1954 - Safer Dead (8 page)

I got up and went over to the wall map.

‘Is there any local water around where he could have dumped her?’

Creed joined me. He tapped the map.

‘Here; that’s Lake Baldock. There’s about sixty foot of water in the middle. It’s a favourite spot for picnic parties, and it’s only two miles from here.’

‘Anywhere else?’

‘Only the reservoir, and he wouldn’t try there because they are continually dragging it. Besides, there’s a high fence all around it. If she’s anywhere in water, she’ll be in Lake Baldock.’

‘Do we go and look?’

Creed scratched his head as he stared at the map.

‘I guess so. One of my men has a frogman’s outfit. He can take a look, and if he sees anything we’ll have to rig up some kind of hoist. That barrel’s going to be heavy.’

‘I’ll stick around, captain, until he’s had a look,’ I said. ‘No point in leaving town with this coming up. It’ll make headlines if we find her. When will you do it?’

‘Not before tomorrow. It’s too late in the day now. We don’t want a crowd watching us. I’ll start at six o’clock tomorrow.’

It meant my getting up at five o’clock and my instincts recoiled at the thought, but I could see it wouldn’t be wise to argue about it.

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’ll be there at six.’

II

T
he sun was climbing above the belt of trees as I drove up to the two cars parked near the stretch of water, known as Lake Baldock. It was a pretty spot, surrounded by weeping willows that leaned over the still water which reflected their leafy, green heads. I got out of the car and joined Scaife who was leaning against a tree, placidly smoking.

‘Pretty nice spot, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I bet you hated getting up at this time in the morning.’

‘Well, I did, but it’s worth it. I didn’t know the day could smell so nice.’ I looked over to where Creed, two cops and a guy who was putting on a frogman’s outfit were standing.

‘I’d leave them alone,’ Scaife said. ‘The old man is never at his best in the mornings, and he didn’t get to bed until three o’clock.’

I sat on the bank, nursing a miniature camera I had brought along.

‘I want some art for my rag, but I’ll wait until they come back.’

We watched Creed, the two cops and the frogman embark in a small rowing boat. The two cops rowed out to the middle of the lake, then the frogman lowered himself into the water and disappeared.

‘I bet it’s cold,’ Scaife said, huddling further into his overcoat. ‘I’m glad I didn’t tell the captain what I did during the war. He’s got a long memory. Harris thought he would get promotion if he told the old man what a hero he had been, but all he’s getting is a cold bath. Ugh!’

I reached down and dipped my fingers in the water.

‘Oh, it’s not that bad. I wouldn’t say it is more than ten degrees below freezing.’

Scaife laughed heartlessly.

‘It’ll do him good.’

We sat side-by-side, smoking and watching the little boat for twenty minutes or so, then suddenly Harris’s head appeared above the surface. He swam up to the boat, hauled himself in. He and Creed talked for a moment or so, then the two cops began to row towards shore.

‘Think he’s found something?’ I said, getting to my feet.

‘Must have. Creed would have sent him down again if he hadn’t,’ Scaife said, joining me.

We walked along the bank and waited for the boat to reach shore.

‘There’s a barrel down there,’ Creed said, his heavy face excited. ‘No doubt about it, and it’s full of cement.’

I took a photograph of Harris who was trying to stop his teeth from chattering. I had already taken a couple of the lake.

‘Going to get it up right away?’ I asked.

‘We’ll get it tonight,’ Creed said. ‘I don’t want everyone in town here. Keep your traps shut about this. I think the girl’s down there, but I don’t want any publicity until we know for certain.’

I got in his car and drove off.

‘I told you he wasn’t too sweet this morning, didn’t I?’ Scaife said, grinning. He looked over to Harris. ‘Like your dip?’

Harris’s reply was unprintable.

I drove Scaife back to town.

‘Even if we do bring her up,’ I said, as we drove along, ‘we’re a long way from finding her killer. Okay, Flemming did the actual job, but it looks as if someone paid him to do it, doesn’t it?’

‘Yeah. He had no reason to kill her as far as we know. Well, it’s not my headache, thank goodness,’ Scaife said. ‘There’s a lot to be said for just being a police sergeant. I wouldn’t want Creed’s job right now. We’ve got to find out more about this girl. We’ve got to find out if anyone had a reason for getting rid of her. From what we do know, she doesn’t sound the type to cause trouble, but then one never knows. Still waters run deep so they say.’

