I'll Bury My Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  The shabby man ran his tongue over his dry lips.

  “See here, mister,” he said with feeble fierceness. “You have no right to follow me. Mr. English and me have a private deal on. It’s nothing to do with you or anyone.”

  “It is to do with me,” Leon said. “I’ve taken over the business. English isn’t with us anymore.”

  The shabby man stared at him.

  “I wasn’t told,” he muttered. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  “I’m telling you,” Leon said, stirring his coffee. “I’m in charge now. Come on, what’s it all about?

  “Don’t I keep telling you?” Leon said roughly. “What do you want me to do, set it to music and sing it to you?”

  “Where’s Mr. English then?”

  “He’s gone to a warmer climate. Are you going to deal with me or do you want to get tough?”

  “That’s all right,” the shabby man said hurriedly. “I just didn’t know.” He took out a soiled envelope and slid it across the table. “Here it is. Now I’ve got to go.”

  “Sit still!” Leon snapped, and picked up the envelope. On it was scribbled:

  From Joe Hennessey. $10.

  “Are you Hennessey?” he asked.

  The shabby man nodded.

  Leon ripped open the envelope and took out two five-dollar bills. He studied Hennessey for a long moment.

  “What’s this in aid of?” he asked at last.

  “What do you mean? It’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe. I wouldn’t know. What are you giving me this for?”

  Hennessey’s face began to glisten with sweat.

  “Give me back that money!” he said, keeping his voice low. “I knew you were a phoney. Give it back to me!”

  Leon slid the money across the table.

  “Don’t spill your milk. I don’t want it,” he said soothingly. “I just want to know why you’re parting with this dough. From the look of you, you can’t afford to give ten bucks away.”

  “I can’t!” Hennessey said bitterly. He stared at the two bills lying before him, not touching them. “I’m not going to talk to you! I don’t know who you are.” He began to push back his chair.

  “Take it easy,” Leon said, and flicked one of his cards onto the table. “That’s who I am, pally, and I can help you if you’ll let me.”

  “A copper!” Hennessey said when he had looked at the card. His eyes went dark with alarm. “No, thank you. There’s nothing you can do for me, mister. I’ll be getting along.”

  “Sit still!” Leon said, and, leaning forward, went on, “English is dead. He shot himself three nights ago. Don’t you read the newspapers?”

  Hennessey stiffened, his fists clenched and his mouth fell open.

  “I don’t believe it!”

  “I can’t help that. It was in the papers,” Leon said, and half turning in his chair, he spotted a pile of newspapers on a table. “Maybe the account is in one of these.” He got up and went over to the newspapers, shuffled through them, found what he wanted and brought it over to the table. He dropped it in front of Hennessey and sat down again.

  Hennessey read the account, his breath whistling through his nostrils. Then when he had finished, he dropped the newspaper on the floor and drew in a long, deep breath. The look of fear went out of his eyes like the light in a window when the blind is drawn.

  “So he’s really dead,” he muttered under his breath. “I wouldn’t have believed it. It sounds too good to be true.”

  “He’s dead all right,” Leon said. “Now listen to me. I’m investigating his death. You can help me. Why are you paying him money?”

  Hennessey hesitated, then shook his head.

  “It’s nothing to do with you, mister,” he said. “The less said about it the better. I think I’ll be getting along now.”

  “Wait a minute,” Leon said, his voice hardening. “Do you want me to take you down to the station? You could be held as a material witness. You’d better talk, and talk fast. English was murdered!”

  Hennessey went white again.

  “It says he shot himself.”

  “Never mind what it says. I’m telling you he was murdered. Why were you paying him money?”

  “He was blackmailing me,” Hennessey blurted out. “I’ve paid him ten dollars a week for eleven months, and if he hadn’t died I would have gone on paying him.”

  “What had he got on you?”

  Hennessey hesitated, then he said, “Something I did years ago, something bad. He was going to tell my wife.”

