I'll Bury My Dead Read online

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 favor 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 favor. 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.”

  “You don’t think you can scare me, do you?” Sherman said. “I make a point always to call a bluff.”

  “There comes a time when you can call a bluff once too often,” English returned. “I admit if I handed you over to the police it wouldn’t be possible to keep the shabby news that my brother is a blackmailer out of the papers. I admit I would cook my own goose in this city by having you arrested, but rather than submit to blackmail or let Miss Clair submit to blackmail, I shan’t hesitate to go after you, and once I do go after you, no power on earth can save you from the electric chair.” He got up abruptly and began to pace up and down, his hands clasped behind his back, his face thoughtful. “I can’t allow you to remain in the city, nor can I allow you to continue to levy blackmail. I am going to make you a proposal. It doesn’t suit me at the moment to hand you over to the police. Instead, you are to leave town by the end of the week. You are not to return. You are to give up your blackmailing activities. If you don’t leave, and if you attempt to levy blackmail in this town again, then I shall hand you over to the police. If you think I am bluffing, go ahead and stay in this apartment and see what happens to you. If it’s the last thing I do I’ll have you in the electric chair within six months. That is all I have to say to you. If this apartment isn’t empty by Saturday night, you will be arrested on Sunday morning. I shall not warn you again. Get out of town by Saturday night or take the consequences. And if you think the police will believe that Miss Clair shot my brother, go to them and tell them. They won’t react favorably. They know she is under my protection, and they won’t be anxious to make difficulties for me.” He walked to the door, opened it and paused to say, “As I don’t expect to see you again, I won’t say good night, I’ll say goodbye.”

  Sherman had gone pale, and his yellow eyes showed his suppressed fury.

  “A war is never won until the last battle, Mr. English,” he said, his voice unsteady.

  English looked at him and made a grimace of disgust.

  “This happens to be the last battle,” he said, opened the front door and walked slowly down the passage to his own apartment.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I

  C ORRINE E NGLISH CARRIED the coffee-pot into the lounge and set it on the table. As she sat down, she yawned and ran her fingers through her blond hair.

  The time was twenty minutes past eleven in the morning, and the bright sunshine made her feel jaded. Never at her best in the mornings, Corrine only came alive after six o’clock when she had been fortified by the first cocktail of the day.

  She poured the coffee into a cup, and then, after only a momentary hesitation, sh
e got up and went over to the cellarette for a bottle of brandy.

  Since Roy’s death she had been drinking heavily. The lonely house, her brooding thoughts about Roy and Mary Savitt, and her hatred of Nick English so preyed on her mind that she turned automatically to brandy to “deaden her suffering” as she put it to herself. She began by drinking steadily in the evening, then she went to the bottle during the afternoon, and now she was beginning to take brandy in her morning coffee.

  She brought the bottle to the table and poured a liberal shot into the coffee and sat down again. She found she couldn’t face the toast she had made, and she pushed the plate aside with a grimace of disgust. She drank more brandy, then she carried the cup over to the electric fire and sat down on the settee.

  She wore her rose-pink silk wrap over black lounging pyjamas, and as she settled herself among the cushions, she remembered she had been wearing this outfit when Nick English had broken the news to her of Roy’s death.

  Her eyes hardened as she thought of English. She hated him as she didn’t think it possible to hate anyone. She blamed him for Roy’s death. His threat to hand over Roy’s letters to the press filled her with vindictive fury. To make matters worse she knew she was helpless to hurt him. She knew if she tried to pit herself against him it would be as futile as opposing a tank with an air pistol.

  She finished her coffee, got up and took a glass from the cellarette and half filled it with brandy.

  “May as well get soused as sit here and think about that bastard,” she said aloud. “I’ve nothing to do until lunchtime, and when lunchtime comes, I shan’t want any lunch. So what the hell?”

  Since Roy’s death, she had got into the habit of talking to herself. She would walk about the lonely house, talking and talking. Sometimes she talked to Roy just as if he were sitting in the lounge, listening. Sometimes she would talk to Sam or Helen Crail or one of her girlfriends, half imagining they were actually listening to her, and she kept up a monologue, occasionally asking questions and answering them herself, pretending it was Roy or Sam or Helen who was giving her the answer.

  She lit a cigarette, drained the glass and refilled it.

  “We’ve got to do something, Roy, about that sonofabitch,” she said as she wandered back to the settee. “He’s not going to get away with it. All I want is a good idea. Give me a good idea, darling, and I’ll carry it out. I promise I will. I’ll do anything. I’ll even shoot him if you say so.”

  As she was about to sit down, the musical chimes at the front door sounded.

  “Oh, damn!” she said crossly. “That’ll be Hetty.”

  She went across the lounge into the lobby and opened the front door.

  A youngish man stood on the step. He raised his brown slouch hat, showing thick flaxen hair that looked like burnished silver in the sunlight. He smiled at Corrine, his jaws moving rhythmically as he chewed, his amber-colored eyes sliding over her plump little figure like a caress.

  “Mrs. English?”

  Corrine’s fingers went hastily to her hair. She knew she looked awful as she hadn’t bothered to put on any makeup, and she knew the rose-pink wrap was grubby.

  “Yes, but I—I don’t receive callers at this hour. Who are you?”

  “My name is Roger Sherman, Mrs. English. Forgive me for calling so early, but I was anxious to see you. I am an old friend of Roy’s.”

  “Oh!” Corrine stepped back. “Perhaps you had better come in. The place is in a ghastly mess. My maid hasn’t come yet. I was just having breakfast.”

  Sherman stepped into the lobby and closed the door.

