I'll Bury My Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  “Tell them to postpone the meeting,” English said, and reached for his wine glass. “This is damned good claret. You should try it instead of drinking Scotch at every meal.”

  “Never mind the claret,” Beaumont said, shifting uneasily on his chair. “The meeting can’t be postponed. You know that as well as I do.”

  “It’s going to be postponed,” English said. “Who built the hospital? Who financed it? What do you mean—the meeting can’t be postponed? I say it’s going to be postponed, and you can tell them I said so!”

  Beaumont ran his finger around his collar.

  “Now look, Nick, you can’t treat the commission like that. They’ve called the meeting, and you can’t do anything about it. You can’t treat them like a bunch of schoolboys. Why, damn it! They’re the most important and influential people in this city.”

  English grinned.

  “Are they? That’s very funny. Then why couldn’t they finance the hospital? Why did they have to come to me? Important? Don’t make me laugh! They’re a bunch of stuffed shirts. Now listen to me, Beaumont, you are going to see Rees and tell him to call the meeting off. Tell him I said so. If he tries to kick, tell him I’ll withdraw my support. See how he likes that. He’s in this up to his neck, and so are the rest of them. They are committed up to a million and a half dollars. Where’s the money coming from without my guarantee? Let them work that out. Do you think the banks would advance all that dough on the security that bunch of dumb-clucks can offer? Not damned likely! The meeting is to be postponed until I say it can go ahead. Do you understand?”

  The senator started to say something, then caught the look in English’s eyes. He lifted his shoulders in a despairing shrug.

  “Well, all right, I’ll see what I can do, but I warn you, Nick, they won’t like it.”

  English laughed.

  “Do you think I care what those deadbeats like or dislike? To hell with them!”

  “Now look, Nick,” Beaumont said, leaning forward. “I know you’re flying high, and I admire you for it. I’m flying high myself. I know you’re not going to stop at this hospital business. You have other ideas. You’re going to make Essex City remember you. I’ve been watching you for a long time now, and I’m getting to know your methods. There’s the Westside bridge project you have your eyes on, and if I remember rightly, you’ve been thinking about building an opera house. Well, okay. A hospital, a bridge and an opera house is pretty good going for one man, but the commission won’t like it. They’ve lived here a damn sight longer than you have. Their fathers, their grandfathers and their great-grandfathers were here long before you were ever thought of. Money isn’t everything. In this straight-laced city a sound reputation is more important than money, and scandal is as lethal as poison gas to anyone who gets into the limelight. Up to now, you’ve got by, but watch out. Rees, the D.A. and the commission hate your guts. If they can pin anything on you, they will, and if they do, bang will go your hospital, your bridge and your opera house.”

  English pushed aside his plate, and took out his cigar case. He offered it to Beaumont.

  “Don’t worry about me, Beaumont,” he said quietly. “I’m big enough to look after myself.”

  “Maybe you are, but I’m hooked up with you, and if anything happens to you, it’ll automatically happen to me,” Beaumont said gravely. “I can’t afford to stick my neck out, even if you can.”

  “What’s the matter with you—cold feet?”

  Beaumont shrugged.

  “Call it what you like. I’ve got to be careful. Are you sure you’ve taken care of this suicide business?”

  “That angle’s all right, but there’s another angle that may hit the headlines tomorrow. Roy had a secretary, a girl named Mary Savitt. She also committed suicide last night.”

  Beaumont’s eyes bulged.

  “Good grief! Why?”

  English smiled grimly.

  “Maybe she was also overworking.”

  “Do you think anyone’s going to believe that? What were these two to each other? Was it a suicide pact?”

  “That’s what it could be called, but there’s no proof. If we get a break, no one’s going to connect the girl with Roy. Morilli’s leaning over backward on my side. He cost me five grand this morning.”

  Beaumont swallowed convulsively. His Adam’s apple flopped about like a frog on a hot stove.

