1953 - I'll Bury My Dead Page 17

  English leaned forward.

  ‘Okay, Chuck, take the car away, and get some dinner. I’ll want you about half-past ten.’

  ‘Want me to come in, boss?’ Chuck asked, his beady eyes searching the sidewalk.

  English shook his head.

  ‘No. There won’t be any trouble in there. It’s when we come out I want you to keep your eyes open.’

  ‘They’re always open,’ Chuck said aggressively. ‘Ten-thirty then?’

  ‘I’ll wait for you in the foyer.’

  Chuck got out of the car, looked up and down the sidewalk, his hand inside his coat, then he opened the car door and watched English hurry across the sidewalk into the restaurant.

  English handed his hat and coat to the check-girl, and was moving to the washroom when he saw Senator Beaumont come in.

  ‘Hello there, Senator,’ he said. ‘I haven’t kept you waiting this time.’

  ‘How are you, Nick?’ Beaumont asked, shaking hands.

  ‘I’m fine. I was just going to have a wash. Coming?’

  ‘May as well,’ Beaumont returned, and together they walked into the ornate washroom.

  While English washed his hands, Beaumont lit a cigar and stood near him, scowling.

  ‘You shouldn’t have postponed that meeting, Nick,’ he jerked out. ‘Rees didn’t like it.’

  ‘I didn’t think he would,’ English returned indifferently and reached for a hand towel. ‘If I bothered my head about Rees’s likes and dislikes I’d have no time to make money.’

  Beaumont shrugged.

  ‘I’m warning you. Rees isn’t going to stand for much more of this treatment. He told me so.’

  English took the senator’s arm and propelled him out of the washroom into the bar.

  ‘Have a highball and relax,’ he said genially. ‘Rees will stand for everything I dish out and you know it.’

  ‘He won’t. He said it was time someone clamped down on you, and he’s going to do it.’

  English passed a highball to Beaumont and ordered a martini for himself.

  ‘And how does he intend to clamp down on me?’ he asked, smiling.

  ‘He didn’t say, but I’ve heard he’s had a talk with the D.A. He’s onto Roy.’

  English’s face tightened.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Beaumont shifted uneasily in his chair.

  ‘He’s heard about the blackmail rumours. He’s pressing the D.A. to investigate.’

  English shrugged.

  ‘There’s nothing to investigate. Let him go ahead if he wants to, but if he starts anything he can’t prove I’m going to sue the coat off his back!’

  Beaumont nodded.

  ‘I told him so,’ he said, a satisfied expression coming into his eyes. ‘He didn’t like it. All the same, Nick, if there is any truth in it, you’ve got to be damned careful.’

  ‘Don’t talk crap!’ English said roughly. ‘There’s nothing for me to do, nothing at all. He’s got to prove Roy was a blackmailer, and he can’t do it.’

  ‘Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that,’ Beaumont said, looking relieved. ‘You wouldn’t kid me, Nick?’

  ‘Why should I? He can’t prove it, nor can the D.A.’

  ‘How about that girl? Roy’s secretary?’

  ‘She’s been taken care of. The press didn’t hook her to Roy, nor did the D.A. Morilli covered it up. He certainly earned that five grand. You’ve nothing to worry about, so relax, can’t you?’

  ‘It’s all very well for you to talk,’ Beaumont said crossly. ‘But I’ve my position to think of.’

  ‘So long as I’m here, you have nothing to worry about,’ English said. ‘So take it easy.’

  ‘Talk of the devil,’ Beaumont muttered. ‘Here’s Rees now.’

  English glanced up.

  Standing in the doorway was a squat, hard-faced man in his late sixties, talking to a vivacious looking girl who was wearing a silver-blue mutation mink in a cape stole over a black evening gown.

  ‘I wonder if he bought her that cape or if she hired it,’ English said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘That’s Lola Vegas. She used to dance at the Golden Apple before I threw her out. She went for anything in trousers - even the waiters.’

  ‘Keep your voice down, for God’s sake!’ Beaumont mumbled. ‘Rees is poison to you and me.’

  ‘Who are you kidding? English said and laughed.

