The Guilty Are Afraid

I

Sam’s Cabin, at the unfashionable end of St. Raphael’s promenade, was a big wooden shack of a place, built out over the sea on steel piers.

There was a parking lot and though it was only five minutes to six o’clock, there were some thirty cars already parked, and not a Cadillac nor a Clipper among them.

The parking attendant was a fat, elderly man, who smiled cheerfully as he told me that the parking was free.

I walked the length of the narrow jetty and into the bar room. The bar ran the width and one side of the room. There was also a snack bar equipped with twelve electric spits which at this moment were busily roasting twelve fat chickens.

About eight or nine men were propping themselves up against the bar, drinking beer and dipping into the dill pickle bowl.

Beyond open double doors at the far end of the room I could see a railed verandah, shaded from the evening sun by a green awning. There were tables out there, and that’s where the crowd was. As I was hoping to do some serious talking with Fulton, I decided I’d stay inside and away from the crowd. I went over to the doors and looked the crowd over to make sure he hadn’t already arrived, then, not seeing him, I picked a corner table in the bar room by a big open window and sat down.

A waiter came over, wiped the table and nodded at me. I told him to bring me a bottle of Black Label, some ice and two glasses.

A few minutes after six o’clock Tim Fulton came in. He was wearing a pair of baggy grey flannel trousers and an open-neck, blue shirt. He carried his jacket over his shoulder. He looked around, saw me and grinned. Then he came over, his eyes on the bottle of Black Label.

“Hey, there, buster,” he said. “So you’ve got the flag waving already? Couldn’t you wait for me?”

“The bottle’s not open yet,” I said. “Sit down. How’s it feel to be a free man?”

He blew out his cheeks.

“You don’t know anything until you’ve been through what I’ve been through. I should have my head examined for staying so long with him.” He flicked the bottle with his finger-nail. “You reckoning to uncork this or do we just sit and admire it?”

I poured him a drink, dropped a chunk of ice into his glass, then made myself one.

We touched glasses as boxers will touch gloves and nodded to each other. We drank.

After my interview with Creedy and then with Katchen, the ice-cold whisky certainly hit a spot.

We lit cigarettes, sank further down in the basket chairs and grinned at each other.

“Pretty nice, huh?” Fulton said. “If there’s one thing I like better than anything else it’s to sit where I can listen to the sea and drink good whisky. I don’t reckon a man could wish for anything nicer. Okay, there are times when a woman can take the place of pretty well anything, but when a guy wants to relax he doesn’t want a woman. I’ll tell you why: women talk: whisky doesn’t. This is a bright idea of yours, buster.”

I said I was full of bright ideas.

“I’ve another bright idea,” I went on. “After we’ve had a few drinks, it might be an idea to try some of that chicken cooking there.”

“Yeah. Those birds are the best on this stretch of coast,” Fulton said. “Make no mistake about that. Okay, you can go to Alfredo’s, the Carlton, the Blue Room, or if you can get in, even the Musketeer Club. They serve chicken too. They give it to you with five waiters, silver forks and orchids. The bill will knock your right eye out. Here, they just throw it at you, but, brother, is it good I And it’s cheap.” He finished his drink, put down his glass and sighed. “I come here twice a week. Sometimes I bring my girl; sometimes I come alone. It makes me laugh to think of all the rich suckers going to the shake-down joints and paying five times what I pay and getting something not so good. The joke is none of them would dare be seen here because their rich pals would imagine they were economizing, and in this town, to economize is a deadly sin.”

I made him another drink and freshened mine to give him the illusion that I was drinking level with him.

“But, and there’s always a but,” he said, shaking his head, “this place is beginning to slip. A year ago we got guys and dolls in here who were friendly, nice and homely. Now the tough boys have discovered it. They are as fond of stuffing their bellies as I am, so they come. We’ve got this gambling ship anchored out in the bay: that attracts them the way rotten meat attracts flies. Sam’s worried. I was talking to him only the other week. He tells me the people who made his business are fading away and these tough boys are taking their place. There’s nothing he can do about it. Last month there was a fight here and a knife was flashed. Sam got it under control quick, but that’s the kind of thing that’ll scare people away. He reckons if there’s another knife fight in here, he’ll be owning just another racketeer’s restaurant.”

I said it was bad and looked over at the group of men standing at the bar. They were big and flashily dressed, with the hard watchful eyes of men who don’t care how they make their money so long as they make it.

“Bookies,” Fulton said, following my gaze. “They’re okay so long as they stay sober. The boys who cause the trouble don’t show until it’s dark.” He lit another cigarette and pushed the pack over to me. “Well, how did you get on with the old man: lovely character, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. That long room of his and his searchlight eyes. I’d hate to have to work for him.”

