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  Safer Dead

  James Hadley Chase

  The Editor of a monthly crime and detection magazine assigns to two of his staff writers, Sladen and Low, the investigation of the strange disappearance of an unknown showgirl. The disappearance was reported fourteen months earlier, but the trail is cold. The police, with nothing to work on, have lost interest. The assignment doesn't look hopeful. However, the investigators start asking questions and almost immediately things begin to happen. Witnesses are murdered, an attempt is made to do away with the investigators. The police once more open the case. The disappearance of the showgirl is found to be only a minor part of a ruthless murder plot. Safer Dead has the authentic James Hadley Chase touch, which has deservedly earned him the title of " Master of the Art of Deception ". It moves with the pace and power of forked lightning.

  Safer Dead

  James Hadley Chase

  1954

  CHAPTER ONE

  I

  Edwin Fayette, editor of Crime Facts, sat behind his desk in his luxurious office, a cigar between his teeth and an unfriendly gleam in his eyes.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, waving impatiently. ‘What are you two guys working on?’

  I folded myself down in the most comfortable armchair in the room while Bernie Low sat as far from Fayette as he could and began to bite his nails.

  Bernie and I had been collaborating for the past two years, writing stories for Crime Facts, a monthly magazine of crime and detection stories with the biggest circulation of any of its rivals. I did the thinking and Bernie did the writing. The arrangement suited us both. I never could work up enough energy to commit ideas to paper, and Bernie never had any ideas.

  An ex-Hollywood scriptwriter, Bernie was short, plump and impressive looking. He had a dome-shaped head, a massive forehead and his heavy horn spectacles made him look brainier than he was. He had once confided to me that it was entirely due to the shape of his head that he had remained in the movie business as long as he had.

  Bernie had a horror of losing his job. Whenever he was called to Fayette’s office, he imagined he was going to get the gate. Saddled with an expensive, luxury-loving wife, an enormous house and a flock of debts, his life was one continual battle to keep the wolf from the door.

  ‘Right at this moment,’ I said, ‘we’re tossing an idea around in our minds and building up atmosphere. We’ll have something for you in a week or so and it’ll knock your eye out.’

  ‘Well, shelve it,’ Fayette said. ‘I’ve got something I want you two to work on. Will your story wait?’

  ‘Oh sure, it’ll wait. What have you got for us?’

  Fayette produced a file from his desk.

  ‘I want a series of articles done on missing people,’ he said. ‘Do you realize thirty or more people walk out of their homes every day in this country and disappear? I’ve got Carson to dig up few of the more interesting cases, and I’ve a good one here for you. I want you to get moving on it right away.’

  Bernie and I exchanged glances. We had been bogged down for the past week on a story idea and Fayette’s suggestion was welcome.

  ‘What’s the story then?’ I asked.

  ‘During August of last year, a girl named Fay Benson disappeared,’ Fayette said. ‘She was a song and dance artist, working at the Florian nightclub in Welden. Welden, if you don’t know, is sixty miles southeast of San Francisco. This girl had been a success. The manager of the club told her he would extend her contract so she had no reason to disappear as she did. On August 17th she came as usual to the club and went to her dressing room. At nine o’clock, the callboy warned her she had five minutes before her act began. He saw she was wearing her stage getup which consisted of a bra, a pair of spangled shorts, a top hat and some feathers. She said she was ready, and he left her. He was the last person to see her. When she didn’t appear on the stage he was sent to fetch her, but her dressing room was empty. The clothes she had arrived in were there, and more important still, her purse containing twenty dollars was on her dressing table, but she had vanished.

