I'll Bury My Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  “What are you talking about?” Crail demanded, his voice shooting up.

  “Lois went over to Corrine’s place. Nick reckoned Corrine and Sherman were working together. Lois was going to bring her back so Nick could talk to her. I found Corrine strangled, and Lois missing. She had been there. I found her handkerchief. I’ve got to find her, Crail. Tell Nick I’m going to put pressure on this Windsor girl. She may know something. She’s our only chance. Tell him not to worry. I’ll find Lois if it kills me.”

  “Who’s the Windsor girl?” Crail asked blankly.

  “Never mind. Tell him. He knows who she is. I’ve got to get moving.”

  “Keep in touch with me,” Crail said urgently.

  “Sure. I’ll call you back after I’ve talked to this girl. How long will you be before you get back?”

  “I don’t know. An hour maybe. Call me in an hour.”

  “I’ll do that,” Leon said, and hung up.

  He left the pay booth and went back to his car. Ten minutes’ fast driving brought him to 7th Street, and he pulled up outside the building that housed the Alert Agency.

  He walked into the lobby and down the stairs to Tom Calhoun’s quarters. He found Calhoun watching a fight on the television.

  Calhoun got reluctantly to his feet. The two fighters were belting each other all over the ring, and he didn’t want to miss the knock-out.

  “I’m busy,” he said, scowling. “What do you want at this hour?”

  “I want to talk to Miss Windsor. Is she upstairs still or has she gone home?” Leon had to raise his voice to get above the uproar that was coming from the television set. “For the love of Mike, do you have to blast that thing like that?”

  Calhoun lowered the sound. His eyes kept flickering to the lighted screen.

  “She’s up there. She lives up there.”

  “Thanks,” Leon said. “Sorry to have disturbed you.”

  Calhoun’s curiosity got the better of his interest in the fight.

  “What do you want to talk to her about?” he asked.

  “I want to find out if she’s as lonely as I am.”

  Leon backed out of the room and crossed over to the elevator. Calhoun followed him.

  “You can find your way up, can’t you?” he said, unlocking the elevator grill. “Maybe she won’t want to see you.”

  Leon got into the elevator and slammed the grill.

  “Like to bet on it?” he said, and dug his thumb into the top button.

  The elevator creaked upward. It finally came to rest on the top floor, and Leon stepped out into the passage. The clatter of the teleprinters from the news agency covered the sound of the grill opening. There was a light showing through the transome above Gloria Windsor’s door.

  He walked along the passage, lifted the brass knocker and rapped twice. He leaned against the doorpost, his foot ready to wedge back the door if necessary, his hands thrust into his mackintosh pockets.

  After a delay a bolt shot back. The door opened.

  A tall, red-headed girl in a green high-neck sweater and a pair of fawn-colored slacks looked at him enquiringly. She was around twenty-eight or nine. Her face had an alert beauty, marred by a hard mouth and an over-aggressive chin. Leon thought she had the most provocative shape he had ever seen on a woman, and he had difficulty in dragging his eyes from her figure that was accentuated rather than concealed by the skin-tight sweater she wore.

  “Miss Windsor?” he asked, tipping his hat.

  Gray eyes looked into his. Scarlet lips twisted into half a smile.

  “Sure. What do you want?”

  “I’m Ed Leon,” Leon told her. “I’m a detective. I want to talk to you.”

  She continued to smile, but her eyes grew suddenly wary.

  “Don’t kid me,” she said scornfully. “If you’re a flatfoot, then I’m Sophie Tucker.”

  Leon took out his wallet and showed her his buzzer and licence.

  “Does that convince you?”

  “Oh, a shamus,” she said with a withering contempt. “Run along, boy scout, I can’t be bothered with amateurs.”

  She began to close the door, but Leon’s foot was in the way. He moved forward, riding her back.

  “I said I wanted to talk to you,” he told her. “Let’s park our fannies, and take our hair out of curlers.”

