Safer Dead Read online

  ‘That’s not in your statement,’ I said.

  ‘I know it.’ Weiman smiled. ‘I didn’t want to get the guy into trouble. I talked to him before I called the cops and he convinced me he hadn’t been across the road.’

  ‘You caught him at it once. He knew if you caught him again he’d go. He would be pretty convincing, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Before I questioned him, I went over to Mike’s bar. The barman there said he hadn’t seen him. I’m sure Joe was telling the truth.’

  ‘If he wasn’t, there’s no mystery. The girl could have gone that way.’

  ‘She couldn’t have gone far without being seen.’

  ‘Why not? If a car was waiting for her, she wouldn’t have had any trouble in getting away. I’d like to talk to Farmer.’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  I stared at Weiman.

  ‘Dead? When did he die?’

  ‘Two days after the girl disappeared. He was killed by a hit and run driver. They never did find the driver.’

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ I said, disappointed. ‘I thought I was getting somewhere. Is the callboy still with you?’

  ‘Spencer? Yes, he’s with us. Want to talk to him?’

  ‘He was the last one to see her, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. You stick here, Mr. Sladen. I’ve got business to look after. I’ll send him to you.’

  ‘What did you think of Fay Benson?’ I asked as he got up. ‘Was she the type who could get into trouble?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. She was a fine kid and her act was a success. She wasn’t like the usual girl we get here. She kept to herself, but she wasn’t unfriendly, and she behaved herself. No, she wasn’t the type to get into trouble.’

  ‘She didn’t mention her people? She didn’t give you a lead to where she came from?’

  ‘She didn’t talk about herself. I liked her act. She obviously had plenty of experience. She must have been in the game for some years. You can always tell if a girl’s had experience, and she had.’

  ‘It looks to me as if she was hiding from someone. She had no friends, no mail, kept to herself and lied about her background. It points to it. Well, okay, I mustn’t keep you. I’ll talk to Spencer.’

  When Spencer came into the office, I waved him to a chair. He was tall and lanky and in his early twenties. He looked popeyed at me, and there was a mixture of nervousness and admiration in his gaze.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but are you the Chet Sladen who writes for Crime Facts?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘You read my stuff?’

  ‘Read it! Gosh! I’ll say I do. I think it’s terrific. I’ve been reading it for years.’

  ‘I’ve been reading it for years myself, so that makes two of us,’ I said grinning. ‘I’m working on the Fay Benson case, and I’m hoping you can help me. How did you get on with her?’

  ‘I got on fine with her. She was a sweet kid, Mr. Sladen. She never made trouble for me.’

  ‘When you went to her room to call her the second time, was the room all right - no sign of a struggle?’

  ‘It was just the way I had seen it when I gave her her first call; except she wasn’t there.’

  ‘When you called her the first time, you’re sure she was there?’

  ‘Why, sure. After I knocked and she had called out, I opened the door and looked in. She was standing by the mirror. She had on her stage getup and she said she would be right along. She asked about a telephone call she was expecting and I told her she’d have to take it when it came through in Joe’s office.’

  ‘She was expecting a call?’

  ‘Yes; she seemed anxious about it.’

  ‘Did it ever come through, do you know?’

  ‘I don’t think it did.’

  ‘Can I take a look at her dressing room?’

  ‘You can see the outside, Mr. Sladen. There’s a girl using it right now.’

  ‘The outside will do.’

  He took me along a passage down some stairs and to the back of the building. He opened a door and I found myself in a lobby that contained among other things wooden crates, odd spotlights and musical instrument cases. The dressing room door didn’t tell me anything. It was only fifteen yards from the stage door exit and the stage door office was just around the bend in the passage out of sight of the dressing room door.

  ‘You’re sure she didn’t have any other clothes in her room? She couldn’t have changed out of her stage getup?’

  ‘I’m sure, Mr. Sladen. One of my jobs is to clean out the dressing rooms, and the cupboard was always empty. There was nowhere for her to keep anything except in the cupboard.’

