1954 - Safer Dead (26 page)

The barman appeared to recognize him.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, and had the order in front of Lassiter in a flash.

I got some money out of my pocket, shoved my way sideways to the bar, taking care not to touch Lassiter and laid the money on the bar. The barman swept it up, tossed it into the open drawer of the till and slapped down the change. As I picked up the change, Lassiter, his great rubbery mouth full of beef, turned his head and stared directly at me.

I met his eyes for a second, then I picked up my change and began to ease myself away from the bar. My shirt was sticking to my back and my mouth was dry. I expected him to reach out and grab me, but after scowling at me, he turned his back and went on munching. Still holding the sandwich in my hand, I got out of the bar and crossed to the Lincoln.

A police car was parked just behind the Lincoln and a bored faced detective at the wheel looked at me without interest. I climbed into the Lincoln, put the sandwich on the seat beside me, started the engine, and shifted into gear. As I drove away I looked into the driving mirror. The detective at the wheel of the police car was struggling with a gigantic yawn. I doubted if he had even seen me. Driving steadily, I headed for Benn’s bar, and it wasn’t until I had put the car in the garage and had got down into the hideout that my heart beats returned to normal.

I called Benn on the telephone.

‘Can you spare a minute?’

‘Not right now. Give me an hour, will you? This is my busy time.’

I said okay, hung up and poured myself a beer. I finished my sandwich, did a little thinking, and remembered Irene Jarrard had said she worked for Ryman Thomas, the advertising man. I turned him up in the book and put through a call.

Irene answered the telephone.

‘This is Sladen,’ I said. ‘Do you remember me?’

‘Of course I do.’ She seemed pleased I had called her. ‘Have you any news of Frankie, Mr. Sladen?’

‘Not yet, but I’m still trying. There was something I forgot to ask you: did Frankie ever mention Mrs. Cornelia Van Blake?’

‘Why, yes. Mrs. Van Blake was having her portrait painted and Frankie stood in for her.’

‘Do you know if Hartley did the painting at the Van Blakes’ residence?’

‘Oh, you know about it then.’

‘I heard.’

‘He didn’t finish the painting there. He made a number of sketches of Fay sitting on the balcony and he completed the portrait in his studio.’

I wished I had thought to ask her this when we first met, but I didn’t say so.

‘Did Frankie ever say how she got on with Mrs. Van Blake?’

‘Oh yes. She liked her very much. Mrs. Van Blake was very kind to her. She seemed to take a great interest in her.’

‘What kind of interest?’

‘Well, she wanted to know all about Fay’s background; who her parents were; whether she planned to get married: that sort of thing.’

‘Well, thanks, Miss Jarrard. I just wanted to check up on that. When I’ve got a little more time to myself, maybe we can have another sea food dinner.’

She said she would like that, and cutting her short, I hung up.

I lit a cigarette, sat down and did a little brooding. I was still at it when Benn came in.

‘Let’s talk about your pal Dillon,’ I said.

‘What about him?’ Benn asked, reaching for a can of beer and wrenching off the cap with his teeth.

‘I hear he used to go after the Van Blakes’ pheasants.’

Benn smiled.

‘I guess that’s right. Van Blake didn’t seem to give a damn. He’d got more pheasants than he knew what to do with.’

‘Van Blake was shot on August 6th. Where was Dillon on that morning?’

Benn shook his head.

‘I don’t know. The day before he told me he was going on a poach.’

‘That would be on the night before Van Blake was shot?’

‘Yeah. He asked me if I could use a brace of birds. I used to buy them off him sometimes. He said he’d be in after eleven, but he didn’t show up. I thought maybe he hadn’t had any luck.’

‘I want to get this straight,’ I said. ‘The last time you saw him was when he offered to get you a brace of pheasants, is that it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘He would have no reason to be on the Van Blakes’ estate at seven o’clock in the morning?’

‘Of course not. Ted poached with a flashlight and a catapult. He only worked in the dark. He didn’t even own a gun.’

‘He used his motorcycle when he went to the Van Blakes’ estate?’

‘Yeah. He went in by the gate on the Frisco-Tampa City highway, left his motorcycle in the bushes just inside the gate and walked over the hill, down to where the pheasants were.’