  ‘The manager asked the stage door man if he had seen her, but he hadn’t. The only other exit, apart from the customers’ exit which was through the restaurant, was in the basement. The man in charge down there hadn’t seen her either. Bearing in mind she was still wearing her stage getup, no one could have failed to have seen her if she had used the delivery exit, the stage door exit or if she had gone through the restaurant to the main exit. The manager decided she must still be in the club. The building was searched but they didn’t find her. The police were called in. They didn’t find her either. They learned that she had got the job at the club through an agency, but the agency didn’t know anything about her except she had told them she had worked at the

  Swallow Club in San Francisco. When the police checked, the Swallow Club had never heard of her. She didn’t appear to have any friends. She stayed at the Shad Hotel, a moderate joint near the club, and the reception clerk said she never had any visitors nor any mail. The police kept at it for a couple of weeks, then as they didn’t get a lead or find her body, they dropped the case.’

  Fayette closed the file and looked at me. ‘Doesn’t that sound like the makings of a good story?’

  I thought it did, but I had learned not to show too much enthusiasm for Fayette’s ideas. They had a habit of blowing up in one’s face.

  ‘It sounds all right, but if the police couldn’t get a lead on her, how can we?’

  ‘Most people don’t like talking to the police. Besides, I like this story, and I’m willing to spend some money on it. People will talk if they think they’re going to get something out of it. I’m sure we’ve got something hot here, and I want you two to get after it.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said and held out my hand for the file. ‘All the dope here?’

  ‘There’s not much more than I’ve already told you: a few names and a photograph of the girl, but that’s all. You’ll have start from scratch.’

  ‘How about expenses?’ Bernie asked a shade too eagerly.

  Fayette scowled at him.

  ‘Within reason, and I mean my reason and not yours. I want an account kept of every dime you part with - understand?’

  Bernie smiled happily. He hadn’t been in the movie business for four years without learning how to pad an expense sheet.

  ‘You’ll get an account okay, Mr. Fayette,’ he said.

  I was looking at the picture of Fay Benson I had found in the file. The glossy photograph was of a girl of about twenty-four in a spangled brassiere, spangled pants and a top hat. Her lovely face, framed by fair, silky hair was to my thinking as sensational as her figure was seductive. I handed the picture to Bernie.

  ‘Take a look at this,’ I said.

  Bernie’s eyes popped and he pursed his lips in an appreciative whistle.

  ‘Well, come on, let’s go,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘If she’s as good as she looks, she’s worth finding.’

  II

  It was growing dark as we drove into Welden in the Roadmaster Buick I had hired in San Francisco. At first sight, Welden appeared to be a compact, well laid out town, prosperous and clean, with broad streets and crowded sidewalks.

  ‘For a hick town, this doesn’t look so bad,’ Bernie said, screwing his head around to catch a last glimpse of a tall, willowy blonde who was waiting at the traffic signals to cross the street and who had given him a long, bold stare as we passed. ‘Anyway, the women don’t appear to be repressed, and that’s always a good sign.’

  ‘Will you shut up?’ I said impatiently. ‘That’s all you think about - women. For a married man you should be ashamed of yourself.’

  ‘If you were married to Clair, you’d act the same way,’ Bernie said. ‘That girl
drives me nuts. She’s always yelling for something. If I didn’t circulate among other women now and then I’d begin to imagine they were all like her.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have married her.’

  Bernie laughed bitterly.

  ‘Do you think I’m that crazy? I didn’t marry her; she married me.’

  I slowed down and pulled to the sidewalk to ask a patrolman where the Shad Hotel was. He directed me, and after about five minutes driving, we came to the hotel.

  It didn’t look much. It was a tall building sandwiched between a block of offices and a hardware store. Opposite was the hotel garage, and when we had parked the car, we carried our bags across the street and entered the hotel.

  Potted palms, basket chairs and tarnished spittoons gave the lobby a seedy, down-at-the-heel look, and the reception clerk, a shabby, elderly man with a network of fine red veins decorating his over large nose, didn’t do anything to raise the tone of the place.

  ‘What a dump,’ Bernie said, ‘I’ll bet there are beetles in the bedrooms.’

  ‘What do you expect? Silkworms?’ I said and crossed over to the desk.

  The clerk seemed surprised when I asked for two rooms and told him we were likely to stay a week.

  ‘I have two rooms on the first floor,’ he said. ‘Would they do?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Have these bags taken up. Where’s the bar?’

