‘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
In 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.
The time by the clock above the reception desk was twelve twenty-two. There was no sign of the thickset cop who had been sitting in the basket chair when I left the hotel. The reception clerk handed me my key. He looked past me, remote and distant, as if I hadn’t settled my account for the past six months.
As I crossed the lobby to the elevator the house dick materialized from behind a pillar.
‘Have they gone home or are they waiting for me in my room?’ I asked him out of the corner of my mouth.
‘They’ve gone home,’ he told me. ‘They’ve put a tap on your telephone line. This hotel has got a reputation. I guess you’ll want to move out tomorrow.’
‘Don’t tell me you want my room?’
‘I don’t, but the manager does.’
‘Okay, so I move out.’
I rode up in the elevator, unlocked my door and turned on the electric light. I was a little jumpy and wouldn’t have been surprised to find a couple of tough cops waiting for me, but the room was empty. I shut the door, crossed over to the bottle of Scotch and poured out two fingers of liquor. I took the drink to the armchair and sat down. There was no point in trying to find another hotel. I wouldn’t be allowed to stay. The pressure was on. I was being firmly eased out of town. If I bucked, I would run into trouble.
The memory of Sergeant Lassiter’s methods of persuasion made me feel lonely. I wished Bernie was with me to give me some moral support. I spent a hide time nursing my drink and turning the situation over in my mind. I finally decided to leave town in the morning and sneak back when it was dark. Bradley had said Sam Benn would hole me up if I wanted to go underground, and that seemed my best bet. I couldn’t hope to get anywhere if I worked in the open. From now on, I would have to do my investigating the hard way.
The sudden clamour of the telephone bell made me start so violently I slopped my drink. I reached for receiver.
‘This is Sladen,’ I said.
‘There you are,’ a voice I recognized said. ‘Suzy gave me your telephone number. If you’ve got nothing better to do, old fella, come out here and have a drink. I’ve a theory that might interest you.’
I had a mental picture of a hard-faced cop straining to catch every word, and I said sharply, ‘Don’t mention your name, and don’t say anything more. I’ll be out right away.’
‘What’s the excitement?’ Lennox Hartley asked, mildly interested. ‘Is someone listening on the line?’
‘Could be,’ I said. ‘I’ll be right over,’ and I hung up.
On my way down to the lobby, I wondered why he had called me at this hour. It was quite a run out to Cannon Avenue. I decided to take the Buick. If the police tailed me I stood a better chance of losing them if I did my own driving.
The garage was at the back of the hotel. A solitary light in the rafters made a yellow halo that was surrounded by shadows and darkness. The garage attendant came out of his office, sleepy eyed and surly. He told me where I could find the Buick, then went back to his disturbed doze. I drove out of the garage with only the parkers on and headed along the beach road. I drove for a half a mile, my attention focused on the driving mirror. No headlights came after me. I turned off the beach road and drove into the town.
The traffic was light now. A few nightclubs, an all night movie house and several cafes still showed signs of activity. The clock on the dashboard showed ten minutes past one. I drove aimlessly around, keeping to the back
