1953 - I'll Bury My Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  ‘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 Pieta, 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 Pieta, 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 Pieta, ‘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 rightly. 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 surefire 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 nightclub. 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 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 overdeveloped 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 centre 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 percent of the gross.’

  ‘I see,’ English said. ‘And he decided that ten percent 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.’

  There was a long pause of silence while Sherman studied English. His smile was fixed now, and his eyes were uneasy.

  ‘All this is very interesting, Mr. English,’ he said at last, ‘but suppose we get back to our business deal. Time is getting along. I have an appointment in half an hour.’

  English smiled.

  ‘You don’t really imagine you can blackmail me, do you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I see no reason why not,’ Sherman returned, his voice hardening. ‘It would be no hardship for you to find a quarter of a million. The advantages of paying are considerable. Up to now you have made a big impression on this city. You are anxious to have the hospital named after you. You have done the city a lot of good. It would be a pity to spoil your good name because you happen to have a brother who failed to live up to your own high standards. I think you would be extremely foolish not to make a deal with me.’

  ‘But I don’t have to make a deal with you,’ English said mildly. ‘It is you who have to try to make a deal with me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sherman asked, frowning.

  ‘I should have thought it was obvious. Within the past few days you have murdered four people. I hold your life in my hands.’

  Sherman made an impatient gesture.

  ‘Surely that is an exaggeration. There is a considerable difference between making a guess and proving it.’

  ‘I don’t need to prove it. You will have to prove you didn’t kill these people.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re wasting time,’ Sherman said sharply. ‘Are you going to buy my information or do I have to go to your mistress?’

  English laughed.

  ‘I had the mistaken idea that when I found the man who murdered my brother I was going to
take the law into my own hands. At the back of my mind I was prepared to shoot him. I knew my brother was a weak, gutless fool, but I felt I couldn’t let his murder go unrevenged. In my family we have a tradition. We bury our own dead. That is to say we prefer to deal with matters concerning the family in our own way, rather than call in outsiders. So I had made up my mind that I would find Roy’s murderer and deal with him myself.’ He leaned forward to flick ash into the fire. ‘Well, I have found him, but the circumstances have changed. I have also discovered my brother was not only a cheap cheat, but he was also a blackmailer, and to me, Mr. Sherman, a blackmailer is lower than any other form of life. A man who sets out to blackmail people who have no money, as Roy did, is beyond mercy. If you hadn’t killed him, then I should have. In fact, Mr. Sherman, I am moderately grateful to you for ridding me of Roy.’

  Sherman’s face was now set, and his yellow eyes gleamed.

  ‘All this is very interesting, but it doesn’t answer my question. Are you paying me or do I have to go to your mistress?’

  ‘I’m certainly not paying you,’ English said, ‘and Miss Clair isn’t paying you, either.’

  ‘Then you give me no other alternative but to go elsewhere with my information,’ Sherman said.

  ‘Nor will you take your information elsewhere,’ English returned. ‘Up to now you have been blackmailing people who don’t know how to hit back. I do. You’re like a middleweight who has rashly taken on a heavyweight, and the heavyweight is bound to win.’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ Sherman said.

  ‘That’s true, but you don’t seem to realize what you’ve taken on by trying to blackmail me,’ English said, stretching out his long legs. ‘I have a lot of money and a lot of influence. I have many useful friends. When dealing with a blackmailer I should not hesitate to throw aside all scruples. I have already told you I don’t regard a blackmailer as a human being. I would treat him as I would treat a rat that happens to find its way into my room. I would exterminate him without mercy and by any means, and that is what I am prepared to do to you. I know you killed four people. At the moment I have no evidence against you that would stand up in court, but in two or three days I shall have the evidence. I have an exceedingly efficient organization. I have people who will trace some of your blackmail victims. Having found them I will guarantee them immunity plus a big financial reward if they will testify against you, and some of them will. I will then inform the police and I will let them know I would take it as a favour if they showed you no mercy. I am quite sure Lieutenant Morilli will personally take over the questioning, and he would beat you to a pulp if I offered to pay for the energy expended. It is very possible that you will break down and confess. If you happen to be tougher than you look, then the next move will be to manufacture the necessary evidence, and you will be surprised how easy it can be done. I admit it will cost money, but then I have money. It won’t be difficult to find someone willing to perjure himself for an agreed sum who will identify you as the man who drove his car over Hennessey. Someone else will be only too willing to swear he saw you murder May Mitchell. Someone else will say he saw you leaving Mary Savitt’s apartment the night she died. Tom Calhoun, the janitor, will identify you as the last person to see my brother alive. Having got my perjured evidence, I shall then talk to the judge who will try you. I know all the judges in the city, and they are all anxious to do me a favour. I will arrange to see the jury before they try you, and I will promise them a reward if they bring in a guilty verdict. Once you are arrested, Mr. Sherman, I guarantee you will be dead within a few months. Make no mistake about that.’