‘You talk like that and you’ll turn into a writer,’ I said, grinning. ‘Then you’ll have to work for a living.’ I pulled up outside headquarters. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

‘Come out to the lake about nine. I’ll be there. Getting that barrel up is going to be hard work. You might come in useful,’ Scaife said, getting out of the car. ‘So long for now.’

As I had nothing better to do, and as the night ahead threatened to be a long and hard one, I drove to the hotel and went back to bed.

I slept until three in the afternoon, then I drove down to the police headquarters.

I found Scaife in his cubbyhole of an office, going through the Benson dossier. An ashtray, crammed with cigarette butts, told me he had been working most of the morning on it.

‘Found anything?’ I said, sitting down.

‘You again?’ he said, pushing back his chair. ‘No, not a thing. I hope we don’t find this girl. It’ll be tough if we do. There’s no link I can see that makes sense as to why Flemming was hired to kill her.’

‘Don’t you think he killed Joan Nichols and Farmer as well?’

Scaife nodded.

‘I guess so. Anyway, it looks like it, although we’ve got no evidence.’

‘I can understand Farmer getting knocked off,’ I said. ‘He had something to do with the kidnapping; Hesson too, but I can’t see why Joan Nichols died.’

‘The coroner said it was an accident,’ Scaife said patiently.

‘I don’t believe it. She inquired about Fay Benson, then went home and broke her neck. It’s too smooth. You people working on her?’

‘We haven’t anything to work on. Creed is leaving her lie until we can hook her into the case if we ever can.’

‘What about these other eight girls who went to Paris? Are they local girls?’

‘One of them is.’ Scaife flicked over the pages of the dossier. ‘Her name’s Janet Shelley. She lives at 25, Arcadia Drive.’

‘Have you seen her?’

‘Not yet. We’ve more important leads to cover. We’ll get around to her.’

‘I think Joan Nichols may be important. I’ve got a spare afternoon. I guess I’ll go and talk to this Shelley girl. Any objection?’

‘I haven’t, but don’t quote me,’ Scaife said, grinning. ‘Go and see her if you want to. I’ve got to get on. The old man is still sour tempered. He wouldn’t be pleased if he knew I was spending all my time talking to you.’

I got to my feet.

‘If I turn up anything, I’ll let you know.’

‘My pal,’ Scaife said sarcastically and settled down once more to brood over the bulky file.

III

A
rcadia Drive was a quiet street on the outskirts of the town. A row of bungalows faced a large vacant lot, overgrown with weeds and dead grass, and on which stood several large advertising hoardings.

The bungalows might have been attractive when they had first been erected, but now they were past their prime. They had the dejected look of a man with a shrinking income, trying to keep up appearances and knowing he won’t be able to hold on much longer.

Already some of the owners of the bungalows had given up the pretence of being middle class. Two of the front gardens of the bungalows displayed a line of washing, and the gardens were competing in appearance with the vacant lot opposite.

No. 25 was still making a brave show. The lawn had been recently cut, and although the paintwork was at its last gasp, the curtains were bright and clean.

I dug my thumb into the bell push. There was a delay before the front door opened. A girl, blonde, bright looking, with the standard prettiness you would expect from a girl who earns her living in show business, looked inquiringly at me. She had on a blue housecoat, pulled in tight at her waist, and her small feet were in quilted satin blue bed slippers.

‘Miss Shelley?’ I said, raising my hat.

‘Yes. If you’re hoping to sell something you’re wasting your time,’ she said briskly. ‘Don’t tell me I haven’t warned you.’

‘I’m not selling anything. I’m Chet Sladen from Crime Facts. Ever read our paper. Miss Shelley?’

‘I don’t like crime.’

‘That’s as good a reason as any. I want to ask you a few questions. Would you mind? I’m trying to get some background dope on Joan Nichols.’

She lifted blonde, nicely shaped eyebrows.

‘But Joan’s dead. She died more than a year ago.’

‘That’s right. Would it be convenient if I stepped inside? I won’t keep you long.’

She stood aside.

‘If this is a stunt to rob me,’ she said, smiling, ‘it’ll be a waste of time. I haven’t anything of value in the house.’

I took out my billfold and gave her one of my business cards.

‘If that doesn’t set your mind at rest, you can call up Sergeant Scaife at police headquarters. He’ll vouch for me.’

