A prowl car coming in the opposite direction passed him. One of the cops was talking into the radio. Leon wondered uneasily if they had come from Corrine’s bungalow.
He drove into Lawrence Boulevard, his eyes alert for any sign of trouble, but the long street was rainswept and deserted. He pulled up some yards from Corrine’s bungalow, and got out of the car.
He stood for a moment in the driving rain to look up and down the street, then he walked toward the bungalow, noting there was a light on in the sitting room.
He went up the path and dug his thumb into the bell push. The chimes startled him, and he frowned, shaking his head. He waited several minutes, then rang again. No one answered the door, nor did he hear any sound of movement in the bungalow.
Cautiously he turned the door handle and pushed, but the door was locked. He rang again, then, after waiting a long minute, he stepped out of the shelter of the porch, onto the flowerbed to see if he could look into the lighted sitting room, but the curtains were too closely drawn, and he could see nothing.
He walked across the saturated lawn to the path leading to the back of the bungalow. Around the back he saw an overflowing garbage can and a big wooden box full of empty brandy bottles by the service entrance. When he turned the handle of the door he found the door unlocked.
He pushed it open and stepped into a small kitchen. His feet kicked against something that clanked noisily, and he cursed under his breath. He took from his pocket a small flashlight and turned it on.
The kitchen looked as if it hadn’t been touched in days. A pile of dirty dishes stood on the table; flour, dust and bread crumbs littered the floor. More brandy bottles occupied a distant corner, and there was a sour smell of curdled milk that made him wrinkle his nose.
He opened the kitchen door, glanced into the dark lobby, listened, then moved forward, making no sound.
He reached the sitting-room door, turned the handle and looked in.
The room was empty. An overturned brandy bottle had emptied its contents on the rug before the dying fire. A broken glass lay in the hearth.
He moved into the room, frowning, not liking the spilled brandy, feeling that here might be a hint of violence. He moved around the room, his eyes missing nothing, not knowing what he was looking for, but hoping to find something that would explain why the light was on and the room empty.
On the settee, pushed half out of sight, he saw something white, and he fished it out from under the cushion. It was a woman’s handkerchief; embroidered in the corner were the initials “L.M.”
He shook his head. Lois must have persuaded Corrine to leave with her, he thought, and they had forgotten to turn off the light.
He looked around for the telephone to call English, to ask him if Lois had returned, when his eyes encountered the overturned bottle again. He frowned. Had Corrine been tight? he wondered. Had Lois’s ring startled her so she had upset the bottle? It seemed unlikely, and he went out into the lobby.
Facing him was a door, and he turned the handle and pushed it open. The room was in darkness, and he groped for the light switch and turned it on.
The bedroom was as untidy as the kitchen. In the middle of the floor was a rose-colored silk wrap. Stockings, underclothes and a fur coat lay on the bed. The dressing table was a smother of face powder, and the mirror above it hadn’t been dusted for days. A bottle of hand lotion had been knocked over, and its white, creamy contents had made a messy puddle on the floor.
Leon grimaced, shrugging, and as he was about to turn off the light, he paused, his eyes narrowing.
A door opposite him attracted his attention. It was open a few inches, and fastened to one of the dress hooks screwed to the door was a red silk cord that ran over the top of the door and disappeared down the other side.
The cord looked taut—too taut, as if it were supporting a heavy weight.
Leon quickly crossed the room, pushed against the door, which opened sluggishly. Something heavy bumped against the other side as he pushed.
He stepped into a blue-and-white bathroom, his heart skipping a beat.
He was half-prepared for what he saw, but even at that his stomach gave a little heave as he looked at Corrine English’s dead face.
She hung grotesquely against the door, her knees drawn up in agony, her baby face puffed and swollen, her tongue pushing out between her small white teeth. The red silk cord had bitten deeply into her neck, and her hands were rigid claws as if she had been frantically trying to push someone away in the last moments of her life.