  She gave ground, her gray eyes angry.

  “You’re going to walk into a load of grief, shamus,” she said, “if you try to make a move on me.”

  “It’s a risk I’ll gladly run,” Leon said, inside the lobby by now. He closed the door and leaned against it. “It’s not often I have the opportunity of making a move on a redhead as well stacked as you. Tell me, just to satisfy my curiosity, were you put together by an architect or did you grow that way naturally?”

  A hint of a smile came into the gray eyes.

  “A smooth guy!” she said in mock despair. “I meet them twenty-four hours a day, ten a dime. Well, now you’re in, say your piece and dust. I want to watch the fights on the television.”

  “We’re not in yet,” Leon said, and stepped past her. He pushed open a door and walked into a large airy sitting room. “Well, you know how to make yourself comfortable,” he went on, looking round the room. “My, my! You must be doing pretty well with your silhouette.”

  “Put that in the plural or I’ll take a poke at your left eye,” she said languidly and walked over to a deep armchair and sank into it.

  “Or maybe it’s the blackmail racket that’s paying off,” Leon went on, watching her.

  She looked at him out of the corners of her eyes, and her mouth tightened.

  “What are you talking about?” she demanded frostily.

  “You’re in trouble, baby,” Leon said, moving over to the fireplace and standing before the bright fire. “This is the end of the road for you. How do you like the idea of spending the next ten years in a nice, cozy jail?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes jeering.

  “What makes you think I’m going to jail, shamus?”

  “Facts and figures—not your figure, mathematical ones,” Leon said, taking out a packet of cigarettes. “Smoke?”

  She shook her head.

  “What facts and figures?”

  Leon lit up and flicked the match into the fire.

  “Sherman’s racket has blown up in his face. You and he have been working together. We’ve got all we want on him, and we’re waiting to pick him up. While we’re waiting for him to show, we’re picking up the small fry, like you.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “Who’s Sherman? What are you talking about?”

  Leon smiled.

  “Don’t give me that stuff. You know what I’m talking about. You fingered Roy English. You’re Sherman’s sounding board. Everything that went on in English’s office was heard by you and passed on to Sherman. That makes you Sherman’s stooge.”

  “Aw, you’re crazy!” she exclaimed angrily. “Get out of here before I call the cops.”

  “Go ahead and call them. It’ll save me the trouble of dragging you down to headquarters.”

  She got out of the chair and walked over to the telephone.

  “The cops in this city know how to deal with a louse like you,” she said. “Take my tip and dust while the dusting’s good.”

  “Go ahead and call them,” he said, leaning his shoulders against the mantel. “I’ve got enough on you to put you away for ten years. Blackmail rates high these days.”

  “You can’t prove a thing,” she said, her hand on the telephone.

  “I can tie you in with Sherman. Within the last few days he’s knocked off five people—Roy English, Mary Savitt, Joe Hennessey, May Mitchell, and an hour ago, Corrine English,” Leon said, watching her. “You’re tied in to Roy’s killing. I can prove that. If you’re not careful, they’ll put that nice outline of yours in the chair.”

  She half turned as she lifted the receiver, then she slammed it down, jerked open a
drawer and whipped out a .25 automatic. She spun around and pointed the gun at Leon.

  “Don’t move, shamus,” she said, her face hard and her eyes glittering. “I’m tempted to put a slug in you, and tell the cops you broke in here.”

  “What—with that toy? It wouldn’t even make me bleed,” Leon said, not feeling as confident as he sounded.

  “You make a move out of turn, and we’ll see if it’ll make you bleed!”

  “Where’s this going to get you?” he asked. “Why don’t you use your head and do the sensible thing?”

  “And what’s that?” she demanded, resting her hips against the table, the gun centered on his chest.

  “I want Sherman,” Leon said. “I could afford to let you go. He’s ducked out of sight. Where would he go?”

  She studied him.

  “Suppose I know, and suppose I tell you—what then, shamus?”

