The Guilty Are Afraid

I

I lay on my bed and listened to the heavy tramping feet plodding around in the room next door, and to the murmur of the voices as Rankin’s men hunted for clues.

I felt depressed and lonely. Although Jack had had his faults, he had been a good man to work with. We had met five years ago when I had been working as special investigator to the District Attorney’s office. Jack had been the crime reporter on the San Francisco Tribune. We had got friendly, and one night, over a bottle of Scotch, we both had decided we were tired of taking orders and being pushed around by two fat slugs who sat behind desks and who seemed to take pleasure in running us ragged.

Even though we were a little drunk, we were both uneasy about leaving the security of a regular salary for the risk of setting up on our own. We hadn’t much capital: I had five hundred more than Jack, but we had a lot of experience and we thought we could make a go of it.

There were a number of inquiry agencies in town. We knew most of them and they were no great shakes. After we had worked through half the bottle of Scotch we had decided to burn our boats and go into the business.

We clicked lucky right from the start. After a year we were making a reasonable living, and we hadn’t looked back since.

I wondered what it was going to be like working without a partner. I wondered if I should look around for someone to team up with. There was enough money now in the bank to buy out Jack’s wife. She was a dumb redhead who had driven Jack nuts at times and I was pretty sure she would jump at the chance of getting the money back she had lent Jack to put in the business.

Switching my mind from that problem, I considered Jack’s end. I didn’t think his death was hooked up to the case he had been working on. It was more likely he had made some racketeer’s girl, and the racketeer had killed him. A rat-tail ice pick, as Rankin had said, was a professional weapon, and it had been used professionally. But I would have to find out who Jack’s client had been. Jack had said the job was larded with money. It must have been, otherwise Jack wouldn’t have come all this way from his home ground. That meant the client was a man of substance. Not that that helped me. Most men, so far as I could see, who lived in St. Raphael, had to be of considerable substance.

I had to be certain that the client was in no way connected with the murder before I gave his name to Rankin. Nothing can damage the reputation of an inquiry agent more than to land the law in the lap of his client: that’s a brick that gets talked about quicker than anything.

As soon as Rankin’s men had gone, I would put a call through to Ella, but not through the hotel switchboard. I didn’t know how smart Rankin was, but if he was as smart as I suspected he was, he would have a man standing by the switchboard waiting for me to put through just such a call.

I looked at my watch. The time was now twelve forty-five. I was feeling hungry. I hadn’t had any solid food since the previous night. I thought it would save time if I ate now while the boys next door were busy enough not to bother about what I was doing. I swung my legs off the bed and stood up.

The door opened as I was fastening my collar-button and Rankin looked in.

“Phew! Like an oven in here.”

“Yeah. I was just on my way to eat. Do you want me?”

He leaned against the doorpost, rolling a dead cigar between his teeth.

“Nothing in there.” He jerked his thumb to the other room. “Hundreds of prints that probably don’t mean a thing. They don’t clean these rooms with any enthusiasm. I’d say we have prints of at least thirty old customers. Couldn’t find a progress report: didn’t expect to. Nothing to tell us who Sheppey was working for.”

“I bet the guy who searched the room didn’t find anything either. Jack didn’t make reports.”

“You still don’t know who the client is?” Rankin said, his stare searching.

“No idea.”

“This crap about protecting a client’s name, Brandon, doesn’t mean a thing when it comes to a murder case. You’d better hustle up the name: don’t kid me you can’t find it.”

“I wouldn’t kid you, Lieutenant. If Jack hasn’t left a report, then I’m foxed.”

“Let’s have your office address. You’ve got a secretary or someone there, haven’t you?”

I gave him the address.

“We have a typist. She’s just turned seventeen and she’s as dumb a moron as ever drew a salary. We don’t tell her anything.”

Rankin didn’t look as if he believed me.

“When you find out who the client is, come and see me. If I don’t hear from you within twenty-four hours, I’ll come and see you.”

He went away, closing the door behind him; leaving the threat hanging in the air like a cloud of poison gas.

I decided to skip the meal. I had an idea Rankin was going to call police headquarters in San Francisco and get a man to talk to Ella before I could contact her.

