1954 - Safer Dead (19 page)

The moonlight made the close cut lawn look white. Three policemen, guns in hand, were moving cautiously in a line away from the house. There was no escape that way. Then I heard the front door slam open and a tramping of feet in the hall.

I tiptoed across the room and eased open the door.

‘Get some lights on here,’ a voice growled.

I could see the beams of several flashlights stabbing into the darkness below. There was a short pause, then the lights flashed up.

A short, thickset man, his face brick red, a black fedora set squarely on his head, stood over the dead Filipino.

Lassiter stood by the front door; his brutal face was shiny with sweat.

‘You’re sure he went by the window?’ the short man asked without looking at Lassiter.

‘Yeah. I saw him go. He can’t get far,’ Lassiter snarled. ‘He kicked out a wall plug and fused the lights, Lieutenant.’

I guessed then that the short, thickset man was Lieutenant Joe Carson, ex-Police Captain Bradley had mentioned.

‘The captain will love this,’ Carson said. ‘If we don’t pick up this guy, you’ll be back pounding a beat.’

Lassiter moved uneasily.

‘We’ll pick him up all right,’ he said savagely.

‘Why didn’t you bring some men with you, you dope?’ Carson asked, moving away from the Filipino.

‘How was I to know he’d start a shindig like this?’ Lassiter snarled. ‘I was on my way home. When they told me he was going out to see Hartley I thought I’d look in and see what was cooking. I caught him robbing the safe.’

‘Then you let him go,’ Carson said and walked into the lounge.

Lassiter made a grunting noise, took out a soiled handkerchief and wiped his face, then he followed the Lieutenant into the lounge.

Two patrolmen, guns in hand, came up the steps and stood guard at the front door. More sirens wailed. A car pulled up outside, a car door slammed and three men came into the hall. The patrolmen stiffened to attention and saluted the tallest of the three who I guessed would be Police Captain Mathis.

Carson came out of the lounge.

‘We haven’t found him yet,’ he said to the tall man. ‘All the roads are being watched. He left his car. His name’s Chet Sladen: he’s a writer for Crime Facts.’

Mathis, lean faced with a black moustache in odd contrast to his chalk white hair, took out a cigarette pack and put a cigarette between his thin lips.

‘Crime Facts?’ he repeated. ‘You sure?’

‘I’ve read some of the stuff the guy’s written myself.’

‘We’ve got to be careful, Carson. That rag has plenty of influence. Why should he knock Hartley off?’

‘Search me,’ Carson said, shrugging. ‘Lassiter caught him taking money out of the safe.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

Lassiter came out of the lounge.

‘I saw him, Captain. It’s my bet he’s digging into the Van Blake murder. Maybe Hartley caught him poking his snout into the safe and Sladen lost his head and shot him.’

‘What makes you think he’s digging into the Van Blake murder?’ Mathis asked, his voice sharp.

‘Mrs. Van Blake had a visit from him tonight. He’s been talking to Bradley,’ Carson said. ‘He called on the Golden Apple club.’

‘You’d better let me have a detailed report in writing,’ Mathis said. ‘The Commissioner will want to hear about this.’

‘Yes, Captain,’ Carson said.

Mathis turned on his heel and went to the front door. He looked back over his shoulder.

‘You’d better find Sladen,’ he said, ‘or there’ll be trouble.’

He went down the steps into the night.

‘While we’re waiting for the doc,’ Lassiter said, ‘I’ll take a look upstairs. The guy didn’t have a gun. Maybe he left it in one of the upstairs rooms.’

Carson grunted and walked back into the lounge.

I moved quickly across the landing and into Hartley’s bedroom.

I heard Lassiter come up the stairs.

II

W
ith my back against the wall, the window drapes concealing me, I waited.

I heard Lassiter pound across the landing and go into the next door room. He spent a few minutes in there, then I heard him come out and go into another room.

I was in a bad state of nerves. From where I stood I could see into the garden. The three patrolmen were still moving aimlessly about and there was no out there for me that way. My only hope now hung on the fact that Lassiter seemed convinced I wasn’t in the house. I hoped his search wouldn’t be thorough.

The door jerked open and I heard him come in. The light snapped on, then I heard him grunt. He went out again, leaving the door open.

