowning. Too pat, I kept thinking; then on a sudden impulse I dropped the gun into my pocket, crossed the room, turned off the lights and walked down the stairs.

I went into the lounge. Crossing over to where the telephone stood on the bar, I dialled Creedy’s number.

As I waited for a connection I glanced at my watch. The time was a quarter to ten.

Hilton’s voice came over the line.

“This is Mr. Creedy’s residence.”

“Connect me with Mrs. Creedy.”

“I’ll put you through to her secretary if you will hold on, sir.”

A few clicks, then the cool, efficient voice I now recognized said, “Who is calling, please?”

“This is Lew Brandon. Is Mrs. Creedy there?”

“Yes, but I don’t think she will speak to you, Mr. Brandon.”

“She’s got to speak to me,” I said, “and I’m not fooling. Put me through to her.”

“I can’t do that. Will you hold on? I’ll ask if she will come to the telephone.”

Before I could stop her, she went off the line. I waited, holding the receiver against my ear with unnecessary pressure.

After a long pause, she came back on the line.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Brandon, but Mrs. Creedy says she doesn’t wish to talk to you.”

I felt my mouth form into a mirthless smile.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to, but she’s got to. Tell her an old friend of hers has just died. Someone shot him in the back and the law could be on its way to talk to her.”

I heard a faint gasp over the line.

“What was that?”

“Look, give me Mrs. Creedy. She can’t afford not to talk to me.”

There was another long pause, then there was a click on the line and Bridgette Creedy said, “If I have any further trouble from you, I’m going to speak to my husband.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “He’ll love it. If that’s the way you feel about it, you’d better speak to him now because you’re heading for a whale of a lot of trouble and it’s not of my making. Right at this moment, Jacques Thrisby is lying on his bed with a .38 automatic slug in him. He’s as dead as your last year’s tax return and your .38 automatic is right by his side.”

I heard her draw in a long, shuddering breath.

“You’re lying!”

“Okay, if you think I’m lying, sit tight and wait until the law descends on you,” I said. “I couldn’t care less. I’m sticking my neck out calling you. I should be calling the cops.”

There was a long pause. I listened to the hum on the line and to her quick, frightened breathing, then she said, “Is he really dead?”

“Yeah; he’s dead all right. Now listen, where were you between five and six this evening?”

“I was here in my room.”

“Anyone see you?”

“No. I was alone.”

“Didn’t your secretary see you?”

“She was out.”

“What did you do with the gun I gave you?”

“I put it away in a drawer in my bedroom.”

“Who could have got at it?”

“I don’t know — anyone. I just left it there.”

“Did anyone come to see you?”

“No.”

I stared at the wall, frowning, then I said, “I don’t know why I’m doing this for you, but I’m taking the gun away. They might be able to trace the gun through the bullet; if they do, you’ll be in trouble, but there’s a chance they won’t. I think someone is framing you for Thrisby’s murder, but I could be wrong. Sit tight and pray. You have a chance of sliding out of this, but not much of one.”

Before she could say anything I dropped the receiver back on to its cradle.

Then I turned out the lights in the lounge, lit my way to the french doors with the aid of my flashlight, pulled them shut behind me and then walked quickly down the path, through the gateway up the road to where I had left the Buick.

No cars passed me as I started down the mountain road. I could see the bright lights of St. Raphael City every time I turned into a bend: it looked deceptively lovely.

It was nudging ten-fifteen when I pulled up outside the dark, quiet bungalow. As I got out of the car I saw a convertible Cadillac standing under the palm trees, its lights out. I stared at it for a moment, then walked up the steps leading to the front entrance of the bungalow, took out my keys, then, on second thoughts, turned the handle first. The door swung open and I stepped into the dark hall.

I thumbed down the light switch and stood listening, my hand on my gun butt.

For a long moment there was silence, then Margot said out of the darkness, “Is that you, Lew?”

“What are you doing in there in the dark?” I said, moving to the doorway.

The light from the hall made enough light for me to see her shadowy outline. She was lying on the long window-seat, her head outlined against the moonlit window.

“I came early,” she said. “I like to lie in the moonlight. Don’t put on the light, Lew.”

I stepped away from the doorway and shed the two guns. I slid them into the drawer of the hallstand that stood just by the front door, then I took off my hat and dropped it on to the hall chair.

I walked into the lounge, picked my way past the various pieces of furniture until I reached her.

From what I could see of her, she was wearing only a dark silk wrap. I could see her bare knee through the opening of the wrap. She reached out her hand.

“Come and sit down, Lew,” she said. “It’s so lovely here, isn’t it? Look at the sea and the patterns of the moonlight.”

I sat down, but I didn’t take her hand. Thrisby’s dead face still haunted me. It spoilt the mood for intimacy. She was quick to sense that. “What is it, darling? Is there something wrong?”

“Margot...” I paused, then went on. “You were once in love with Thrisby, weren’t you?”

I felt her stiffen. Her hand dropped to her side.

“Yes,” she said after a long hesitation. “I was once. It was one of those inexplicable things. I think I fell for his vitality and his colossal conceit. It didn’t last long, thank goodness. I’ll never forgive myself for being such a fool.”

“We all do things we regret,” I said, and groping for a cigarette, I lit it. In the light of my lighter I saw she had raised her head from the cushions and was staring at me, her eyes wide.

“Something has happened, hasn’t it? You’ve been out there? Something has happened to Jacques?”

“Yes. He’s dead. Someone shot him.”

She dropped back on to the cushion and covered her face with her hands.

“Dead?” She gave a strangled little moan. “Oh, Lew! I know he treated me shamefully, but there was something about him...” She lay still, breathing quickly, while I stared out of the window. The only light coming between us was from the red glow of my cigarette. Then she said, “It was Bridgette, of course.”

“I don’t know who it was.”

She sat up abruptly.

“Of course it was Bridgette! She tried to shoot him this afternoon, didn’t she? If you hadn’t stopped her she would have killed him. You said so. Did you let her have the gun back?”

She swung her legs off the window-seat.

“She went out there and killed him! She’s not going to get away with it this time!”

“What are you going to do then?”

“Tell my father, of course. He’ll get the truth out of her!”

“Suppose he does... what then?”

She turned her head. Although I couldn’t see her face in the darkness I knew she was staring at me.

“Why, he’ll throw her out! He’ll divorce her!”

“I thought you wanted to keep the police out of it?” I said quietly.

“The police? Why, of course. The police mustn’t know. Daddy wouldn’t call the police. He would throw her out and then divorce her.”

Through the window I saw the headlights of a car coming fast over the rough beach road and my eyes went to the red lamp on the hood.

“You may not be able to keep them out of it, Margot,” I said, getting to my feet. “They’re here now.”