I'll Bury My Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  He took from his pocket a scrap of paper and put it on the desk. It was the wrapping of a chewing gum package. English picked it up, his eyes meeting Leon’s.

  “Might not mean anything,” he said quietly.

  “It’s my bet it does. She was lying on it. I think this guy in the brown suit gets hotter every time someone is knocked off.”

  English put the scrap of paper carefully in his desk drawer.

  “What happened when you found her?”

  “The place was getting lousy with cops so I decided to duck out. The chances were I would be grabbed as the killer. I bolted down the alley, climbed a wall and picked up a cruising taxi. I got him to drop me off on Central Avenue, and I walked here.”

  English nodded.

  “Think they picked up this man with the scar?”

  “Maybe. There’s a chance they did.”

  “And the fat man?”

  “I think he’s dead. I hit him in the belly and he didn’t seem to be enjoying the experience last time I saw him.”

  “Looks like a gang, doesn’t it?”

  “I guess so. Our chewing-gum friend could be the boss.”

  “If it’s Sherman, he must be the boss,” English said grimly. “That would make Roy the stooge. I didn’t think he had it in him to organize a racket like this.”

  “I don’t see what you can do to Sherman if he turns out to be the guy you want. Pull him into the limelight and Roy gets dragged in, too.”

  English nodded.

  “That’s right.” He sat brooding for a long minute, then he stood up. “Go home and get some sleep, Ed. This wants working out. I’ll have some ideas for you by tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” Leon said, finished his whisky and stood up. “I didn’t get around to tracing those wires from the mike in my office. That’s something I’ll take care of tomorrow night.”

  English walked with him to the front door.

  “I’ll talk to Morilli. This fat man you think you killed may have a record.”

  “Don’t stir up too much mud,” Leon warned him. “Watch out Morilli doesn’t connect your enquiry with my description. That taxi driver had a good look at me.”

  “I’ll watch it,” English said and opened the front door.

  Leon stepped into the wide passage.

  The elevator that was nearly opposite English’s door was coming up. It stopped, and a youngish man in a well-cut brown suit, a white silk handkerchief tucked up his sleeve and a brown slouch hat set squarely on his head got out. He gave Leon and English a quick, searching glance, then began to move along the passage to the other apartment that was at the end of the passage.

  “Mr. Sherman?” English said quietly.

  The man in the brown suit paused. He had the most extraordinary eyes Leon had ever seen; they were amber colored with huge pupils, and they were as expressionless as two yellow buttons.

  “Why, yes, I’m Sherman,” he said. His voice was low-pitched and musical, and he smiled at English, showing small, very white, even teeth. “Did you want me? It’s Nick English, isn’t it?”

  “You run along, Ed,” English said under his breath. “See you tomorrow.” He went on to Sherman, “I did want a word with you. Perhaps you’d care to step in for a moment?”

  “I wonder if you would mind coming along to my apartment?” Sherman said. “I’m expecting a telephone call and it’s important.”

  “Certainly,” English returned and closed the front door, moving along the passage at Sherman’s side.

  Leon stood watching them until they paused outside Sherman’s apartment, then he got into the elevator and thumbed the button to take him to the ground floor. He made an uneasy grimace as the elevator began to descend.

  Sherman unlocked his front door, reached forward and turned on the light, then stood aside.

  “Please go ahead, Mr. English.”

  English walked into an ornate lobby that seemed full of flowers. He turned and watched Sherman close the door.

  Sherman hung his hat on the rack, ran a small white hand over his flaxen hair and opened the door facing him. He reached in and pressed light buttons, and lights sprang up in the room.

  He stood aside, motioning English to enter.

  English walked into the room.

  It took a lot to startle him, but this room brought him to an abrupt halt, and he stood staring around, his face clearly showing his astonishment.

  It was a big room. English was aware first of a feeling of space—a vast stretch of polished floor spread out before him. There was no carpet or rugs to break up that stretch of flooring. It seemed to go on and on until it finished up against long black velvet drapes that covered the windows.

  A white corded settee and two white corded lounge chairs cringed in the empty space. In the alcove by the window stood a baby grand piano. There was a big fireplace where a log fire burned brightly, and on either side of it stood six-foot-high black candles with small electric lamps imitating candle flames.

  Against one side of the room was a life-size replica of Michelangelo’s Pietà, his first masterpiece, which is now in St. Peter’s, Rome.

  The walls were covered with black velvet drapes, but English’s eyes kept going to the Pietà, which stood out against the black background startlingly white in its simplicity and beauty.

  There was a faint smell of incense in the room and the concealed lighting created an atmosphere that made English think of a crypt.

  He felt Sherman was watching him, and he quickly controlled his astonishment.

  “As a showman, Mr. English, you should appreciate this room,” Sherman said, moving over to the fire. “At least, it is original, isn’t it? Of course not many people would care to live in it, but then I’m not like most people.”

  “I agree with you,” English said dryly. “That’s a fine piece of sculpture.”

