1954 - Safer Dead (17 page)

After a few moments a man’s voice said, ‘This is Mrs. Van Blake’s residence.’

That would make him the butler, and to judge from the deep, fruity tone, an imported English butler at that.

‘This is Mr. Sladen of Welden calling,’ I said. ‘Put me through to Mrs. Van Blake if you please.’

‘Will you hold the line?’ the voice said and there was silence. Time stood still, and then as I was beginning to wonder if he had forgotten me, Cornelia Van Blake came on the line.

‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Who is that?’

‘My name’s Sladen,’ I said, ‘I am a writer. Could I bother you for some information? It’s to do with a girl you met in Paris last year.’

There was a pause. I imagined I could hear her quick breathing, but I could have been wrong.

‘Information? What girl?’ The voice was as cool and as crisp as a refrigerated lettuce and as impersonal.

‘Could I see you? I could be over in twenty minutes.’

‘Why, no . . .’ She stopped short as if a sudden thought had dropped into her mind. ‘Well, I suppose you could,’ she went on. ‘I can’t give you very long.’

‘Ten minutes will cover it. That’s fine. I’ll be right over,’ I said and before she could change her mind, I hung up. Why had she granted me an interview? I wondered as I left the booth. I had expected to be turned down flat. This was almost too easy.

A cab crawled past and I waved.

‘Vanstone, West Summit,’ I said and got in. It took a little under twenty minutes to reach the high wrought iron gates that guarded the house.

A guard in a black uniform and peak cap came out of the lodge, opened one of the gates and walked up to the cab.

‘Mrs. Van Blake is expecting me,’ I said. ‘I’m Sladen.’

‘Got a card on you, sir?’ he asked.

I couldn’t see much of him in the darkness, but his voice sounded tough and alert.

I offered him my driving licence. He snapped on a flashlight, examined the licence, nodded and handed it back.

‘Thank you.’

He opened the other gate and the cab drove through.

‘First time I’ve been here,’ the driver said over his shoulder. ‘How the rich live! Guards, gates and all. Well, well!’

‘I’d sooner live my way,’ I said, peering through the open window into the darkness. I couldn’t see anything from the window, but the headlights of the cab picked out trees, a lot of shrubs and bushes, and the white, sand covered drive. There was no clear view of the gardens nor of the house from the approach. After a four minute drive, we swung on to a big stretch of tarmac at the foot of the steps leading to the house.

The cab door was opened by another black uniformed guard who had appeared from nowhere. I told the driver to wait for me, nodded to the guard and went up the steps to the main entrance. The door stood open. A tall, elderly man got up like a Hollywood butler, stood waiting.

The soft light from the hall lit up his aristocratic features. He was gaunt, and nudging seventy. He looked like a dignified statesman about to dine with Molotov, and he carried with him an atmosphere of baronial halls and lighted candelabra.

‘If you will follow me.’

His figure and voice were stiff with disapproval. He took me down a wide corridor, through a glass-panelled door, down some steps and into a vast lounge that ran the length of the house. There were enough sofas and lounging chairs to seat fifty people, and the ornate richly coloured Turkish carpet that covered the entire floor gave the room the millionaire’s touch.

‘If you will wait, I’ll inform Mrs. Van Blake you are here,’ the butler said as if reading from the script of a successful play. He went away as silently and as unobtrusively as an incarnate spirit.

The first thing that caught my attention when he had gone was a large oil painting of Mrs. Van Blake that hung over the fireplace.

She was sitting on the balustrade, looking at the distant garden, wearing a pale green summer frock. It was an extraordinarily good likeness, and the detail of the landscape had been worked in with incredible patience and care.

There was something about the style of the figure that was familiar to me, and moving closer to the picture I saw in the right hand corner the artist’s name: Lennox Hartley. I stepped back and examined the painting with closer attention.

I had no idea Hartley could paint as well as this. From the sketch of Fay Benson I had seen, I had assumed he was just a competent cover designer, but this painting showed he was a highly skilled artist.

He had caught the feeling I had had when I had first seen Cornelia Van Blake. Although, in his portrait, she looked as cold and as remote as she had done when I had seen her, there was that suggestion of a flame burning behind the impersonal mask that I had sensed. The picture was alive and compelling.