  “I’d give you twelve hours to pull out of town. After twelve hours I’d have to tell the cops you were working with Sherman, but a girl with transport can get a long way in twelve hours.”

  “I don’t know anything about Sherman,” she said and laughed. “Why, you’re crazy! I’ve never heard of the guy until you walked in here. Now get out!”

  Leon studied her.

  “If I walk out of here, the cops will walk in. They’ll persuade you to talk, make no mistake about that!”

  “Get out!”

  Leon shrugged.

  “Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it, don’t blame me if you land up in the chair.”

  “Get out!”

  “A one-track mind,” Leon remarked, and moved over to the door. “I forgot to mention there’d be a getaway stake thrown in with my offer of a twelve-hour start. I wouldn’t expect a girl like you to take a powder without a little folding money to keep her warm.”

  He saw her stiffen to attention, and knew he had struck the right note.

  “Keep going,” she said, but she didn’t sound quite so convincing this time.

  As he reached the door, she said, “How much?”

  “A couple of grand. That’s not a bad proposition, sister—two grand and twelve hours’ start.”

  “Not interested,” she said curtly. “That’s chicken feed. Get out of here!”

  “Suppose you make a suggestion?”

  She hesitated.

  “Ten.”

  Leon laughed.

  “That’s funny. Ten grand for something the cops could beat out of you. But I’ll go to five because redheads soothe my ulcer.”

  “Seven,” she said promptly.

  Leon realized he was wasting time.

  “Do you know where he is?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Well, okay, what have I got to lose? It isn’t my dough. I’ll close at seven. Where is he?”

  “Do I look all that damp behind the ears?” she said scornfully. “I want the dough first.”

  “Where is he?” Leon barked, suddenly losing his nonchalant air. “You’ll get the money, but you’ll talk first!”

  “I want the money first,” she returned obstinately.

  He grabbed her by her arm.

  “Listen. Sherman has kidnapped English’s secretary! He’s taken her somewhere. If I don’t find her fast, he’ll knock her off, and if he does, I’ll damn well see you’re tied in with him. Where is he?”

  She hesitated.

  “How do I know you’re not lying?” she said. “Who is English’s secretary?”

  “Her name’s Lois Marshall,” Leon said impatiently. “She went to Corrine English’s place and vanished. I went there to see what had happened to her and found Corrine strangled. Sherman’s got her, and every minute I spend talking to you puts her in a worse spot. Do you want to be made an accessory to murder?”

  “You’ll give me the money and twelve hours’ start if I tell you?”

  “Yes! Where is he?”

  “Where’s the money coming from?”

  “Sam Crail, the attorney, will give it to you.”

  She hesitated, then said, “He’s got a yacht anchored off Bay Creek. That’s where he spends his weekends. If he’s anywhere, that’s where he’ll be. You can’t miss it, it’s the only yacht anchored there.”

  “Is this on the level?” Leon demanded.

  “Of course it is! Now how do I collect the dough?”

  Leon went over to the desk by the window, pulled a sheet of notepaper from a pigeon-hole and scribbled a note. He handed it to her.

  “Give that to Crail. Tell him what you’ve told me, and he’ll pay you.”

  “If he doesn’t…!”

  “He’ll do it. Maybe not tonight, but first thing in the morning. You’ll still have twelve hours’ start. I promise you that.”

  “Do I go there now?”

  “Better wait until the morning. He can’t lay his hands on seven grand tonight.”

  “If I’m going, I’m going now. Maybe he can give me something, and send on the rest.”

  “Please yourself,” Leon said, making for the door. “I’ve got things to do.”

  When he had gone, she stood, thinking, her eyes worried, then she went swiftly into the bedroom, pulled out two suitcases from under her bed and began to pack hurriedly. She packed only essential things, and threw them anyhow into the cases.