Leon touched one of her hands. It was still warm, and he stepped away, his face hard and white.
For a long moment he stood thinking, his eyes averted from the hanging body, then he moved around the door into the bedroom, walked quickly into the lobby and into the sitting room.
He was thinking now of Lois. Had she come to the bungalow and found Corrine or had she arrived before Corrine had been murdered?
Leon felt sweat beading his face. If he told English what had happened to Corrine, English would come out of cover. There’d be no controlling him, especially if he thought Lois was in Sherman’s hands.
Uneasily, Leon wiped his face with his handkerchief. It did look as if Lois was in Sherman’s hands. He stood, hesitating, trying to make up his mind what to do. He decided he had to find out if Lois had returned to her apartment. This might be a false alarm. She might be there, and safe.
He went over to the telephone, thumbed through the telephone directory until he found Lois’s number and then dialled.
He waited impatiently, listening to the burr-burr-burr on the line.
There was a sudden click and a man’s voice said, “Who is that?”
“Is that Westside 57794?” Leon asked cautiously.
“That’s right. Who’s calling?”
It wasn’t English, Leon thought.
“I’d like to speak to Miss Marshall,” he said.
“She’s not here,” the voice told him. “Who’s that speaking?”
“Come to that,” Leon said sharply, “who are you, and what are you doing in Miss Marshall’s apartment if she isn’t there?”
“This is Lieutenant Morilli of the Homicide Bureau,” the voice snapped. “Quit stalling! Who are you?”
Leon felt a chill run down his spine. Morilli! Had English got away?
He hurriedly dropped the receiver back onto its cradle.
IV
Nick English paced slowly up and down, his hands in his trousers’ pockets, his face set and anxious. He kept looking at the clock on the mantel. It was now a little more than an hour since Lois had left the apartment—a little less than a quarter of an hour since Leon had gone to look for her.
English calculated it would take Leon twenty minutes to get to Lawrence Boulevard. Even if he didn’t find Lois there, it didn’t necessarily mean she was in danger. She might have left the bungalow before Leon arrived.
What a thoughtless fool he had been to have let her go! he thought angrily. He should have realized that Corrine was dangerous to Sherman.
He paused to look around the room. It was just the kind of room he imagined Lois would have: well-furnished, comfortable, bright and homely. If anything happened to her…!
He realized with a sense of shock that she meant something to him. Only now that Julie was dead was he able to judge Lois’s worth. Julie had been a physical attraction—a doll to dress, to amuse and to sleep with—whereas Lois had worked by his side for five years, and he knew it had been largely due to her help and confidence in him that he had succeeded.
If anything happened to her!
Impatiently he went to the window, pulled aside the shade and looked down into the wet street below.
Rain made patterns on the window.
He stood watching the empty street for several minutes, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lois, but the street remained empty and forlorn.
Then, as he was about to drop the shade, he saw the headlights of a fast-moving car co
ming down the street, and he stiffened to attention, wondering if it were Lois returning.
The car swung to the curb and pulled up outside the walk-up. English spotted the red flasher on the hood and recognized the black-and-white check pattern of the body. He quickly dropped the shade.
The police!
Did they know he was here or were they checking on the off-chance of finding him? He moved quickly across the room, snatched up his hat and coat, and went into the lobby.
Then he stopped, frowning.
He had no idea if there was a rear exit to this building. Even if he found it, the chances were he’d walk into one of them.
He hesitated for a moment, then tossed his hat and coat onto a chair and returned to the sitting room.
If he was cornered, then he was cornered. He’d be damned if he’d run like some frightened pickpocket.
He stood before the fireplace, his hands behind his back, his face hard and set, and waited.
Minutes ticked by, and just when he was beginning to think it was a false alarm, the front doorbell rang sharply.
He stepped quickly to the telephone, took up the receiver and dialled Sam Crail’s home number. His call was answered almost immediately by Crail himself.
