I'll Bury My Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  A few minutes later, Julie moved quietly to the mouth of the alley and looked quickly to the right and left. The street was deserted. Moving forward briskly, she went in search of a taxi.

  In a dark doorway, a youngish man in a brown suit and a brown slouch hat, stood with his back against the wall, watching her, his jaws moving slowly as he chewed. He remained in the shadows until she was out of sight, then he came out of the doorway, and walked quickly toward the river, his lips pursed in a soundless whistle.

  II

  Ed Leon took possession of the Alert Agency two days after English had summoned him from Chicago.

  Leon was tall and rangy, all legs and arms, and he had a deceptive appearance that led most people to assume that he was a harmless dim-wit. He had a pleasant sun-tanned face, and at first glance you might have mistaken him for a not-too-prosperous farmer up for the day to see the sights of the city. He wore his clothes as if he had slept in them, not for one night, but for many nights, and he had a habit of wearing an old battered slouch hat far at the back of his head. His hair, naturally unruly, had everything its own way as he made no attempt to control it except to have it cut on rare occasions and to pass a comb through it when he could find a comb, which wasn’t often.

  No one would have believed that he was one of the smartest private investigators in the country. Beginning life as a crime reporter, he had showed so much talent for ferreting out news concerning the criminal activities of politicians and their ilk that the district attorney decided that he would be less of a nuisance working in his office than for a newspaper. He persuaded Leon to become a special investigator attached to his office, and for a time Leon did excellent work to the satisfaction of the D.A., but at little profit to himself.

  Leon met English soon after English had sold his gyroscope compass, and they had become friends. Leon had suggested that English might consider financing him so he could set up his own agency. English knew Leon’s reputation, and thought the investment might turn out to be a sound one. He backed Leon, and after a couple of years, Leon was able to buy English out with a handsome profit to them both. His agency was now one of the most efficient in Chicago, and before three years had passed, Leon was employing four investigators, three leg-men and a bevy of smart young women.

  As he wandered around the small, shabby office that had once belonged to Roy English, Leon wasn’t overly pleased that he had allowed himself to be talked into taking this assignment by English. Of course the money was good, but he didn’t relish spending much time in these two rooms after the luxury of his air-conditioned office in Chicago.

  He pulled at his long nose thoughtfully as he wandered around the room, his face thoughtful, his eyes missing nothing. He spent the next two hours going through the files, examining drawers and cupboards, with the methodical care he had developed after years of experience that had taught him nothing was unimportant, that there was a reason for everything, and that if you kept looking, sooner or later you would find something to interest you.

  It was not until he examined the fireplace that he made any worthwhile discovery. He found a small object lodged in the chimney that made him raise his heavy eyebrows and take from his pocket a pencil-thin flashlight. He played the beam on the object, and saw it was a small, but highly sensitive microphone. The wires attached to it went through a crack in the chimney and into the outer office. He strolled into the outer office, and after a lengthy search, found the wires again, neatly hidden between the floorboards, and traced them across the room to the door leading into the passage.

  He returned to his office and washed the soot and grime off his hands while he whistled happily under his breath.

  He decided he had made a fair beginning. Someone was interested in listening to any conversation that might take place in this office. From the look of the microphone it had been installed for some time. Someone therefore had wanted to know what Roy English had been doing, what he had said, and what had been said to him.

  Leon wondered if the microphone was still alive, and if this someone would be interested to listen in to his conversations. At a more convenient time—when the building was closed for the night—he decided he would make an attempt to trace the wires further. But not during office hours.

  English had told him the janitor, Tom Calhoun, seemed cooperative, and Leon thought it might be an idea to go down and talk to him before settling down to a day’s work in the office.

  He left the office, locking the door behind him, and took the elevator to the basement.

  He found Tom Calhoun in the boiler room industriously carving a model boat from a chunk of soft wood, and with the aid of a murderous-looking pocketknife.