  For the past days she had read in the newspaper of the succession of mysterious deaths, and she guessed Sherman had been responsible for them. She had decided before Leon’s visit to leave town. Now, she was in a panic to get away before the police tied her in with Sherman. She didn’t altogether trust Leon. If Crail gave her a thousand, she would be content with that so long as she could leave town that night. Her one thought now was to get away before trouble overtook her.

  Without bothering to change out of her sweater and slacks, she pulled on a fur coat, picked up her two suitcases and went swiftly to the front door. She jerked it open, and then came to an abrupt stop, her heart skipping a beat.

  Sherman was standing in the passage, his hands in his mackintosh pockets, water dripping from his hat brim, his jaws moving slowly, his eyes expressionless.

  “Hello, Gloria,” he said quietly.

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Running away?” he went on, his eyes going to the two cases.

  “What do you mean?” she managed to get out. “I’m only going away for the weekend.”

  “But not coming back?” he said. “Got cold feet, Gloria?”

  “Why should I have cold feet?” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “What’s the matter with you? Can’t I go away for a weekend without you imagining things?”

  He shrugged.

  “I don’t care where you go, Gloria, but you are running away, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I’m not!” she said with unnecessary vehemence. “What’s the matter with you? It’s you who have got cold feet.”

  Sherman smiled.

  “Can I come in a moment? I want to talk to you.”

  “I—I don’t want to miss my train…”

  He moved toward her, and she gave ground. He entered the sitting room. Slowly, as if hypnotized, she put the two suitcases on the floor and leaned against the wall, watching him.

  “You don’t have to run away, Gloria,” he said, moving about the room. “I’ve got English where I want him. He can’t cause trouble now. The police are looking for him. He shot his mistress.”

  She didn’t say anything. Her eyes followed him as he moved over to the window.

  “It looked at first as if he could stop me,” Sherman went on, “but it’s all right now. How are you off for money, Gloria? I think I owe you something, don’t I?”

  “I’m all right,” she said huskily. “I—I don’t need anything at the moment.”

  He smiled at her.

  “First time I’ve ever known you to say that. Perhaps you’re scared of taking my money now, Gloria? You don’t have to be.”

  “If you’
ve got it, I’ll have it,” she said, “but I’m not hard up.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you are.” He had stopped by the window and was examining the curtain cord. “Now this is an odd coincidence. I’ve been looking for a cord like this for weeks. You may not believe it, but I can’t find this exact shade anywhere.” He took the cord off the hook and appeared to examine it closely. “Do you remember where you got it?”

  “From Sackville’s,” Gloria said, watching him uneasily.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, moving casually toward her. “I think I tried there.”

  She looked at the cord, seeing it now hanging in a loop between his fingers, and she tried to screw herself into the wall, her eyes opening wide with terror.

  “Keep away from me!” she said in a tight, strangled voice.

  “What’s the matter?” Sherman asked, smiling at her. “What’s frightening you? Don’t tell me, Gloria, you of all people, are suffering from a guilty conscience?”

  He was within a few feet of her now. She suddenly threw herself blindly across the room to the door. He went after her with quick silent steps, and as she reached the door, he dropped the loop over her head.

  Her frantic scream of terror was throttled back into her throat as he crossed his hands and tightened the cord.

  II

  As Sam Crail got out of his car, the shadowy figure of a man came out of the darkness.

  “Sam?”

  “Why, Nick!” Crail looked uneasily to the right and left, scared anyone might be watching. “What the hell are you doing here? What happened?”

  “Let’s get inside,” English said, his voice tense.

  Crail snapped off the car’s headlight, and then led the way up the dark path to his house. He opened the door, and English followed him into the lobby.

  Helen Crail came out of the lounge. She was a tall, willowy girl with light-brown hair and shrewd, friendly eyes. English had often wondered why she had married Crail. He thought she was too good-looking to have hooked up with a fat, middle-aged attorney like Sam. But in spite of the disparity of age and looks, they seemed to get on well together.

  “Come in by the fire, Nick,” she said, smiling at him. “I’ll get you a drink.”