James Chase - I'll Bury My Dead

English read the card.

“Chuck will.” He flicked the card with his finger nail. “Did he have any money on him?”

“Four bucks,” Morilli said.

English took the wallet from Morilli’s hand, glanced into it, then put it in his pocket.

“I’ll see his wife. Can you get one of your men to clean up here? I may be sending someone down to check his files.”

“I’ll fix it, Mr. English.”

“So you heard he was short of money,” English said. “How did you hear that, Lieutenant?”

Morilli scratched the side of his jaw, his dark eyes uneasy.

“The commissioner mentioned it. He knew I knew him, and he told me to have a word with him. I was going to see him tomorrow.”

English took the cigar from between his teeth and touched the ash off onto the floor.

“A word about what?”

Morilli looked away.

“He had been worrying people for money.”

English stared at him.

“What people?”

“Two or three clients he had worked for last year. They complained to the commissioner. I’m sorry to tell you this, Mr. English, but he was going to lose his licence.”

English nodded his head. His eyes narrowed.

“So the commissioner wanted you to talk to him. Why didn’t the commissioner speak to me instead of you, Lieutenant?”

“I told him he should,” Morilli said, a faint flush rising up his neck and flooding his pale face. “But he isn’t an easy man to talk to.”

English smiled suddenly; it wasn’t a pleasant smile.

“Nor am I.”

“What I’ve told you, Mr. English, is off the record,” Morilli said quickly. “The commissioner would have my hide if he knew I…”

“All right, forget it,” English broke in. He looked at the body. “It won’t bring him back to life, will it?”

“That’s right,” Morilli said, relaxing a little. “Still off the record, he would have lost his licence at the end of the week.”

“For trying to raise money from old clients?” English asked sharply.

“I guess he was pretty desperate for money. He threatened one party. She wouldn’t bring a charge, but it was near blackmail as damn it.”

The muscles either side of English’s jaw stood out suddenly.

“We’d better have a talk about this some other time. I won’t hold you up now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yes, Mr. English,” Morilli said.

As English crossed to the door, Morilli went on, “I hear your boy won his fight. Congratulations.”

English paused.

“That’s right. By the way, I told Vince to put a bet on for you. A hundred’s brought you three. Look in tomorrow and see Vince. He’ll pay you cash.” His eyes met Morilli’s. “Okay?”

Morilli flushed.

“Why, that’s pretty nice of you, Mr. English. I meant to lay a bet…”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have the time. I know how it is. Well, I didn’t forget you. I like to look after my friends. Glad you won.”

He walked into the outer office, and into the passage. He jerked his head at Chuck and stepped into the elevator.

Morilli and the two detectives stood in the doorway and watched the elevator descend.

“Didn’t seem to care much,” one of the detectives said as he walked into the office again.

“What did you expect him to do?” Morilli said coldly. “Burst into tears?”

III

English had only met Roy’s wife once, and that casually at a cocktail party more than a year ago.

He remembered he hadn’t thought much of her, but was prepared to admit prejudice. She had struck him as a dolly-faced girl of nineteen or twenty with a strident voice and an irritating habit of calling everyone “darling.” But there was no doubt at the time that she had been very much in love with Roy, and he wondered, as he sat hunched up in the Cadillac, whether that love had survived.

It was characteristic of English not to let Morilli break the news to her of her husband’s death. He never allowed himself to shirk any unpleasant task. It would have been easy to have let a police officer see her first, and then call on her, but he had no wish to avoid his responsibilities. Roy was his brother, and Roy’s wife was entitled to hear the news from him, and from no one else.

He glanced out of the window.

Chuck had turned off the main road, and was driving with easy assurance down an avenue lined on either side by small, smart bungalows. Chuck had a brilliantly developed sense of direction. He seemed to know instinctively whether he was driving north or east as if his brain housed a compass. He never appeared to consult a map nor had English ever known him to ask the way.

“This is the joint, boss.” Chuck said suddenly. “The white house by the lamp post.”

He slowed down, swung the car to the curb and pulled up outside a small, white bungalow.

A light showed in one of the upper rooms through the drawn curtains.

English got out of the car, hunching his broad shoulders against the cold wind. He left his hat and coat in the car, and tossed his cigar into the gutter. For some seconds he looked at the bungalow, conscious of surprise and irritation.

For someone who was desperately short of money, Roy had certainly picked himself a luxurious dwelling-place. That was like Roy, English thought sourly, no sense of responsibility. If he wanted anything he had it and worried about paying for it after he had got it; if he worried at all.

English opened the gate and walked up the path to the front door. On either side of the path were dormant rose trees. The neat flowerbeds were packed with daffodils and narcissi.

He pressed the bell push and listened to the loud peal of chimes that the bell push started into life, and he grimaced. Those kind of refinements irritated him.

There was a little delay. He stood in the porch, waiting, aware that Chuck was watching him curiously from the car. Then he heard someone coming, and the door opened a few inches on the chain.

“Who is that?” a woman’s voice asked sharply.

“Nick English,” he returned.

“Who?” He caught the startled note in her voice.

“Roy’s brother,” he said, feeling a surge of irritation run through him at having to associate himself with Roy.

The chain slid back and the door opened and an overhead light flashed up.

Corrine English hadn’t altered a scrap since he had last seen her. Looking at her, he found himself thinking she would probably look like this in thirty years’ time. She was small and very blond, and her body was pleasantly plump with provocative curves. She was wearing a rose-pink silk wrap over black lounging pyjamas. When she saw he was looking at her, her fingers went hastily to her corn-colored curls, patting them swiftly while she stared at him with a surprised, rather vacant expression in her big blue eyes that reminded him of the eyes of a startled baby.

“Hello, Corinne,” he said. “Can I come in?”

“Well, I don’t know,” she said. “Roy’s not back yet. I’m alone. Did you want to see him?”

He restrained his irritation with an effort.

“I think I had better come in,” he said as gently as he could. “You’ll catch cold standing here. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

“Oh?” Her eyes opened a trifle wider. “Hadn’t you better see Roy? I don’t think I want to hear any bad news. Roy doesn’t like me to be worried.”

He thought how typical that was of her. She could live in this smart little bungalow, dress like a Hollywood starlet while Roy was apparently desperate for money, and could say without shame that he didn’t want her to be worried.

“You’ll catch cold,” he said, and moved forward, riding her back into the little lobby. He closed the door. “I’m afraid this bad news is for you, and only for you.”