  Calhoun was big and fat with a heavy moustache that reminded Leon of a bunch of dry seaweed. He wore a dusty Derby set square on his bullet head, and he had some interesting-looking food stains on his vest which he wore open and held together by a heavy gold watch chain. He eyed Leon with mild interest and gave him a brief nod.

  “Morning,” he said. “Anything I can do for you?”

  Leon hooked a chair toward him and folded his long length into it.

  “I got an ulcer,” he said. “At noon every day I give it a feed of whisky. The trouble is I don’t approve of drinking alone. Once a guy gets into the habit of secret drinking he might just as well step into his box and let them screw him down. I thought maybe you might care to join me, but if you’re a non-drinking man, just say the word and I’ll go elsewhere.”

  Calhoun laid down the boat and sat forward.

  “You’ve come to the right man, mister, but I wouldn’t have thought whisky would have done an ulcer much good.”

  Leon produced a half-pint flask of Johnny Walker and waved it in the air.

  “A guy has got to show his independence,” he said. “If I gave my ulcer what was good for it, it’d stay with me for the rest of my days. The whisky’s good for me so I drink it. Got a glass? Two might be an idea.”

  Calhoun produced two paper cups from a shelf.

  “Best I can do,” he said apologetically, after blowing the dust from them. He watched Leon pour two liberal shots, and eagerly took one of the cups and sniffed it. “Good whisky, mister. Your very best health,” and he took a long pull, sighed, smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the cup down.

  Leon scarcely tasted his, but leaned forward to refill Calhoun’s cup.

  “I’m your new tenant,” he said. “The name’s Ed Leon. I’ve taken over the Alert Agency.”

  Calhoun looked surprised.

  “Glad to know you. I’m Tom Calhoun. Alert Agency, huh? That’s fast work.”

  “My mother was a fast woman,” Leon said lightly. “It runs in the family.” He frowned, shook his head, went on, “Business seems a little flat this morning. No one’s been near me.”

  “It’ll pick up,” Calhoun said encouragingly, and took another drink. “I reckon that guy English knew what he was doing. He kept mighty busy. Why he shot himself beats me. Of course that shooting might damp things down for you, but not for long.”

  Leon took out two cigarettes, rolled one across the table and lit the other.

  “I was beginning to wonder if I had been sold a pup. With a face like mine, people treat me like I was a dogcatcher.” He shook his head gloomily. “Man! If you knew the pups some guys have tried to swing on me! You really think that’s good business?”

  “I’m certain sure of it,” Calhoun said. “It stands to reason. Look at the people who went up there to see him, as many as thirty people on some days; if that ain’t brisk business then I’m a monkey’s uncle.”

  Leon regarded him with a kindly smile.

  “Not as bad as that, pally—maybe not his uncle, but as stepfather you’re doing all right.”

  “What was that?” Calhoun asked, his bloodshot eyes popping.

  “Nothing. I was talking through my hat. See these?” He took off his hat and pointed to the ventilation holes in the crown, s
tubbing at them with a long finger. “I had those put in so people could hear me better—deaf people, that is. It’s ideas like that that make a guy a fortune.”

  “I guess that’s right,” Calhoun said, looking a little dazed.

  “Well, well,” Leon went on and lifted his feet onto the table. “Mind if I get some blood up to my head? If I don’t do this some time during the day, I’m likely to pass out. My mother was the same. Come to that my old man hadn’t much in his head either. So it looks like I’ve come into a good business. Who were these people who came to see English?”

  Calhoun lifted his big, lumpy shoulders.

  “I wouldn’t know. Some of them would come every week. Some of them were trash, but most of them looked as if they had a sack of dough.”

  “Were you in the building when he knocked himself off?” Leon asked casually and leaned forward to fill Calhoun’s paper cup again.

  “Sure,” Calhoun said. “Go easy on that stuff, mister. It’s got a lot of authority.”

  “Don’t tell me a big boy like you can’t drink a little Scotch,” Leon said. “They tell me he shot himself between nine and ten-thirty. Did anyone call on him around that time?”

