Julie stood up.
‘Let’s go to bed, Nick,’ she said, and slipped her arm through his. ‘Don’t let’s think any more about it tonight.’
He gave her bottom an affectionate little pat.
‘You’re full of good ideas, Julie,’ he said. ‘We’ll go to bed.’
VI
At the back of a modest walkup apartment house on 45th East Place, a small, shrub-infested garden ran down to an alley hedged in on either side by a six-foot brick wall. During the summer months this alley was popular among courting couples as it had no lights and was shunned by pedestrians during the hours of darkness.
For the past two hours, a man had been waiting in the alley, his eyes fixed on a lighted window on the third floor of the apartment house. He was a man of middle height, with broad and powerful shoulders. He wore a wide-brimmed brown slouch hat pulled down over his eyes, and in the dim light of the moon, only his thin-lipped mouth and square-shaped chin could be seen. The rest of his face was hidden by the black shadow cast by the hat brim.
He was expensively dressed. His brown lounge suit, his white silk shirt and polka-dotted bow tie gave him the appearance of a well-to-do dandy, and once when he lifted his arm to consult a gold—strap watch, he showed two inches of white shirt cuffs and the tail of a white silk handkerchief he wore tucked up his sleeve.
While he waited in the alley, he remained motionless. He chewed a strip of gum, his jaws moving rhythmically and continuously. His two-hour vigil was conducted with the patience of a cat waiting for a mouse to appear. A few minutes after midnight, the light in the third-floor window suddenly went out and completed the darkness of the rest of the apartment house.
The man in the brown suit remained motionless. He leaned his broad shoulders against the brick wall, his hands thrust into his trousers’ pockets while he waited a further half-hour. Then, after consulting his watch, he reached down into the darkness and picked up a coil of thin cord that lay near his feet. A heavy rubber-covered hook was fastened to one end of the cord.
He swung himself over the wall and walked silently and rapidly up the cinder path that led through the uncared for garden to the back of the apartment house.
In the light of the moon, the iron staircase of the outside fire escape showed up sharply against the white stucco of the building.
The man in the brown suit paused under the swing-up end of the escape that was some five feet above his outstretched hand. He uncoiled the cord and tossed the hook into the air. The hook caught in the ironwork of the escape and held. He gently tightened his grip on the cord, then pulled. The end of the escape came down slowly and silently, and bumped to the ground.
He released the hook, recoiled the cord and left it on the bottom step where he could pick it up quickly on his way down.
He went up the escape, two steps at a time, without hesitation or without looking back to see if anyone happened to be watching him. He reached the third-floor window he had been watching for the past two hours, and saw with satisfaction that the window was open a few inches at the top and bottom. He noticed also the curtains across the windows were drawn. He knelt down by the window, his ear to the gap between the window frame and the sill and listened. He remained like that for several minutes, then he put his fingers under the window frame and gently exerted pressure. The window moved up inch by inch, making no sound.
When it was fully opened, he glanced over his shoulder and looked down into the dark garden and the darker alley. Nothing moved down there, and except for his own well-regulated breathing, he could hear no sound.
The curtains hung well clear of the window, and he slid into the room without disturbing them. Cautiously, he turned and began to close the window, again moving it inch by inch, and again in silence. When the window was as he had found it, he straightened, turned and parted the curtains a few inches. He looked into darkness. The oversweet smell of face powder, stale perfume and cosmetics told him he had made no mistake as to the room. He listened, and after a moment or so, he heard quick light breathing not far from where he stood. He took out a pencil-thin flashlight, and shielding the bulb with his fingers, he switched the flashlight on. In the faint light, he saw a bed, a chair on which were some clothes, and a night table by the bed on which stood a small shaded lamp, a book and a clock.
The back of the bed was to the window. He could see the outline of a figure under the blankets. Hanging on the bedpost was a silk dressing gown. Careful to keep the shielded light of his flashlight away from the sleeper in the bed, the man in the brown suit reached forward and gently pulled the silk cord of the dressing gown through its loops until he had disengaged it. He tested its strength, and, then satisfied, he reached forward and picked up the book that was lying on the night table.
With the dressing gown cord and the flashlight in his left hand and the book in his right, he stepped behind the curtains again. He turned off the flashlight and slipped it into his pocket, then, still keeping behind the curtains, and holding one of them aside with his left hand, he tossed the book high and wide into the air. The book landed on the polished boards of the floor. Coming down flat side up, it made a loud slapping noise that was intensified by the silence that brooded over the whole apartment.
The man in the brown suit closed the curtains and waited, his jaws moving rhythmically as he chewed. He heard the bed creak, and then a girl’s voice said sharply, ‘Who’s that?’
He waited, unmoved, his breathing normal, his head a little on one side as he listened.
The bedside lamp went on, sending a soft glow of light through the curtains. He opened them slightly so he could see into the room.
A dark, slim girl in a blue nylon nightdress was sitting up in the bed. She was looking toward the door, her hands clutching the blankets, and he could hear her rapid, alarmed breathing.
