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  Creed nodded.

  ‘Then there’s this Nichols girl,’ he said. ‘Where does she fit in?’

  ‘Anything on her death?’ I asked.

  Creed reached for the telephone and called for the Nichols dossier.

  ‘I can’t remember what the coroner’s verdict was. We didn’t know she was connected with Fay Benson otherwise I’d have been a lot more interested.’

  I picked up the miniature apple.

  ‘Who’s H.R.? Maybe he could tell us something about the girl. We don’t know a thing about her, do we? It seems to me she must have been hiding from someone.’

  ‘I thought so too,’ Creed said, leaning forward to take a file the policeman had brought in. He turned a page, glanced at it and put the file on his desk. ‘The coroner was satisfied Miss Nichols died accidentally. She apparently stepped on her dress while going downstairs, fell and broke her neck.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  Creed looked at the file again.

  ‘She was in show business. She had just returned from a trip to Paris. She and nine other girls had gone out on a cabaret engagement, but the act flopped. She came back here broke, and was looking for work.’

  ‘Fay couldn’t have been one of the other nine girls, could she?’ I asked. ‘Might be worth checking.’

  Creed nodded.

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘I think Joan Nichols was murdered,’ I said. ‘I think Farmer was murdered too.’

  Creed smiled grimly.

  ‘That’s because you write for Crime Facts. There’s not a shred of evidence either of them was murdered.’

  ‘When did Joan Nichols die?’

  Creed glanced at the file again.

  ‘August 20th.’

  ‘She called at the Shad Hotel on the 20th inquiring after Fay. Then she goes home and falls downstairs. Come to that, wasn’t the 20th the night Farmer died?’

  Creed looked sharply at me, consulted the Fay Benson dossier and then nodded.

  ‘Correct,’ he said, frowning.

  ‘It smells to high heaven to me; doesn’t it to you?’

  ‘You’re right, it does,’ Marshall broke in. ‘I think he’s got something, captain.’

  Creed lifted his shoulders.

  ‘There’s still no evidence, but I agree there’s no harm if we dig some more.’

  ‘You have a picture of Fay Benson?’ I asked.

  ‘I have several in the dossier - why?’

  ‘When she disappeared did you cover the national press or just the local press?’

  ‘The local papers only.’

  ‘I think it might be an idea to get the national press on the job. Print a picture of her in every paper in the country and ask if anyone knows her. We’ll go to town on it too. We might get something that way. She’s been in show business for some time according to Al Weiman. She’s probably been working under another name. Let’s see if we can find out something more about her.’

  Creed nodded.

  ‘Okay. I’ll see what I can do.’

  I got to my feet.

  ‘I’d like to work with you on this,’ I said. ‘I won’t get in your way, and anything I find out I’ll pass to you. This has the makings of a sensational story, and I want to be in on it from the beginning. How about it?’

  ‘Sure,’ Creed said. ‘You carry on. Come and see me whenever you want to.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘If my partner’s turned up anything, I’ll give you a call.’

  I shook hands with him, exchanged winks with Marshall and then went down to the car.

  II

  When I walked into the lobby of the Shad Hotel, Larson told me Bernie was in his bedroom.

  ‘There’s been a guy in here asking for you,’ Larson went on. ‘I told him you’d be back sometime tonight.’

  ‘What did he want?’ I asked, pausing as I was about to cross the lobby for the stairs.

  ‘He didn’t say. He struck me as a tough character. Do you want to see him if he comes in again?’

  ‘Not tonight. Tell him to come in tomorrow morning. If it’s urgent call my room and I’ll speak to him on the ‘phone. I want some sleep tonight.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Larson said.

  I went upstairs, along the passage to Bernie’s room. I found him sitting in an armchair, his feet in a basin of hot water. By his side, on a table, stood a bottle of Scotch, two glasses, one of them half-full, and a bottle of charge water. He gave me a wan smile as I stood in the doorway, gaping at him.

  ‘What do you imagine you’re doing?’ I asked, coming in and shutting the door.