‘Hey, Lieutenant! Will you come up?’ he called.

I moved the curtain aside. He was leaning over the banister rail, his back turned to me. But even as I watched him, he turned and I hurriedly let the curtain fall into place. A moment or so later I heard Carson come in.

‘This is where the servant got shot,’ Lassiter said. ‘He bled on the rug. And look, the killer put his gun down on the bed, you can see the impression.’

‘Better get Maxwell up here for prints,’ Carson said. ‘I’m going back to headquarters. I want to be sure this guy Sladen doesn’t slip through our fingers. You stick around until I call you.’

The two men went out of the room, leaving the door open. I watched them go downstairs, then leaving my hiding place, I swiftly crossed the room, opened a door across the landing and stepped into a front spare bedroom. I shut the door, groped my way across to the uncurtained window and looked down into the street below.

Three police cars and an ambulance stood outside. There was a fair sized crowd of men and women, some of them in evening dress, standing on the opposite sidewalk. Four or five patrolmen stood with their backs to the crowd, looking up at the house.

There was no chance of climbing down the stack pipe to the garden with that audience to watch me, and I went back to the door, eased it open an inch or so and waited.

Lassiter and another plainclothes man came up the stairs and went into Hartley’s bedroom.

‘Get all the prints you can find,’ Lassiter said. ‘It doesn’t look as if anyone’s been in the other rooms. I gotta talk to the press. Let’s have some action, Max.’

The other man grunted and Lassiter went down the stairs again. I waited in darkness for more than half an hour, then Lassiter came up again and went into Hartley’s bedroom.

‘I’m through now,’ the fingerprint man said. ‘I’ve only found Hartley’s and the servant’s prints.’

‘Well, okay. Carson wants us back,’ Lassiter said. ‘They haven’t found Sladen yet.’ His voice sounded worried. ‘He can’t get out of town. The lieutenant wants a report in writing tonight - my luck! I’m leaving a couple of men here. We’ll go over the place again in daylight.’

They went downstairs together.

I crept out on to the landing and peered down into the hall. The body of the Filipino had been taken away. Lassiter and three plainclothes men stood in a group by the front door. Lassiter said to the beefy patrolman who had just come in from the street, ‘Okay, Gesserter. I’ll be back around nine. You stick around and keep your eyes open. Lock up after us and don’t let anyone in. Webb’s patrolling outside. I’ve told him to keep the press away, but some of those punks are so smart they may try to get in when he’s at the back. No one’s to come in here until I get back. Understand?’

‘Yes, sarg.’

‘If anyone does get in, I’ll make you sorry,’ Lassiter growled.

He went down the steps followed by the other three detectives. Gesserter closed the front door and locked it. He stood listening. When the sound of the police cars had died away, he shoved his cap to the back of his head, took out a pack of cigarettes and wandered into the lounge. After a few moments, dance music came softly up the stairs from a late broadcasting station.

I went back to Hartley’s bedroom, groped my way to the window and looked into the garden. A patrolman paced slowly up and down the flagged path that led from the terrace to the lawn.

I went into the front bedroom and looked into the street. The crowd had gone home. There were no cars to be seen. The Buick had gone. I decided it was time to go myself. I went to the head of the stairs and listened. Gesserter was still in the lounge. It looked a long way down the stairs to the front door.

With my left hand on the banister rail, I started down. Halfway down, I heard the patrolman clear his throat and my heart skipped a beat, but I kept moving. I stopped at the bottom stair. I had to pass the open doorway of the lounge before I could reach the front door. I edged forward so I could just see into the lounge.

Gesserter was smoking, his back turned to me, his right hand beating time to the soft swing music. I took a step forward, then another. I had the .38 automatic in my jacket pocket, my hand on the butt. Two more steps and I would be out of his range; then he suddenly turned.

I stopped dead.

We looked at each other across the space of the hall and the lounge. His fleshy, weather-tanned face turned a rich purple, and his small eyes grew as round as marbles. It flashed through my mind that if I threatened him with the gun I would be fixed. I still had a remote chance of proving I didn’t kill Hartley, but threatening a cop with a gun was something I wouldn’t be able to talk myself out of.

I took my hand from my pocket slowly, and somehow managed to smile at him. I watched his hand grope feverishly at his gun holster. His movements were slow and confused.