I took the elevator to the lobby, walked a block before I found a drug store, shut myself in a pay booth and called my office number.

I had been telling Rankin only half the truth about Ella. She was only just seventeen, but she was no moron. She was as smart as they come and as sharp as a razor.

It was good to hear her young crisp voice say, “This is the Star Agency. Good afternoon.”

“This is Lew,” I said, speaking fast. “I’m calling from St. Raphael City. Jack came down here on a job and wired me to join him. I have bad news, Ella. He’s dead. Someone knifed him.”

I heard her draw in a quick, sharp breath. She had liked Jack. From force of habit he had given her the treatment when she had first come to the office, but I had persuaded him that at her age she should be left alone. He had seen reason and had transferred his personality to maturer pastures. All the same he had made an impact on her, and I knew she was more than half in love with him.

“Jack — dead?” she said, and there was a shake in her voice.

“Yes. Now listen, Ella, this is important. The police want to know what the job was and who the client was. Jack didn’t tell me. Did he tell you?”

“No. He just said something had come in and he was going to St. Raphael City. He said he would wire you to join him, but he didn’t say what the job was.”

I could hear her fighting her tears. I felt sorry for the kid, but this was no time for sentiment.

“How did he get the job: a letter or a telephone call?”

“A man called on the telephone.”

“Did he give his name?”

“No. I asked him, but he wouldn’t give it. He said he wanted to talk to one of the principals.”

I pushed my hat to the back of my head and blew out my cheeks. The atmosphere in the booth was thick enough to lean against.

This looked as if I was at a dead end. Then I had a sudden idea. I remembered Jack’s habit of doodling whenever he talked to anyone on the telephone. Give him a pencil and a telephone and he had to doodle. He either drew nudes — and he had talent in this direction — or he wrote down snatches of the conversation that was taking place. It was second nature to him to scribble while he used the telephone.

“Go into his office, Ella, and take a look at his blotter. There’s a chance he wrote down the client’s name. You know how he doodled.”

“Yes. I’ll look.”

I waited, feeling sweat running down my spine. It was so hot in the booth that I had to open the door to let in a little fresh air. That was when I saw the flatfoot. He was leaning against the soda bar. He had cop written all over him, and by the exaggerated way he was staring at a cup of coffee I knew he was anxious not to let his glance stray in my direction.

I cursed myself for not thinking that Rankin would slap a tail on me. This guy must guess I was calling my office.

Ella’s voice jerked my attention back to the telephone.

“There’s a lot of stuff on the blotter,” she said. “I have it right here. But there’s only one name. It’s Lee Creedy, written in block letters.”

“Okay, Ella. It might be something or it might not. Get rid of the blotter right now, will you? I’ll hold on. Tear it up and flush it down the toilet. You could have a call from the cops any moment and they mustn’t find it.”

I waited for three minutes, then she came on the line again.

“I’ve got rid of it.”

“Good girl. Now listen, I’ve told the police here you’re a dim-wit and we don’t tell you anything. Play it that way. Tell them Jack had a telephone call and he told you he was going to St. Raphael City, but you don’t know why or who called him. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t let them faze you. They’ll probably get tough and talk about accessories after the fact, but don’t worry. Stick to your story. They can’t prove anything and they’ll soon get tired of trying.”

“All right, Lew.”

“One more thing. I don’t like asking you to do it, Ella, but I can’t do it from here. Will you break the news to Jack’s wife? Tell her I’m writing. I’ll get a letter off to-night. I’ll fix the funeral. When she’s got over the shock, I’ll call her.”

“Aren’t you coming back yet?”

“No. I’m going to find out why Jack was killed and who killed him. Will you go around and see her, Ella?”

“Yes, of course.” Then she said in a lower tone, “Two men have just come in. I think they are detectives...” and the line went dead.

I took out my handkerchief and wiped my face, then I left the booth and crossed over to the counter and stood close to the waiting detective. He gave me a stony stare, then turned his back on me.

I ordered a sandwich and a coffee.

He finished his coffee, lit a cigarette, then, with exaggerated nonchalance, he went out of the drug store, got into a black Lincoln and drove away.