  “Please don’t be embarrassed,” he said, and gave her a charming smile. “I should have called you on the telephone first. I do hope you will forgive me.”

  Corrine was in a flutter. Roy had never mentioned Roger Sherman to her, but it was obvious this man was wealthy. She had caught a glimpse of a big shiny Cadillac at the door, and his clothes and manner impressed her.

  “Please go into the lounge. I won’t be a moment,” she said, and retreated hurriedly into her bedroom, shutting the door.

  Sherman walked into the lounge and looked around with a slight wrinkling of his nose. He saw the bottle of brandy and the glass, and nodded to himself. He went over and stood before the electric fire, his hands in his pockets, his jaws moving slowly. He remained like that for over a quarter of an hour, his blank expression masking his impatience.

  Corrine came in, still flustered. She had put on makeup, and had changed into a lilac-colored wrap which she kept for the best occasions. If it hadn’t been for the shadowy puffiness under her eyes, and the fact that she was just a shade too plump, she would have looked extremely attractive.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said, closing the door. “But I had to make myself look a little presentable.”

  “Why, you look charming,” Sherman said, smiling at her. “So you are Roy’s wife. He often talked about you, saying how pretty you are, and now I’ve seen you for myself I can endorse that.”

  It seemed a long time to Corrine since anyone had paid her a compliment, and for a moment she forgot how Roy had betrayed her, and the memory of their past happiness brought sudden tears to her eyes.

  “Roy never mentioned you,” she said, touching her eyes with her handkerchief. “You say you were a friend of his?”

  “We were very old friends. I was shocked to hear of his sad end. I would have come to see you sooner only I have been out of town. I can’t say how sorry I am.”

  “Please don’t talk about it,” Corrine said and sat down. “I don’t think I’ll ever get over the disgrace.”

  “You mustn’t say things like that,” Sherman said gently. “After all, it wasn’t Roy’s fault. I suppose you know his brother was at the bottom of the whole thing?”

  Corrine stiffened.

  “He was? How do you know?”

  Sherman’s eyes went to the bottle of brandy.

  “Would it be rude of me to ask if I might have a drink? I like a drink at this time in the morning, but perhaps you wouldn’t approve.”

  “Oh, yes,” Corrine said. “Please help yourself. I don’t mind in the least.”

  Sherman went over to the cellarette for a brandy glass. He poured brandy into it, then appeared to notice Corrine’s empty glass for the first time.

  “May I give you a drink, too, Mrs. English?”

  Corrine hesitated. She didn’t want this presentable young man to think she was in the habit of drinking brandy in the morning, but she wanted a drink badly.

  “Well, perhaps a small one. I’m not feeling very bright this morning.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Sherman returned, poured brandy generously into her glass and gave it to her. “I hope this won’t be the last time we meet,” he went on and saluted her with his glass.

  Corrine drank half the brandy while Sherman scarcely touched his.

  “You were talking about Nick English,” Corrine said. “How do you know he was at the bottom of Roy’s death?”

  “Roy told me,” Sherman said and sat down beside Corrine. His hand brushed against her silk-clad thigh. “I beg your pardon. I seem to be clumsy this morning.”

  “What did he tell you?” Corrine demanded, scarcely noticing he had touched her.

  “He told me about the money,” Sherman said. “You know about that, of course?”

  “What money?”

  “Why, the twenty thousand dollars Roy meant you to have,” Sherman returned, lifting his eyebrows. “Surely your attorney has given it to you?”

  Corrine’s big blue eyes opened wide.

  “Twenty thousand dollars?” she repeated. “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “But surely you’ve been left something? Forgive me for appearing curious, but after all, I was Roy’s best friend, and I feel I should see his wife has been properly provided for.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Corrine said, nearly dissolving into tears. “You don’t know how lonely I’ve
been. Of course Sam Crail has been kind, but he is very busy. After all, it’s not as if he was a friend. He was only Roy’s attorney.”

  “He is Nick English’s attorney, too,” Sherman said.

  Corrine stiffened.

  “He is? I didn’t know that. But it doesn’t matter, does it? He wouldn’t tell that man anything, would he?”

  “He is on English’s payroll,” Sherman said. “It’s no secret. He does exactly what English tells him.”

  “Oh!” Corrine’s face flushed. “What am I going to do? I wouldn’t have had him in the house if I had known.”

  “May I ask what you have got to live on?” Sherman said, leaning forward and looking at her intently.

  “Roy left an annuity. I’m to have two hundred dollars a week for life,” Corrine said.

  “And nothing has been said about the twenty thousand?”

  “No, this is the first time I have heard of it. What twenty thousand?”

  “You know about Mary Savitt, I suppose?”

  Corrine looked away.

  “Yes, I know about her. How Roy could have done such a thing…”

  “Some men get carried away by unscrupulous women,” Sherman said, shaking his head. “And she was unscrupulous, Mrs. English. It wouldn’t have lasted. He would have very soon realized his mistake.”

  Corrine put her hand on his.

  “Thank you for saying that. That’s what I’ve been telling myself. Roy couldn’t have gone off and left me. I know he would have come back.”

  “He didn’t forget you. He provided for you. He told me so. He brought off a deal which netted him twenty thousand. He intended to give you the money when he went away with Mary Savitt.”

  “Roy made twenty thousand!” Corrine said, startled. “Why, I can’t believe it. Roy never made any money ever.”

  “Strictly speaking it was rather sharp practice,” Sherman said. “Apparently Nick English was handling the deal. Roy happened to call on the same client on another matter, and the client confused Roy with Nick. Roy didn’t enlighten him, and pulled off the deal. Nick English was so angry he called in the police. They were on their way when Roy got into a panic and shot himself.”