  Rees came up to the bar and sat away from English. He nodded stiffly to Beaumont and then to English.

  English nodded back, waved a careless hand at Lola, who glared at him before turning her back.

  ‘When she tried to make the bellhop I thought it was time she went,’ English said. ‘As you can see, she still nurses a grudge.’

  Beaumont hurriedly switched the conversation to the coming election, and for the next half-hour, English listened to Beaumont’s needs, which were substantial.

  ‘The last election didn’t cost anything like this,’ he broke in. ‘For Pete’s sake! Your costs are up twenty-five percent!’

  ‘That may be,’ Beaumont returned, ‘but I’ve got a lot more opposition. There are a lot more people to take care of, and the only language they understand is spelt out in hard cash.’

  ‘All the same that’s a lot of money,’ English returned. ‘Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll send Harry Vince down to your office tomorrow morning, and he can check on the whole position. He’s good at that kind of thing. I’ll accept his estimate, and you must, too.’

  Beaumont scowled.

  ‘I know Vince. He’s all for economy, and this isn’t the time for economy, Nick.’

  But English wasn’t listening. He had seen Corrine English, standing in the doorway. She was wearing a white evening dress that had seen better days. Her hair was untidy, and her face was flushed. Already people were staring at her.

  ‘Here’s Roy’s wife,’ English said. ‘This is the last time I come to this restaurant. Every crumb in town seems to be patronizing it.’

  Beaumont looked across the room, his small, wiry frame stiffening.

  ‘Hell! She looks drunk,’ he said, clutching hold of the arms of his chair.

  ‘She is drunk,’ English returned, ‘and she’s coming this way.’

  He pushed back his chair and stood up as Corrine made unsteady progress across the bar toward him. He went to meet her smiling.

  ‘Hello, Corrine,’ he said. ‘If you’re alone, perhaps you’ll join me.’

  ‘Hello, louse,’ she said shrilly. ‘I’d rather be in a snake pit than with you.’

  The hum of conversation in the bar petered out, and all eyes turned to English in a silence that seemed to pile up around him like a snow drift. He continued to smile.

  ‘If that’s the way you feel, Corrine,’ he said quietly, ‘then I’m sorry I asked,’ and he turned back to his table.

  ‘Don’t run away,’ Corrine said shrilly. ‘I’ve got a lot to say to you,’ and she grabbed hold of his arm, pulling him around.

  A hard-faced man in a tuxedo appeared suddenly behind the bar. He looked quickly at English, then said something to the barman.

  English made no attempt to shake free from Corrine’s grip. He was as unruffled as a bishop at a tea party.

  ‘Take it easy, Corrine,’ he said genially. ‘Hadn’t you better go home?’

  ‘Your whore’s in bed with Harry Vince,’ Corrine said, raising her voice. ‘They’ve been lovers for months, you poor, stupid sucker! Every time you have a business date, she sneaks off to his apartment. She’s in bed with him right now!’

  People were leaning forward, staring and not missing word. The hard-faced man came out from behind the bar and walked smoothly up to English.

  ‘Shall I get her out, Mr. English?’ he asked without moving his lips.

  ‘It’s all right,’ English said gently, his face expressionless. ‘I’ll do it. Come on, Corrine. I’ll see you home. You can tell me all about it as we go.’

  Corrine stepped back, h
er face going white. She expected some reaction from English, but his unruffled aim and apparent indifference to what she had said cut the ground from under her feet.

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’ she screamed. ‘I tell you Julie Clair’s in bed with your manager!’

  ‘Well, why shouldn’t she be?’ English said, smiling. ‘What business is it of yours or mine, Corrine?’

  Rees half started out of his chair, thought better of it and sat down again.

  Lola said in a clear hard voice, ‘My God! How absolutely disgusting!’

  ‘Come on, Corrine, let’s go home,’ English said, taking Corrine’s arm.

  ‘Don’t you mind?’ Corrine wailed, trying to pull away from a grip that looked gentle but that held her like a vise.

  ‘Why, no, I don’t think I do,’ English said soothingly as if talking to a child. ‘You know as well as I do, it’s all nonsense. Come along. People are staring at you, my dear.’

