The Guilty Are Afraid Read online

  “Unless he’s left a record in his room, there’s nothing I can do about it,” I said untruthfully.

  I was going to satisfy myself first that Jack’s client was in the clear before I let Rankin know I might be able to get his name. It was a long shot, but it was just possible Ella, our typist, who looked after the office back in Frisco might have a line on him.

  Rankin leaned forward and said to the driver, “Okay, step on it now.”

  In less than five minutes we pulled up outside the Adelphi Hotel.

  We crossed the lobby together to where the reception clerk was waiting, his fat chins wobbling and his eyes bulging with suppressed excitement.

  The two old gentlemen in white flannels had been reinforced by their wives, who looked as if they had stepped out of the pages of a Victorian novel. They sat motionless, staring at us, their ears growing out of the sides of their heads.

  “Let’s talk where these old crows can’t listen,” Rankin said, pitching his voice so they could hear him.

  “Why certainly, Lieutenant,” the reception clerk said, his voice flustered. He took us behind the desk into a small office. “Is there anything wrong?”

  “Not here, there isn’t,” Rankin said. “What’s your name?”

  The reception clerk looked even more flustered.

  “Edwin Brewer.”

  “What time did Sheppey leave here?”

  “It would be about half past ten.”

  “There was a woman with him?”

  “Yes. She came to the desk and asked for him. While she was speaking to me, Mr. Sheppey came from the elevator and joined her.”

  “Did she give her name?”

  “No. Mr. Sheppey appeared before I could ask for her name.”

  “Did they seem friendly?”

  Brewer licked his lips nervously.

  “Well, yes. Mr. Sheppey was pretty familiar with her.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, he walked up to her and said, ‘Hello, baby doll,’ put his hand behind her and pinched her.”

  “How did she react?”

  “She laughed it off, but I could see she didn’t like it. She wasn’t the type I’d care to take liberties with myself.”

  “What type was she then?”

  “She had a sort of dignity. It’s hard to explain. She just wasn’t the type to take liberties with.”

  “And yet he did?”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” I said. “Jack had no respect for anyone. He’d pinch a bishop’s wife if he felt in the mood.”

  Rankin frowned.

  “Can you describe this woman?”

  Brewer rubbed his hands together nervously.

  “She was very attractive: dark with a good figure. She wore big sunglasses and a big hat. I couldn’t see much of her face. She had on navy slacks and a white shirt.”

  “Age?”

  “In the twenties, but I wouldn’t be sure: twenty-five perhaps.”

  “Could you identify her if you saw her again?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m sure I could.”

  Rankin stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray on Brewer’s desk.

  “If she wasn’t wearing the big hat and sunglasses, but happened to be wearing no hat and a white dress, do you think you could still identify her?”

  Brewer thought for a moment, then looked sheepish.

  “Well, perhaps not.”

  “You can identify the clothes, but not the woman?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “That’s not a lot of help, is it?” Rankin said. “Okay, never mind. After Sheppey had said hello, what happened?”

  “He said he had to be back in a couple of hours and they had better get going. They went out together and I saw them drive away in his car.”

  “Did she leave her car here?”

  “I didn’t see one. I think she must have walked.”

  “Let me have the key to his room.”

  “Shall I call Greaves? He’s our house detective.”

  Rankin shook his head.

  “No. I don’t want your house dick tramping around lousing up any clues.”

  Brewer went out of the office and over to the key rack. We followed him out. The four old people were staring.

  Brewer said, “He must have taken his key with him. I’ll give you a spare.”

  He found a key and gave it to Rankin.

  As Rankin took the key, Brewer asked, “Has anything happened to Mr. Sheppey?”

  The old people leaned forward. This was something they were panting to know.

  “He’s given birth to a baby,” Rankin said. “I believe it is the first time in history, but I’m not absolutely sure, so don’t quote me.”

  He walked with me to the elevator. The old people stared after us, amazed expressions on their faces.

  As Rankin pressed the button to take us to the second floor, he said, “I hate old people who live in hotels.”

  “You’ll get old yourself,” I said. “They don’t live in hotels for fun.”

  “A sentimental shamus,” he said, his mouth turning down at the corners. “I thought I had seen everything.”

  “Did you get a line on the girl from the cabin attendant?” I asked as we crawled past the first floor.

  “Yeah. The same description. There’re two changing rooms in the cabin. She used one and he the other. We found her slacks, shirt, hat and sunglasses there. His clothes were in the other room.”

  “The girl left her clothes in the cabin?” I said sharply.

  “That’s what I’m telling you. It could mean either of two things: she wanted to fade out of the picture and decided she could do it by leaving in her swimsuit. Everyone in this lousy town wears a swimsuit or else she took a swim and someone knocked her off after knocking Sheppey off. My boys are searching the beach now. I think she faded out of the picture myself.”

  “No one saw her leave the cabin?” I asked as the elevator stopped at the second floor.

  “No, but we’re still asking around.”

  We walked down the corridor to room 247.

  “That was a pretty good disguise she was wearing,” Rankin went on as he sank the key into the lock. “People in this town don’t look at faces, they look at shapes.” He turned the key and pushed the door open. We stood looking around the room. It was a little larger than mine, but not much and it was just as hot and airless.

  “Sweet suffering Pete!” Rankin said under his breath.

  The room looked as if it had been hit by a cyclone. All the drawers of the chest hung open. Jack’s belongings lay scattered on the floor. His briefcase had been ripped open and papers lay everywhere. The bed had been stripped and the mattress cut open, the stuffing dragged out. The pillows had also been ripped and feathers were heaped on the floor.

  “Pretty quick work,” Rankin said. “If there was anything to find, we won’t find it now. I’ll get the boys up here. Maybe there’re some prints although I’m ready to bet there won’t be.”

  He closed the door and locked it.

  Chapter 2

  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 agenc
ies 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 rattail icepick, 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 mature 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 dimwit 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 tonight. I’ll fix t
he 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, coming 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 suitcases, 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?”