II

I got back to the hotel soon after one-thirty and went straight up to my room. I had to pass Jack’s room and, seeing the door was open, I looked in.

A heavily built man in a baggy suit was standing by the window, his hands on his broad hips, looking around. He turned and stared at me, his eyes hard and hostile.

He looked like an ex-cop. I guessed he would be the house dick.

“Have they folded their tent and stolen away?” I asked, coining into the room.

“What do you want in here?” he demanded in a rasping, bass voice.

“I’m Brandon. My room’s next door. You Greaves?”

He relaxed a little and nodded.

The room had been tidied up to some extent. At least the feathers had been swept up, although a few still remained.

The drawers in the chest were shut, the stuffing had been put back into the mattress cover and the papers had been collected.

Jack’s belongings were piled in a corner of the room: two shabby suit-cases, a raincoat, a hat and a tennis racket in a frame. They looked a pathetic little heap: not much to show in place of a guy with his looks, strength and fun.

“They finished with that lot?” I said.

Greaves nodded.

“I’ll have to send them back to his wife. Will someone do it for me?”

“Joe will, the bell hop, if you ask him.”

“If you have nothing better to do, come into my room. I have a bottle of Vat 69 that needs a work-out.”

His fat face brightened. It wouldn’t have surprised me to learn he hadn’t many friends.

“I guess I can spare a few minutes.”

We went into my room and I shut the door.

Greaves sat on the upright chair while I sat on the bed. The ice had long since melted. I didn’t bother to phone for more. I gave him three fingers of whisky and myself one.

I studied him as he sniffed at his glass. His round, fat face was devoid of guile. His moustache had a few white hairs. His eyes were hard, suspicious and a little weary. It couldn’t be much fun to be a house dick to a hotel of this standing.

“Do they know who killed him?” he asked after he had taken a healthy gulp at his drink.

“If they do, they haven’t told me,” I said, then went on, “Did you see the girl he went out with?”

Greaves nodded.

“I saw her.” He produced a crumpled pack of Luckies, offered me one and lit up. “The cops in this town only co-operate with the dicks of the big hotels. Little guys like me they ignore. Okay, that’s no skin off my nose. If that city slicker Rankin had talked to me, I could have told him something, but no, he has to talk to Brewer. Know why? Because Brewer can just afford to buy himself a silk cravat. That’s why.”

“What could you have told him?” I asked, sitting forward.

“He asked Brewer for a description of the girl,” Greaves said. “That shows you the kind of cop he is. All Brewer saw of her were her clothes. I was watching her. I could see she was wearing that outfit because she didn’t mean to be recognized again. The first thing I spotted about her was she was a blonde. She was either wearing a wig or she had dyed her hair. I don’t know which, but I know she was a blonde.”

“Why are you so sure?”

Greaves smiled sourly.

“By using my eyes. She had short sleeves and the hairs on her arms were blonde. She had a blonde’s skin and complexion.”

I wasn’t particularly impressed by this reasoning. The hair on her arms could have been bleached by the sun. I didn’t say so because I didn’t want to discourage him.

“I’ve been trained to look for the little give-way habits people have and she had one,” Greaves went on. “She was in the lobby for five minutes. All the time she was playing the piano on her thigh.” He stood up to demonstrate. “With her right hand, see? Moving her fingers against her thigh like this.” He went through the motions of playing a scale. “All the time, and that was a well-developed habit. It wasn’t a stunt: she didn’t know she was doing it.”

I took a drink while I considered this information.

“The police would have quite a job looking for a girl who had that trick, wouldn’t they?” I said.

Greaves sneered.

“You’d have to get close to her first. But it would clinch it if they thought they had found her and weren’t sure.”

I nodded.

“Yeah, I guess that’s right. From what you saw of her, what line do you think she was in?”

He lifted his heavy shoulders.

“Hard to tell. She could have been in show business. I don’t know: a model, a singer or an actress. She wore her clothes well and she had plenty of style.”

“Are you telling Rankin all this?”

Greaves killed his cigarette, then shook his head.

“He wouldn’t listen even if I could be bothered to take a trip down to headquarters. He has no time for small guys like me. The hell with him.”

“Any idea how the guy who searched Sheppey’s room got in?”

