1957 - The Guilty Are Afraid (26 page)

The clock on the mantelpiece showed twenty minutes past eleven. I thought a little sourly that if Rankin hadn’t come to drag me to Thrisby’s place, I would be lying in Margot’s arms by now.

I went over to the bar, found a full bottle of Vat 69 and I made two large highballs. I carried the drinks to a table and then sat down.

I looked over at Hepple, who was standing with his back to the fireplace, watching me.

He was around thirty, with a thin, pleasant face, shrewd eyes and a jutting jaw. He looked the kind of man that would want a lot of stopping once he got going.

“Help yourself,” I said, waving to the glasses, then I put my hands on my aching stomach and tried to relax.

He came over and picked up one of the glasses, took a long drink, then as I reached for my glass he said, “Mr. Troy told me to take a look at Hahn. I’ve been digging into his past and I’ve struck gold.”

“In what way?”

“I went out to his place and asked him if he’d give me an interview,” Hepple said. “He jumped at the chance of getting some free publicity. Make no mistake about this guy. He’s an artist and he knows his stuff. I persuaded him to do me a rough model in clay, and he let me take the model away. It was only a rough thing, but on it was a perfect set of his fingerprints.” Hepple grinned at me, delighted with his strategy. “This morning I took the model to the F.B.I. headquarters in Los Angeles. They checked the prints and out came the story.” He picked up his drink, took another pull at it and waved the glass excitedly. “Hahn’s real name is Jack Bradshaw. He served two years for drug smuggling back in 1941. When he came out, he went to Mexico and the F.B.I. lost sight of him. He turned up again four years later and was caught crossing the border with two suitcases loaded with heroin. This time he drew eight years. When he came out, the F.B.I. kept tabs on him, but this time he seems to have settled down and become legitimate. They know all about his School of Ceramics and they have even looked the place over, but they say there is something shady going on there.” He leaned forward and pointed a finger at me. “Now this is the part that’s going to interest you. While Hahn was serving his last sentence, he palled up with a guy called Juan Tuarmez, who was another drug operator. They left jail together. I had a hunch about Tuarmez and got the F.B.I. to show me his photograph, and guess who?”

“Cordez?”

Hepple nodded.

“That’s right: Cordez of the Musketeer Club. How do you like that?”

“Does the F.B.I. know he’s here?”

“Oh, sure, but there’s nothing they can do about that. He’s served his sentence and on the face of it, he’s running a successful club. They drop in every now and then and take a look around, but they are satisfied he isn’t up to his old tricks.”

“Do they wonder where the money came from to start the club?”

“They’ve gone into that. Cordez told them a group of financiers backed him.”

“And Hahn?”

“The same story.”

“Any idea who the financiers are?”

“Creedy, of course.”

“Doesn’t the F.B.I. think it fishy that these two jailbirds should have set up business in the same town?”

“They put a tail on them for some time. Cordez never goes to the School nor does Hahn go to the club. They haven’t met since they moved into St. Raphael.”

I thought for a moment, then said, “I hear Judge Harrison has quit politics.”

Hepple grimaced.

“The old snake. Creedy bought him out.”

“Are you printing that?”

“Not on your life. We have no proof, but that’s what has happened. It’s going to take some time to find anyone to take his place. In the meantime there’ll be no opposition and the present bunch will romp home. Looks as if we’re in for another term of rackets.”

“Maybe: maybe not. You heard about the shooting out at the White Chateau?”

Hepple nodded.

“But that hasn’t any connection with Cordez and Hahn, has it?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m working on it now. Have you a good safe in your office?”

“Sure.” Hepple’s face showed his surprise.

“I have something I want you to take care of,” I said, and took Bridgette’s gun from my holster. “Will you put this in your safe and keep it until I ask for it?”

“Sure.”

He took the gun, looked at it, lifted the barrel to his nose and sniffed at it. Then he looked sharply at me.

“This couldn’t be the gun that killed Thrisby?”

“It could be. That’s something I’ve got to find out. I don’t want to lose it and I think your safe is the place for it.”

“Shouldn’t the police have it?”

I shook my head.

