1954 - Safer Dead (7 page)

I paid my bill and sat staring at the tablecloth for a few minutes. I had to keep to my schedule, but it was nice and comfortable and safe in this restaurant, and I wasn’t looking forward to another walk in the dark.

The detective across the way was staring at me and, as I met his eyes, he glanced at his watch and then at the door. It was a gentle hint for me to get moving. I reluctantly shoved back my chair and walked to the bar entrance.

‘Here I go,’ I said to one of the beefy men sitting by the door.

‘About time,’ he growled. ‘I want to get home sometime tonight.’

I thought it was pretty heartless of him, but could see his point of view. I went over and collected my hat and coat and went out on to the street.

I had taken seven steps towards the Florian club when it happened.

III

A
big, black car without lights shot out of a dark turning. As soon as I saw it had no lights, I knew it was coming for me. I had no chance to duck back into the restaurant; it was coming too fast for that. There was no sheltering doorway at hand. I was right out in the open and I felt as naked as a fly on a wall.

I got the gun out and started running towards the car with the crazy idea of running past it before it could get at me. I caught a glimpse of the driver: a little man with his hat pulled down low over his face, crouching down behind the wheel. There was another man in the back of the car with what looked like a riot gun in his hands. The barrel was resting on the top of the open window.

I lifted the .45 and pulled the trigger. The gun went off with a crash that deafened me and its kick back nearly had the gun out of my hand. It was a lucky shot. The slug smashed the windshield of the car which swerved crazily as the riot gun opened up with a deafening clatter.

If the car hadn’t swerved, I should have been cut down by the stream of slugs that smashed into the sidewalk about a yard ahead of me.

I threw myself face down in the gutter. The car lurched across the road, the on-side wheels missing me by about three feet. It crashed into a lamp standard.

I rolled over. The dark night lit up with the revolver flashes as my bodyguards came into action. Slugs hummed through the air, more glass in the car smashed. I hugged the road, feeling sweat on my face, scared silly. I listened to the thud of running footfalls. Lying still, my gun hand thrust forward, I looked over at the car.

The offside door hung open. I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure, crouching behind the car, then the riot gun opened up again and a stream of slugs passed just above me. I took a snapshot at the crouching figure. My bullet must have winged him for he dropped the gun and flopped on the sidewalk. His sharp yelp of pain made sweet music in my ears.

Peters and Scaife came running up.

‘He’s behind the car - watch out!’ I gasped.

Peters darted across the road while Scaife, taking no chances, sprinted up the road, crossed to the other side so he could get a safe, long shot at the gunman.

I saw the gunman snatch up the riot gun and I yelled a warning to Peters, who swerved. The gun chattered and Peters went down, his gun falling from his hands.

Scaife fired three times.

The gunman dropped the riot gun, tried to straighten, then dropped limply.

‘I got him!’ Scaife called.

Stiffly I got to my feet. My legs felt wobbly. The three detectives from the restaurant who had been crouching in the doorway, came over. The four of us joined Scaife on the far side of the car.

I looked at the dead man as he lay, still clutching on to the riot gun, on his back on the sidewalk. It was my hophead all right. His white face was a snarling mask of death.

‘There’s another guy in the car,’ I said.

Scaife looked in the car.

‘You got him with your first shot,’ he said, then went around the car and over to Peters, who was sitting up holding his arm and cursing.

Two patrol cars came roaring down the street, their sirens blasting. Creed got out of one of the cars and joined Scaife. They bent over Peters, then leaving Scaife to look after him, Creed came over to me.

‘You okay?’

‘Just about,’ I said, leaning against the wrecked car. ‘Is Peters badly hurt?’

‘He’ll be okay,’ Creed said and stared down at the dead gunman. ‘Is this your man?’

‘Yes. Ever seen him before?’

‘Can’t say I have.’

An ambulance came up and two more squad cars. By now there was a big crowd, gaping from the sidewalks.

Scaife came over.

‘Seen him before?’ Creed asked, nodding at the dead gunman.

‘He’s a new one on me,’ Scaife said.

‘Well, okay: the show’s over,’ Creed said. ‘You’d better get back to your hotel.’ This to me. ‘Go with him, Scaife. I don’t reckon they’ll try again, but we won’t take any chances for tonight.’

