Safer Dead Page 13

  That told me there was another of them outside. The five bucks was earning its living. For a man who could tell a story without words, this house dick was in a class of his own.

  I returned his wink and took the elevator up to my room. I put a phone call through to Suzy. There was a very faint click on the line just before Suzy’s receiver was lifted. That told me that someone was listening in on my line. Suzy’s maid said Suzy was out, and she wouldn’t be back until late. I thanked her and hung up.

  I wondered how long the line had been tapped, and tried to remember if I had heard the click when I had called Captain Bradley. I didn’t think I had, but I couldn’t be sure. Maybe Lassiter had only just got around to tapping my line; I hoped so. I didn’t want him to know I was calling on Bradley this night. With two trained cops waiting for me downstairs, my trip to Bradley’s house wasn’t going to be easy. I decided to make a start now to be sure I had plenty of time in which to lose them before I reached Lincoln Drive.

  I had a shower and changed. My strap watch told me it was ten minutes past seven as I let myself out of my room and walked to the elevator.

  I gave up my room key to the desk clerk.

  ‘Will you be in for dinner, sir?’ he asked as he took the key.

  ‘No, I’ll eat out,’ I said, loud enough for the thickset man to hear. He still sat in the basket chair near the revolving doors. I crossed the lobby, pushed my way through the doors and paused at the top of the steps. I looked at the crowded promenade, but I couldn’t spot the other dick.

  ‘Cab, sir?’ the doorman asked.

  I shook my head and strolled down the steps and along the promenade. I walked for some minutes, then turned off into the town. I went into a bar and ordered a highball.

  The bar was nearly empty. The barman looked intelligent so I leaned forward and said to him in an undertone, ‘My wife’s having me tailed. Any way out the back way, pal?’ and I showed him a dollar bill.

  He grinned cheerfully.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Go through that door. It’ll take you to the back entrance on Dorset road.’

  The buck and I parted company. I was throwing Fayette’s money away like a drunken sailor.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, finished the highball at a swallow, then walked quickly across the bar, opened the door he had indicated and stepped into a passage. On the right was a big cupboard. Ahead of me was a door. I opened the cupboard. It contained brooms and mops, but there was room enough for me, and I stepped inside, closed the door and waited.

  I didn’t have to wait more than a few seconds. I heard the door leading from the bar jerked open and heavy feet pound down the passage. I opened the cupboard door a crack and peered through.

  The thickset cop, his face red and his eyes gleaming, was opening the street door. He stepped outside, looked up and down, then started off to the right.

  I leaned against the wall of the cupboard and waited. I was in no hurry. There was the second cop to think of. He might be covering the bar. I waited twenty long, weary minutes, before I opened the cupboard door and peered out. Hearing nothing, I tiptoed over to the street door and eased it open.

  Right opposite me was a cab. The driver was lighting a cigarette before moving off. I jumped across the sidewalk, jerked open the cab door and got in.

  ‘Take me to the station,’ I said, ‘and snap it up.’

  He drove me to the railroad station that was on the far side of the town: Captain Bradley’s side. When I saw the station ahead of me, I told him to stop and I paid him off. I looked at my watch. I still had an hour before I could call on Bradley. A movie theatre nearby offered the solution. I went in and sat in the back row and watched Jane Russell display her curves for the next three quarters of an hour.

  When I came out, it was dark. As far as I could remember Lincoln Avenue was only a five minute walk from the station. I started off keeping my eyes open. Fifty yards from the movie house I spotted a patrolman, and I ducked into a tobacconist store to let him pass. I bought a pack of Camels, took my time getting out a cigarette and lighting it, then I went out on to the street again.

  A four minute quick walk brought me to the corner of Lincoln Avenue. I paused and examined the long road before starting down. It was as deserted and as silent as a graveyard at midnight.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I

  I’ve got Lassiter’s boys on my tail,’ I said as soon as I had sat down in one of Bradley’s worn armchairs, ‘but I shook them off before coming here.’

  ‘You managed to get on the wrong side of him fast, didn’t you?’ Bradley asked as he fixed two whiskies. ‘How come?’