  ‘It’s a baffler, isn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly is, Mr. Sladen.’

  ‘Well, thanks. If I can think of anything I’ll look in and see you again. Where’s Mike’s bar?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  He took me past the stage door office, opened the stage door and pointed across the alley. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, crossed the alley and pushed open the bar door.

  There were three men, sitting at a table drinking beer; another man lolled up against the bar, a whisky in front of him. The barman, a beefy looking man with a red humorous face, was fiddling with a radio set. I entered and going to the far end of the bar away from the four men, waited for the barman to come to me.

  ‘I’ll have a double Scotch and water,’ I said, ‘and if you have nothing better to do, have one yourself.’

  He grinned.

  ‘Glad to, mister, and thanks.’

  When he came back with the drinks, I said, ‘I haven’t been in Welden for over a year. I used to know Joe Farmer. I hear he’s dead.’

  The barman nodded.

  ‘That’s right. He got killed by a hit and run artist. The driver was never found. The cops in this town couldn’t find their own names in a telephone book.’

  ‘You knew him, didn’t you?’

  ‘No. I’m new here. He died a couple of days before I came here. But I heard about it.’

  ‘What happened to the barman who used to serve Joe?’ I asked, suddenly interested.

  ‘Jake Hesson? He left; got himself a better job.’

  ‘Know where?’

  ‘Some hotel. I forget the name.’

  I had a sudden inspiration.

  ‘Was it the Shad Hotel?’

  The barman nodded.

  ‘That’s right. The Shad Hotel.’

  ‘Go on, drink up,’ I said, beaming at him, ‘and have another.’

  I knew now I was making progress.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I

  When I went back to collect Bernie, the captain of waiters at the Florian told me he had left twenty minutes ago.

  ‘Was he alone?’ I asked suspiciously.

  The captain of waiters shook his head.

  ‘He had one of our hostesses with him,’ he told me, obviously disapproving.

  Knowing Bernie’s little ways, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t see him until the following morning so I returned to the Shad Hotel. I wanted another talk with Jake Hesson the barman, but I found the bar closed.

  I concentrated my attention on the reception clerk who was idly thumbing through a magazine.

  ‘I didn’t get your name,’ I said, leaning up against the desk and offering him a cigarette.

  ‘My name’s Larson. I don’t smoke, thank you.’

  ‘Haven’t I seen your barman before somewhere? What’s his name?’

  ‘Jake Hesson.’

  ‘I have an idea he used to work at Mike’s bar at the back of the Florian club. That right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Larson said, staring blankly at me. ‘He came to us about a year ago.’

  ‘Remember exactly when?’

  ‘Last September. Why the interest?’

  ‘So he wasn’t here when Miss Benson was here?’

  ‘Miss Benson?’ Larson pushed asi
de his magazine. I could see he didn’t know whether to be interested or suspicious. ‘You mean the girl who disappeared?’

  ‘That’s the one. Hesson wasn’t working here when she stayed here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s funny. He told me he knew her.’

  ‘Are you interested in Miss Benson?’ Larson asked.

  ‘Yeah; I’m covering the case for Crime Facts. How long did she stay here?’

  ‘You mean they’re reopening the case?’

  ‘It was never closed. How long did she stay here?’

  Larson pulled the big leather bound register towards him, and began thumbing over the pages. After a while he said, ‘She booked in on August 9th and disappeared on August 17th.’

  ‘Did she pay her bill before she left?’

  ‘No; she owes us thirty bucks. I don’t reckon we’ll ever see it.’

  ‘What happened to her luggage?’

  ‘The cops took it. There wasn’t much: a suitcase and a small handbag.’

  ‘She didn’t have any visitors?’

  ‘No, nor any mail either.’

  ‘Any telephone calls?’

  Larson shook his head.

  ‘Three days after her disappearance some girl asked for her. But no one asked for her while she was staying here.’

  ‘What girl was that?’

