I'll Bury My Dead

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.”

He saw her face tighten with sudden fear, but before she could speak, he went on, “Is this your sitting room?” and he moved to a nearby door.

“It’s the lounge,” she said, her fear momentarily forgotten in the correction. She wouldn’t own a sitting room; it had to be a lounge.

He opened the door.

“Let’s go in here and sit down for a moment,” he said.

She went past him into a long, low-pitched room. The modern furniture was new and cheap-looking, but it made a brave show. He wondered what it would look like in two or three years’ time. It would probably have fallen to pieces by then, but people like Roy and Corrine wouldn’t be interested in anything permanent.

There was a dying fire in the grate, and he went over to it and stirred it with the poker, then he dropped a log onto it while she came and stood at his side.

In the hard light of the standard lamp, he noticed the rose-pink wrap was a little grubby at the collar and cuffs.

“I think we ought to wait until Roy comes in,” she said, lacing and unlacing her small, plump fingers. He could see she was desperately anxious to avoid any responsibility or to have to make any decision.

“It’s because of Roy that I’ve come,” he said quietly, and turned to look at her. “Sit down, please. I wish I could spare you this, but you’ve got to know sooner or later.”

“Oh!”

She sat down suddenly as if the strength had gone out of her legs, and her face went white under her careful makeup.

“Is—is he in trouble?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“No, he’s not in trouble. It’s worse than that.” He wanted to be brutal and tell her Roy was dead, but looking at the doll-like face, seeing the terror in the baby-blue eyes, the childish quivering of her lips, the sudden clenching of her fists, made it impossible for him to do more than hint at what had happened.

“Is he hurt?” She met his eyes and flinched back as if he had threatened to hit her. “He’s—not dead?”

“Yes, he’s dead,” English said. “I’m sorry, Corrine. I wish I hadn’t to tell you this. If there’s anything I can do…”

“Dead?” she repeated. “He can’t be dead!”

“Yes,” English said.

“But he can’t be dead!” she repeated, her voice going shrill. “You’re saying this to frighten me! You never did like me! Don’t pretend you did. How can he be dead?”

“He shot himself,” English said quietly.

She stared at him. He could see at once she believed that news. Her dolly little face seemed to fall to pieces. She dropped back against the settee, her hand across her eyes. The white column of her throat jerked spasmodically as she struggled with her tears.

He looked around the room, then crossed over to an elaborate cellarette that stood against the wall. He opened it and found an array of bottles and glasses; the bottles labelled with neat ivory tickets. He poured some brandy into a glass and went over to her.

“Drink this.”

He had to hold the glass to her lips, but she managed to get some of the brandy down before pushing his hand away.

“He shot himself?” she said, looking up at him.

He nodded.

“Have you anyone who will stay with you tonight?” he asked, not liking the dazed horror in her eyes. “You can’t be left here alone.”

“But I am alone now,” she said, and tears began to run down her face, smearing her makeup. “Oh, Roy! Roy! How could you do it? How could you leave me alone?”

It was the anguished cry of a child and it disturbed English. He put his hand gently on her shoulder, but she threw it off so violently that he stepped back, startled.

“Why did he shoot himself?” she demanded, looking up at him.

“Try to get it out of your mind for tonight,” he said soothingly. “Would you like me to send someone to you? My secretary…”

“I don’t want your secretary!” She got unsteadily to her feet. “And I don’t want you! You killed Roy! If you had been a proper brother to him, he would never have done this!”

He was so surprised by the suddenness of this attack, he remained motionless, staring at her.

“You and your money!” she went on, her voice strident. “That’s all you’ve ever thought about! You didn’t care what happened to Roy. You didn’t bother to find out how he was getting on! When he came to you for help, you threw him out! Now, you’ve forced him to kill himself. Well, I hope you’re satisfied! I hope you’re happy you’ve saved a few of your dirty dollars! Now, get out! Don’t ever come here again. I hate you!”

“You mustn’t talk like that,” English said quietly. “It’s quite untrue. If I had known Roy was in a jam, I would have helped him. I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t care, you mean!” she cried shrilly. “You haven’t spoken to him for six months. When he asked you for a loan you told him you weren’t giving him another dollar. Help him? Do you call that helping him?”

“I’ve been helping Roy ever since he left college,” English said, his voice hardening. “I thought it was high time he stood on his own feet. Did he expect me to keep him all his life?”

“Get out!” She stumbled to the door and threw it open. “Get out and stay out! And don’t try to offer me any of your dirty money, because I won’t take it! Now, get out!”

English lifted his heavy shoulders in a despairing shrug. He wanted to take this little doll and shake some sense into her, but he knew that shock and the realization that her own extravagance had been partly the cause of Roy’s death had turned her into this shrill fury, venting her conscience-stricken grief on him. He guessed that as soon as he had gone, she would collapse, and he was reluctant to leave her alone.

“Haven’t you someone…” he began, but she broke in, screaming, “Get out! Get out! I don’t want your filthy help or your sympathy! You’re worse than a murderer. Get out!”

He saw it was hopeless to do anything for her, and he went past her into the lobby. As he opened the front door, he heard her sobbing, and he glanced back. She had thrown herself face down on the settee, her head in her arms.

He shook his head, hesitated, then opened the door and walked down the path to the car.

IV

Lieutenant Morilli stood up as English came into his small office. A plain-clothes detective who was with him left the room, and Morilli swung a chair around and pushed it forward.

“Glad you looked in, Mr. English,” he said. “Sit down, won’t you?”

“Can I use your phone, Lieutenant?”

“Sure, go ahead. I’ll be back in five minutes. I want to get the ballistics report on the gun for you.”

English said, “Did your men clean up the office?”

“It’s all okay,” Morilli said as he made for the door.

“Thanks.”

When Morilli had closed the door after him, English called his own office.

Lois Marshall answered the phone.

“I want you to go to my brother’s office and look the place over,” English said. “Take Harry with you. Is it too late for you to go right away?” He glanced at his wristwatch. The time was a quarter after midnight. “It shouldn’t take you long. Get Harry to drive you home.”

“That’s all right, Mr. English,” Lois said. “What do you want me to do?”

“Take a look at the files. See if he kept any books, if he did, bring them to the office tomorrow morning. Get the atmosphere of the place. The atmosphere is more important than anything else. The business was supposed to be long established with a good connection when I bought it for him. He’s had it less than a year. I want to find out what went wrong.”

“I’ll take care of it, Mr. English.”

“Good girl. Sorry to ask you to work so late, but it’s urgent.”

“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.”

He went over to her, put his hands on her hips and kissed her cheek.

“So Joey won his fight,” she said, looking up at him. “You must be very pleased.”

“Don’t say you listened to the radio?” he said, leading her into the well-appointed sitting room. A big coal fire burned brightly, and the shaded lamps made the atmosphere at once intimate and cozy.

“No, but I heard it on the news.”

“You and Harry are a pair,” he said, sinking into a big over-stuffed armchair and pulling her down on his knees. She curled up on his lap, slipping her arm around his neck, and resting her face against his. “Believe it or not, although he handled most of the arrangements and worked like a dog for weeks, he stayed away from the fight. He’s as squeamish as you are.”

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