  ‘Resting my dogs,’ he said. ‘Have you forgotten you had the car? I’ve been tramping my feet into the sidewalk. You wouldn’t believe it, but there are fourteen hotels in this dump. Think of it! Fourteen! They’re spread out all over the town. I’ve called on the lot.’

  ‘Did you find him?’

  Bernie laughed bitterly.

  ‘There’s not a sign of him. I wore my feet out for nothing.’

  I lit a cigarette and poured myself a drink.

  ‘You didn’t miss one hotel? You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. I got Larson to make out a list. He swears it’s complete. The guy didn’t stay at a hotel in Welden. I’m telling you. It’s now an established fact. He either lives in an apartment

  or a house or else he came in from Frisco or some place, but he didn’t stay at a hotel!’

  ‘The cops are looking for him now,’ I said, and went on to tell Bernie of my visit to Welden’s police headquarters. I broke the news as gently as possible that Hesson had been murdered.

  ‘You see what I mean?’ Bernie said, starting to dry his feet. ‘That’s three of them knocked off. If we keep sticking our noses into this, we’ll get knocked off too.’

  ‘Relax,’ I said. ‘The police are taking care of it now. I’m disappointed you didn’t find that guy in the camel hair coat, Bernie. I would have liked to have talked to him before Creed got

  on to him.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t stay in any of the hotels in this town,’ Bernie said. ‘You’d better let the cops hunt for him.’

  ‘You asked Larson if he stayed here, of course?’ I asked casually.

  Bernie started as if someone had touched him with a red-hot poker. He turned the colour of an overripe tomato as he stared at me, his eyes bulging.

  ‘Why should he stay here?’ he demanded hoarsely.

  ‘Why shouldn’t he? Did you ask Larson?’

  ‘No, I didn’t!’ Bernie clutched at his hair. ‘Mercy! If he did stay here. . .! To think I’ve been tramping the streets all day, wearing myself to a shadow and it never crossed my mind to ask Larson.’

  I picked up the telephone.

  ‘This is Sladen,’ I said when Larson answered. ‘Do you remember if a guy stayed here around August of last year who wore a camel hair coat? He’s tall, suntanned and has a small moustache.’

  ‘Sure,’ Larson said. ‘I remember him well. What about him?’

  ‘I’ll be right down. I want to talk to you about him.’ I hung up and looked accusingly at Bernie. ‘You big mutton head! He did stay here!’

  Bernie closed his eyes.

  ‘How was I to know?’ he wailed. ‘To think of the miles I’ve walked!’

  I left him and ran down the stairs.

  ‘Tell me about this guy,’ I said, coming to rest at the reception desk. ‘What was his name?’

  Larson opened the register.

  ‘He booked in on August 9th. His name’s Henry Rutland. Here’s the entry. He came from Los Angeles. What’s the excitement about?’

  ‘He arrived the same day as Miss Benson did?’

  ‘Yes. Miss Benson booked in at noon. Rutland booked in at six in the evening.’

  ‘Did he own a green and cream Cadillac?’

  ‘That’s right. He garaged it across the way.’

  ‘Would they have the licence number?’

  ‘They might. I wouldn’t
know.’

  ‘When did he leave?’

  ‘The morning of the 17th.’

  ‘That’s the day Miss Benson disappeared.’ I ran my fingers through my hair. ‘I believe this guy had something to do with her disappearance. Did you ever see them together?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He went out early and Miss Benson didn’t leave her room until late.’

  ‘Where was his room? Near Miss Benson’s?’

  ‘Their rooms were opposite on the second floor,’ Larson said after consulting the register.

  ‘So they could have got together without you knowing it?’

  ‘I guess so. We haven’t any permanent floor staff. After eight, none of the staff goes upstairs.’

  ‘Did Rutland say why he had come to Welden?’

  ‘No. He didn’t mention what his business was.’

  ‘Did he have much luggage?’

  ‘Just a suitcase.’

  ‘Any visitors, mail or telephone calls?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m sure he didn’t.’

  ‘Would there be anyone at the garage now?’

  ‘Joe will be there. We don’t shut down until one o’clock.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with him.’