“Sam? This is Nick,” English said, speaking quietly and rapidly. “You win. They’re ringing the bell now.”
“Say nothing,” Crail snapped. “I’ll be at headquarters before you get there. Leave it to me, Nick. Just say nothing. Where’s Leon?”
“He’s not here. Keep in touch with him, Sam. I’ve got to rely on you two.”
“You can rely on us,” Crail said. “Just keep your mouth shut and leave everything to me.”
“Very comforting advice,” English said dryly. He heard the front doorbell ring again. “They’re getting impatient. See you at headquarters,” and he hung up.
He walked across the room, into the lobby and opened the front door.
Morilli stood in the passage, one hand in his coat pocket. His lean, hatchet face looked pallid in the soft light, and his eyes were wary.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” English said calmly. “This is unexpected. What do you want?”
“Can I come in, Mr. English?” Morilli said.
“You alone?”
“I have company, but he is downstairs.”
English nodded and stood aside.
“Come on in.”
Morilli walked into the lobby, shut the front door and waved English toward the sitting room. English went ahead, crossed over to the fireplace, and turned to face Morilli.
Morilli looked suspiciously around the sitting room as he came in.
“There’s no one here but me,” English said. “Miss Marshall is out.”
Morilli nodded, ran his thumbnail along his black moustache.
“I don’t have to tell you why I’m here, Mr. English?”
English smiled.
“I gave up making guesses years ago,” he said. “Suppose you tell me.”
“You’re to be charged with the murder of Julie Clair and Harold Vince,” Morilli said, and his small hard eyes shifted away from English.
“I’m surprised you’ve taken the job on, Lieutenant,” English said. “I had an idea you gave service.”
“I’m still giving service,” Morilli returned. “That’s why I’m here. I thought it would be safer for you if I made the arrest.”
English raised his eyebrows.
“What does that mean?”
“You wouldn’t be the first guy who’s been shot in the back while resisting arrest,” Morilli said. “There are a lot of high-ups who would be happy to be rid of you, Mr. English.”
“Including the commissioner?”
Morilli lifted his shoulders.
“I don’t know, but I thought I’d be doing you a favor to handle this myself. This is a bad business, Mr. English. The D.A. reckons he has a watertight case.”
English didn’t say anything.
“You went to Vince’s apartment, didn’t you?” Morilli asked, his eyes probing.
“Crail told me not to talk,” English said lightly. “I’ve paid him a lot of money in the past so I’d better take his advice now, Lieutenant.”
“I guess that’s right,” Morilli said, and again stroked his moustache. “This rap will want a lot of beating.”
English said, “Well, I mustn’t keep you. Shall we go?”
As he moved toward the door, the telephone bell began to ring. He made a movement to answer it, but Morilli got there first.
English watched him, his eyes narrowed, his face set.
“Who’s that?” Morilli said sharply. He listened, then said, “That’s right. Who’s calling?” He listened again, said, “She’s not here. Who’s that speaking?”
English felt a cold chill run down his spine. It must be Ed who was asking for Lois. That meant he hadn’t found her at Corrine’s place.
“This is Lieutenant Morilli of the Homicide Bureau,” Morilli snapped. “Quit stalling! Who are you?”
He cursed softly as the connection was broken, then he rattled the telephone plunger.
“Operator! This is Lieutenant Morilli, police headquarters. Where was that call made from?” He waited, then said, “Thanks. Put me through to headquarters, will you?” Again he waited, then said, “Barker? Morilli. Get a car over to 25 Lawrence Boulevard as fast as you can. There may be trouble there. Call me back as soon as you’ve had a report. I’m at Westside 57794.”
English said, “That’s my sister-in-law’s place. What makes you think she’s in trouble?”
Morilli gave him a cold, searching stare.
“Why didn’t she answer the phone?” he demanded. “What was Leon doing there?”
