The Guilty Are Afraid Read online

  “No!” she exclaimed, beating her fists together. “It didn’t happen like that! He attacked me. . . .”

  “And you had an icepick handy? You planned it, Margot.”

  “I didn’t! You’ve got to believe me. . .”

  “Then why did you go to his hotel in an elaborate disguise? The black wig, the sunglasses and the get-up made you feel safe when you lured Sheppey to that bathing cabin. You had to be sure no one at the hotel could identify you. The hotel dick was smart enough to see through your disguise, but I was mug enough not to listen to him. Because Sheppey was double-crossing Bridgette, he accepted your disguise. You had only to point out to him that Bridgette mustn’t see you two together for him to accept the wig and the dark glasses. Anyway, you probably gave him that look of invitation you gave me. He wouldn’t care what colour your hair was so long as you made good on that invitation. You got him to the beach cabin and you killed him. When you found he hadn’t the match-folder on him, you took the key of his room, went to the hotel and hunted for the folder there, but you didn’t find it.”

  She crossed her arms over her breasts and shivered.

  “I don’t want to hear any more of this,” she said. “It’s not true.”

  “Of course it’s true. And I’ll tell you something else. You discovered Thrisby was making a play for Thelma Cousins. He was getting bored with you and an innocent girl like Thelma would amuse him. You knew the police would hunt for the girl who had been seen with Sheppey. You saw your chance of confusing the investigation, and at the same time of getting rid of a rival. You went regularly to Hahn’s place for your drugs so you must have known Thelma. It wouldn’t have been difficult for you to persuade her to go for a swim with you. Probably you said you wanted to talk to her about Thrisby. You took her to the bathing station where you had killed Sheppey. The police had closed the place so you two were alone there. You stabbed her and left her for dead. You only just had time to get back to your apartment and change before I called on you. You hid your panic pretty well, Margot, but when I had gone you began to wonder just how much I knew. So you called me to tell me that Sheppey hadn’t been to the Musketeer Club and like a mug, I told you I had the match-folder. You went around to my hotel and found it, and you were smart enough to substitute one of the ordinary folders in the hope I wouldn’t know the difference.”

  She shook her head wildly.

  “No, Lew . . . you’re wrong! I swear I didn’t . . .”

  “Thrisby knew you were a drug taker,” I went on. “He knew you had the motive for getting rid of Thelma. You realized he might give you away. When I told you Bridgette had threatened to kill him, you saw your chance to silence him and get rid of Bridgette. I’ll say this for you, Margot: you’re certainly a great opportunist. It was easy enough for you to get hold of Bridgette’s gun. You went out to Thrisby’s place and you shot him. His servant was still in the house so you had to silence him too. I don’t know how you felt when you discovered you had left your bag here and I had your match-folder again, but you must have been pretty desperate. That was when you decided to get rid of me, too, wasn’t it?”

  She lifted her head and stared at me, her eyes dark with hate.

  “You can’t prove any of this,” she said hoarsely. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Yes, you are, Margot. The guilty are always afraid.”

  She stood up.

  “There’s nothing you can do to me! There’s nothing you dare do!”

  “I’m sorry, Margot, but you can’t be allowed to get away with this thing. Four people died because of you.”

  “My father won’t let you do anything to me,” she said breathlessly.

  “There’s nothing your father can do now,” I said. “I’m going to tell Rankin. Even this corrupt administration can’t hush up four murders.”

  While I talked, she slowly backed away until she reached the chest of drawers, then she spun around, pulled open a drawer, dipped her hand into it as I started across the room towards her. I stopped abruptly as she turned, a .25 in her hand.

  “Now . . .” she said, her eyes glittering. “I’ll show you I’m not afraid.”

  A soft, effeminate voice said from the doorway, “Don’t act like a fool, Margot.”

  She gave a faint scream as she spun around. I looked quickly over my shoulder.

  Lee Creedy stood in the doorway. He was wearing a tuxedo: a white camellia in his buttonhole. His horn glasses rested on his forehead: a cigar burned evenly between his thin lips.

  “Give me that gun,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Without hesitation, she went to him and gave him the gun. Her face was chalk white and she was shaking.

  “Put some clothes on,” he said. “You look like a whore in that thing.”

  She went quickly to one of the closets, jerked open the door, snatched out a dress and then ran into the bathroom and slammed the door after her.

  Creedy’s expressionless eyes moved to me.

  “You get dressed too,” he said. “I’ll wait in the lounge,” and he walked out of the bedroom.

  I slid into my clothes. As I was putting on my jacket, Margot came out of the bathroom, smoothing the dress over her hips.

  “He won’t let you do anything to me,” she said breathlessly.

  “I know he won’t.”

  She ran past me into the lounge and I followed her.

  Creedy was pacing up and down. He still held the gun in his hand. His face was completely expressionless.

  “Sit down,” he said to Margot, waving to a chair. Then, looking at me, he went on, “And you sit down too.”

  We sat down.

  He continued to pace up and down for several seconds, then he said, without pausing in his prowling, “Bridgette told me you had a man here. I thought I’d come down to see who it was. You are a disappointment to me, Margot, but most children are disappointments to their parents.

