Read Online 1954 - Safer Dead by James Hadley Chase - Free Book Online
Authors: James Hadley Chase
Ads: Link
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
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
Similar Books