  But the garage attendant didn’t remember the licence number of the Cadillac. He remembered the car and he remembered Henry Rutland.

  ‘He had plenty of dough,’ he told me, ‘and he was pretty free with it. He took the car out every morning around ten and brought it back any time between midnight and one o’clock. He wanted it cleaned every day. He was fussy about how it looked. Sorry I can’t remember the licence number. It’s fourteen months ago, and I get a lot of cars through my hands.’

  I gave him half a buck and went back to the hotel. I found Bernie lying on his bed, a look of anguish on his fat face.

  ‘His name is Henry Rutland and he came from Los Angeles.’

  ‘I couldn’t care less who he is,’ Bernie groaned. ‘I could kick myself. To think I’ve been walking five solid hours when all the time I could have been resting in the bar.’

  I laughed. It struck me as funny.

  ‘Forget it. It’s probably done you good. It’s time you had some exercise. It’s too late to tell Creed tonight. I’ll see him tomorrow. Well, I guess I’ll turn in.’ I broke off as I saw Bernie’s eyes open very wide as he stared past me towards the door.

  I looked over my shoulder and my heart skipped a beat. Standing in the doorway was a short, thickset man whose round heavy face was the colour of cold mutton fat. He had on a dirty trench coat and a black slouch hat pulled down over his right eye. A two-day growth of beard darkened his jowls, and there was a cold viciousness in his slate-grey eyes that sent a chill of apprehension up my spine.

  In his right hand he held a .38 automatic, and it pointed at me.

  III

  For a long moment we stared at each other, then he said, ‘Stay just as you are.’ His voice was low pitched and nasal. His lips scarcely moved when he spoke. ‘Which of you is Sladen?’

  ‘I am,’ I said and I was annoyed my voice sounded unsteady.

  ‘Okay; now listen: you two get out of town tomorrow. We don’t want you in Welden. You’re to be out by eleven tomorrow morning. We shan’t tell you again. If you think we’re bluffing, stick around and see what happens to you. Get it?’

  I drew in a deep breath. I was over my first shock and now I was angry.

  ‘What’s the idea?’ I demanded, glaring at him. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

  ‘Never mind what the idea is. This is a tipoff.’ He suddenly began to shake and twitch. He put his left hand against the wall to steady himself, and it was only with an effort he got himself talking again: ‘If it wasn’t for the boss, I’d knock you two punks off now! You know what happened to Hesson. I’ll do it to you two if you’re not out of Welden by eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.’ He took a step back into the passage, his hand on the doorknob. ‘And don’t kid yourselves the cops can protect you. There ain’t enough cops in this town to keep us from getting at you. Pack up and get out!’ He stood in the doorway, twitching and glaring at us, then he reached for the handle and slammed the door.

  Bernie and I remained motionless, listening to the quick, light footfalls going along the passage. Then when they had died away I got slowly to my feet and looked at Bernie.

  ‘A hophead! He was coked to the eyeballs.’

  ‘My goodness!’ Bernie quavered. ‘I told you what would happen if we went on with this case.’ With a shaking hand he grabbed his glass of whisky and drained it.

  ‘He had me scared for a moment,’ I said, scowling. ‘I guess my nerves aren’t as good as they were.’

  ‘Mine were never good,’ Bernie said, scrambling off the bed. ‘Good grief! No one’s ever pointed a gun at me before.’

  He crossed the room to where his suitcase was standing; picking it up, he set it on a chair and began throwing his clothes into it.

  ‘What do you imagine you’re doing?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you think?’ Bernie said, without pausing. ‘I’m packing. We may as well be ready for a quick takeoff tomorrow morning. Come to that, why not go tonight?’ He threw socks and handkerchiefs into the case and then crossed the room for a pair of shoes. ‘Don’t stand staring; get packing yourself.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m going to let a hophead scare me off a good story, do you?’ I asked heatedly.