  “You gave Morilli five thousand? Suppose he tells the commissioner? This could be a trap, Nick. Bribing a police officer is a serious charge. That’s the kind of charge they would love to hang on you. It’d finish you.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” English said curtly. “Morilli’s all right. He’s got ambitions, and he knows by sticking with me, he stands a chance to get somewhere. Anyway, he can’t prove I’ve given him anything. I paid him in cash, and the bills can’t be traced.” He pushed back his seat. “Well, I’ve got to get back to the office. Don’t worry your brains about this. It’ll blow over.”

  Beaumont got to his feet.

  “But what made these two kill themselves?” he asked. “There must have been some reason.”

  English signed the check the waiter laid on the table and left a liberal tip.

  “Sure, there’s a reason,” he returned. “And I intend to find out what it is.”

  VI

  A few minutes after six o’clock, the same evening, and after English had finished dictating the last letter of the day, Lois put her head around the door to tell him Sam Crail was waiting, and wanted to see him.

  English glanced at his wristwatch, frowning. He had promised to take Julie to a movie, and then drive her to the Garden of Eden Club where she sang. He had promised to pick her up at half past six.

  “Send him in,” he said, “and get off home yourself. You should have been gone hours ago.”

  “Yes, Mr. English,” Lois said, and turned to beckon to Crail, who was impatiently waiting behind the barrier.

  “Come on in, Sam,” English said as he caught sight of him. “You’d better ride down with me. I promised Julie I’d take her to a movie tonight, and I don’t want to be late.”

  “I don’t imagine you’ll want to go to any movie when you’ve heard what I’m going to tell you,” Crail said, lowering his bulk into an armchair. “Sorry, Nick, but you may even want to call Julie and break the date.”

  English stared at him.

  “It’ll have to be pretty important for that. This is the second time I’ve stood Julie up this week. What is it?”

  “I’ve opened Roy’s deposit box,” Crail said. “There’s twenty thousand dollars in it—in cash.”

  English gaped.

  “Twenty thousand?”

  “Yep, in hundred bills. How do you like that?”

  “Well, for God’s sake! Where did he get it from?”

  Crail shook his head.

  “Search me. I thought you’d want to know right away.”

  “Yes.” English stood staring down at the carpet, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand while his eyes brooded, then, shrugging, he went over to the telephone, lifted it and said, “Get me Miss Clair’s apartment, will you, Lois?”

  Crail reached out and helped himself to a cigar.

  “I could do with a drink if there’s one within sight,” he said. “I’ve had quite a day.”

  English motioned to the big cellarette that stood against the wall.

  “Help yourself.” Then into the telephone he went on: “Julie? Nick. I’m held up again. Yeah, I’m sorry, but I can’t make that movie. That’s the way it is. Sam’s just come in with some news—about Roy. I’ll tell you later. Sorry, Julie. I seem to be always standing you up. What are you going to do? Look, would you like Harry to go with you? He’s still in the office, and he’d be tickled pink.” He listened for a moment, frowning, then said, “Well, all right. I thought maybe you would like a little company. I’ll meet you at the club at nine. So long for now.” He hung up with a little grimace.

 
Crail passed him a whisky and soda.

  “You know your business best, Nick,” he said, “but I’ll be damned if I’d let an attractive girl like Julie go to the movies with Harry Vince; he’s far too good-looking to take a chance like that.”

  English stared blankly at him.

  “Why not? It would have made a change for Julie.” Then he smiled. “You don’t think Julie would run off with a kid like Harry, do you? Don’t talk nonsense. What’s Harry got to offer her? The trouble with you, Sam, is you’ve got a mind like a cesspit.”

  “I guess that’s right,” Crail admitted and laughed. “But it pays off in the long run. Is she going with him?”

  “It’s none of your business,” English returned, sitting down, “but to put your mind at rest, she isn’t. She prefers to wait until I can take her.”

  “You’re a lucky guy,” Crail said enviously. “Whenever I take a girl out I have to give her a mink coat before she’ll come.”