“No. They might lose it.”

He tossed the gun from hand to hand as he asked, “Would you know the owner?”

“I have an idea, but that doesn’t mean the owner shot Thrisby.”

He dropped the gun into his pocket.

“Well, okay. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. If I have any luck I’ll have a story for you by tomorrow. That gun may be the star turn of the story.”

“Is there anything else you want me to do?”

“Stay in the office all day tomorrow. I may want you in a hurry, and I want to know where I can find you.”

He looked earnestly at me, a worried expression on his face.

“I have an idea you know more about this set-up than you’re telling me. You could be on thin ice, Brandon. How would it be if you told me what you know now so we could both work on it?”

I shook my head.

“I’m not ready yet. I have a fistful of theories, but no real facts.”

“Why not give me the theories? Suppose before you’re ready to talk, you run into trouble? There are plenty of ways in this city for anyone with an inquiring mind to get into trouble. Suppose you were silenced before you can talk? That’s not going to help us, is it?”

I was tempted to tell him what was going on in my mind, but I knew I wasn’t ready. If I were going to pull the rug from under Creedy’s feet, I had to be absolutely sure of my facts.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said. “That’s the best I can do.”

“Well, look, don’t stay out here on your own tonight. You’re a good mile from anyone and anywhere. Anything could happen to you out here and no one would be the wiser. Why don’t you come back to my place for tonight? You can doss down on my settee.”

I shook my head.

“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’m all right here. Nothing’s going to happen to me until tomorrow. By then I hope it’ll be too late for anything to happen.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, okay. But it seems to me you’re taking an awful chance.” He produced his wallet and found a card and gave it to me. “That’s my home telephone number. If you want me I’ll be there until eight o’clock tomorrow morning, and from then on I’ll be at the office.”

“Take care of that gun.”

“I’ll go to the office now and park it. Be seeing you.”

“Some time tomorrow.”

“And watch out.”

“Oh, sure.”

I watched him walk down the steps, across the sand to his car. He turned and waved his hand, then he got in the car and drove away. I stood on the verandah watching his red taillights until I lost sight of them.

Chapter 14

I

T
he moon rode high over the palm trees casting long black shadows. The sea was like a silver mirror. There were only the distant sounds of the traffic passing along the promenade and the gentle movement of the sea.

Standing there on the verandah, looking at the lights of St. Raphael, I had a sense of complete isolation, and I wondered if I shouldn’t have gone with Hepple. If anyone was planning to wipe me out, this lonely bungalow was the place in which to do it.

I put my hands on the verandah rail and hunched my shoulders. I was feeling tired, and it was an effort to drive my mind. I could see the lighted windows of the School of Ceramics away to my right, and I wondered what Hahn or, to give him his real name, Jack Bradshaw, was doing at this moment.

I now knew the mystery behind the match-folder, but knowing that still didn’t make me absolutely sure of Sheppey’s killer. I had a feeling I was right on the brink of knowing who killed him, but there was one piece in the jigsaw puzzle to fall into place before the picture was complete.

There was no point standing out there in the dark. I told myself I might just as well go to bed. There was nothing further I could do until tomorrow.

I turned around and went into the lounge. I shut the french doors and locked them, took the two glasses Hepple and I had used over to the bar and put them down. I looked around to make sure no cigarettes were burning in the ashtrays, then I walked over to the light switch by the door. As my hand reached for the switch, I heard a very faint sound that told me instantly that I was no longer alone in the bungalow.

For a full second I remained motionless, aware that I was frightened and that my mouth had suddenly turned dry. I remembered that I had no gun: Rankin had taken mine, and I had given Bridgette’s gun to Hepple. I recalled what Hepple had said: You’re a good mile from anyone and anywhere. Anything could happen to you here and no one would be the wiser.

The sound had been of someone in the bedroom: the distinct sound of someone’s foot on a loose board: someone moving stealthily.

I snapped off the light and the room turned to darkness.

Through the big window I could see the moon: its light made a big puddle of whiteness on the carpet at the far end of the room, but where I stood was shrouded in darkness.

I stood tense, listening, my heart thumping.