“You said it, brother! I’ve got me a nice little job now driving an old lady to the shops, holding her shopping-bag and generally helping to make life easier for her. She’s a nice old thing, and, after Creedy, I reckon she’s going to do my ulcer a lot of good.”

“Talking about nice old ladies,” I said, “who is this character Hertz?”

Fulton grimaced.

“What are you trying to do — spoil my evening? Have you run into him?”

“He was with Creedy when I blew in. He struck me as a pretty tough egg. Who is he? What’s Creedy doing mixing with a type like that?”

“He takes care of people,” Fulton said. “Creedy employs him now and then as a bodyguard.”

“What’s Creedy want with a bodyguard?”

Fulton shrugged.

“These rich punks get inflated ideas. They think people are going to shoot or stab them. Have a bodyguard and people imagine you’re important: window dressing, like the signs in his parking lot. Big-shotting himself to death. But you don’t want to get the wrong idea about Creedy. He’s tough. Maybe he doesn’t look like it, but he’s as tough and as dangerous as any of the gun-and-knife punks who come in here. He practically runs this town. It was his idea to have a gambling ship in the bay. He reckoned it would encourage the tourists and it certainly did. He couldn’t care less if it also brought the tough boys as well. He owns half the ship anyway, and takes half the profits.”

“And Hertz is as tough as he looks?”

Fulton nodded.

“He certainly is. Creedy has no use for a phony. When he hires a tough guy that guy has to be tough. Hertz is that and more. He scares me. I reckon he has a bat in his attic.”

If what he was saying was true, there didn’t seem much to choose from between Katchen and Hertz.

“Did you read about the guy who was killed out at Bay Beach this morning?” I asked.

“I did see something in the evening paper,” Fulton said. “Why bring that up?”

“He was my partner. I have an idea he called on Creedy during the past few days and I’m wondering if you saw him.”

Fulton showed interest.

“Come to see the old man? Well, maybe I did. I was on the gate most of this week. What was he like?”

I described Sheppey carefully. He had flaming red hair, and I was pretty sure if Fulton had seen him he wouldn’t have forgotten him, and I was right.

“Sure,” he said. “I remember him: big guy with red hair. That’s right. Logan passed him through. I was on the barrier and I didn’t get his name.”

“Would you swear to seeing him? This is important. You might have to, and in a court of law.”

Fulton finished his drink, then said, “Of course I’d swear to it. He came last Tuesday: a big, red-headed guy with a crew cut, wearing a grey flannel suit and driving a Buick convertible.”

That was good enough. The car was a clincher. So I had been right. Jack had been to see Creedy. Now I had to find out why, and that wouldn’t be easy.

“You say he was murdered?” Fulton said, looking curiously at me.

“Yes. The police think he was fooling around with some thug’s girl and the thug fixed him. Could be: he was over fond of women.”

“Well, what do you know? You had to go to the cops about it?”

“I went. That Captain Katchen is quite something, isn’t he? Belsen missed a great boss in him.”

“You’re right. Every so often he comes out to see Creedy: about four times a year. It’s my guess he comes for his rake-off. You’d be surprised at the number of night clubs and high-toned brothels that stay open because Katchen looks the other way.”

“What are night clubs and brothels to do with Creedy?”

“I tell you he owns most of this town. Maybe he doesn’t collect the gravy direct from the rats who run these places, but indirectly he gets the rents, and Katchen gets his cut.”

“He’s married, isn’t he?”

“Who — Creedy? As far as I know he’s been married four times, but it could be more. His present wife is Bridgette Bland, the ex-movie star. Ever seen her?”

“Once, I think. If I remember rightly she was quite a looker.”

“She still is, but she can’t hold a candle to her stepdaughter. Now there’s a beaut, about the loveliest dish I’ve seen, and I’ve seen quite a few in my day.”

“Does she live at home?”

Fulton shook his head.

“Not now: she used to, but the other one couldn’t take it. Whenever the old man threw a party, Margot, that’s the daughter, took all the limelight, and the other one was left out in the cold. She didn’t like it. They were always quarrelling, so Margot packed and cleared out. She has an apartment on Franklyn Boulevard. From what I hear the old man misses her. I miss her too. She was the one bright light in that lousy place. Bridgette gave me a pain: just like Creedy: never happy, always moaning, stays up all night and sleeps all day.”

I was learning things. We had the evening before us and there was no point in rushing at it. I turned the conversation to the coming world championship fight and let Fulton sound off on why the Champ couldn’t lose. From that we went on to ball games and finally to the old, old standby: women.