‘He wore a crash helmet and goggles, didn’t he? What else did he wear?’

‘Usually a leather wind cheater and corduroy trousers. Where’s this getting you?’

‘I think he was murdered on the estate.’

Benn shook his head.

‘Couldn’t have been. He was seen on the highway around eight o’clock coming from the Van Blake’s estate on the morning of Van Blake’s murder. I reckon he was murdered somewhere near the harbour where his motorcycle was found.’

‘A crash helmet and goggles makes a good disguise. Suppose it wasn’t Dillon who was seen, but the killer, laying a red herring?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that. You could be right.’

‘Was Dillon a big fella?’

‘No, he was like me; a shrimp, but tough and strong for all that.’

The telephone bell rang at this moment. I picked up the receiver.

‘New York wants you,’ the operator said. ‘Will you hold a moment?’ There were clickings on the line, then a girl said, ‘is Mr. Sladen there? Mr. Fayette wants him.’

‘Speaking,’ I said. ‘Go ahead.’

Fayette came on the line.

‘I’ve just had a cable from Low,’ he told me. ‘I thought maybe you’d want to know about it right away. I’ll read it to you.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Here’s what he says: Woman staying at George V on August 3rd last year, calling herself Cornelia Van Blake, positively, repeat positively, identified by reliable hotel witnesses as Fay Benson. Returning immediately with affidavits. Low.’ Fayette paused, then asked, ‘Is that any use to you?’

‘I’ll say it is,’ I said. ‘That’s the last nail in the coffin. I’ll have the case in the bag by tomorrow. Be seeing you then,’ and I hung up.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I

A
t ten-thirty, with a cloud covered moon spreading a faded light over the city, Benn and I drove fast along the Tampa City—San Francisco highway. It took us ten minutes or so to reach the gate to the Van Blake estate that Dillon had used on his last poaching expedition.

Benn stopped the car by the gate. The red spark of his cigarette lit up his face as he turned to look at me.

‘I’ll get rid of the heep and join you.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m going in there alone. You keep out of this, Sam. I may want you as a witness later on.’

‘What happens if you run into trouble?’

‘I’ll take good care I don’t.’ I got out of the car. ‘Leave this to me. I can handle it.’

He looked doubtfully at me.

‘Well, okay, if you say so. Are you sure?’

‘Yep. I’ll get back somehow on my own steam. If I don’t show up by dawn, report to Creed. But you’ve got to keep out of trouble. You know the setup now, and one of us has to be around to straighten out the kinks.’

Benn lifted his shoulders.

‘You’re the boss. Well, if you don’t want me I’ll scram.’ He engaged gear. ‘So long and good luck.’

I watched him drive away then, climbing the gate, I made my way along the path that led in a gently rising slope to the wood near where Van Blake had met his violent end. When I reached the top of the pimple in the middle of the clearing, I paused. Some fourteen months ago Van Blake had ridden up here to survey his estate. A killer had waited for him, shotgun in hand. Seconds later, Van Blake was lying on the ground, and his horse was trotting homewards to raise the alarm.

From where I stood I could see the white ribbon of the highway and the distant car lights as the cars drove towards Tampa City. It was silent and still up on the hill, and there was an eerie atmosphere that made me feel spooked. I set off downhill, keeping to the path through the wood. The moon, floating behind hazy clouds, gave enough light for me to find my way.

After walking for some distance, I saw ahead of me the lights of the vast Van Blake residence that sprawled in the hollow below. I could see too in the moonlight the expanse of closely cut lawns and the packed flower beds that surrounded the house. As I walked I wondered if Cornelia was at home, and if she were, what she was doing. I wondered too if Royce had contacted her and had warned her that he had had a tip off that Lydia was talking.

I slowed my pace when I saw ahead that the path faded to a clearing. Sheltering behind a thicket, I took out the map I had got from Latimer, and using my small flashlight, I checked up on my bearings.

At the end of the path I had to turn right, cross the clearing, skirt the house and walk for a hundred yards or so to where the summer house was. The pheasantry was another fifty yards or so beyond the summer house.