  I told him what had happened at the Golden Apple. He stood, holding his glass, looking at me, his face hard.

  ‘What do you know about Cornelia Van Blake, Captain?’ I asked when I had finished my tale.

  ‘She got me slung off the force,’ Bradley said, sitting down. ‘At least, it was through her, and I’m pretty sure it was on her say-so.’

  ‘To do with her husband’s murder?’

  ‘You’ve been getting around since last we met, haven’t you? Who told you about the murder?’

  ‘A gilded lily. Care to tell me more?’

  He stretched out his massive legs and made himself comfortable.

  ‘Don’t think it has anything to do with your case, because it hasn’t,’ he said. ‘But I’ll tell you: do you want the outline or details?’

  ‘I want the details. It may not have anything to do with my case, but some of the characters appear in both cases, and there may be a hook up. Tell me about it.’

  He screwed up his eyes and stared up at the ceiling while he marshalled his facts.

  ‘Van Blake was shot on August 6th of last year. He went riding over his estate early in the morning. After a while his horse came back to the house without him. The staff searched for him and found him on the top of a hill in open country. He had been killed by a shot gun.’ He paused to look at me. ‘It was a big shakeup. Van Blake was rich and well known. The press and the political boys raised all hell. I knew I had to make good fast or lose my job.’ He sucked at his pipe reflectively. ‘As it turned out, I lost my job.’

  I didn’t say anything, and after a pause he went on, ‘Van Blake’s wife was in Paris at the time of the murder. Van Blake had business in Paris, and a month before he died, he had made arrangements to go over there with her. At the last moment he had to attend two important board meetings which delayed his departure, but his wife went on ahead of him. Van Blake’s secretary cabled the news to her and she flew back.’

  ‘Who’s the secretary?’ I asked.

  ‘His name’s Vincent Latimer. He quit after the funeral and he’s working with the Hammerville Engineering works now. If you’re planning to talk to him, save your breath. He’s tighter than a clam.’

  ‘Did you come across any clues?’

  ‘It was an odd murder. The shotgun puzzled me. If it was a planned killing, why a shot gun with only a killing range of thirty yards? I’ve always thought it was a planned murder, and the explanation of the shot gun pointed to the killer being known to Van Blake. He was murdered out in the open: he wasn’t ambushed. He must have known the killer or he wouldn’t have got within range. Anyway, that’s how I figured it.’

  ‘My gilded lily said it was a poacher.’

  ‘I know. They all said it was, but I wasn’t sold on the idea.’

  ‘You thought it was the wife?’ I said, looking at him.

  He shrugged.

  ‘I work on motives. She had a hell of a motive. She was twenty-two years younger than he was. They couldn’t have had anything in common. Before she married him she was a model and lived in a two room apartment. She came in for most of his money. Maybe she got impatient. You’ve seen her, haven’t you? She isn’t the type to be bossed around, and Van Blake could be like that. She’d want to handle the money herself, as she’s handling it now. I liked her for the job.’

  ‘But she was in Paris when
he was shot!’

  ‘Yeah; a sweet alibi, wasn’t it? I’m not saying she shot him, but she could have planned it with someone’s help.’

  ‘Was there another man in her life?’

  ‘She saw a lot of Royce. A guy with his background must kill sooner or later. I liked him for the job too. When she got control of the estate, she sold the club to Royce. He had always wanted it, but Van Blake wouldn’t part or else his price was too high. That was a nice motive. She might have bribed Royce with the club to get rid of Van Blake.’

  ‘Did he have an alibi too?’

  Bradley laughed mirthlessly.

  ‘I’ll s say! It was cast iron. He was in New York playing poker with three of the most respectable men in town: one of them was a judge. They swore he was with them all the time. I don’t say he did it himself, but Juan Ortez or any of his thugs could have done it on his say-so.’

  ‘You didn’t get anywhere on that angle?’

  ‘No. As soon as I began to poke around, Doonan pulled me off the case and tossed me off the force. Doonan happens to be a great friend of Mrs. Van Blake. He thinks she is a sweet, lovely girl.’

