James Chase - I'll Bury My Dead

Lois laughed.

“He’ll find something.” She looked up at Vince, seeing a square-shouldered man of medium height, around thirty-three, with a crew hair-cut, pale brown eyes that looked worried and uneasy, a good mouth and chin and a straight narrow nose. “You’ve done pretty well for yourself, too, Harry.”

He nodded.

“Thanks to Mr. English. I’m not kidding myself. If he hadn’t given me the chance I would have been still sweating my guts out as an accountant with no prospects. You know, sometimes, I just can’t believe I’m his general manager. I can’t make out why the devil he ever gave me the job.”

“He has a good eye for talent,” Lois said. “He didn’t give you the job because he liked the way you wear your clothes, Harry. You earn your money.”

“I guess I do,” Vince said, running his fingers through his close-cut hair. “Look at the awful hours we keep.” He glanced at his wrist-watch. “Eleven fifteen. This shindig’s going on until two o’clock at least.” He finished his champagne, waved the bottle at Lois. “Have some more?”

She shook her head.

“No, thank you. Does he seem to be enjoying himself?”

“You know what he’s like. He’s been standing around all evening watching the other guys drink. Every so often he puts in a word here and there. He acts like he has just dropped in on somebody else’s party. Abe Mendelssohn has been trying to corner him for the past hour, but he’s having no luck.”

Lois laughed.

“He wants Mr. English to finance his women wrestlers.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Vince said. “I’ve seen some of those babes wrestle. I wouldn’t mind getting a job as their trainer. I’d like to have the chance of showing them a few holds.”

“Better talk to Mr. English. He might give you the job.”

The telephone buzzer sounded.

Lois pushed in a plug and picked up the harness she had laid on the desk.

“English Promotions,” she said. “Good evening.”

She listened while Vince watched her. He saw one of her dark eyebrows lift in surprise.

“I’ll ask him to speak to you, Lieutenant,” she said, and laid down the harness. “Harry, would you tell Mr. English Lieutenant Morilli of the Homicide Bureau is calling? He wants a personal word.”

“These coppers!” Vince said, grimacing. “Wants some favor, I’ll bet. A couple of fight dockets or free seats for a show. You don’t want me to disturb Mr. English to talk to that chiseller, do you?”

She nodded, her eyes serious.

“Please tell him it’s urgent, Harry.”

He gave her a quick look, then slid off the desk.

“Okay.”

He went across the big room and pushed open the door that led into Nick English’s private office. The uproar of voices surged past him as he went in.

Lois said, “I’m getting Mr. English now.”

At the other end of the line Morilli grunted.

“Better get his car to the door, Miss Marshall,” he said. “When he hears what I’ve got to tell him he’ll want some fast action.”

Lois thanked him, plugged in another line and told the garage attendant who answered to have Mr. English’s car at the front entrance right away.

As she pulled out the plug, Nick English came out of his office, followed by Vince.

English was six foot three in his socks, and broad, giving the appearance of massiveness without fat. He was on the right side of forty, and his hair was jet-black, cut short and inclined to curl. There were white streaks on each side of his temples that helped to soften an otherwise hard and relentless face. He had a high broad forehead, a short blunt nose, a thin mouth and a square dimpled chin. His eyes were wide set, pale blue and piercing. He was arresting to look at without being handsome, and gave an immediate impression of granite-hard strength.

Lois moved away from the switch-board, indicating a telephone on a nearby desk.

“Lieutenant Morilli is on that line, Mr. English.”

English lifted the receiver.

“What’s on your mind, Lieutenant?”

Lois moved quickly over to Vince.

“Better get Chuck out here, Harry. I think he’ll be needed.”

Vince nodded and went into the inner office.

Lois heard English say, “When did it happen?”

She looked anxiously at the big man as he leaned over the desk, frowning into space, his long fingers tapping on the blotter.

She had known Nick English now for five years. She had first met him after he had thrown up an engineering job in South America and had opened a small office in Chicago to promote a gyroscope compass he had invented to be used in petroleum drilling operations. He had engaged her to run the office while he had walked the streets in search of the necessary capital to manufacture the compass.

There had been difficulties, but she had quickly learned that difficulties and disappointments only made English work harder. She discovered he had an undefeatable spirit. There had been times when she had gone without salary and he had gone without food. His optimism and determination had been infectious. She knew he must succeed. No one who worked as hard as he did could fail to succeed. But it had been a year of no rewards and constant setbacks and had forged a link between them that she had never forgotten, but at times, she wondered if he had forgotten. Finally the compass had been financed and had proved a success. English had sold his invention for two hundred thousand dollars plus a royalty on future sales that still brought him in a comfortable income.

He had then looked around for other inventions to promote, and during the next three years he built up a reputation for himself as a man who could get money out of a stone. With his newly acquired capital, he broadened his scope, and went into the entertainment business, promoting small shows and nightclub cabarets, and then branching out to bigger and more ambitious shows.

Money began to pour in, and he formed companies. More money poured in and he took over the lease of two theatres and a dozen night clubs. Later, when money became almost an embarrassment, he moved into the political field. It was his money that put Senator Henry Beaumont into power and was keeping him in office.

Looking at English now, Lois realized just how far he had come and what a power he had become, though she regretted his rise to a height where she could no longer be of real use to him, when she was just one of many who served him.

Vince came out of the inner office with Chuck Eagan, who drove English’s car and did any job that English wanted done without argument or question.

He was a small, jockey-sized man in his late thirties. He had sandy-colored hair, a red, freckled face, stony eyes and quick, smooth movements. He was looking at his worst at the moment: a tuxedo didn’t suit him.

“What’s cooking?” he asked out of the side of his mouth, edging up to Lois. “I was enjoying myself.”

She shook her head at him.

English said into the telephone mouthpiece: “I’ll be right over. Leave things as they are until I get there. I’ll be less than ten minutes.”

Chuck stifled a groan.

“The car?” he asked, looking at Lois.

“At the door,” she told him.

English hung up. As he turned the three stiffened slightly, their eyes on his, waiting for instructions. His solid sun-tanned face told them nothing, but his blue eyes were hard as he said, “Get the car, Chuck. I want to be away at once.”

“It’s waiting, boss,” Chuck said. “I’ll meet you downstairs,” and he went out of the room.

“Let those jackals finish the case of Scotch, and then get rid of them,” English said to Vince. “Tell them I’ve been called away.”

“Yes, Mr. English,” Vince said and went into the inner office. As he opened the door the noise of laughter and voices came into the silent outer office with a violence that made English scowl.