Silently he took one end of the dressing gown cord in his right hand, and the other end in his left. He turned sideways so that he could push aside the curtains with his shoulder. He watched her, waiting.
She saw the book on the floor, and she looked quickly at the night table, and then back to the book again. Then she did what he was hoping she would do. She threw back the blankets and swung her feet to the floor, her hand reaching out for her dressing gown. She stood up and began to slide her arms into the sleeves of the dressing gown, turning her back on the window as she did so. The man in the brown suit pushed aside the curtains with his shoulder and stepped silently into the room. With a movement too quick to follow he whipped the cord over the girl’s head, crossed the cord and tightened it around her throat. His knee came up and drove into the small of her back, sending her down on her hands and knees. He dropped on her, flattening her to the floor. The cord bit into her throat, turning her wild scream into a thin, almost inaudible cry. He knelt on her shoulders and his two hands tightened the cord.
He remained like that, chewing steadily, and watching the convulsive heaving of her body and the feeble movement of her hands scrabbling at the carpet. He was careful not to use too much violence, and kept the cord just tight enough to stop blood flowing to her head and air getting to her lungs. He had no difficulty in holding her down, and he saw with detached interest her movements were becoming less convulsed, until only her muscles twitched in a reflex of agony.
He remained kneeling on her, the cord tight, for three or four minutes, then when he saw there was no longer any movement, he carefully took the cord from her throat and turned her over on her back.
He frowned when he saw that a trickle of blood had run down one nostril and had made a smear on the rug. He put his finger on her eyeball, and when there was no answering flicker, he stood up and dusted his trousers’ knees while he looked quickly around the room.
He went to the door opposite the bed, opened it and looked into a small bathroom. He noted with a nod of his head the sturdy hook screwed to the back of the door.
He spent the next ten minutes or so arranging the scene to his satisfaction. Hi
s movements were unhurried and unruffled. When he had finished what he was doing, he surveyed the scene with quick, bright eyes that missed no detail nor overlooked anything that might afford a clue.
Then he turned off the lamp and went to the window. He opened it, turned to adjust the curtains, stepped out on the fire escape and pulled down the window, leaving it as he had found it.
CHAPTER TWO
I
The following morning, a few minutes to nine-thirty, Chuck Eagan drove the Cadillac into the circular drive leading to Julie’s Riverside apartment block, and pulled up outside the main entrance.
As he got out of the car, Nick English came through the revolving doors. Chuck was wearing his favourite black suit, black slouch hat and white tie. This get-up, which Chuck regarded as the nearest to a uniform he would condescend to wear, set him off as a good frame can very often set off an indifferent picture. In a tuxedo he had looked like a third-rate waiter, but in this black lounge suit and slouch hat tilted over one eye at a jaunt angle, he looked what he was: hard, tough and dangerous.
‘Morning, Chuck,’ English said as he got into the car. ‘What’s the good word?’
‘I went down and talked to the janitor like you said,’ Chuck announced, leaning against the side of the car and looking down at English as he sank into the car seat. ‘A Joe named Tom Calhoun. He seemed a helpful sort of a guy after I had clinked some money by his ear. Your brother had a secretary. Her name’s Mary Savitt, and she’s got an apartment on 45th East Place.’
‘Okay,’ English said. ‘Let’s go there. Snap it up, Chuck. I want to catch her before she leaves.’
Chuck got into the Cadillac and set it in motion. While he drove rapidly through the traffic-congested streets, English glanced at the newspapers he had brought down with him.
All of them devoted considerable space to Roy’s suicide, coupling his name with Nick s. At least Sam Crail had done a good job, English thought; there was no mention of Corrine. Morilli also appeared to be earning his keep. He had given out that Roy had been overworking, and it was believed he had shot himself in a fit of depression, following a nervous breakdown. The story sounded a little thin, but English was satisfied it would stand up so long as someone didn’t come along to challenge it.
Before leaving Julie’s apartment, English had called his office. Harry had told him newspaper reporters were at the office waiting for him, and he had told him to stall them until he arrived.
He wondered irritably if he were wasting his time going to see Mary Savitt. There was a lot to do. He had to see Senator Henry Beaumont and calm his fears. He had to have a word with the police commissioner. He had to talk to Sam Crail, and then there were the news hounds to deal with. But he was pretty sure if anyone knew why Roy had killed himself, this girl, Mary Savitt, would know. A private secretary had more opportunities than anyone to know the inside workings of her employer’s mind, and unless she was a featherbrain, she must have some idea what had gone wrong.
Chuck said, ‘Running up now, boss. This joint on the left.’
‘Don’t stop at the door,’ English said. ‘Drive on a half a block, and we’ll walk back.’
Chuck did as he was told, then stopped the car. The two men got out.
‘You’d better come with me,’ English said, and set off with long, quick strides to the brownstone apartment house Chuck had indicated.
A row of mailboxes in the lobby, each with the owner’s name on it, told English Mary Savitt’s apartment was on the third floor. The entrance to the apartments was guarded by a door by which was a row of buzzers. Chuck thumbed the third-floor buzzer, and waited for the latch to click up. Nothing happened, and after pressing the buzzer three times, he looked over at English.