  “Were all the other people who called on English paying blackmail money?” Leon asked.

  “I guess so. I never talked to any of them, but I’ve seen the same faces every time I went to that office. Why else should they go and talk to a rat like English?”

  Leon took out two cigarettes and rolled one of them across the table. He lit his and held the match so Hennessey could light his.

  This was news Nick wouldn’t be glad to hear, Leon thought as he flicked out the match.

  “Know who any of them are?” he asked.

  “There’s a girl who lives on my street. I’ve seen her leaving English’s office.”

  “What’s her name and address?”

  “I don’t know if I should tell you that. I wouldn’t want to get her into trouble.”

  “She won’t get into trouble. I just want to check on your story. You’ve got to tell me, Hennessey. You’ve gone too far to stop talking now.”

  “I don’t know what you mean!” Hennessey blustered. “I don’t reckon I’m going to talk anymore.”

  “You’re kidding yourself,” Leon said quietly. “English was murdered. You’ve got a motive for killing him. You’ve got to talk to me or to the police—please yourself.”

  Hennessey wiped his sweating face.

  “Her name’s May Mitchell. She lives at 23A Eastern Street.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Leon said. “How did English contact you?”

  “A fella came to my shop. He told me he knew about what I’d done, and if I didn’t pay ten dollars a week he would tell my wife. He told me to take the money every Thursday to the Alert Agency, and that’s what I did.”

  “It wasn’t English?”

  Hennessey shook his head.

  “No, but English took the money. This other fella was the outside man. I reckon English was the boss.”

  “What was this fella like?”

  “A big tough-looking guy. He had a nasty scar from his right ear to his mouth—looked like an old razor wound—and he had a cast in his left eye. He was big and powerful—not the kind of fella you’d argue with.”

  “Let’s have your address,” Leon said. “I might want to talk to you again.”

  “I’m at 27 Eastern Street.”

  “Okay, pally, now relax. You’re okay. There’s nothing for you to worry about. English is dead. Go home and forget about him and blackmail. Forget it ever happened.”

  “You mean I don’t have to pay any more money?”

  Leon reached out and patted his arm.

  “No. If the tough guy shows up, stall him and tell me. I’ll take care of him, and I’ll see you’re in the clear. That’s a promise.”

  Hennessey got slowly to his feet. He looked suddenly five years younger.

  “You don’t know what this means to me,” he said, a break in his voice. “Ten dollars was skinning me. The wife and I couldn’t even go to the movies, and all the time I had to tell her lies about how badly the business was doing.”

  “Consider it taken care of,” Leon said. “I’m here to help you if you want help, and listen, I don’t promise anything, but I may be able to get some of your money back for you. Ten dollars a week for eleven months, was that it?”

  Hennessey stared at him as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he said hoarsely.

  “Don’t count on it,” Leon said, “but I’ll see what I can do.”
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  He got up, went over to the counter and paid for the two coffees.

  “You haven’t drunk yours,” the girl pointed out, snatching the dollar bill he offered her.

  “I’ve got a fussy ulcer,” Leon returned, tipping his hat. “Coffee like that would start a battle in my gut that even the secretary of state wouldn’t be able to smooth over. But thanks for the chair. I’ll come again when I want to rest my feet.”

  He went out into the street, followed by Hennessey.

  The man who had been sitting at the table near Hennessey’s and who had been hidden behind a newspaper, lowered the paper and looked after Leon, his jaws moving rhythmically as he chewed. He put the paper aside and got up, crossed over to the counter and gave the girl a couple of nickels.

  She smiled archly at him, impressed by his faultlessly fitting brown suit and the silk handkerchief he wore tucked in his sleeve.

  He looked at her and her smile faltered. She had never seen such eyes. They were amber colored with small pupils and the whites were the color of blue-white porcelain. They were as compelling and as expressionless as the eyes of an owl, and looking into them, she felt a little chill run up her spine.