  “You want to get some of that fat off,” English said brutally. “You’re not cut out for romance. What else did you find in the deposit box?”

  Crail lit his cigar and blew carefully on the lighted end.

  “Looks as if he was ready to skip,” he said. “There were two air tickets to Los Angeles, the money, his will and a gold and platinum wedding ring.”

  “How the devil did he manage to lay his hands on all that money?” English asked, frowning down at his snowy blotter.

  “Why the devil did he commit suicide?” Crail said. “That’s the important question.”

  English nodded. He sat silent for several moments, then asked abruptly, “How did Corrine react, Sam?”

  Crail grimaced.

  “It hit her where she lives, but she finally toed the line. I’m sorry for that girl. All right, she’s dumb, but I didn’t like telling her about Roy. It was like killing a mouse with a sledge hammer. She wouldn’t believe it until I showed her some of the letters, then she went to pieces. I guess she doesn’t like you a lot. You’d better keep an eye on her. If she could do you dirt, she’ll do it.”

  English lifted his broad shoulders.

  “She and twenty thousand other people. So what? Did the coroner take it all right?”

  “Sure, but then he’s so dumb he doesn’t know his base from his apex. All he wanted was a good reason, and I gave it to him—nervous depression brought on by overwork.”

  English reached forward and took a cigar. He lit it and tossed the match into the trash basket.

  “Mary Savitt was murdered, Sam.”

  Crail stiffened.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I had a visit from Lieutenant Morilli. You know Morilli? He’s worked it out as murder,” English said, and went on to tell Crail about the bloodstain on the carpet.

  “Was it Roy?” Crail asked, his fat face alarmed.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know,” Crail returned, frowning. “The idea automatically jumped into my mind. Let me see—these two were lovers. They were going away. Maybe the girl suddenly decided it wasn’t good enough. Roy was married. She would be left out on a limb. She says she’s not going at the last moment. Roy loses his temper, and strangles her, then makes it look like suicide. He goes down to his office, gets cold feet and shoots himself.”

  English smiled; his eyes turned frosty.

  “You worked that one out fast enough.”

  “And so will the D.A.,” Crail said soberly. “This is bad, Nick.”

  “Not as bad as it sounds. Morilli’s agreed to keep his mouth shut. To save his conscience I gave him five thousand.”

  Crail whistled softly.

  “That copper has big ideas.”

  “Anyone worth a damn has big ideas. I don’t begrudge the money. He’s pulled me out of a nasty jam.”

  “Do you think it was Roy?”

  English shook his head.

  “Not a chance. Not a chance in hell. Roy wouldn’t kill anyone. I knew him as well as I know myself. And another thing—Roy wouldn’t kill himself either.” He got to his feet and began to pace the floor. “If Mary Savitt was murdered, Roy was murdered, too. How do you like that?”

  “Why, that’s crazy! The police say Roy shot himself. His prints…”

  “Be your age, Sam. Someone faked Mary Savitt’s suicide. Someone also faked Roy’s suicide. It was easy enough. All he had to do was to get hold of Roy’s gun, shoot Roy with it, put Roy’s dead fingers around the butt, and walk out.”

  “Who would want to kill Roy?”

  English spread out his hands.

  “A lot of people, Sam. Roy wasn’t an endearing type.”

  “That’s right, but who would want to kill him and the girl? Why the girl?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Roy was blackmailing someone. Maybe Mary Savitt knew the details. They worked together in the office. Maybe the killer thought he’d be safe and wipe them both out. It could be, Sam.”

  Crail took a drink of whisky.

  “How about Corrine?” he asked. “The outraged wife angle. She has the motive if those two really were murdered.”

  English shook his head.

  “No. Corrine wouldn’t have had the strength to have hoisted that girl up against the bathroom door. It isn’t the kind of setup a woman would tackle.”

  “Maybe she got someone to do it?”

  Again English shook his head.