Then I saw her standing close to me. She gave me quite a start. She was within touching distance of me before I even knew she had come down the steps and crossed the vast expanse of carpet to where I was standing.

‘Mr. Sladen?’

She was in a topless white evening dress, and around her throat blazed a magnificent collar of emeralds. She really was something to look at. Her big green eyes, that glittered like her emeralds, looked right into mine, giving me an odd creepy sensation of uneasiness.

‘That’s right,’ I said, and as she didn’t appear to recognize me I decided not to mention the Golden Apple club. ‘I’m hoping you can help me, Mrs. Van Blake. It’s kind of you to see me.’

The butler came in with a tray of drinks which he set on a table.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ she said. She waved to a lounging chair and sat down nearby.

The butler asked me what I would drink. I asked for a highball, and while he fixed it, we sat in silence. He gave her a brandy in a balloon glass and then went away.

‘What is it you want?’ she asked as soon as he had shut the door behind him.

‘I’m a crime writer,’ I said, aware of her hostility. ‘I’m interested in the movements of Joan Nichols. I understand you met her in Paris last year?’

She looked down at her brandy glass, her face expressionless, then she looked up at me and her eyes told me nothing.

‘I meet so many people. I don’t remember anyone called Joan Nichols. Are you sure you’re not making a mistake?’

‘You were in Paris in August last year, Mrs. Van Blake?’

‘I was.’

‘Joan Nichols was a showgirl, working in Paris at that time. I understand she had dinner with you at your hotel more than once.’

She frowned and moved impatiently.

‘It’s possible. I really don’t remember,’ she said, giving an irritable little shrug. ‘How do you know this?’

I couldn’t make up my mind if she really didn’t remember or if she were lying. I had an idea that behind the expressionless mask there was tension, but it was only an idea.

‘Miss Nichols told her friends she had dinner with you,’ I said, ‘but it isn’t important. I don’t want to bother you with this. I was hoping you would remember, but of course you must meet a lot of people. I can easily check at the Paris hotel.’

A little of the brandy suddenly jumped out of her glass and made a spot on her skirt. I didn’t see her start, but the splash of brandy was a giveaway. She looked up.

‘But you wouldn’t go all the way to Paris to find out if she dined with me or not, surely?’ she said, staring.

‘It’s the policy of the magazine I work for to check every fact before we print it. I was hoping you would remember the girl and save me the time of going to Paris, but as you can’t, I’ll have to go.’

‘How extraordinary. Why is it so important?’

‘I’m trying to fill in the girl’s background. It seems she had a talent for making friends with rich people. I’ve no proof of this. Her friends tell me she claimed to know you and dined with you. That’s quite a story, Mrs. Van Blake. After all she was just an ordinary showgirl, and to have become friendly with you shows she must have had a lot of talent. On the other hand, she may have been lying. If I go to Paris, I might dig up other wealthy people who met her.’

‘I would like to help you,’ she said, passing her slim fingers across her forehead. ‘Let me think now. I do vaguely remember meeting a girl. She was rather pretty if she’s the one. Yes, I think I do remember her.’

‘You did meet her then?’

‘I suppose I must have. I don’t recall her name, but I’m not good about people’s names.’ She drank a little brandy before saying, ‘Yes, I’m sure I met her. I can’t remember just how. I was on my own in Paris. I was waiting for my husband. I dare say the girl amused me. I do vaguely recollect asking her to dine with me.’

It was quite nicely done, but not well enough to fool me. She had remembered Joan Nichols as soon as I had mentioned her. I was sure of that. Why had my bluff about going to Paris suddenly smoked her out?

‘What was your hotel, Mrs. Van Blake?’

She looked up and for a brief flash there was a wary, angry expression in her eyes.

‘I stayed at the George V.’

‘You don’t remember how this girl made friends with you?’

‘I don’t. We probably met in a shop. I believe that was it.’ I could almost hear her thinking. ‘Yes, of course. I do remember. She didn’t speak French and was in trouble with a shopkeeper. I came to the rescue. Yes, that was it.’

I was sure now she was lying, and I had trouble in keeping my own expression deadpan.

‘Did you like her?’