  He watched her reaction with cat-like interest, then turned and moved briskly to the door.

  He stood looking after Leon and Hennessey as they walked down the street together. Then he ran across the road to where a dusty, shabby Packard was parked. He got into the car, started the engine and waited.

  He watched Hennessey and Leon pause for a moment at the corner. Leon shook hands with Hennessey, and then went off up town. Hennessey walked away in the opposite direction.

  The man in the brown suit shifted into gear and sent the car rolling slowly after Hennessey.

  Hennessey walked with a light step. He was anxious to get back to his shop. It wasn’t much of a shop, but it provided a fair living for his wife and himself, although the business wouldn’t run to any hired help.

  Hennessey’s wife had a bad heart, and he was anxious to get back so he could take over and let her sit down for a while. He stepped out, swinging his short arms, his mind seething as he thought of what Leon had said.

  I don’t promise anything, but I may be able to get some of your money back for you.

  Even if he got only a quarter back—and now that he no longer had to pay out ten dollars a week—he would be able to afford an assistant and let his wife take it a bit easier.

  The man in the brown suit drove along near the curb, his amber-colored eyes fixed on Hennessey’s distant back, his jaws moving as he chewed. He drove patiently, keeping out of the way of the faster traffic, and every now and then he looked searchingly at the number of the shops as if he were hunting for a particular number to explain his slow crawl.

  At the end of the street there was a narrow alley, a shortcut to Eastern Street. It was an alley dwarfed by high warehouses, and even in daylight it was shadowy and dark. Few people used it, but to save his legs, Hennessey always went home that way.

  The man in the brown suit knew this and he accelerated slightly as he saw Hennessey cross the street to enter the alley.

  As Hennessey began to walk down the long, narrow alley he heard a car behind him, and looking round sharply saw the Packard swing into the alley.

  No cars ever came this way. The alley was far too narrow. There was only a foot clearance on each side of the car’s wings. Hennessey realized the car was coming after him, and fear clutched at his heart, for a moment paralyzing him.

  He stood in the middle of the alley, hesitating, looking frantically to the right and left. Ahead of him, some two hundred paces, was an archway, leading to a courtyard. The archway was too narrow for a car, but a haven for him.

  He began to run toward the archway, his old blue overcoat flapping and his breath rattling at the back of his throat. He was too old and stiff to make much headway, but he did his best.

  The man in the brown suit pushed down on the gas pedal and sent the Packard surging forward. For a few seconds the running, stumbling man and the swiftly moving car seemed to remain equidistant. Hennessey looked over his shoulder. He saw the car rushing down on him. He cried out in fear and desperation as he made a frantic effort to reach the archway. He was within ten yards of it when the car hit him.

  It hit him the way a charging bull hits a matador. It threw him high into the air and forward so he came down on his back within a few yards of the car.

  The man in the brown suit trod on his brake and stopped the car within a yard of Hennessey, who turned his head to stare at the car, seeing only the two wheels and the dusty hood. A thin trickle of blood ran out of his mouth and he felt a terrible pain tearing at his chest.

  The man in the brown suit glanced into the driving mirror. He could see the dim length of the alley stretching out behind him. It was empty and silent. He engaged gear and reversed the car, stopping it when it was some twenty to thirty feet from where Hennessey was lying, then he shifted the gear-stick into second, let in the clutch and sent the car forward slowly, leaning out of the window so he could see what he was doing.

  Hennessey screamed wildly as the car came toward him. He tried to crawl out of the way, but the effort was too much for him.

  The man in the brown suit moved the steering wheel a trifle. He leaned far out of the car. Hennessey looked up into the big amber-colored eyes that were as indifferent to him and as expressionless as the headlamps of a car. The on-side front wheel went over Hennessey’s upturned face. Keeping his course the man in the brown suit felt the rear wheel lift and thud down, and he gave a pleased little nod.