  ‘Through there; second on your right.’

  The bar was a long, narrow room with more potted palms, tarnished spittoons and basket chairs. There was no one in it except the barman who was reading the evening paper which he folded with a resigned air when he saw us.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said. He was big and tough with a brick red face and the bright blue eyes of a drinker.

  I ordered two highballs.

  ‘Looks festive enough to hold a funeral in,’ Bernie said looking around. ‘Don’t the folks in this hotel ever drink?’

  ‘It’s early yet,’ the barman said as if accusing us of disturbing his peace. ‘You staying here?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Ever read Crime Facts?’

  He showed his surprise.

  ‘Why sure, it’s my favourite reading.’

  I finished my highball at a swallow and pushed the glass back to him. Bernie, who believed in keeping pace with me, hurriedly downed his too.

  ‘Fill them up,’ I said. ‘We work for Crime Facts. We’re covering the Fay Benson case. Remember her?’

  The barman had picked up my glass. It suddenly slipped out of his hand and smashed on the floor. He swore as he bent to kick the bits of glass under the counter. When he straightened up I had an idea he had lost some of his colour.

  ‘What was that again?’ he asked.

  ‘Fay Benson. Remember her?’

  ‘Why, sure.’ He turned to fix another drink. ‘You mean you’re writing up the case?’

  ‘That’s the idea if we can get a new angle.’

  He put two more drinks before us and then leaned against the counter while he began to arrange some glasses in a more orderly group.

  ‘What sort of angle would that be?’ he asked without looking at me.

  ‘Search me. We’re just looking around and seeing what we can pick up. It’s an interesting case. A girl, wearing only pants and bra, suddenly vanishes. Where did she go? Why did she go? Have you any ideas?’

  ‘Me?’ the barman scowled. ‘Why should I have any ideas?’

  ‘You knew her?’

  He hesitated, then as he began to polish another glass, he said, ‘I didn’t know her. She came in for a drink now and then.’

  ‘Was she alone?’

  ‘She was always alone. I guess she came in here for company.’

  ‘Didn’t she have a boyfriend?’ I asked, aware that the barman wasn’t at ease. I sensed his tension rather than saw it, but I was pretty sure it was there.

  ‘She didn’t seem to know anyone. She kept to herself.’

  ‘But you don’t know for certain she didn’t have a boyfriend,’ Bernie put in. ‘She might have without you knowing about it.’

  The barman scowled at him.

  ‘Maybe. What’s the idea of writing up the case again?’

  ‘We won’t write it up unless we can find out why she disappeared,’ I said.

  ‘The cops didn’t find out - why should you?’ He looked quickly at me, then away, but not fast enough for me to miss his furtive expression. This guy was beginning to interest me.

  ‘We’re the guys who put Sherlock Holmes out of business,’ Bernie said airily. ‘You’d be surprised at the number of unsolved cases we’ve solved. Surprises us sometimes. The cops know how good we are: they work with us now.’

  ‘Is that right? Well, you’ll have to be pretty smart to crack this one,’ the barman said curtly and turning, he moved away to the end of the bar and fetched out his paper.

  I finished my drink.

  ‘Know where the Florian club is?’ I asked.

  ‘Hundred yards down on the right,’ the barman said without looking up.

  As we left the bar, Bernie muttered, ‘He didn’t seem too friendly. Did you notice it?’

  ‘He looked scared to me,’ I said, letting the barroom door swing to behind me. ‘Wait a second.’ I turned and peered through the glass panel of the door. I watched for a moment, then joined Bernie. ‘He’s using the telephone.’

  ‘Maybe he’s putting a buck on a horse.’

  ‘At this hour? Come on, let’s eat.’ I was thoughtful as we crossed the lobby and walked down the steps to the street. ‘I’m not so sure now my approach was right. I wouldn’t have told him about Crime Facts if I’d known he was going to react like that.’