It was around nine o’clock by the time we had finished the bottle of Scotch. The sun had gone down, making a great red splash across the sky, and it was now dark.

I waved to the waiter, and after a while he came over.

“Let’s have two chicken dinners with all the trimmings,” I said.

He nodded and went away.

Both Fulton and I were a little high by now, but pleasantly high, as, after the first quick rush, we had been taking the Scotch slowly, which is the way good Scotch should be taken.

I looked through the open window at the lights of St. Raphael City. It looked a pretty nice place from where I was sitting.

“Does Mrs. Creedy get along all right with Creedy?” I asked.

Fulton shrugged.

“No one could get along with him,” he said. “Anyway, he’s too busy making money to bother with women. She gets her fun elsewhere.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Well, the current favourite is a husky, curly-haired hunk of meat who calls himself Jacques Thrisby. He’s a French Canadian.”

I became aware that a man had moved up to our table. For a moment I thought it was the waiter bringing our food. I was looking out of the window, listening to Fulton talk, so my reflexes were a little slow; besides, the Scotch had made me just that woolly in the brain.

Then I heard Fulton catch his breath sharply, the way only a very frightened man will gasp, and I looked quickly around.

Hertz was standing right up at the table looking at me. Behind him in a semi-circle, blocking the way of escape, were four men, tall, beefy, dark and tough, and the expression in Hertz’s wild little eyes sent a chill crawling up my spine.

II

The noise in the big room was suddenly hushed: heads turned, and eyes looked in my direction.

I was in a bad position. My chair was only a foot or so from the wall. The table was between me and Hertz, and it wasn’t a big table. Fulton was better placed. He was on my right, with no wall behind him.

Obviously there was no doubt in the minds of the crowd that there was going to be trouble. Already some of them were heading with restrained panic towards the exit.

Hertz said in his husky voice, “Remember me? I don’t like peepers, and I don’t like a punk.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a big Negro, wearing a white apron and in shirt-sleeves, come fast from behind the bar. He was built on the lines of Joe Louis, and there was a vague, apologetic smile on his big, battered face. He crossed the room, weaved around the four men and arrived at Hertz’s side quicker than I can tell it.

I caught hold of the edge of the table and braced myself.

The Negro said pleasantly to Hertz, “Don’t want trouble here, boss. If you and your friends have business to talk over, you talk about it outside.”

Hertz turned his head to look at the Negro. There were tiny red sparks in his eyes making him look a little insane.

I saw his shoulder drop slightly, then his fist flashed up and landed in the Negro’s face. The blow sounded like a thump on a tympani. The Negro went staggering back, then fell on his hands and knees.

All this happened fast. I put my weight against the table and rammed it hard into Hertz, who was slightly off balance from the punch he had thrown.

The edge of the table caught him against his thigh and he reeled backwards, cannoning into two of the men with him.

I now had a little space in which to move and I jumped to my feet and grabbed hold of my chair. I swung it shoulder high, using it like a scythe, and cleared some more space in which I could manoeuvre.

Fulton was also on his feet, his chair above his head. He slammed it down on the head of the nearest thug, knocking him to the floor.

Two bouncers, big men, one of them a Negro, clubs in hand, came rushing through a doorway near by. The three thugs with Hertz scattered, then converged on the bouncers. That left Fulton and me facing Hertz.

I smashed my chair down on Hertz’s head and the chair-back broke, leaving me with a strip of brittle wood that had the staying power of a toothpick as far as an animal like Hertz was concerned.

Hertz staggered, then snarling, he came at me, his right hand flashing up. If I had stepped back, he would have caught me, but I jumped forward and planted my fist in the middle of his face. It was a good, jabbing punch and it rocked his head back. I moved away from him and cannoned into one of the bouncers, who slugged me with a back-hand blow that sent me staggering into Hertz as he came at me again. I managed to grab his wrist with both hands. I half-turned, got his arm over my shoulder, pulled down and heaved. He went over my head with the speed of a jet-propelled rocket and landed on the floor with a crash that shook the building.

I spun around, looking for Fulton. He was leaning against the wall, holding a handkerchief to his face, his knees sagging. I went to him, grabbed him by his arm and bawled, “Come on — out!”

One of Hertz’s thugs reached me. I ducked under the blackjack that swished towards my head, sent my right into his ribs, then knocked his legs from under him. I didn’t wait to see him go down. I grabbed hold of Fulton and dragged him across the room to the door.

There wasn’t much comfort outside. Facing us was the narrow, long jetty, brilliantly lit, with the sea either side, and at the far end, the big car park, also brilliantly lit.