  I dare say I haven’t been much of a father to you and your mother was a thoroughly rotten woman, but that doesn’t entirely excuse you.” He stopped as he came close to her. “I heard what Brandon was saying to you. Is it true?”

  She couldn’t meet his cold, steady gaze.

  “No, of course it isn’t,” she said, clenching and unclenching her fists. “He’s lying!”

  “Then tell me why that icepick was under your pillow.”

  She started to say something and then stopped. She suddenly lost her beauty. She looked older, defeated and completely lost.

  “There is no answer to that, is there?” he said. “Now listen to me, Margot. I control this town. The police do what I tell them. Brandon has no power here. You have nothing to fear from him. All I want from you is the truth, then I will be able to cope with the situation. Did you kill this man Sheppey?”

  She looked up at him; her eyes suddenly trusting.

  “I had to, Daddy—there was no other way.”

  His mouth tightened, but otherwise his expression didn’t change.

  “What do you mean—there was no other way?”

  “He was going to tell the police about Cordez,” she said. “I couldn’t let him do that.”

  “Why not?”

  She made a helpless little movement.

  “You wouldn’t understand . . .”

  “You are trying to tell me you are a drug addict: that’s it, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  He took his glasses off, stared at them, put them back on and pushed them up on to his forehead.

  “This woman Thelma Cousins.” He began to move around the room again. “Did you stab her as he says you did?”

  “I had to, Daddy.”

  “And Thrisby?”

  She shut her eyes, her hands pressing her breasts.

  “Yes.”

  “You seem to have made a pretty squalid mess of your life, Margot,” he said, without looking at her.

  She sat motionless, her hands clenched.

  “Well, all right,” he w
ent on. “Everyone is entitled to lead the life they choose.” He suddenly crossed over to a chair and sat down. “You know it is hard to believe you’ve done this, Margot. It is not going to be easy to get you out of it either.”

  She leaned forward, her hands now so tightly clenched the knuckles showed white.

  “You won’t let them send me to prison, will you?”

  “No, I won’t let them do that.”

  He stood still, staring out of the window while he thought.

  Except for the sound of her quick, frightened breathing there was complete silence in the room. I watched them, not moving, aware of the gun he held in his hand.

  After a minute or so, he said, “Now listen to me, Margot; you must leave St. Raphael immediately.” He took from his wallet a flat packet of money and tossed the packet over to her so it dropped into her lap. “You’ll need money. Go to your aunt’s place. Stay there and try to behave yourself. I will make the necessary arrangements here. Take Brandon’s car. It’s outside, so use it. I want you to drive as quickly as you can to your aunt: do you understand?”

  “Now wait . . .” I began, but stopped as Creedy lifted the .25 and covered me.

  “Keep your mouth shut!” he said. “I need very little persuasion to shoot you. It would make my task a lot easier if you were dead. Don’t give me the excuse.” Still keeping me covered, he again looked at Margot. “Do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes.”

  “Then get off.”

  “You will make it all right for me?”

  “Of course. Get off now. Take Brandon’s car. I’ll see he is compensated.” As she got quickly to her feet, he went on, “I hope the new life you are going to find will bring you more happiness than your old life has done.”

  She wasn’t listening. She was looking at me, her hand holding the roll of money tightly, her eyes glittering with triumph. Then she ran out of the lounge, down the verandah steps and seconds later I heard the Buick start up.

  “You might fool her, but you don’t fool me,” I said to Creedy. “You’re not human! No jury would ever put her into the gas chamber. You can’t do this to her!”

  “No daughter of mine is going to rot in a jail,” he said curtly and, getting to his feet, he slid the gun into his pocket and walked over to the window to watch the taillights of the Buick disappearing up the rough road towards the promenade.

  I turned and ran out of the bungalow.

  Creedy had driven himself down in a big, black Cadillac. It stood under the palm trees, its lights still on. I ran across to it, slid under the driving wheel, started the engine, swung the car around and drove at a racing speed after the Buick.

  III

  Margot had a long start on me. I could see the twin red lights of the Buick as it left the rough road and turned on to the promenade. I was some five hundred yards behind her.

  I slammed the Cadillac over the road; the car shuddering as its wheels banged into the potholes at high speed. As I got on to the promenade, I caught a glimpse of the twin red lights as Margot whipped the Buick into the turning that led to Franklyn Boulevard. I wondered if she were going back to her apartment to get her clothes before leaving town and that raised my hopes.

  I was scared to drive too fast. Rankin had said there were thirty prowl cars on the road. To be stopped now for speeding would ruin my chance of catching up with her.

  Again I caught sight of the Buick as it fled up Franklyn Boulevard and I swore under my breath as it swept past the Franklyn Arms. So she wasn’t stopping off at her apartment. I wondered if she had spotted the Cadillac and I increased speed slightly, closing the gap between the two cars.

  She was driving fast, but not dangerously fast. I spotted a patrolman standing at the corner of an intersection. I saw him stiffen as the Buick went past and he stared after it, not sure whether it was going fast enough for him to whistle after it. I took my foot off the gas pedal and touched the brake, slowing as I drove past the cop. Then I accelerated again.