‘I guess the nest’s empty,’ he said.
‘She’s probably seen the newspapers and has gone down to the office,’ English returned, frowning.
At this moment the door to the stairs opened and a girl came into the lobby. She was smartly dressed, and she looked sleepy and pale in the hard morning light. She stared at English, and her eyes opened wide. Her fingers went hastily to her hair, tucking in a stray curl under her hat. English watched her reaction indifferently. He had had his photograph so often in the newspapers, he had become used to being recognized by strangers.
He raised his hat.
‘Pardon me, I was hoping to find Miss Savitt. She’s out, I guess?’
‘Oh, no, she’s not out, Mr. English,’ the girl said, smiling. ‘It is Mr. English, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ English returned, holding his hat in his hand. ‘Clever of you to recognize me.’
‘Oh, gee! I’d know you anywhere, Mr. English. I saw The Moon Rides High last week. I thought it was a terrific show.’
‘I’m glad,’ English said, and somehow he managed to convey that he was glad, and her opinion was something to cherish. ‘Maybe Miss Savitt’s still asleep. I’ve buzzed her three times.’
While he was speaking, Chuck was examining the girl with unconcealed interest. His sharp eyes admired her long, slim legs and he pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.
‘Perhaps her buzzer’s on the blink,’ the girl said, unaware of Chuck’s scrutiny. She had only eyes for English. I know she’s in. Her milk’s still outside the door and her newspaper’s there, too. Besides, she never leaves before ten.’
‘Then I guess I’ll go up and knock on the door,’ English said. ‘Thank you for your help.’
‘You’re welcome, I’m sure.’
He gave her a warm, friendly smile that left her looking a little dazed, and moved past her to the stairs, followed closely by Chuck.
As they walked up the stairs, Chuck said wistfully, ‘Brother! If only I could pull stuff like that. Did you see the way she looked at you - like jelly going into a faint! All you had to do was to snap your fingers, and she would have . . .’
‘Cut it out!’ English said curtly.
‘Sure, boss,’ Chuck said, rolling his eyes. As he climbed the stairs, his lips moved as he continued to talk silently to himself.
A bottle of milk and a folded newspaper lay outside Mary Savitt’s front door.
English jerked his head toward the door, and Chuck rapped sharply on it.
No one answered. Again Chuck knocked, again no one answered.
‘Think you could open the door, Chuck?’ English asked, lowering his voice.
For a moment Chuck looked surprised, then he examined the lock.
‘Nothing to it, but maybe she’ll squawk for the cops.’
‘Go ahead and open it,’ English said.
Chuck took out a small metal lever from his pocket, inserted it into the lock, fiddled for a moment, then pushed open the door.
English stepped into a neatly kept sitting room - small, well-furnished and bright with spring flowers.
‘Is anyone here?’ he called, raising his voice.
He waited in silence, then crossed the room and knocked on a door facing him.
Chuck entered the room and quietly shut the front door.
English knocked again, then opened the door and looked into a darkened room. Enough light filtered through the drawn curtains to show him that it was a bedroom. He looked toward the bed; it was empty and the blankets were thrown back.
‘I believe she’s out,’ he said to Chuck.
‘Maybe she’s having a bath,’ Chuck said. ‘Want me to go and see?’
English ignored his eagerness and moved into the bedroom, turning on the light as he did so.
He came to an abrupt standstill.
To the right of the door leading into the bedroom was another door. Against this door, and hanging by a white silk cord which had been thrown over the top of the door and fastened to something on the other side, was the body of a dark haired girl in her early twenties. She was wearing a white silk dressing gown that hung open to show a blue nylon nightdress. What beauty she might have had was spoilt now by her waxen colour and her swollen tongue th
at protruded
from her open mouth. Dried blood made a red thread from her nose to her chin. Chuck drew in a sharp breath.
‘Holy mackerel! What did she want to do that for?’ he said in a tight, low voice.
English went over to her and touched her hand.
‘She’s been dead about seven hours at a guess,’ he said. ‘This is getting complicated, Chuck.’
Chuck came and stood at his side, his eyes appraising the dead girl.
‘It sure is,’ he said, then went on, ‘That’s exactly the kind of nightie I want my girl to wear, but she won’t wear anything but pyjamas.’
English wasn’t listening. He stood staring at the dead girl, his mind busy.
‘We’d better get out of here, boss,’ Chuck said after a long silence.
‘Shut up, will you?’ English snapped, and began to move around the room.
Chuck went over to the door and waited, his small, hard eyes on English.
‘On the mantel, boss,’ he said suddenly.
English looked at the mantel. Among the usual junk people keep on mantels was a silver-framed photograph of his brother Roy.
He picked it up.
Written in white ink across the lower part of the photograph in his brother’s big sprawling hand was the legend: “Look at me sometimes, darling, and remember what we’re going to be to each other. Roy.”
English swore softly under his breath.
1953 - I'll Bury My Dead Page 4