  “It is a good copy,” Sherman returned, and took from his pocket a package of chewing gum. English saw the paper wrapper was identical with the piece he had in his desk drawer. “A young Italian student did it for me. He has caught Michelangelo’s mood remarkably well. It was Michelangelo’s greatest work. It was the only piece of sculpture he put his name to. If you look closely you will see his name written on the girdle that crosses the Virgin’s breast. Are you interested in art, Mr. English?”

  “I can appreciate art,” English returned, waving his hand to the Pietà, “but I can’t say art really interests me. I haven’t had the opportunity to study the subject. But I mustn’t keep you. I wanted to ask you if you called on the news service agency at 1356 7th Street on the 17th of this month.”

  Sherman slowly unpeeled the wrapping on the gum package, his expressionless eyes on English’s face.

  “I believe I did,” he said. “I can’t be sure if I went there on the 17th, but it was some evening this week. It could be the 17th, come to think of it. How very odd you should ask.”

  “I have a reason for asking,” English said. “You went there about ten fifteen?”

  “It is possible. It was something like that. I didn’t particularly notice.”

  “At about that time my brother committed suicide,” English said, his eyes on Sherman’s face. “He shot himself.”

  Sherman lifted his eyebrows.

  “How very unpleasant for you,” he said, taking a piece of gum from the package and putting it into his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

  “Did you hear a shot when you were in the building?”

  “So it was a shot,” Sherman said. “I did hear something and it crossed my mind it was a shot, but I finally decided it must have been a car backfiring.”

  “Where were you when you heard the shot?”

  “I was coming up in the elevator.”

  “Did you see anyone in the sixth-floor passage or coming out of my brother’s office?”

  “Had your brother an office on the sixth floor?” Sherman asked. “There is a detective agency and the news service agency on that floor, if I remember ri
ghtly. Where would your brother’s office be?”

  “He owned the detective agency.”

  Sherman’s jaw moved rhythmically.

  “Did he? That’s interesting. I had no idea your brother was a detective,” he said, and his tone implied that he didn’t think anything of detectives.

  “Did you see anyone near my brother’s office?” English repeated.

  Sherman frowned.

  “Why, yes. Come to think of it, I did. I saw a girl up there. She was wearing a rather smart black-and-white outfit. I remember thinking for the type of girl she so obviously was, she had an unexpected flair for clothes.”

  With an expressionless face, English asked, “And what type of girl was she, Mr. Sherman?”

  Sherman smiled.

  “Well, shall we say a little tarty? The type of girl who wouldn’t have too many ethics. One of my coarser friends would probably describe her as a sure-fire pushover.”

  English’s eyes were cold and hard as he said, “And this girl was in the passage when you came up in the elevator?”

  “That’s right. She was walking away from the detective agency, making for the stairs.”

  “You saw no one else?”

  “No.”

  “How long would you say it was between the time you heard the shot and saw the girl?”

  “About five seconds.”

  “Well, thanks,” English said, suddenly realizing where Sherman’s answers were leading to. “I guess I won’t keep you any longer. You’ve told me all I wanted to know.”

  “That’s fine,” Sherman said. “I suppose your brother did commit suicide, Mr. English?”

  “That’s what I said,” English returned curtly.

  “Yes, so you did. But detectives do appear to lead dangerous lives. That is if you are to believe the novels written about them. I wonder if your brother discovered something unpleasant about this girl and she shot him to silence him. It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  English smiled bleakly.

  “My brother shot himself, Mr. Sherman.”

  Sherman nodded.

  “Of course. I’m letting my imagination run away with me. But there have been cases where a man has been murdered and the crime has been written off as a suicide. But this seems unlikely in your brother’s case as you appear to be so certain he did shoot himself. If you weren’t so certain, Mr. English, I guess it would be my duty to tell the police about this girl I saw, or perhaps you don’t agree?”

  “There is no doubt whatsoever that my brother shot himself,” English said quietly.

  Sherman looked at him, his jaws moving as he chewed. He smiled pleasantly.

  “Well, you know best, Mr. English. I wonder what she was doing in your brother’s office. He must have shot himself while she was actually in the room.”

  English’s mouth tightened.

  “Did she seem in any way distressed?” he asked.

  “No, I wouldn’t say she looked distressed. She was in a hurry, as if she were running away. You are quite sure, Mr. English, that your brother wasn’t murdered?”

  “I’m quite sure.”

  Again Sherman nodded.

  “Of course the girl could be easily traced,” he went on absently. “I should imagine she worked in some night club. She looked like a nightclub singer.” He ran his fingers through his flaxen hair, ruffling it so he suddenly appeared almost boyish as he smiled at English. “I’m an artist, Mr. English. You wouldn’t know that, of course, but I’m rather clever at creating a likeness. It would be a very easy task for me to provide the police with a picture of this girl. Do you think I should do that?”

  “The police are satisfied that my brother shot himself,” English said quietly. “I don’t think you need bother to supply them with a picture.”

  “Anything you say,” Sherman returned, shrugging. “I have an over-developed sense of duty. It can be a nuisance at times.”

  “That I can understand,” English said dryly and moved toward the door. “Thank you for your help.”