  “Three people went up to the sixth floor. But I wouldn’t know if they called on him. Why?”

  “I’m always asking questions,” Leon said, and closed his eyes. “I like the sound of my own voice. What’s Sinatra got that I haven’t? You should see the way the frills fall over when I whisper in their ears. You don’t have to sing to get a frill in a tizzy.” He opened his eyes and stared at Calhoun. “Who were these three?”

  “Two guys and a girl,” Calhoun told him. “I took them up to the sixth floor myself. I’ve seen the girl before, but not the two guys.”

  “Who else is on the sixth floor?”

  “Well, there’s the Associated News Service. Maybe you’ve already heard their teleprinters. Hell of a racket they make. Then there’s your office, and then there’s Miss Windsor.”

  “What’s she do?”

  “She’s what they call a silhouette artist,” Calhoun told him. “She cuts out your silhouette in paper, mounts and frames it. What else she does up there I don’t ask, but I do know she has only men clients.”

  Leon perked up, his eyes showing interest.

  “Like that, is it?” he said. “And my next-door neighbor. Well, well, maybe I’d better go along and let her look at my silhouette. She might even show me hers.”

  “She’s a nice dish,” Calhoun said, “but it’s strictly for cash. Me—I prefer to waste my money on horses, but it takes all types to make up the world.”

  “Don’t go philosophical on me,” Leon said. “Let’s get back to these two guys and the girl. They could have called on either Miss Windsor, this News Service or English—that right?”

  “The girl went to see English,” Calhoun said. “I’ve seen her a number of times before.”

  “What’s she look like?”

  Calhoun sipped his Scotch and eyed Leon doubtfully.

  “You’re asking an awful lot of questions, mister. What makes you so interested?”

  “Now look, let me do the talking. You’ve got the Scotch, so try to make yourself useful.”

  Calhoun shrugged.

  “Well, okay, it’s no skin off my nose. She had sort of light brown hair, a good figure, and she was pretty enough to be in the movies.”

  “What a description! Do you realize there are two million frills within a thirty-mile radius of this damn city who look just like that? How was she dressed?”

  “She was pretty smart,” Calhoun said, screwing up his eyes as if trying to create a picture of the girl in his mind. “She wore a black coat and skirt with wide white lapels, black and white gauntlet gloves and a black and white skull cap affair for a hat. And she had one of those charm bracelets. You know the ones, a gold chain with little charms hanging from it.”

  Leon nodded approvingly.

  “Now you’re talking. That’s fine. You’ll make a detective yet. How about the two guys?”

  “One of them was just a punk, a kid about eighteen. He had on a leather jerkin and flannel trousers. He had a parcel under his arm. I have an idea he was going to the News Service, but the other one was in the money. He was a youngish fella, around twenty-seven or eight, in a brown suit and a brown slouch hat. I noticed he wore his handkerchief in his sleeve—a nice touch, that. If ever I could lay my hands on a clean handkerchief, that’s where I’d wear it. He was chewing gum, and I thought at the time he was letting himself down. When a guy can afford clothes like that, he shouldn’t chew gum.”

  Leon sighed.

  “You should write a book on etiquette. There’s a big market for a book that’d tell you not to chew gum in a brown suit.” He lowered his feet to the floor. “Just to get the record straight, when did these people arrive—who came first?”

  “The girl, then the guy in the leather jerkin, then the guy in the brown suit.”

  “What time did the girl arrive?”

  “It was nine-fifty,” Calhoun said. “I know because she asked me the time.”

  “And the other two?”

  “The fella in the leather jerkin was waiting to go up as I came down from taking the girl up. The guy in the brown suit came along about fifteen minutes later.”

  “Did you see any of them leave?”

  Calhoun shook his head.

  “I take them up, but I don’t reckon to bring them down. That’s what they’ve got legs for.”

  “I guess that’s right,” Leon said and stood up. “The automatic elevator wasn’t working?”

  “I lock it up at seven o’clock. I like to know who comes into the building after that time.”

