James Chase - I'll Bury My Dead

“That’s all right, Mr. English.”

“Take Harry with you. I don’t want you to be there alone.”

Morilli came in.

“Hold on a moment,” English said, turned and asked Morilli, “Did you lock up when you left?”

Morilli shook his head.

“I left a patrolman on duty. The keys are in the top left-hand drawer of his desk.”

English relayed this information to Lois.

“The address is 1356 7th Street. The office is on the sixth floor. It’s called the Alert Agency.”

She said she would go over there right away, and hung up.

English put down the receiver, took out his cigar case and offered it to Morilli. When the two men had lit cigars, English said, “Is it his gun?”

Morilli nodded.

“I’ve had a word with the doc. He says the wound was self-inflicted. Your brother’s prints are on the gun. There are powder burns on the side of his face.”

English nodded, his eyes thoughtful.

“I’m satisfied if you are, Mr. English,” Morilli said, after a short silence.

English nodded again.

“Sounds all right. There’ll be an inquest?”

“Eleven-thirty tomorrow morning. Did he have a secretary?”

English shrugged.

“I don’t know. He may have had. His wife will be able to tell you, but don’t bother her now. She’s upset.”

Morilli fidgeted with the desk blotter, pushing it straight.

“The coroner will want evidence that he was short of money. Unless the commissioner insists, I don’t want to give evidence myself, Mr. English. There’s no need to tell the coroner what your brother was up to.”

English nodded, his mouth hard.

“The commissioner won’t insist. I’ll have a word with him tomorrow morning. I think I’d better get Sam Crail to talk to Mrs. English. There’s no point in telling the world he was short of money. He could have been worried by overwork.”

Morilli didn’t say anything.

English leaned forward and picked up the telephone. He dialled a number and waited, frowning.

Sam Crail, his attorney, answered the phone after some delay.

“Sam? This is Nick,” English said. “I have a job for you.”

“Not tonight, I hope,” Crail said, alarm in his voice. “I’m just going to bed.”

“Yes, tonight. You act for Roy, don’t you?”

“I’m supposed to,” Crail said without enthusiasm, “but he hasn’t consulted me now for months. What’s he been up to?”

“He shot himself about a couple of hours ago,” English said soberly.

“Good God! Why?”

“He seems to have been short of money and was blackmailing some old clients. He was going to lose his licence so he took the quick way out,” English said. “That’s the story, anyway. I’ve told Corrine he’s dead, but not why. She’s upset. I don’t want her left alone tonight. Can you get your wife to go over and stay with her?”

Crail suppressed a grunt of irritation.

“I’ll ask her. She’s a good soul. Maybe she’ll go, but damn it! She’s in bed.”

“If she won’t go, you’ll have to go yourself,” English said curtly. “I don’t want Corrine to be left alone. Maybe you had better go yourself, Sam. Corrine blames me for Roy’s death. Of course, she’s hysterical, but she may make things difficult. She says I should have given him more money. You’d better talk her out of that attitude. If we have to tell the coroner anything, we’ll tell him Roy was overworking. Get that into her head, will you?”

“Okay,” Crail said wearily. “I wonder why the hell I work for you, Nick. I’ll take Helen with me.”

“Keep the press away from her, Sam. I don’t want too much of a stink. Better come and see me around ten-thirty at my office, and we’ll straighten it out.”

“Okay,” Crail said.

“And get over there fast,” English said and hung up.

While he had been talking, Morilli had attempted to efface himself by going over to the window and staring down into the dark street.

He turned when English hung up.

“If Crail could find out where I can find your brother’s secretary, if he had one, we might get the information we want without bothering Mrs. English.”

“What information do you want?” English asked evenly.

“Just that he was short of money or some reason why he killed himself,” Morilli said uncomfortably.

“You don’t have to bother about his secretary,” English said. “I’ll send Crail down to the inquest. He’ll give the coroner all the information he wants.”

Morilli hesitated, then nodded his head.

“Just as you say, Mr. English.”

V

As Chuck Eagan drove swiftly along Riverside Drive, he whistled soundlessly through his teeth. He knew he was on the last leg of his night’s work, and he was looking forward to turning in. The day had been a long and exciting one. It was the first time he had ever had a ringside seat at a Championship match and the first time he had won a thousand dollars on a bet that he knew couldn’t fall down.

He glanced at the illuminated dial of the clock on the dashboard and shook his head: 12:40. He wouldn’t get to bed before 1:15, and the odds were the boss would expect him to pick him up again not later than 9:30: eight hours from now.

He swung the big car into the circular drive that led to an imposing apartment block overlooking the river, and brought the car to a standstill before the entrance.

He got out and held the door open.

“I want to find out if my brother had a secretary or someone to help him in the office,” English said as he got out of the car. “Go down to his office first thing in the morning and see if the janitor knows. I want her address. Be here not later than nine-thirty. We’ll go and see her before we go to the office.”

“Yes, boss,” Chuck said dutifully. “I’ll fix it. Anything else I can do?”

English gave him a quick smile.

“No. Go to bed, and don’t be late tomorrow.”

He walked across to the entrance to the building, pushed against the revolving doors, nodded to the night porter, who snapped to attention when he caught sight of him, and walked to the elevator.

He thumbed the button below the label that read: Penthouse, and leaned against the wall while the automatic elevator bore him swiftly and smoothly up fifteen floors to the roof apartment he had rented for Julie.

He walked down the corridor panelled with polished walnut and paused outside a front door also of polished walnut and equipped with gleaming chromium fitments. As he groped for his keys, his eyes shifted to the card in a chromium frame that was screwed on the door. It bore the single line of neat print: Miss Julia Clair.

He pushed the latch key into the lock, opened the door and stepped into a small, lighted lobby. As he threw his hat and coat on a chair, the door opposite him opened and a girl stood framed in the doorway.

She was tall and broad shouldered, with narrow hips and long legs. Her copper-colored hair was silky and dressed high on top of her small head. Her big almond-shaped eyes were sea-green and glitteringly alive. She had on olive-green lounging pyjamas with red piping, and her small feet were encased in high-heeled red slippers.

Looking at her, English thought how very different she was from Corrine. How much more beautiful, and how much more character she showed in her face, which he considered to be more pleasing to his eyes than any other woman’s he had met. Her makeup, even at this late hour, he thought, was a masterpiece of understatement. He knew she wore makeup, but he couldn’t see where it began or left off.

“You’re late, Nick,” she said, smiling at him. “I was beginning to wonder if you were coming.”

“Sorry, Julie,” he returned, “but I’ve been held up.”