  “Only too glad,” Sherman said, remaining where he was before the fire. He continued to chew, his hands in his pockets, his face lit by a smile. “As a matter of fact, I have been hoping to have the opportunity of talking to you. After all, you are quite a celebrity.”

  “I suppose I am,” English said and reached for the door handle. “Good night, Mr. Sherman.”

  “I guess if the police knew about Miss Clair, it might be very awkward for her, and unpleasant for you,” Sherman said, raising his voice slightly. “After all, she did have a very good reason for shooting your brother, didn’t she?”

  English turned slowly and looked at Sherman, who continued to smile. His yellow eyes reminded English of the parking lights of a car.

  “Miss—who?” English asked, politely interested.

  “Julie Clair, your mistress,” Sherman returned. “Her motive and my evidence could put her in jail for quite a long time. She might even go to the chair, although if she flashed her legs at the jury she would probably avoid that. But she would get at least ten years. You wouldn’t like that, would you, Mr. English?”

  IV

  There was a pause while the two men looked at each other, then English came back slowly to the center of the room.

  “No,” he said, speaking quietly. “I shouldn’t like that. Are you quite sure the girl you saw was Miss Clair?”

  Sherman made a little gesture of impatience with his hand.

  “I know you are a very busy man,” he said, “but you might feel inclined to discuss the situation now rather than later, but please yourself. I’m in no violent hurry.”

  “What is there to discuss?” English asked.

  “Wouldn’t it save time if we stopped behaving like a couple of clubmen at a social gathering?” Sherman said sharply. “I own a piece of information and I am prepared to sell it to you. That’s what there’s to discuss.”

  “I see,” English said, raising his eyebrows. “This is a surprise. You have decided to drop the mask, have you? I was wondering if you would have the nerve to try to blackmail me.”

  Sherman smiled.

  “To me, Mr. English, you are just a rich man. Your importance and fame leave me indifferent. You have the money and I have the information. I can either sell it to you or to Miss Clair. I would prefer to sell it to you as I would be able to ask a much higher price, but if you are not inclined to make a deal, then I must go to her.”

  “I was under the impression you already have dealings with her,” English said mildly. “She has been paying you two hundred dollars a week, hasn’t she?”

  Sherman’s eyes blinked, then he smiled.

  “I don’t usually betray a client’s confidence, but as she has obviously told you about it, then I see no harm in telling you we have a modest deal on together, but this new proposition would be a much larger deal, and it would be a cash payment, not a few hundred a week.”

  “I don’t think she could pay.”

  “Possibly not, then perhaps you would come to her assistance.”

  English sat down, took out his cigarette case, selected a cigarette and lit it.

  “What do you want for your information?” he asked as he flicked the match into the fire.

  “From you, I should think a fair price would be two hundred and fifty thousand in cash,” Sherman said. “From her I don’t suppose I could expect more than fifty thousand. But if I sold to her I couldn’t guarantee that the press wouldn’t discover your brother was a professional blackmailer. For the larger sum I should be able to guarantee it.”

  English crossed one leg over the other. He appeared quite at ease. His face expressionless, his eyes unworried.

  “How did Roy happen to get mixed up with you?” he asked.

  Sherman leaned his shoulders against the mantel while he studied English, a slightly puzzled expression in his eyes.

  “Need we go into that?” he said. “We are discussing a deal, if I may bring your mind back to business
.”

  “There’s plenty of time to talk about that,” English returned airily. “How did Roy happen to get mixed up with you?”

  Sherman hesitated then, shrugging his shoulders, he said, “Your brother was anxious to make some easy money. His agency was a convenient place for my clients to go to and settle their accounts with me without causing embarrassment to either side. I paid your brother well. He collected ten per cent of the gross.”

  “I see,” English said. “And he decided that ten per cent wasn’t enough. He attempted to help himself. Probably he held some money due to you. He was planning to go away with his secretary, Mary Savitt, and no doubt he was anxious to lay his hands on a getaway stake. I assume you found out that he was cheating you, and you decided to teach him a lesson. On the night of the 17th, you went to his office, shot him through the head with his own gun, impressed his fingerprints on the gun butt and collected the card index containing the names of your customers before leaving. Am I right?”

  Sherman continued to smile, but his eyes were now wary.

  “I believe something like that did happen,” he said. “Naturally you wouldn’t expect me to swear to it before a jury, but between ourselves, since we are talking off the record, something very much like that did happen.”

  English nodded and blew smoke toward the ceiling.

  “You then went to 45th East Place where Mary Savitt had an apartment. You strangled her and strung her up against the bathroom door. I assume you silenced her because she knew what Roy had been doing and could have told the police that you had the motive for murdering him.”

  “I must say, Mr. English, you appear to keep yourself very well informed,” Sherman said, an acid note creeping into his voice.

  “During the late afternoon,” English went on, “a man named Hennessey called at the Alert Agency to pay his dues. He met the present occupier, who persuaded him to talk. Somehow you managed to overhear the conversation, and you murdered Hennessey by running him down in your car. Before he died, Hennessey had mentioned a girl named May Mitchell, who was paying you blackmail. Less than an hour ago you met her in a quiet alley and knifed her.”