  ‘Like what?’ Bernie said, bewildered. ‘He happened to drop a glass. Okay, anyone can do that. I admit he wasn’t too friendly, but maybe he didn’t like our faces. Some people don’t.’

  ‘Will you stop drivelling and let me think?’ I said impatiently.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Bernie said in a resigned voice. ‘Go ahead and think. Anyone would imagine I wasn’t in this combination the way I’m treated.’

  ‘Shut up!’ I said fiercely.

  III

  There was quite a crowd moving through the brightly lit lobby of the Florian club. The hatcheck girl who took our hats was wearing a frilly little frock, a low neckline and a come-hither look.

  Bernie leered at her.

  ‘What’s the food like in this joint, babe?’ he asked. ‘Come to that, you look good enough to eat, yourself.’

  The girl giggled.

  ‘The food’s fine,’ she said, then lowering her voice, she went on, ‘but don’t take the goulash. The kitchen cat’s missing.’

  ‘Come on!’ I said, dragging him away. ‘Lay off. We’re working.’

  ‘When don’t we work?’ he said bitterly. ‘Why did I ever get into this racket?’

  The captain of waiters led us to a corner table.

  The restaurant was fairly large with a five-piece band, a small dance floor and pink diffused lights.

  After we had ordered, Bernie said, ‘What’s the next move?’

  ‘I want to talk to the manager,’ I said. ‘He might have something for us. Then there’s the callboy. He might know more than he told the cops.’

  ‘Those wrens huddled in the corner over there must be the hostesses. Would it be an idea if I made myself pleasant to one of them while you talk to the manager? No need for both of us to talk to him, and I might find out something.’

  ‘You might,’ I said, ‘but make sure it’s to do with this case.’

  ‘You’ve got a horrible mind,’ Bernie said indignantly.

  A half an hour later, I paid the bill and got to my feet.

  ‘Don’t get into trouble,’ I said to Bernie.

  ‘She’s the one who’ll be in trouble,’ Bernie said, staring fixedly at a red head whose pretty painted face was stiff with boredom. ‘I’ve always wanted to third degree a dance hostess.’ />
  I left him and searched out the manager’s office.

  He turned out to be a short, dark man whose name was Al Weiman. When I told him I was from Crime Facts, he seemed pleased to see me.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr. Sladen?’ he asked, waving me to a chair.

  ‘I’m trying to dig up some new facts about Fay Benson,’ I said. ‘We want to write up the case if we can find out any new angles.’

  ‘You have a job on, haven’t you? She disappeared fourteen months ago.’

  ‘I know.’ I accepted the cigarette he offered me and lit it. ‘But sometimes when one starts digging into an old case, you get on better than if it had just happened. If this girl met with foul play, the guy who did it is sitting pretty. Then he suddenly discovers, just when he is certain he is safe, that a new investigation has started up. The chances are he’ll get rattled. He might even make a mistake and give himself away. It’s happened before.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. Well, how can I help?’

  ‘Have you any idea how the girl, dressed as she was, could have left here without being seen?’

  Weiman shook his head.

  ‘I’ve often thought about it, but it foxes me. Both the rear exits were guarded, and she couldn’t have gone through the restaurant without being seen.’

  ‘Who were the men on the rear exit?’ I asked.

  ‘Joe Farmer was on the stage door exit and Pete Schultz was on the basement exit.’

  ‘Did it occur to you one of them might have been lying? If one of them lied, there’s no mystery to this at all. Didn’t the police think of that?’

  ‘Oh sure. They worked on both of them, but they couldn’t shake them. They both swore they didn’t leave their posts nor did they see the girl.’

  ‘Got anything against either of them?’

  ‘Schultz was all right. Besides, he was taking a delivery of beer and the police checked with the driver of the beer truck. He said Schultz was on the door at the time the girl disappeared.’

  ‘So that leaves Farmer. Anyone to support his story?’

  ‘No. I’ve often wondered about Farmer. He used to drink more than was good for him. Before this happened, he used to slip across the road to Mike’s bar, and I caught him at it. I told him if he did it again, I’d give him the gate.’