  ‘I don’t know. She came in and asked if Miss Benson had been found. I told her she hadn’t, and she asked me to call her if Miss Benson did turn up.’

  ‘Did you tell the cops?’

  ‘About this girl? Why should I? It was bad enough to have them tramping around here in the first place. Nothing like a flock of buttons to drive away trade. The way things are with this hotel, we can’t afford to upset our customers.’

  ‘Do you remember who the girl was?’

  Larson turned to the last page of the register, removed a card that was clipped to the page and handed it to me.

  I looked at the card.

  Joan Nichols.

  Apartment B.

  76, Lincoln Avenue. Welden. W. 75600

  ‘Thanks,’ I said and slipped the card into my pocket. ‘Is Hesson around? I want a word with him.’

  ‘He doesn’t live here. He has a room on Bay Street.’

  ‘Do you remember the number?’

  ‘27: what’s the idea?’

  ‘No idea. I pick up information the way a magpie picks up anything that glitters. My mother was frightened by a magpie before I was born. Well, I guess I’ll turn in. See you in the morning.’

  I left him gaping and went up to my room.

  I hadn’t been asleep for more than half an hour when my door burst open and the light turned on. I sat up blinking to see Bernie standing in the doorway.

  ‘For the love of Mike! Can’t you let a guy sleep?’ I growled.

  ‘You ought to be up and working like me,’ Bernie said, coming unsteadily over to the bed. ‘Brother! Do I feel cockeyed.’ He flopped heavily on the bed and blew out his cheeks. ‘I’ve got news for you. Fay had a boyfriend.’

  ‘What?’ I sat bolt upright. ‘Have you found him?’

  ‘I haven’t found him, but I’ve got a swell description of him. I knew a girl like this Benson frill couldn’t have gone through life without a boyfriend: it was against nature. I got friendly with that redhead. She calls herself Dawn, but I bet her name’s Beulah or Dagmar or something awful. But what a girl! No inhibitions, no repressions, and how she loves money!’

  ‘What did she tell you?’

  ‘She was working at the club at the same time as Fay was,’ Bernie said, passing his hand across his eyes. ‘Is the floor moving up and down or am I drunker than I imagine I am?’

  ‘There’s a heavy sea running tonight,’ I said sarcastically. ‘Get out with it!’

  ‘Dawn tells me none of the girls knew much about Fay. It wasn’t that she was high hat, but she had her own dressing room and she kept to it. The girls wondered about her, as girls do. The third night after Fay had first come to the club, Dawn saw her talking to the driver of a car parked at the far end of the alley at the back of the club. Dawn couldn’t see much of the driver. He had his hat pulled down low and he wore dark glasses which Dawn thought was odd as it was dark. It was a good car. A Cadillac convertible: green and cream.’

  ‘He could have been asking the way, you dope!’

  ‘I thought of that.’ Bernie opened his eyes and looked suspiciously at the floor. ‘I may not show it, but I have a natural talent for detection. Dawn saw this guy again two nights later. He was talking to Farmer in the stage door office, and she got a good look at him. When he had gone she asked Farmer who he was and he said he didn’t know, but he was waiting for Fay. I have his description written down in case I forgot it.’

  ‘It’s a marvel to me you didn’t forget to write it down, and it beats me how you ever got back here in the condition you’re in.’

  Bernie smirked as he took out his wallet and produced a sheet of paper.

  ‘Dawn brought me back. That’s the kind of girl she is. She says she always looks after her investments. She calls me her goose that lays her golden eggs. Cute, isn’t it?’

  ‘Get on with it, you drunken lug!’ I snarled. ‘Let’s have the guy’s description.’

  Bernie peered at the paper, frowned, then said, ‘That’s funny. I seem to have written this in Chinese.’

  ‘You have it upside down, you dope!’

  Bernie turned the page up the other way.

  ‘So I have. I thought for a moment liquor was giving me some culture. This guy’s over six foot, lean, suntanned with an eyebrow moustache. He wears dark glasses, even at night. He had on a camel hair coat, a white nylon shirt and a polka dot bow tie. He wore a gold link bracelet on one wrist and a gold strap watch on the other. Trust Dawn to spot the gold fitments. At a guess he’s around thirty-five. That’s not a bad description, is it?’

