Free 1957 - The Guilty Are Afraid by James Hadley Chase Page A

the traffic lights.
    I thanked him and went down the steps to where I had left the Buick.
     

Chapter 5
     
    I
     
    T he Franklyn Arms turned out to be one of those snooty, high-toned apartment blocks reserved only for those in the upper social register, and who have more than a six-figure income.
    There were, at a guess, not more than thirty apartments in the block. The building was three stories high, and sat with the dignity of a dowager duchess in an elaborately cultivated acre of land with lawns, a fountain in which stood a reproduction of Donatello’s Boy with a Dolphin, floodlit to underline the architect’s good taste, and set beds with silver centaurea and sky blue petunias.
    I steered the Buick into a vacant space between a Silver Wraith and a Silver Dawn Rolls-Royce, got out and walked past a Continental Bentley, a sixty-two coupe Cadillac, and a Packard Clipper. There was enough money rolled up in all that hardware to keep me happy for ten years.
    I pushed my way through the revolving doors into an oak-panelled lobby decorated with carnations growing in chromium-plated boxes set against the walls, and a small fountain with half a dozen well-fed, contented-looking goldfish swimming in the lighted water.
    Over in the far corner was the reception desk behind which stood a tall blond man in an immaculate tuxedo, who wore a bored, disdainful expression on his handsome, effeminate face.
    I went over to him and gave him one of my friendly smiles. This was probably a mistake, for he reared back as if I had hung a decayed fish under his aristocratic nose.
    “Miss Creedy please,” I said.
    He fingered his immaculate tie while his brown eyes travelled over me. He would know to the exact cent what my suit, tie, shirt and hat cost. The valuation didn’t seem to impress him.
    “Is Miss Creedy expecting you?”
    “No. Will you call her and tell her I have just been talking to her father and would now appreciate a word with her. The name is Lew Brandon.”
    He tapped his beautifully manicured fingernails on the top of the polished counter while he thought. From the strained expression in his eyes, I could tell this was a process that would never come naturally to him.
    “Perhaps you had better write first,” he said at length. He lifted his arm and consulted a solid gold Omega. “It is a little late for a call.”
    “Look, buster,” I said, making my voice suddenly tough, “you may be a thing of beauty, but don’t kid yourself you’re a joy forever. Just call Miss Creedy and let her make her own decisions.”
    He stared at me for a brief moment, surprise and alarm in his eyes, then he went into a room behind the counter and shut the door.
    I took a cigarette from my pack and pasted it on my lower lip. I wondered if he were going to call the law. I’d look pretty sick if some ambitious cop rushed me down to headquarters on a charge of annoying the elite of St. Raphael City. But a couple of minutes later, he came out looking as if he had swallowed a bee. He indicated an automatic elevator across the way and said curtly, “Second floor. Apartment seven.” Then, tossing his blond curls, he turned his back on me.
    I found apartment seven after walking down a long oak-panelled corridor. As I paused outside the front door, I could hear a radio playing something from Mozart. I pushed the bell button, and after a moment or so the door was opened by an elderly, pleasant-looking woman in a black silk dress and a frilled white apron.
    “Mr. Brandon?”
    “Yes.”
    I surrendered my hat as I walked into a small hall, which was furnished with an oval-shaped table on which stood a silver bowl of orchids.
    The maid opened a door, said, “Mr. Brandon,” and stood aside for me to enter.
    I walked into a big lounge, decorated in white and apricot. The walls and drapes and the leather lounging chairs were in apricot; the carpet and Miss Creedy were in white.
    She stood by a big radiogram, looking towards me, slim and quite tall,