I put the map back in my hip pocket and moved forward as Ted Dillon must have moved forward on the night he was murdered.

Keeping to the shadows, I crossed the clearing, passed within forty yards of the dark massive bulk of the house whose windows showed chinks of light, and kept on until I reached another wood, then I paused and once more checked my bearings. Somewhere to my right should be the summer house. The path led into the wood which was dark and silent. I moved forward, and it wasn’t until I began blundering into trees, that I decided I’d better use my flashlight.

Shielding the light with my fingers, I moved forward more quickly. A sudden whirring sound made my heart skip a beat, and looking up I made out in the dim light row upon row of pheasants sitting on boughs of trees, staring down at me.

The sight of all these birds, sitting shoulder to shoulder, and looking down at me with their little ruby eyes gave me the shakes. I moved faster, and twenty yards further on, I came out into a clearing. Bang in the middle of the clearing was the summer house.

It was a verandah surrounded, knotty pine cabin; its dark windows, like sightless eyes, reflected the light of the moon. I crossed the clearing and mounted the steps that led up to the verandah. The door was locked and didn’t yield to pressure. I decided it would be easier to get in by a window. I moved silently around to the back of the summer house. I found two small windows and a casement window to choose from. A quick examination showed me one of the small windows was unlatched, and with the help of my pocket knife, I levered it half open. Before climbing in, I paused to listen.

The night was full of soft, eerie sounds. I could hear the slight wind in the trees, the creaking of the boughs under the weight of the pheasants, the sudden fluttering of wings, the tap of some climbing plant against the cabin: sounds that could mask the soft approach of one of the guards.

Feeling spooked, I pushed up the window, slid my leg through into darkness and stepped down on to a thick pile carpet. Shielding the light of my flashlamp I took stock of the room I was in.

It was a large room with lounging chairs and settees. I examined the heavy drapes; deciding they were heavy enough to shut in any light, I pulled them across the windows, then found the light switches and turned them on.

I could see then that the cabin hadn’t been used for a long time. Dust lay everywhere, and a few cobwebs floated from the ceiling.

I began a careful search of the room. There was a small bar at one end, containing a comprehensive selection of bottles. A glass with a smear of lipstick on it stood unwashed by a bottle of Scotch. A bowl of salted almonds, thick with dust, was nearby. It looked to me as if this little summer house had been suddenly locked up, and no servant had been allowed in to clean up, before it was closed.

I surveyed the expanse of Turkey carpet. Was what I was looking for under the carpet? I pushed a settee out of the way and rolled back part of the carpet. Knotty pine planks stared up at me. There seemed nothing suspicious about them, but there was still quite an expanse of flooring I couldn’t see.

Working quickly I moved the furniture back on to the part of the flooring I had examined, and investigated the rest of the planks. The right hand corner of the room rewarded my effort. A dark stain, the colour of old mahogany, roughly a foot square in size, marred the creamy white of the pine.

I knelt down and played the beam of my flashlamp on it. I had no doubt that it was an old blood stain. Someone had lain on these planks and had bled from a wound. I had no doubt either that the blood had come from Dillon’s dying body.

I took out a pocket screwdriver I had brought with me. Looking closely I could see some of the screw heads that secured the planking looked newer and less rusty than the others. Working quickly I took out all the newer looking screws. They came out easily. Then I dug the point of the screwdriver between two planks and levered one up. My mouth was dry and my heart was pounding as I turned the beam of my flashlamp down into the cavity.

Although I was expecting a gruesome find, the grinning skull, picked clean by rats, that stared up at me out of the darkness, made me catch my breath.

The glimpse I had of the dusty leather wind cheater told me I was looking at all that remained of Ted Dillon.

II

F
or perhaps ten seconds I stared down at the skull, then, with cold sweat on my face, I pulled up another plank so I could see more of him.

It was Ted Dillon all right. The wind cheater and corduroy trousers as well as a forked stick from which hung perished elastic that lay near him, made identification certain. There was a hole and powder burning on the left side of the wind cheater to tell me he had been shot at close quarters, and as I stared down at the telltale hole I wondered how it was the sound of the shot wasn’t heard up at the house which was no more than a hundred yards or so from the cabin.