  “You’re forgetting the twenty thousand. That could be blackmail money, Sam. Suppose Roy had been blackmailing someone in a big way, and decided to make a final killing before he went away. Suppose he turned the screw too far. Suppose the guy he was blackmailing decided he’d stop Roy once and for all, and while he was about it, stop Mary Savitt, too. If you’re looking for a theory, try that one on for size.”

  Crail scratched the side of his fat neck with a carefully manicured finger nail.

  “Are you going to talk to Morilli about this?”

  “No. Do you think I want my brother branded as a blackmailer?”

  Crail shrugged.

  “Maybe the killer figured the thing would be hushed up for just that reason. If he did, he’s played it smart.”

  English showed his teeth in a mirthless smile.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Have you told Corinne about the money, Sam?”

  Crail shook his head.

  “I thought I’d better talk to you first.”

  “You did right. Sit on that money for a while. Keep it in the safe deposit. In the meantime go ahead with that insurance idea of mine. See Corrine’s fixed up, and let me know what I owe you. If that money turns out to be proceeds for blackmail, Corrine mustn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Okay. I’ll fix it,” Crail said. “One thing more, Nick. I’ve had an offer for the business. Four thousand, cash down. Want me to sell?”

  English paused in his pacing and turned around.

  “Who’s the buyer?”

  Crail shrugged.

  “It’s come through Hurst. He wouldn’t give the name of his client.”

  “He’s a lawyer, isn’t he?”

  “That’s what he calls himself. I have another name for him.”

  “Four thousand?”

  “That’s right. Corrine wants to sell.”

  “How does she know about it before I do?”

  “Hurst went direct to her. He phoned her at nine o’clock this morning. He didn’t want to deal with me. Fortunately, Corrine was still having a weep. She put him onto me. I told her to wait a few days. I said we were certain to get a better offer.”

  “Who would want to buy a business like that for four thousand without even asking to check the books?”

  “The world is full of crazy people. I’ve given up wondering about them.”

  “Well, I haven’t,” English said grimly. “When someone offers that amount of money for a business that hasn’t had a client in nine months, I think the buyer knows more about the business than I do. Tell Hurst
the business isn’t for sale. I’ll find a buyer for you, and the price is seven thousand. Tell Corrine, and give her your check. Do it first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Who’s the buyer?” Crail asked, staring.

  “His name’s Ed Leon. He’ll call on you some time tomorrow, give you his check, and all the details you want,” English said. “And remember, Sam, I don’t know Leon, and he doesn’t know me. Understand?”

  “Now wait a minute, Nick. Don’t keep me in the dark. What exactly are you planning?”

  English came over and stood in front of Crail.

  “Someone killed Roy. Someone wants to buy Roy’s business in a hurry. I want to find out if the killer and the buyer are one and the same. That’s called working a hunch. Ed Leon’s the guy to find out for me. That’s what I’m planning to do.”

  “Well, you know best, but what can you do if you do find out who killed Roy?”

  English’s cold, brooding eyes stared at Crail for a long minute.

  “This is a personal matter. Someone killed my brother. I don’t like that. If the police can’t take care of it, then I’ll bury my own dead. That’s what I can do about it.”

  Crail got to his feet.

  “Watch out, Nick,” he said seriously. “That kind of talk is dangerous. If you took my advice, you’d let it lie. You have too many commitments to start a caper like that. Let’s face it. Roy didn’t mean a thing to you. If you start to dig up his past, you may unearth something you can’t bury again. Suppose he was a blackmailer? Wouldn’t it be better to forget about it? You’ve got your career to think of.”

  English slapped Crail on his broad back.

  “I know you mean well, Sam, but even if Roy was a louse, he was my brother. No one’s going to murder him and get away with it. I’ll work it so it remains a personal and private matter between me and the killer. Take care of Corrine, and I’ll take care of Roy’s killer.”

  When Crail had gone, English went into the outer office. Lois was still there, amid the empty desks, sitting at the switchboard, busily writing up English’s appointment book from a batch of letters she held in her hand.

  “For the love of Pete! Didn’t I tell you to go home hours ago?” English said, coming over to her.