“Leon?” English frowned. “Was he there?”
“I recognized his voice. I’m not all that dumb. Your sister-in-law is an important witness against you. The commissioner wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.”
“Why should anything happen to her? Do we go or do we wait?”
“We wait,” Morilli returned curtly, and began to move about the room, his eyes shifting to English continuously.
Morilli shook his head.
English sat down. His mouth was dry, and his heart beat unevenly. At least now he would know if there was something wrong at Corrine’s place. He tipped a little whisky into the glass.
“Drink, Lieutenant?”
They waited while the hands of the clock crawled forward.
Then the telephone bell rang, and Morilli scooped up the receiver.
“Yeah, Morilli speaking,” he said. “What’s that? Well, for crying out loud! Did they pick up Leon? Then send a call out for him. He was there not more than ten minutes ago. I want that guy. Yeah, I’ll get over as soon as I can. Let Jamieson handle it. Okay, be seeing you,” and he slammed down the receiver.
English braced himself. He could tell by Morilli’s expression that something bad had happened.
“Your sister-in-law was found hanged,” Morilli said, his face white with fury. “How do you like that? You wouldn’t have sent Leon down to shut her mouth, would you?”
“Dead?” English said, getting to his feet.
“Murdered! Hanged like Mary Savitt was hanged, only this time I’m not covering up for you,” Morilli snarled.
Where was Lois? English thought, cold fear gripping at his heart. At all costs he must find her.
“Would ten thousand buy me anything, Lieutenant?” he said quietly, his eyes on Morilli’s face.
“Quit kidding yourself,” Morilli said viciously. “Your spending days are over. By tomorrow morning the banks won’t touch your checks. The commissioner didn’t forget money is your power. All that’s been taken care of. You’re washed up. Don’t try to wave your dough in my face. You haven’t any. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“I have money in the office,” English said. “Don’t be a fool. No one knows I’m here. Give me an out and make yourself six thousand.”
>
Morilli showed his teeth in a grin.
“There’s an officer sitting by your safe right at this moment. The commissioner has thought of all the angles. You haven’t any money. Come on!”
English lifted his shoulders. He was determined now he wasn’t going to be locked in a cell while Lois was in danger. Casually he moved toward Morilli, but something about his attitude warned Morilli, who jerked out his gun.
“Take it easy,” he said evenly. “Don’t pull a fast one, English, or you’ll get shot. Go ahead, and if you want a slug in the back, try to get away.”
English smiled.
“Don’t be dramatic, Lieutenant. Even if I did get away, where would I go? I prefer to fight this in court.”
“Get going and watch your step,” Morilli said.
They went out of the apartment and down the four flights of stairs to the lobby.
At the bottom of the stairs a thickset, red-faced detective leaned against the wall, chewing on a toothpick. He eyed English over, then glanced at Morilli.
“Let’s get going,” Morilli said impatiently. “We’ve got a murder on our hands after we’ve turned this guy in.”
“For God’s sake!” the red-faced detective exclaimed in disgust. “And I’ve got a ticket for the fights tonight!”
“You’re unlucky,” Morilli said. “Come on. Snap it up!”
The red-faced detective went down the steps to the waiting car and got in under the steering wheel.
English followed him, with Morilli at his heels. As English paused by the car and set himself, Morilli rammed his gun into his side.
“Start something, and I’ll spread your guts on the sidewalk!” he said viciously.
“For a pensioner, you show very little respect for your benefactor,” English said and smiled.
“Get in!” Morilli snapped. “And watch it!”
English climbed into the car, and Morilli followed him.
“Okay, Nankin,” Morilli said to the red-faced detective. “Let’s have some speed.”
The car shot away from the curb and headed downtown, keeping to the back streets.
English sat motionless, feeling Morilli’s gun against his side, and inwardly seething. He realized his chances of escaping were slight, and his hopes would now have to rest on Ed.
I'll Bury My Dead Page 21