“He used Sheppey’s key. Sheppey took it along with him: forgot to hand it in. It’s my guess the guy who killed him found the key, hot-footed back here, walked up the stairs, let himself in and took the room to pieces. It needed nerve, but he was safe enough. We’re under-staffed, and at that hour of the morning there wouldn’t be anyone up here.”

I decided it was time to let him know I was more or less in the same line of business as he was. I took out my card and handed it to him.

“I’m not asking questions for the fun of it,” I said.

He read the card, frowned, rubbed his fat nose and handed the card back to me.

“Was he your partner?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve always wanted to get into your racket. There’s a lot more money in it than mine. How are you doing?”

“I can’t grumble until this happened. Now I’ll have to shut down until I find the killer.”

He stared at me.

“That’s police work. What do you think you can do?”

“It’d look good, wouldn’t it, if I went back to Frisco and carried on as if nothing had happened? What sort of advertisement would it be if I didn’t do something towards tracing the killer? Besides, Jack was my best friend. I couldn’t sit still and let the police handle it.”

Greaves pulled a face.

“Then watch out. Rankin isn’t so bad: he’s a reasonable cop, but Captain Katchen is in a class all by himself. If there’s one thing he hates more than a hotel dick, it’s a shamus. If he gets the idea you are poking around on his territory, you’re in for trouble, and I mean trouble.”

I finished my drink, then wiped my wrists with my handkerchief. The room temperature was up in the eighties.

“What kind of trouble?”

“There was a private eye who came here from Los Angeles to check on a suicide case. The widow was convinced it was murder so she hired this guy to poke around. Katchen warned him off, but he still kept trying. One day when he was out driving, a prowl car slammed into him, wrecked his car, put him in hospital with a broken collar-bone and when he came out he got six weeks for drunken driving. He swore the cops had poured half a pint of whisky over him before taking him to hospital, but no one believed him.”

“He sounds a nice type. Thanks for the tip. I’ll keep clear of him.”

Greaves finished his drink regretfully and put down the glass.

“You’d better. Well, I guess I’ll be hauling my butt. I’m supposed to be in the lobby around this time to make sure none of the old gentlemen smuggle in a floosie. They never have done it, but the manager is sure they’ll try some time. Thanks for the drink. Any time you want help, I’ll do what I can.”

I said I’d remember that.

As he was leaving the room, I said casually, “Does the name Lee Creedy mean anything to you?”

He paused to stare, then pushed the door to and leaned against it.

“He’s the biggest man we have in this town.”

I managed not to show my excitement.

“How big?”

“He’s worth a hundred million bucks for a start. He owns the Green Star shipping line. They have a fleet of tankers plying between Frisco and Panama. He owns the Air Lift Corporation that runs air taxis from here to Miami. He owns three newspapers and a factory that employs ten thousand men and women who turn out electrical components for cars. He owns a piece of the Casino, a piece of our light-weight champion, a piece of the Ritz-Plaza Hotel and a piece of the Musketeer Club, the only really exclusive night club in this lousy town, and when I say exclusive, I don’t mean expensive although it’s expensive enough. You have to have a five-figure income and maybe a blood test before you get in. That’s how big he is. Maybe he owns other things as well, but that will give you the general idea.”

“He lives here?”

“He’s got a place out at Thor Bay: about five miles along the coast: a fifteen-acre estate with a little shack of about twenty-five bedrooms, a swimming pool you could float an aircraft carrier on, six tennis courts, a zoo with lions and tigers, a staff of forty, all falling over their flat feet to give him service, and a little harbour just big enough to take his four-thousand-ton yacht.”

“Married?”

“Oh, sure.” Greaves wrinkled his nose. “Remember Bridgette Bland, the movie star? That’s her.”

I had a vague recollection of once seeing her in some movie. If she was the girl I was thinking of, she had caused a minor sensation four years ago at the Cannes film festival. She had received a lot of publicity by riding a horse into the lobby of the Majestic Hotel and tossing the reins to the reception clerk before strolling to the elevator to be whisked up to her five-room suite. She had lasted about two years in pictures and then she had faded out. If I wasn’t confusing her with someone else, I remembered she had the reputation for being wild and tiresome.