Fulton was hurt badly and seemed on the point of collapse. Any second now Hertz and his thugs would be out and after us.

“Beat it,” Fulton gasped. “I can’t go any further. Get away before they catch you.”

I grabbed his arm, swung it around my shoulder, then half-supporting him, I dragged him in a rushing run down the jetty towards the parking lot.

The quick patter of feet behind me told me I wasn’t going to get far.

I let go of Fulton and turned.

Hertz was coming down the jetty.

“Run!” I said to Fulton. “I’ll handle this ape.”

I gave him a quick shove and he went staggering off as Hertz came at me. He moved with the speed and the shuffle of a professional boxer. I backed away fast, circling him so the light from the overhead standard would be in his eyes. I watched his fists. He looked insane with rage. That was in my favour. A man in a rage isn’t anything like as dangerous as a man who keeps his head in a fight. He came at me like an enraged bull and I slammed my fist into his face, jerking his head back. I swayed away from a right that would have decapitated me had it landed, then thumped my own right into the side of his neck. He caught me with a left, and it felt as if I had been hit with a sledge hammer. I backed away fast as he came in again, jabbed him off, slid away from a crushing punch that started from his ankles, jumped back and took a quick look down the jetty. Fulton had disappeared. I decided it was time I took off.

But I shouldn’t have taken my eyes off Hertz. Although he telegraphed his punches, he had the speed of a fly weight. He caught me with a hook to the jaw. I saw it coming just a shade too late, but I had started to roll with the punch and that took a little of the steam out of it. It was hard enough to bring me to my knees, but not hard enough to fog my brain. As he rushed, I fell forward and grabbed him around his thick thighs, raised myself and heaved. He went over my head and slid along the planks of the jetty on his face.

I was up and running before he came to rest. As I bolted into the car park, I heard a voice call, “Hey, Brandon! Right here!”

I changed my direction as I saw Fulton waving at me from the front seat of my car. I heard Hertz lumbering down the jetty after me. The engine of the car was running and I scrambled in under the steering wheel, slammed in the gear and trod down on the accelerator.

Hertz was within twenty yards of the car now, his battered face a snarling mask of fury as the car shot away. I went through the parking-lot gates with an inch to spare and stormed out on to the boulevard. Still at high speed, I swung the car into a side turning, drove flat out to the top of the road, stood on the brake pedal and flung the car into another road, then slowed down.

“Are you badly hurt?” I asked, looking at Fulton.

“I’ll survive,” he said.

“Where’s the nearest hospital? I’ll take you.”

“Third left at the top of this road, then straight on for half a mile.”

I increased speed. In five minutes I pulled up outside the emergency entrance to the hospital.

“I can manage now.” He got out of the car. “I was a mug to have opened my big mouth. I should have kept clear of you.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to land you in for that kind of party. You could bring a charge against Hertz. There were plenty of witnesses.”

“Much good that’d do. It’d never stick, and I’d be in more trouble. I’m packing and getting out of this town. I’ve had about enough of it.”

He went away, moving unsteadily.

I watched him disappear through the doorway, then I U-turned and headed back fast to my hotel.

III

It wasn’t until I was in the quiet of my bedroom, and after I had bathed my bruises, that I remembered I had missed my dinner, and found I was hungry. I called down for some hot turkey sandwiches on rye bread and a pint of iced beer. While I waited for the sandwiches to be brought up, I stretched out on my bed and considered the activities of the day.

I knew I was sticking my head into a hornets’ nest, and I wondered how long I would survive if I continued to do so.

Sooner or later I would run into Hertz again, and the next time I might not get off with only a bruised neck and a slight swelling under my right eye. I thought of Tim Fulton and grimaced.

Even if I managed to side-step Hertz, there was Katchen. If he got the slightest suspicion I was continuing my inquiries, he would fix me on some charge and have me in. I didn’t kid myself that that would be any kind of picnic.

It seemed, if I were going to make any safe progress, I would have to get some sort of protection, but how I was to do it defeated me. Was there anyone in town more powerful than Creedy and who could warn Katchen to lay off? It didn’t seem likely, but if there was, and I could get him on my side, that would be the solution to my problem.

Leaving that, I considered what I had discovered. I knew now that Creedy had hired Jack. Creedy’s money was behind some of the rackets of the town. He was married, and his wife was playing around with a man called Jacques Thrisby. He also had a daughter, Margot, whom he was fond of and she had an apartment on Franklyn Boulevard. I reached for the telephone book, looked her up and found her apartment was in a block called the Franklyn Arms. As I put the book down, there came a knock on the door and a waiter brought me the sandwiches and the beer. He stared curiously at my swollen eye, but didn’t comment on it, which was as well for him. I was in no mood to be sociable with a waiter right at this minute.