‘For goodness sake!’ Her eyes flashed. ‘I must have liked her to have invited her to dinner, Mr. Sladen. I scarcely remember the girl. I meet so many people. Is that all, because if it is . . .’ She got to her feet and stood looking at me.

I got up.

‘I guess that is all. It was just a matter of checking. It was nice of you to see me.’

‘Why are you interested in this girl? Didn’t you say you were a crime writer? Is she in trouble?’

‘Not now: she’s dead. She was murdered on August 20th of last year: a few days after her return from Paris. The police tell me she was a blackmailer,’ I said, watching her closely, but she didn’t bat an eyelid.

‘I see. It just shows how careful one should be in making acquaintances of strangers.’

‘That’s right,’ I said and as she moved towards the wall bell, I went on, ‘That’s a fine portrait of you. I had no idea Lennox Hartley, could do work like that.’

For some reason known to herself, this chance remark registered. She turned quickly and her eyes were suddenly as hard as the emeralds at her throat.

‘Do you know Mr. Hartley?’ she asked, and I saw her small hands turn into fists.

‘I’ve talked to him,’ I said. ‘I can’t say I know him. In my job, I talk to a lot of people.’

‘Yes, I suppose you do. Well, good night, Mr. Sladen. Jameson will show you out,’ and again she moved to the bell. Then I had a sudden idea and as she rang the bell I acted on the idea without thinking.

‘I nearly forgot,’ I said and took out my billfold. ‘I have a photograph of Joan Nichols right here. Maybe you could identify her for me.’

I took Fay Benson’s photograph from the wallet and handed it to her. She took it and moved to the light, turning her back on me. Although I couldn’t see her face, her reaction startled me. If I had put a hairy tarantula into her hand she wouldn’t have reacted more violently. She dropped the photograph and I saw a shudder pass through her. For a brief moment, she stood motionless, then with a tremendous effort of will, she pulled herself together, bent quickly and picked up the photograph. She turned and handed it to me. Her face was as white as porcelain. She looked less lovely, older, and the look in her eyes wasn’t pleasant to see.

‘I don’t recognize her,’ she said, and the words came out of stiff, bloodless lips. ‘All these showgirls look so much alike. Good night, Mr. Sladen.’

She turned and walked out of the room, a little unsteadily, but with her head held high.

She left the door wide open.

I stood there for a long moment, feeling a surge of triumph run through me. I had got my hook up! I was sure of it. She knew Fay Benson. In some way the hook up was between Fay and her and not as I had imagined between Fay and her husband. Before I could begin to wonder what it was all about the butler came in and escorted me to the waiting cab.

III

I
n the cab there was a faint but persistent smell of hundreds of other fares who had been driven to unknown destinations and who had left in the cab a thin strata of their presence to keep me company on my way back to the Beach Hotel.

I sat in a corner, a cigarette between my fingers, and I thought about my discovery. The pieces of the jigsaw puzzle were falling into place. They didn’t make sense yet, but I had a feeling they soon would.

For some reason or other Hamilton Royce and Fay Benson had left Tampa City and had gone to Welden. There someone had paid Hank Flemming to kidnap and murder Fay, and Royce had returned to Tampa City on the day she died.

I liked him for the role of the man who had paid Flemming to kill Fay, but until I found out why she had been killed, I could take no action against him.

Then suddenly out of the blue Cornelia appears in this so far motiveless drama. According to ex-Police Captain Bradley she was his suspect No.1 for Van Blake’s murder. If she had murdered her husband even by proxy she would be wide open to blackmail. She had dined twice in Paris with an unsuccessful showgirl, and that showgirl had been a blackmailer. Blackmail could be the only reason, so far as I could see, why Cornelia had met Joan Nichols twice. It would explain too why she had hesitated to admit knowing her, and why she was anxious that I shouldn’t go to Paris to stir up more trouble for her. But where did Fay Benson fit in? Why had her photograph been like the cold finger of a ghost on Cornelia’s conscience? People don’t show fear the way she had done unless there was a pretty powerful reason.

I had wanted a hook up between Fay Benson and the Van Blakes and I had got it. Now I had it, what was I going to do with it? My time was running out. I couldn’t continue the investigation with a flock of police on my heels.

I was still brooding over the problem when the cab pulled up outside the Beach Hotel. I paid off the driver and walked up the steps and into the lobby.