I heard the movement again, still in the bedroom, and then I heard the door creak slightly as it began to open.

“Stay right where you are,” I said, a snarl in my voice, “or you’ll get a slug in your guts!”

As soon as I had spoken, I dropped down on one knee, expecting a blast of gunfire, but instead I heard a quick, scared gasp.

“Lew?”

Margot’s voice.

“For crying out loud!” I exclaimed.

I straightened up and snapped on the light.

Margot stood in the doorway, her eyes wide and scared, her face tense. She had on a nylon nightdress that was as transparent as a sheet of glass. She looked more than lovely: she looked out of this world.

“Oh, Lew! You frightened the life out of me!”

“Out of you? What do you think you did to me? I nearly had a heart attack. Margot: what are you doing here?”

“I came back. I was so worried about you, darling. I didn’t know what to do. I drove the car to the promenade and walked back. I waited out there in the darkness. The police came, then they went away. I got cold out there so I came in to wait for you. I’ve only just woken up.”

I took out my handkerchief and wiped my face.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” I said. “You certainly made me hit the ceiling. I thought my last hour had come.”

“I’m so sorry. I’ve been asleep. I woke up just in time to see the light go off. I thought it might be you, but I was afraid to call out just in case it wasn’t. So I crept to the door to listen. When you called out in that awful voice, you terrified me.”

“That makes two of us.”

She came swiftly to me and slid her arms around my neck. The feel of her soft, yielding body against mine set my heart hammering. My hands moved down the length of her long back, over the curve of her hips and I pulled her close to me.

“Kiss me, Lew. . .”

My mouth found hers and she moaned softly, pressing herself against me.

“Oh, darling. . .”

It needed a lot of will power to push her away, but I did it.

“Get into bed, Margot,” I said. “You’ll catch cold. . .”

She put her head on one side as she looked at me. Her face was slightly flushed, her lips were parted and there was that look in her eyes I had seen before. She looked the most devastatingly desirable woman in the world.

“I won’t catch cold, but I’ll go back to bed. And you?”

“What do you think? Let me have a shower first. Then I’ll be right with you.”

“Oh, Lew, you haven’t told me . . . what happened? Why did the police . . .?”

I lifted her and carried her across the lounge and into the bedroom. There was an impression where her head had lain on the pillow and the sheet had been thrown back as she had slid out of bed. I laid her on the bed, covered her with the sheet and looked down at her. I thought how beautiful she looked.

“The police? I have orders to get out of town right away,” I said. “They think I’m getting too close to Sheppey’s killer, Margot.”

Her dark eyes opened wide and she reached out and touched my face.

“You’re going away, Lew?”

“I guess so. It won’t be healthy to stay, but before I go I’m going to close up at least one racket here. I’ve found out what that match-folder means.”

“You have? What does it mean then?”

I sat on the side of the bed and took her hands in mine.

“The matches are drug vouchers.”

“Drug vouchers? What do you mean?”

She stared up at me: her eyes puzzled.

“It’s simple enough. Cordez and Hahn are dope peddlers. They are well known to the Narcotic Squad and they are being constantly watched. They’ve already served a sentence for drug smuggling, and they know their next sentence will be for life. They entered into partnership and worked out what seemed to them to be a safe scheme. This is what they did: they moved into one of the richest cities in the country. They got financial backing to open a club and to open a ceramic shop: both legitimate businesses. The Narcotic Squad investigated and found nothing suspicious. Hahn and Cordez were watched, but they didn’t meet nor did they appear to have any association of any kind together. But, of course, they were still in the drug trade together and this is how they worked it: Hahn got the drugs and Cordez supplied the customers. A lot of rich people used Cordez’s club; some of them wanted to buy drugs. Cordez sold them a folder of matches. They then went over to Hahn’s place—safe enough because there’s always a steady flow of people going in and out—and in exchange for a match, the customer received so many ounces of drug. Hahn returned the matches to Cordez who then paid him his share of the take. In this way everyone is happy and safe. Cordez gets the money, the customer his regular supply of drugs and Hahn gets paid for supplying the drugs.”