When he had gone, I got off the bed and, sitting in the lone armchair, I ate the sandwiches and drank the beer.

Someone had taken Jack’s things out of the room next door and put them in a neat pile in the corner of my room. I was reminded by the sight of them that I had to write to his wife. After I had finished my meal and had lit a cigarette, I took a sheet of the hotel notepaper and wrote to her. It took me until half past ten to complete the letter to my satisfaction. I offered her a reasonable sum as compensation for losing her husband. I purposely made the sum a little low because I knew she would bargain long and bitterly to get more out of me. She had never liked me, and I knew she would never be satisfied no matter what I gave her.

I stuck the envelope down and left it on the dressing-table to post the following morning.

I then sat down and unlocked Jack’s suit-case. I went through his stuff to make sure there was nothing in the case that might upset his wife when I returned it. It was as well that I did, for I found photographs and letters that proved he had been cheating her for the past year or so. I tore them up and dumped them in the trash basket.

I went through the rest of the suit-case and I found, hidden in the lining of the case, a match folder: one of those things restaurants and night clubs give away as an advertisement. This was something special. It was covered with dark red water-silk and across the outside in gold letters was the legend: The Musketeer Club and a telephone number.

I turned the folder over between my fingers, remembering that Greaves, the hotel detective, had said that the Musketeer Club was the most exclusive, apart from being the most expensive club in town. How had Jack got hold of the folder? Had he gone to the club? Knowing him, I was sure he wouldn’t go to a de luxe night spot like that unless it was for business reasons. He was far too careful with his money to take any girl to a place that expensive.

Still holding the folder, I got to my feet, thought for a moment, then, leaving my room, I took the elevator down to the lobby.

I asked the reception clerk if Greaves was around.

“He’ll be in his office right now,” the clerk said, staring at my swollen eye. “Downstairs and to the right. Did you have an accident, Mr. Brandon?”

“This eye? Why, no. I ordered some sandwiches to be sent up and the waiter threw them at me. Think nothing of it. I go for that kind of service.”

I left him with his mouth hanging open and his second chin quivering and went down the stairs to Greaves’s office.

It was more of a cupboard than a room. I found him sitting at a small table, laying out a hand of patience. He looked up as I came to rest in the open doorway.

“Someone take a dislike to your face?” he asked, without much show of interest.

“Yeah,” I said and, leaning forward, I dropped the match folder on the table.

He looked at it, frowned, looked up at me and raised his eyebrows.

“How come?”

“I found it in Sheppey’s suit-case.”

“I’m willing to bet a buck he never went there. He hadn’t the class, the money nor the influence to get past the bouncers.”

“No chance?”

“Not a chance in ten million.”

“Maybe someone took him in. That possible?”

Greaves nodded.

“Maybe. A member can take in who he likes, but if the other snobs don’t like who he brings in, he could lose his membership. That’s how it works.”

“He could have picked it up somewhere.”

Greaves shrugged.

“First one I’ve seen. The guys and dolls who go to the Musketeer Club wouldn’t soil their lily white fingers touching a thing like that. They’d be afraid it’d give them a germ. I’d say someone took him in and he brought this away with him to prove he had been there. It’s something to brag about if you’re the bragging kind.”

“Know where I can get hold of a members’ list?”

He smiled sourly, got up, edged around his table and went to a cupboard. After rummaging around for a few moments, he offered me a small book, bound in faded red water-silk with the same gold lettering on it as the match folder.

“I found it in one of the rooms at the Ritz-Plaza and thought it might come in useful one day. It’s two years out of date.”

“I’ll let you have it back,” I said, retrieving the match folder from the table and putting it and the members’ book in my pocket. “Thanks.”

“Who gave you the shiner?”

“Nobody you’d want to know,” I said, and went out and up to the lounge. I found an armchair away from the old ladies and gentlemen and read through the names in the book. There were about five hundred names to wade through. Four hundred and ninety-seven of them meant nothing to me: the other three did: Mrs. Bridgette Creedy, Mr. Jacques Thrisby and Miss Margot Creedy.

I closed the book and slapped it gently against my hand.

I sat for some minutes thinking. Then out of the blue came an idea. I considered it, decided after a moment or so that it wasn’t perhaps a brilliant idea, but at least it wasn’t a bad one, and I got to my feet.

I went over to the hall porter and asked him where Franklyn Avenue was.

He told me to take the second on the right, then the first on the left by the traffic lights.

I thanked him and went down the steps to where I had left the Buick.