  ‘What made the newspapers go for the poacher angle?’

  ‘Mrs. Van Blake had that all tied up. Her story was that a couple of weeks before the murder, Van Blake caught a poacher in the wood. She named the poacher: a guy who lived a few miles from the estate on the Frisco Road. His name was Ted Dillon. We knew him. He was a tough customer, lived on his own, only worked when he had to and had been in trouble off and on for stealing and fighting. He was the ideal guy to pick on. She said her husband horsewhipped him, and she was positive Dillon had come back to even the score. The papers liked the idea, and they liked it still more when we couldn’t find Dillon. Doonan liked the idea too, but it looked too much of a plant to me. Van Blake couldn’t have handled Dillon alone. Anyway, we hunted for Dillon. We found traces of his flight. He was seen around the time of the killing riding his motorcycle away from the back entrance to Van Blake’s estate: at least, a man on his machine, wearing a crash helmet and goggles was seen, and the witness swore it was Dillon. A crash helmet and goggles make a good disguise, but no one bothered to consider that angle except me.

  We finally found his motorcycle. It was in a shed near the harbour, but we never found Dillon.’

  ‘Did this guy on the motorcycle have a gun with him?’

  Bradley shook his head.

  ‘We found the gun later in the wood, and we traced it. It had been stolen a couple of months ago from Abe Boreman, the local banker. He and four friends had gone out shooting. They left their guns and bag in the cars when they had lunch at a hotel. When they returned to the cars, the gun was missing.’ He looked over at me. ‘Hamilton Royce was one of the party. He left the restaurant during lunch to make a phone call. He could have gone to Boreman’s car, taken the gun and hidden it in the boot of his own car. Work it out for yourself.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I started to check Mrs. Van Blake’s alibi. I asked her for her passport. There’s no doubt she went to France on the day she said she did. The passport proved it. That was as far as I got. She must have called Doonan and told him I had been asking questions. Before I knew it, I was retired and through. They never found Dillon and they’ve never cracked the case.’

  ‘So you think Mrs. Van Blake persuaded Royce to have her husband knocked off. Is that it?’

  ‘That’s my theory and I still like it.’

  ‘But you haven’t any proof?’

  ‘No. The motive’s there. Royce could have stolen the gun, but that’s all except a hunch, and my hunches are usually right.’

  ‘Any idea what could have happened to Dillon?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. I’d say he was at the bottom of the sea now in a cement overcoat, but that’s only my guess.’

  ‘Well, thanks, Captain, for telling me. I guess you’re right. I’m hanged if I can see how this murder hooks up with my case. If I could only hook Fay Benson with Van Blake. Suppose, while Mrs. Van Blake was in Paris, Van Blake got Fay over for the night? It’s been done before and it’ll be done again. She might have seen the killing, got scared and bolted. That might be the reason why she took another name. The killer - your pal Royce - traced her to Welden and knocked her off. I don’t say it happened like that, but that’s the kind of hook up I’m looking for.’

  ‘Forget it; you’re wasting your time. Van Blake wasn’t that kind of man. Get it out of your mind; it’ll only confuse you.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Maybe you’re right. Well, I’ll be moving along. I’ve still things to do.’ I got to my feet. ‘I’ll keep in touch.’

  He went with me to the front door; before opening it, he turned off the light.

  ‘Watch your step, son,’ he cautioned. ‘If ever you want a good bolt hole go to Sam Benn. He runs a bar on Maddox Street and he’ll keep you under cover if you mention my name. You may need to duck out of sight in a hurry.’

  ‘I hope not,’ I said, and stepped into the dark, warm night.

  II

  The night was still young. There seemed to me no point in returning to the hotel where the cops could pick up my trail. I decided to have a few more hours to myself before I went to bed.

  On the way back to the centre of the town, I decided I was now ready to have a talk with Mrs. Van Blake if she would have a talk with me, which I doubted. Time was running out for me, and I wouldn’t be staying much longer in this plush city. There was still a lot of ground to cover. I found a telephone booth, dialled her number and waited expectantly.