  I took the paper from Bernie’s unsteady hand, folded it and placed it on the bedside table.

  ‘It’s good. Well, we’re certainly getting places. The cops didn’t turn this guy up. Did you find out anything else?’

  ‘Isn’t that enough for one night? Besides, after she’d told me that, she started to tell me how much she liked money, and once she starts on that subject nothing on earth can stop her.’

  ‘Well, okay. You’d better go to bed. Your room is next to mine on the left in case you don’t remember.’

  ‘What about you? Didn’t you find out anything?’ Bernie said, peering at me. ‘What have you been doing all this time?’

  ‘I’ve been doing plenty, but you’re in no condition to concentrate. Go to bed. I’ll tell you in the morning.’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Bernie said, getting to his feet. ‘I could do with some sleep. Don’t start work too early. I have an idea I’m going to have a hangover.’

  ‘Go to bed!’ I said and turned out the light.

  II

  At nine-thirty the following morning, I opened Bernie’s bedroom door and looked at him as he lay on the bed, still dressed, his mouth hanging open, dead to the world. I decided there was no point in waking him. He wouldn’t be in a fit state to work. I shut the door softly and went down to the lobby. I told Larson not to disturb him, then went over to the garage, collected the Buick and drove over to Joan Nichols’s apartment house.

  The house was in a quiet street on the other side of the town: a tall, grey building with faded green curtains at the windows and a flight of stone steps to the front door.

  Leaving the Buick, I mounted the steps and paused to examine the row of mailboxes in the lobby. Failing to find Joan Nichols’s card on any of them, I crossed the lobby to the janitor’s office and rapped on the door.

  A fat man in shirtsleeves, a dead cigar clamped between his teeth, opened the door and looked at me without interest.

  ‘Full up,’ he said curtly and began to shut the door.

  ‘I’m not looking for a room,’ I said,
wedging my foot in the door. ‘I’m looking for Miss Nichols. I understand she lives here.’

  ‘Joan Nichols, do you mean?’ he asked, staring at me.

  ‘That’s right. I couldn’t find her name on any of the mailboxes.’

  ‘You won’t. You won’t find her here either. If you really want to find her you’ll have to go out to the Welden graveyard. That’s where she lives now.’

  A chill crawled up my spine.

  ‘Are you telling me she’s dead?’

  ‘Well, I hope for her sake she is. They put her in a coffin and buried her.’ He frowned. ‘She gypped me out of a month’s rent. She didn’t have a nickel and the cops took her luggage.’

  ‘Did she get sick or something?’

  ‘She fell downstairs.’ The janitor jerked his head to the steep flight of stairs that faced him. ‘Those stairs. I guess she was drunk although the cops said, she wasn’t, but they don’t know everything. She certainly fit hard. I thought the house was coming down.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Last August.’

  ‘Do you remember the date?’

  The janitor moved restlessly. I could see the conversation was boring him.

  ‘Why should I? I’m not that interested. The cops will tell you if you must know.’ He began to close the door. ‘I’ve got to get on.’

  I was too shaken to think of anything else to ask him and I let him shut the door in my face. I walked slowly back to the car, got in and lit a cigarette. I stared through the windshield at the dingy street ahead, my mind busy.

  Was this a coincidence? Two people connected with Fay Benson were now dead: both of them had died soon after the girl had disappeared; both of them apparently had met accidental deaths.

  ‘Very, very fishy,’ I said, half aloud, then treading on the starter I drove back to Main Street, and getting my bearings from a cop, I headed for Bay Street. No. 27 turned out to be a delicatessen store. I assumed Jake Hesson had a room above, but as there was no street door at the side, I went into the store.

  A dark, heavily built girl in a grubby white overall looked at me over a mountain of cooked food, sandwiches and bowls of gherkins.