  Leon nodded again.

  “Well, that’s very interesting. You’d better keep what’s left of that half-pint. If I took it up with me I’d be laying myself open to temptation. I guess I’d better go along and call on Miss Windsor. Nothing like being neighborly. Who knows? She might even be lonely.”

  “If that dame’s ever lonely, then I’m Judy Garland’s mother,” Calhoun said. “And watch it. It’s strictly for cash.”

  Leon propelled his lanky frame to the door.

  “Not for me, brother,” he said, pausing at the door. “I’m going to explain to her the principles of lease-lend,” and he continued on his way to the elevator.

  III

  As Leon stepped out of the elevator, he saw a short, shabby-looking man in a wrinkled blue overcoat and a dusty gray hat, knocking on his office door.

  The shabby man looked quickly over his shoulder as he heard the grill close. He was a man of about sixty, gray-faced, tired-looking with a scrubby, gray moustache. He looked uneasily at Leon as he wandered along the passage, then he rapped on the door again, and turned the handle. Finding the door locked, he backed away, obviously surprised, and in two minds what he should do.

  “Hello, pally,” Leon said, coming to rest beside the shabby man. “Looking for me?”

  The shabby man gave Leon a startled look, and backed against the banister rail.

  “No, thank you,” he said. “It wasn’t you I was looking for. I wanted to see Mr. English. Never mind. I’ll come again. He doesn’t seem to be in.”

  “Maybe I can do something,” Leon said. “I’m looking after Mr. English’s affairs at the moment.” He took out his door key and pushed it into the lock. “Come on in.”

  “It’s all right,” the shabby man returned, and his tired, bloodshot eyes showed alarm. “I wanted to see Mr. English. It’s a personal matter. Thanks all the same,” and turning, he walked hurriedly toward the head of the stairs.

  Leon started after him, then stopped as he remembered the hidden microphone in his office. That room wasn’t the place in which to persuade someone to talk. He turned and made quickly for the elevator, stepped into it, and sent the cage down to the ground floor.

  As he stepped into the lobby, he could hear the shabby man running down the stairs.
He had one more flight to go before he reached the lobby. Moving quickly, Leon went into the street and took up a position in a nearby shop doorway.

  He watched the shabby man come out into the spring sunshine and set off along the street. He moved slowly, his feet dragging, and walked for some time toward 22nd Ward.

  Leon moved along behind him, taking care to keep out of sight. He saw the shabby man pause outside a café, hesitate, then walk in.

  As Leon passed the café, he glanced in. There were only three or four people in the café and he spotted the shabby man sitting at a table at the far end of the room.

  Leon waited a few seconds, then pushed open the door and walked in.

  The shabby man glanced up, but didn’t seem to recognize Leon. He was stirring a cup of coffee aimlessly, his face frowning and his eyes worried.

  Leon inspected the other people in the café. There were two men at a table by the door, a girl reading a paperback book at a table near the counter, and a man hidden behind an open newspaper at the end of the room on the opposite side to where the shabby man was sitting.

  Leon sat down at the shabby man’s table. The shabby man looked up and stared at him. Recognition swam into his eyes, and his face went a grayish white. He half started up, then dropped back onto his chair, nearly upsetting his coffee as he did so.

  “Keep your clothes on,” Leon said and smiled. “I’m not going to bite you.” He turned and waved to the girl behind the counter. “Bring me a cup of Java, honey, and put some coffee in the water, will you?”

  The girl poured the coffee, flounced over and slapped the cup down in front of him.

  “I’ll have you know we serve the best coffee on the street,” she said. “If you don’t like it, you can go elsewhere.”

  “Thanks, honey,” Leon said, and smiled his slow, lazy smile. “Maybe I’ll just rinse my hands in it.”

  She tossed her head and returned to the counter where she watched him, her eyes angry.

  “No sense of humor,” Leon said to the shabby man. “Well, well, can’t always expect to get a laugh. What did you want to see English about?”