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
Arcadia 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
