1957 - The Guilty Are Afraid (28 page)

“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

M
argot 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 . . .”

Futile 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.”