She laughed.

‘Well, you do read odd things in the papers. Come in. I’m sorry I can’t offer you a drink.’ She led the way into the sitting room that was spick and span, but austere. It contained only the bare necessities. ‘Do sit down. I hope you won’t keep me long, I’ve got to go out in a little while.’

‘I won’t keep you long,’ I said, sitting down in an armchair that looked comfortable, but turned out to be far from it. If she had told me it had been stuffed with rocks I shouldn’t have been surprised. I took from my billfold the photograph of Fay Benson and offered it to her. ‘Ever seen this girl before?’

She took the photograph, studied it, shook her head and handed it back.

‘I don’t think I have. Her face is familiar, but that doesn’t mean anything. So many girls in show business look like that.’

I thought about this, studied Fay Benson’s features and was inclined to agree with her.

‘You’re sure she wasn’t one of the girls in your troupe when you went to Paris?’

‘Oh no, I’m quite sure of that.’

‘Joan Nichols went with you?’

‘Yes. It would be much more fun for me, Mr. Sladen, if I knew what this was all about.’

‘Sorry; briefly, this girl, Fay Benson, disappeared fourteen months ago under mysterious circumstances. Joan Nichols seemed to have known her. Anyway, she called at Fay’s hotel three days after Fay had disappeared. Miss Nichols asked the reception clerk to let her know if Fay showed up. She then returned to her apartment, fell downstairs and broke her neck.’

‘I know she fell downstairs,’ Janet Shelley said, looking questioningly at me. ‘It was an accident, wasn’t it?’

‘The coroner said so; the police think so, but I’m not so sure. She could have been pushed.’

‘But why - why do you think that?’

‘It’d take too long to go into now, Miss Shelley. I may be wrong, but I don’t think so. I’m trying to find out if Miss Nichols was a friend or just an acquaintance of Fay’s. Would you know?’

She shook her head.

‘She never mentioned Fay Benson to me.’

‘Were you and Miss Nichols friends?’

‘Not particularly. She was rather difficult. None of the girls got on well with her.’

‘In what way - difficult?’

She hesitated, then shrugged.

‘I don’t like gossiping about people, but as she’s dead, I don’t suppose it matters. She was always short of money. She tried to borrow from us. After all, we were all hard up, and we had to make do with what we were paid, but Joan would never stint herself. She was always in debt, always worrying someone for a loan. If she didn’t get it, she could be rather horrible. She had a very sharp tongue.’

‘What did she spend her money on?’

Janet Shelley shrugged.

‘What do girls spend their money on? She never went without a thing. Of course, she had to dress better than we other girls. She moved in a better circle. She had an amazing talent for making friends with people with money. When she was in Paris she got friendly with Mrs. Cornelia Van Blake, the millionaire’s wife. Don’t ask me how she did it, but she did. Twice she went to Mrs. Van Blake’s hotel and had dinner with her. She borrowed a dress from me for the occasion, and somehow she squeezed twenty dollars out of some of the girls to put on a front. They never did get their money back, and I had a lot of trouble getting my dress back.’

All this wasn’t interesting me very much, but I let her talk in the hope she would say something eventually that would be news to me.

‘Did you ever see her with a tall, suntanned guy around thirty-five who has an eyebrow moustache?’ I asked hopefully.

She shook her head.

‘No. She didn’t have any young boy friends. All her male friends were old: business men; sugar daddies if you like.’

For a girl who didn’t like gossiping about people she was doing all right, I thought.

‘Have you ever met a guy who fits that description? His name might be Henry Rutland. He owns a cream and green Cadillac.’

She laughed ruefully.

‘I wish I had. He sounds fun. My boy friends never run to more than a Ford.’

There didn’t seem any use my wasting her time or mine any further. I was getting nowhere fast.

‘Did Miss Nichols have any enemies, do you know?’ I asked as a final question.

‘I should say she had a flock of them, but none of them would want to kill her. All they’d want to do would be to avoid her.’

‘Okay,’ I said getting up. I was glad to be out of the armchair. ‘I’m sorry to have taken up your time, but it’s been nice to meet you.’ I looked around the austere room, then at her. ‘I’m going to embarrass you, Miss Shelley. My editor doesn’t expect me to waste people’s time asking all sorts of questions for nothing.’ I fished out two tens, folded them and put them on the table. ‘That represents a fee for information.’