‘Come on, hero,’ Scaife said. ‘The excitement’s over. I told you it wasn’t going to be as bad as you thought.’

‘It was bad enough. Anyway, it’s given me something to throw in Bernie’s face for the rest of his life.’

I went with him to one of the police cars.

CHAPTER FIVE

I

N
othing happened of interest during the next three days. I knew there was bound to be a time lag before any results of Creed’s investigations bore fruit. He had given various police officers assignments to cover, and we had to wait for them to turn up something. He had men hunting for Henry Rutland and his cream and green Cadillac; other men digging into Fay Benson’s background; a squad hunting for the charm bracelet, and yet another bunch of men digging into the gunman’s past.

We couldn’t expect to learn anything immediately, and while we waited I sent Bernie back to New York to report in full to Fayette and to begin the first installment of our story. He went off with indecent haste, insisting on a bodyguard to the train.

I took the Crime Facts photographer, a guy named Judson around and got him to take pictures of Spencer, Mike’s bar, Joan Nichols’s apartment house, the miniature apple I got from Creed and pictures of the various police officers working on the case. All this took time, but when I was through I was satisfied I had a good collection of art to help Bernie’s article.

Judson flew back to New York on the evening of the third day after the shooting, and I drove over to police headquarters to see if any information had come in.

Scaife was in the charge room as I entered.

‘I was going to call you,’ he said. ‘The captain wants you.’

‘Has he got anything?’

‘He’s got something. He’ll tell you. Come on up.’

Creed was sitting at his desk, smoking a cigar when I entered his office. His heavy, hard face looked tired.

‘Come in,’ he said, fighting a yawn. ‘Well, we’re getting somewhere. Sit down.’

I sat down and Scaife leaned against the wall.

‘The gunman’s name’s Hank Flemming. He came from Frisco. He had a bad record, including six killings. He’s known to have hired himself out for shootings and beatings-up. For fifty bucks he’d have shot his own father. I guess someone hired him to knock you off. He’s a junky, and Doc says he was full of dope when he staged the shooting the other night. You were lucky to have come out of it alive.’

‘So we have to find the guy who hired him?’

‘That’s right, and it won’t be easy,’ Creed said, tapping ash off his cigar. ‘We’ve a pointer that might do us some good. Flemming had a return railroad ticket to Tampa City in his pocket. He left Frisco five days ago for Tampa City, then came on here. It could be he got his orders from someone in Tampa City.’

‘Do the Tampa City police know anything about him?’ I asked.

Creed scowled.

‘They say they don’t, but from past experience I’ve learned not to take much notice of what they say. They’re the most inefficient, uncooperative police force in the country. The

Commissioner, Ed Doonan, is hand in glove with the rackets, and believe me, the city is crawling with them. We’re not going to get any help from him.’

‘Did you get a line on Henry Rutland?’

Creed shook his head.

‘Not yet. The Cadillac distributing agents in this district tell me they have sold four hundred green and cream convertibles in the past three years. I have a list of the buyers, but it will be a job tracing them. Rutland’s name doesn’t appear on the list, but then that doesn’t surprise me. The name’s probably a phoney. My men are working on it, but it’ll take some time to check everyone on it.’ He fought back another yawn. ‘We’ve got a line on the charm bracelet. It was hocked three days after Fay Benson disappeared. Tierney’s, the local hockshop, handled it. Hesson sold it to them. The clerk recognized Hesson’s picture. The bracelet was sold again to an actress who is in Hollywood now. We’re contacting her. There’s no doubt that Hesson sold it.’

‘Nothing on Fay Benson yet?’

‘A little: could be something. You saw the pictures we had printed in the national papers? We got a heap of letters and they are still coming in. People claim to know her, but I guess most of them will turn out to be cranks. One guy says he thinks he recognizes her, although she was dark haired when he knew her. He’s not at all sure, and it might be a false lead, but I’m hoping it isn’t. He says she did a job for him once. Guess where.’

‘Tampa City?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, that’s not bad for three days’ work. What are you going to do? Will Tampa City police dig further for you?’

‘I doubt it,’ Creed said, scowling. ‘I’ve never known them yet to work with me. They’ll promise the world, but nothing ever gets done.’

‘Suppose I go out there and see what I can dig up?’