‘Hello there,’ I said as casually as I could, ‘where’s everyone?’

He got the gun out and pointed it at me.

‘Don’t move!’

‘Take it easy,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I was hoping to find Lieutenant Carson. Isn’t he around?’

‘Who are you?’ he demanded and came forward slowly, his thick finger on the gun trigger.

‘My name’s Sladen. I’m a staff writer for Crime Facts,’ I said, hoping he didn’t know I was the guy they were looking for. ‘You’ve heard of me, haven’t you?’

I saw him relax a trifle, but the gun continued to cover me.

‘Let’s see your press card.’

I took out my billfold, flicked it open and handed it to him.

He examined the press card, then handed back the wallet.

‘How did you get in here?’

‘Webb let me in the back way,’ I said. ‘I wanted to take a look around. That okay with you?’

‘Webb let you in?’ The barrel of the gun sagged so it was no longer pointing at me. ‘It’s against orders. He should have known that. You can’t come in here.’

‘Who’ll know? Is this where Hartley was shot?’ I wandered into the room. ‘He lived in style, didn’t he?’

The patrolman shoved his gun back into his holster.

‘Come on! Outside! I’ve got my orders.’

‘I’m only doing my job,’ I said, backing away.

‘Yeah; and I’m doing mine.’ He moved past me and went into the hall. ‘Come on - get out of here!’

I followed him into the hall and watched him unlock the front door.

‘Beat it!’ he said, holding the door open.

‘I’m on my way,’ I said and stepped cautiously past him.

I started down the drive-in, making an effort not to break into a run. I was expecting the other patrolman to show up, but he didn’t.

At the gate I paused to look back.

Gesserter stood in the lighted doorway watching me. For a brief moment we looked at each other, then he stepped back and slammed the front door.

III

O
nce clear of the house, I broke into a run. The long, empty avenue stretched away into the darkness. I avoided the pools of yellow light thrown by the widely spaced street lamps. I had no idea if the two patrolmen would get together. If they did, it wouldn’t be long before they reported to headquarters.

I had a good two miles to cover before I reached the centre of the town. My one chance was to get under cover as quickly as I could before the prowl cars came after me. Bradley had told me to go to Sam Benn’s place on Maddox Street if I had to duck out of sight. This seemed to me now to be sound advice, but I had no idea where Maddox Street was. I might be running away from it for all I knew.

Still keeping to the shadows and walking now, I turned the corner and started down the street that led directly to the town. A faint haze hung over the town from the lights of the all night neon signs: they seemed a long way off. I peered at my strap watch. It was coming up for three o’clock. It wouldn’t be long now before it was light.

At the bottom of the street, bright lights suddenly cut up the darkness as a car swung out from a side turning. I was passing a house when I saw the lights. I put one hand on the low garden wall, vaulted over and crouched down. The car roared up the street: its headlights raking the wall, making me duck lower. I heard the car brake violently, then turn into Cannon Avenue.

I straightened, vaulted back on to the sidewalk and started to run again. I was breathing like an asthmatic by the time I reached the bottom of the street which led into the outskirts of the shopping centre. Here I knew was danger: this was the territory of the patrolling cop, and every one of them would have my description. Keeping to the back streets I made my way past the dark faces of small shops, dingy eating houses and apartment houses. This was the district, tucked away as if ashamed of itself, that housed the workers who were at the beck and call of the rich of Tampa City.

Ahead of me a shadow moved, bringing me to an abrupt stop. I silently stepped into a shop doorway as a bulky patrolman walked to the edge of the sidewalk and balanced himself on the kerb while he swung his nightstick and stared up at the grey-black canopy of the sky. He rested his feet for five minutes or so while I watched him, then he moved on, going away from me.

At the next intersection I turned right. Across the road a yellow light shining through a glass panelled door made a rectangle pattern on the greasy sidewalk. A neon sign above the door read: Good Eats. Open All Night.

I crossed the street, made sure no one was in sight before I stepped into the rectangle of light and looked through the glass panel of the door.

A fat man with black greasy hair, his chin bristly with black stubble, his hairy arms resting on the counter, stared vacantly at a newspaper spread out before him. There were no customers and most of the lights were off.