  I saw now she was heading for the mountain road. Then suddenly a big prowl car swept out of a side turning and slid between me and the Buick. If I hadn’t slammed on my brakes I would have smashed into its rear bumper.

  The Cadillac slowed, and I lost sight of the Buick as Margot turned on to the twisting mountain road. The prowl car ahead of me surged forward, took the first bend of the road with a screeching of tyres and stormed after the Buick.

  What I feared might happen had happened. Rankin had been speaking the truth. The order to nail me, to manufacture an accident, had gone out. The two flat-capped cops, driving in the prowl car, had recognized my Buick and they were carrying out their orders. It was too dark for them to see who was driving. They would naturally assume that it was me, leaving town. I was sure now the order to manufacture a smash had come from Creedy. He had known that Katchen’s prowl cars had been alerted to hit the Buick at sight. He had put Margot in the Buick and directed her on to the mountain road.

  He knew as soon as she realized a police car was after her she would try to get away. He knew she wouldn’t stand a chance of outdriving a police driver. This was his way out: no publicity, no trial and a worthless, degenerate daughter out of the way.

  There was nothing I could do to stop this now, but I kept on, sending the Cadillac roaring up the twisting road, my spotlight on to warn traffic coming in the opposite direction that I was on my way.

  I heard the long wailing blast of a police siren ahead of me. The bends in the road prevented me seeing the two cars, but every now and then I caught the flash of their headlights as they whipped into the turns.

  Then suddenly I saw them ahead on the higher level of the snakeback road and I slammed on my brakes. I wouldn’t have believed it possible for Margot to have driven so fast, for she was now a good mile ahead of me. I jumped out of the car and stood on the grass verge, looking up. The road wound up the hill and long stretches of it were in sight.

  The prowl car was only twenty yards or so behind the Buick: its headlights blazing on the Buick’s bumpers, its siren screaming.

  No one could hold that speed on such a road for long. Ahead I saw the first of the hairpin bends. Margot must have seen it too. The prowl car driver knew the bend was ahead for he had already cut speed and had dropped a hundred yards or so behind the Buick. Margot came to the bend at something like sixty miles an hour. I heard the screaming of tortured tyres as she crammed on the brakes. The long white fingers of light from the headlamps swung out into the black void like antennae of some huge insect sensing danger.

  I felt my heart suddenly lurch as the Buick left the road and shot off into space. For a brief, unbelievable moment it seemed to be driving through the air. In the silence I heard Margot’s terrified scream: a sound that chilled my blood, then the Buick turned over, and a moment later it struck an enormous boulder, bounced away from it, slithered in a fog of dust, uprooting small trees and loosening rocks, sending them banging down the hillside. Then, with a loud, dull crash, it came to rest not two hundred yards from where I was standing.

  I ran as I had never run before. My one thought was to get her out before the wreck caught fire. The car lay on its side, wedged against a huge boulder. As I started the short climb up to it, I could smell the gasoline fumes.

  I reached the car. It was too dark to see into the broken interior. With a shaking hand, I took out my flashlight and sent the beam probing into the car.

  Margot lay curled up against the driver’s door: a little trickle of blood ran from her mouth and down her chin. Her blonde silky hair hid most of her face. I saw her fingers move: then slowly close into fists, then open again.

  I reached inside and gently pushed aside the soft gold hair. Her eyes were closed, but at the touch of my fingers, she opened them and we looked at each other.

  She tried to say something: her lips moved.

  “I won’t leave you,” I said. “They’ll get you out without hurting you . . .”

  F
utile words, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  She moved her head slightly; then her face stiffened. She tried once more to say something, then she made a pathetic little grimace and died.

  As I stepped back, the headlights of a car came sweeping up the road. A Lincoln pulled up and Frank Hepple tumbled out and came running over to me.

  “I spotted you following her and I came after you” he said. “Is she dead?”

  “Yes.”

  He went over to the shattered Buick, took a flashlight from his pocket and peered into the car. I sat down on a rock, took out a cigarette and lit it. I felt pretty bad. Maybe she had killed Sheppey, but that was over and paid for now.

  Hepple came back. He went to his car, took a camera and flashlight from the back seat, returned to the Buick and took a couple of shots of her. Then he came back.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ll drive you back. I guess you’re ready to talk now.”

  I looked up the mountain road. The patrol car had turned and was coming down the snakeback road fast. I got into Hepple’s car.

  Creedy wasn’t going to escape the publicity he feared, I told myself. The Courier had the gun that had killed Thrisby. The police couldn’t hush that up. Hepple would be able to prove it was Creedy’s money that had financed Cordez and Hahn. When the story of the drug organization came out with Creedy’s name linked to it, it would finish him in St. Raphael City.

  I drew down a lungful of smoke and leaned back.

  “Yes,” I said. “Now I’m ready to talk.”

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: 5b51ffc1-a8d2-4a12-a389-2473755e747f

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 4.10.2013

  Created using: calibre 1.5.0, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software

  Document authors :

  James Hadley Chase

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