  After a few moments a man’s voice said, ‘This is Mrs. Van Blake’s residence.’

  That would make him the butler, and to judge from the deep, fruity tone, an imported English butler at that.

  ‘This is Mr. Sladen of Welden calling,’ I said. ‘Put me through to Mrs. Van Blake if you please.’

  ‘Will you hold the line?’ the voice said and there was silence. Time stood still, and then as I was beginning to wonder if he had forgotten me, Cornelia Van Blake came on the line.

  ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘My name’s Sladen,’ I said, ‘I am a writer. Could I bother you for some information? It’s to do with a girl you met in Paris last year.’

  There was a pause. I imagined I could hear her quick breathing, but I could have been wrong.

  ‘Information? What girl?’ The voice was as cool and as crisp as a refrigerated lettuce and as impersonal.

  ‘Could I see you? I could be over in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Why, no . . .’ She stopped short as if a sudden thought had dropped into her mind. ‘Well, I suppose you could,’ she went on. ‘I can’t give you very long.’

  ‘Ten minutes will cover it. That’s fine. I’ll be right over,’ I said and before she could change her mind, I hung up. Why had she granted me an interview? I wondered as I left the booth. I had expected to be turned down flat. This was almost too easy.

  A cab crawled past and I waved.

  ‘Vanstone, West Summit,’ I said and got in. It took a little under twenty minutes to reach the high wrought iron gates that guarded the house.

  A guard in a black uniform and peak cap came out of the lodge, opened one of the gates and walked up to the cab.

  ‘Mrs. Van Blake is expecting me,’ I said. ‘I’m Sladen.’

  ‘Got a card on you, sir?’ he asked.

  I couldn’t see much of him in the darkness, but his voice sounded tough and alert.

  I offered him my driving licence. He snapped on a flashlight, examined the licence, nodded and handed it back.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He opened the other gate and the cab drove through.

  ‘First time I’ve been here,’ the driver said over his shoulder. ‘How the rich live! Guards, gates and all. Well, well!’

  ‘I’d sooner live my way,’ I said, peering through the open window into the darkness. I coul
dn’t see anything from the window, but the headlights of the cab picked out trees, a lot of shrubs and bushes, and the white, sand covered drive. There was no clear view of the gardens nor of the house from the approach. After a four minute drive, we swung on to a big stretch of tarmac at the foot of the steps leading to the house.

  The cab door was opened by another black uniformed guard who had appeared from nowhere. I told the driver to wait for me, nodded to the guard and went up the steps to the main entrance. The door stood open. A tall, elderly man got up like a Hollywood butler, stood waiting.

  The soft light from the hall lit up his aristocratic features. He was gaunt, and nudging seventy. He looked like a dignified statesman about to dine with Molotov, and he carried with him an atmosphere of baronial halls and lighted candelabra.

  ‘If you will follow me.’

  His figure and voice were stiff with disapproval. He took me down a wide corridor, through a glass-panelled door, down some steps and into a vast lounge that ran the length of the house. There were enough sofas and lounging chairs to seat fifty people, and the ornate richly coloured Turkish carpet that covered the entire floor gave the room the millionaire’s touch.

  ‘If you will wait, I’ll inform Mrs. Van Blake you are here,’ the butler said as if reading from the script of a successful play. He went away as silently and as unobtrusively as an incarnate spirit.

  The first thing that caught my attention when he had gone was a large oil painting of Mrs. Van Blake that hung over the fireplace.

  She was sitting on the balustrade, looking at the distant garden, wearing a pale green summer frock. It was an extraordinarily good likeness, and the detail of the landscape had been worked in with incredible patience and care.

  There was something about the style of the figure that was familiar to me, and moving closer to the picture I saw in the right hand corner the artist’s name: Lennox Hartley. I stepped back and examined the painting with closer attention.

  I had no idea Hartley could paint as well as this. From the sketch of Fay Benson I had seen, I had assumed he was just a competent cover designer, but this painting showed he was a highly skilled artist.