Creed nodded.

‘I was going to suggest that. We’d get on quicker. You’ll have to watch your step. Doonan hates private investigators worse than he hates poison. They are a tough bunch of boys, and they might discourage you if they know what you’re up to.’

‘I’ll watch out,’ I said. ‘Know anyone there who could be helpful?’

‘You might do worse than call on Don Bradley. He used to be chief of police at Tampa City before he retired. He’s a good guy; one of the best police officers in the country. He was retired two years before his time. He had trouble with Doonan about some murder case. I never did hear the details, but he would be helpful. I’ll give you a letter to him.’

‘Fine. I’ll get off today.’

‘There may be nothing in this, Sladen. This guy who’s written to us has probably made a mistake. If it wasn’t that Flemming had a return ticket to Tampa City I’d say he had made a mistake.’

‘Who is he?’

‘His name’s Lennox Hartley. He lives at 246, Cannon Avenue, Tampa City.’

I made a note of the name and address. ‘I’ll talk to him.’

A tap sounded on the door and Scaife opened it. A policeman said something to him; Scaife nodded and turned to Creed. ‘There’s a guy outside, captain, who says he knows something about Flemming. Want to see him?’

‘You bet,’ Creed said, pushing back his chair. ‘Shoot him in.’

A minute or so later, a short, fat man came in, uneasily twirling his hat between red, roughened fingers. He was wearing brown corduroy trousers, and an old, stained coat and a cowboy shirt.

‘My name’s Ted Sperry, captain,’ he said, nervously. ‘I saw the picture of the gunman in the paper. He came to see me about a year ago. I thought I’d better come along, but if I’m wasting your time.’

‘Sit down, Mr. Sperry,’ Creed said. ‘What’s your line of business?’

Rather surprisingly, Sperry said he was a market gardener.

‘I have a nursery out on Dalmatian Road, captain. I sell fruit trees and garden equipment. I have a pretty nice little business. Me and the wife run it between us.’

‘You say Flemming called on you? You’re sure it was Flemming?’

‘I’m sure it was the man in the picture, captain. As soon as I saw him I wondered what he wanted. He struck me then he wasn’t any good.’

‘What did he want?’

‘I’ve been working up a new line, and it’s paid off pretty well: growing strawberry plants in barrels. I’ve been selling the equipment, and I’ve advertised widely. This guy said he’d read my advertisement and he was interested. I supply the plants, the barrel with the necessary holes in it, and the soil. It’s been a pretty fast selling line: saves space and keeps the slugs off the fruit.’

‘Sounds fine,’ Creed said a little impatiently. ‘But Flemming didn’t want strawberry plants, did he?’

‘No, he didn’t. He just wanted the barrel. We got into an argument. I told him I didn’t sell the barrel without the plants or the soil. I make my profit on the plants and soil. The barrel I put in at cost.’

The three of us were listening now with interest.

‘What happened then?’ Creed asked.

‘We argued back and forth. He said he had strawberry plants. I didn’t believe him. A guy like him wouldn’t even have a garden. I can tell a gardener a mile off. Well, in the end, he agreed to pay me for the whole outfit and just take the barrel. He collected it in a truck the next day.’

‘Do you remember the exact date, Mr. Sperry?’

‘Yes. I looked it up before I came here. It was August 17th.’

Creed looked over at me: the date Fay Benson disappeared.

‘You didn’t get the number of the truck?’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t. Was it important?’

‘Maybe not. What kind of truck was it?’

‘A green, open truck; a one tonner. I didn’t notice much about it.’

Creed looked at Scaife.

‘Take Mr. Sperry to the morgue. Let him see Flemming, I want to be sure he identifies him.’ He got up and shook hands with Sperry. ‘Thanks for coming. If every citizen acted the way you’ve done, my work would be a lot easier.’

When Scaife had led Sperry, beaming and perspiring, from the office, I said, ‘A barrel - that doesn’t look too good for Fay Benson, does it?’

‘That was what I was thinking,’ Creed said, his eyes thoughtful. ‘I wonder if anyone in town sold him cement.’ He picked up the telephone and gave instructions for all cement sellers in the district to be checked. When he hung up, he went on to me, ‘That’s probably why we never turned up her body. She’s somewhere in a cement overcoat.’