  He slightly increased his speed, reached the end of the alley, swung into the main street and headed uptown.

  IV

  Nick English paced the floor of his office, his hands clasped behind his back, his chin down, his face hard and frowning.

  The time was six minutes after seven. Everyone, including Lois, had gone home, and only he and Ed Leon remained in the office.

  He had listened to Leon’s report with growing alarm, although he didn’t reveal the fact to Leon.

  Leon lolled in an armchair, his long fingers laced around one knee. His hat rested on the back of his head, and he talked in a low voice, marshalling his facts and bringing them out clearly.

  “Well, I guess that’s about all,” he wound up. “Tomorrow I’m going to call on this Mitchell girl. Maybe she’ll have some facts for me. I don’t know how you feel about Hennessey, Nick, but I gave him a hint he might get some of his money back. He’s been bled for close on five hundred bucks.”

  “I’ll write a check,” English said, and moved over to the desk. “Find out how much the Mitchell girl had to pay. I’ll square her, too.”

  “This could be an expensive business,” Leon reminded him. “Calhoun said some days as many as thirty people called on him.”

  “I just can’t believe it!” English said, sitting down. “Organized blackmail! It was bad enough when we thought he was putting pressure on a couple of his old clients, but thirty people a day! Who’s this fella with the scar?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll find out if you want me to. From what Hennessey said he was just Roy’s stooge.”

  “I don’t believe that either. Roy hadn’t it in him to organize a racket like this. If anyone was the stooge, he was the one.”

  Leon didn’t say anything. He took out a cigarette and lit it carefully, put the match in the bronze ashtray.

  “If this gets out, Ed, I’m sunk,” English went on. “But these people should be found and paid back. This fella with the scar should be put out of business. Maybe he was the one who shot Roy.”

  “I’ve checked on that angle,” Leon said. “Three people went up to the sixth floor around the time Roy was supposed to have shot himself. Two fellas and a girl—the girl was the only one Calhoun was sure had gone to see English. The other two called on the news service agency. I checked on them. The young one was a messenger from the Associated Press. The othe
r fella wanted information about the service these people sell.”

  English frowned.

  “Funny time to call for information, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s what I thought, but the manager of the News Service said they never close and people come in at all hours. Still, this guy might be worth checking on. He might have gone first to this News Service and then along to shoot Roy. It would have given him an alibi if Calhoun had reported his presence to Morilli.”

  “Is it likely a killer would have used the elevator?” English said. “I doubt if he or the girl shot Roy. The killer wouldn’t want to be seen. He would slip into the building and walk up the stairs.”

  “Maybe,” Leon said, “but on the other hand, he might be a smooth operator, and anticipate that was what people would think. He might figure he would be unlikely to be suspected if he used the elevator and let Calhoun have a good look at him, so long as he could prove he had been to the News Service.”

  “Yes, that’s a smart bit of reasoning. You’d better see if you can find out something about him. Have you got a description?”

  “Yep, and a good one. He’s around twenty-seven or eight, and he wore a brown suit and brown hat. He carries a silk handkerchief tucked up his sleeve and he chews gum. But for all that, it won’t be easy to find him.”

  “Think so?” English said. “I think I can give you his name and tell you where he lives right now. If I’m not mistaken, his name’s Roger Sherman and he lives in Crown Court.”

  Leon stared at him.

  “A friend of yours?”

  English shook his head.

  “No, I haven’t even spoken to him, but I’ve seen him often enough. He has an apartment on the same floor as mine. The description fits him like a glove.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing as far as I can see. He’s what used to be known as a dilettante. He’s interested in art and music. You’ll always find him at previews of fashionable galleries, and he has a private box at the Sheldon Hall where he takes in all the important concerts. I might have a talk to him myself. I can’t imagine he even knew Roy, let alone want to shoot him, but he might have seen someone on the landing or heard the shot. Yes, I think you can leave him to me. You talk to this Mitchell girl.”