Greaves was regarding me with question marks in his eyes.

“What gives with Creedy?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “His name came up. Some guy mentioned him. I wondered who he was.”

Greaves stared thoughtfully at me, then nodding, he opened the door and went away.

I lit a cigarette and stretched out on the bed.

Jack had said the job was larded with money. If his client had been Lee Creedy then there would be money to be had. But why should a man in Creedy’s position hire an obscure inquiry agent three hundred miles from his home town? With his set-up and bank balance he could have got Pinkerton or any other of the de luxe agencies.

I ran my fingers through my damp hair.

A man like Creedy would be surrounded by secretaries, bouncers, flunkies and yes-men whose job it would be to keep people like me away from him. It wouldn’t be easy to get near him; it wouldn’t be easy to ask him if he had hired Jack and why.

I drank a little whisky to get me in the right mood, then I lifted the telephone receiver.

“Give me Greaves,” I said to the switchboard girl.

There was a delay, then Greaves came on the line.

“I have a call to make,” I said. “How clear is your switchboard?”

He didn’t need a blue-print to understand what I meant.

“You’ve nothing to worry about. There was a cop hanging around for a while, but he’s gone now.”

I thanked him, then flashed the operator and asked for directory inquiries. When the girl answered I said I wanted to be connected with Lee Creedy.

She told me to hold on and after a while a man’s voice said, “This is Mr. Creedy’s residence.”

He sounded as if he either had a plum in his mouth or should have had his adenoids snipped in the past.

“Put me through to Mr. Creedy,” I said briskly.

“If you will give me your name, sir,” the voice said distantly, “I will put you through to Mr. Creedy’s secretary.”

“My name is Lew Brandon. I don’t want Mr. Creedy’s secretary, I want Mr. Creedy in person.”

I didn’t think it would work and it didn’t.

“If you will hold on, sir, I will connect you with Mr. Creedy’s secretary.”

The boredom in his voice was as insulting as a slap in the face.

There were a few clicks, then a curt voice, sharp enough to slice bread on, snapped, “Hammerschult here. Who is talking?”

“This is Lew Brandon. I want Mr. Creedy.”

“Hold it, please.”

By listening carefully I could hear his heavy breathing and could hear him turning the pages of what could have been an address book. This was a careful guy. He wasn’t going to get rude until he knew who he was talking to.

“Mr. Brandon?” he demanded, much more aggressive now. “What is your business?”

“Mr. Creedy will tell you if he wants you to know. Just put me through and stop wasting my time.”

I put some menace in my voice, making it sound tough. It didn’t work, but it slowed him down a little.

“It isn’t possible for you to speak to Mr. Creedy,” he said, his tone quieter. “If you could give me some idea what you want, I will speak to him and he may call you back.”

I knew this was the dead-end. If I became too tough, he would guess I was trying to trample over him, so I played my last and none-too-strong card.

“Tell him I am the senior partner of the Star Agency of San Francisco. He’s waiting for me to report to him.”

“Is he?” The voice sounded surprised and less confident. “All right, Mr. Brandon, I’ll speak to him and we’ll call you. What is your number?”

I gave him the hotel number and he hung up.

I stubbed out my cigarette, finished my whisky and closed my eyes.

I would have, I thought, an hour’s wait, possibly longer. I might not hear at all. There seemed no point at the moment in doing anything. I relaxed, and after a while, I dozed off.

The sharp and violent ringing of the telephone bell brought me awake with a start that nearly threw me off the bed.

I grabbed up the receiver, looking at my wrist watch. I had been asleep for fifteen minutes.

“Mr. Brandon?”

I recognized Hammerschult’s voice.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Creedy will see you at three o’clock this afternoon.”

I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Three o’clock?”

“Yes. Will you please be punctual? Mr. Creedy has several appointments for this afternoon, and he will only be able to spare you a few minutes.”

“That’ll be long enough,” I said, and hung up.

For a long moment I lay staring up at the ceiling, then I swung my legs to the floor.

Creedy had to be Jack’s client. That could be the only reason why a man of his position would bother to see me

I looked at my watch again.

I had just under the hour to get out to his place.

I went over to my suit-case to unpack my best suit.