  Bernie put his shoes in the case.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not all that interested,’ he said, looking around for further belongings. ‘You heard what the guy said: get out or else. He’s already knocked off Farmer, the Nichols woman and Hesson. You heard him, didn’t you? He didn’t strike me as a kidder. Did you see his eyes? Gee! I’ve got goose pimples the size of marbles all over me. If you want to stay here and play the tough guy, that’s okay with me. I’m a married man with responsibilities. I have a wife and dog to think of. I always take a hint, and brother! was that a hint!’

  I poured more whisky into my glass and drank some of it.

  ‘I was under the impression you liked working with me.’

  Bernie shut the lid of the suitcase.

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Well, if you walk out on me you won’t be working with me, and you can bet your goose pimples, you won’t be working for Crime Facts either. Remind me to give you a dime when I see you begging for bread.’

  Bernie paled.

  ‘You don’t think Fayette would throw me out, do you? He wouldn’t want me killed, would he?’

  ‘So long as he got a good story, he wouldn’t care a hoot. And if you walk out now, he’ll blacklist you. You know how vindictive he is.’

  Bernie sat on the bed.

  ‘Can’t we tell him there’s nothing to this story?’

  ‘There’s a heap to it! I’m going after that hophead. Didn’t you hear what he said about Hesson? If we catch him, we’ll crack the case.’

  ‘Can’t you relax?’ Bernie pleaded. ‘We’re not cops. We’re writers - artists. Our job is to write for a magazine; not to catch killers. We’ve got to be reasonable about this. Leave him to the cops. That’s what they get paid for. I’m scared. I don’t care who knows it. Besides, I don’t carry any insurance. I’ve got to think of Clair.’

  ‘She’d be better off if you died,’ I said brutally. ‘Fayette would have to give her a pension.’

  Bernie licked his lips.

  ‘Suppose I go back to the office right now and start writing the story? I’ve got plenty to get on with. We don’t both have to be shot, do we?’

  ‘For the love of Mike, pull yourself together. No one’s going to shoot us. The cops will look after us until they catch this punk. And when he’s caught, we’ll bust the case.’

  Bernie tried to sneer.

  ‘How you kid yourself. You don’t imagine he’s behind any of this, do you? He’s just carrying out orders. He said so. If the cops do manage to catch him, there’l
l be a flock of others to come after us.’

  I reached for the telephone book, turned up Creed’s home number and put a call through.

  Creed’s growling voice came over the line.

  ‘This is Sladen,’ I said. ‘We’ve just had a visitor with a gun. He was full of hop and admitted killing Hesson. He’s given us until eleven o’clock tomorrow morning to get out of town or else. He said there weren’t enough cops to keep him from putting a slug into us.’

  ‘Did he?’ Creed growled. ‘Stay right where you are. I’ll get a couple of my men over to you right away,’ and he hung up.

  ‘That’s the kind of police captain I like,’ I said, replacing the receiver. ‘No questions, no fuss, but lots of action. Protection is on its way over.’

  Bernie finished his drink. By now he was a little tight.

  ‘I don’t like it, Chet. I think we should clear out.’

  ‘Don’t be a dope! Can’t you see we’re getting places? We’ve got someone rattled. That means we must be on the right track.’

  ‘A fat lot of good it’ll do us if we’re dead,’ Bernie said, adding more whisky to his glass. ‘Now, listen to me. . .’

  He was still trying to convince me to leave town when the telephone bell rang and Larson told me there were two police officers in the lobby waiting to see me.

  ‘Send them right up,’ I said. As I turned from the telephone I said to Bernie, ‘You’re safe now. The law’s arrived.’

  Bernie gave a wild laugh.

  ‘Safe? That’s funny. Some chance. Can you imagine any cop stepping between me and a bullet?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I

  I put the pack of photographs on Creed’s desk and shook my head.

  ‘He’s not among that lot.’

  Creed puffed at his pipe, his blunt fingers tapping on the worn surface of his desk.

  ‘He’s a new one on me. None of the boys know him. You think he meant business?’

  ‘No doubt about that. He’s junked to the eyeballs. I’m surprised he didn’t shoot us there and then.’

  Peters, a tall guy with a lean, tough looking face, showed tobacco stained teeth in a hard smile. He was one of the police officers Creed had assigned to me as a bodyguard.