  He drew her toward the door.

  A man said, ‘Can’t the management keep these drunken tarts out of here, for God’s sake?’

  Corrine began to cry. What had seemed such a spectacular opportunity for revenge was petering out like a damp firecracker. By his quiet, kindly behavior she could feel English had the crowd with him. They looked on her as some souse making a scene without knowing what she was saying.

  She made one more desperate attempt to save the situation.

  ‘It’s true!’ she screamed, trying to break free. ‘And you killed your brother! You robbed me of twenty thousand dollars. Let go of me!’

  A man laughed suddenly, and she knew with a sickening sense of frustration that she had muffed the whole plan.

  English continued to walk with her from the bar into the empty lobby. She went with him, sagging a little at the knees.

  ‘You can tell me all about it when we get home,’ he said in a quiet, clear voice, ‘but you’d better have a bit of a sleep first.’

  They were in the lobby now.

  The hard-faced man who had followed them said, ‘Shall I call the cops, Mr. English?’

  ‘Why, no, Louis,’ English said, ‘but I’d be glad if you would see her home. Get a taxi, will you?’

  ‘Okay, Mr. English.’

  Corrine leaned against English and continued to cry. He put his arm around her.

  ‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘You get off home and have a sleep. I know how you’re feeling.’

  ‘You don’t ,’ Corrine moaned. ‘I wanted to hurt you. I wanted to make you suffer as you made me suffer.’

  ‘How do you know you haven’t?’ English said, and tilted up her chin. ‘Is it true?’

  She couldn’t meet his eyes.

  She nodded.

  ‘Well, that’s all right. Then we’re quits. I shouldn’t have threatened to hand Roy’s letters to the press. That was a bad move. I wouldn’t have done it, of course, but I shouldn’t have used such a threat against you.’

  Louis came up.

  ‘The taxi’s here, Mr. English.’

  ‘Will you see her home?’ English said. ‘Treat her well.’

  ‘Sure, Mr. English.’

  Louis took Corrine’s arm.

  ‘Come on, sister, let’s get out of here.’

  Corrine stared at English.

  ‘You’re not even mad at me,’ she said, a catch in her voice. ‘What are you - some kind of saint?’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ English returned. ‘After all, Corrine, you are one of the family.’

  He watched Louis lead her across the sidewalk to the airing taxi. His face was a little pale now, but still expressionless.

  Beaumont joined him.

  ‘My God, Nick! The press will get this. Why the hell didn’t you stop her talking? Rees was drinking it in. He’ll read it all over the town.’

  English didn’t say anything. He continued to stare out to the street.

  ‘Nick!’ Beaumont said, shaking English’s arm. ‘Why didn’t you stop her talking?’

  ‘Shut up!’ English said harshly. ‘I played it the right way. Do you think anyone will believe that drunken little sot?’

  Beaumont hesitated.

  ‘Is it true?’

  English turned and looked at him. His tight blue eyes were like chips of ice.

  ‘What the hell is it to do with you or anyone else if it is true or not?’

  Beaumont recognized the danger signals.

  ‘That’s right. It’s none of my business,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Well, maybe we’d better go into dinner.’

  ‘I’m not staying. I have something to do,’ English said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Senator. Excuse me now.’

  He walked over to the cloakroom, got his hat and coat from the check-girl, and walked across the lobby to the revolving doors.

  A man with a thin white scar that ran from his right ear to his mouth, who was standing in a phone booth near the exit, watched English wave to a taxi, then he picked up the receiver and began to dial.

  IV

  At ten minutes to eight o’clock, Roger Sherman turned out the lights in his bedroom and moved over to the double windows that overlooked the street. He was dressed to go out. His brown slouch hat was pulled down low over his face, and the collar of his fawn mackintosh was turned up. He lifted the shade a few inches away from the window and peered down into the street. Rain, beating against the glass, made it difficult to see clearly. From the sixth-floor window the street looked narrow and the parked cars like toys.

  Sherman’s eyes searched the opposite doorways. He spotted the figure of a man, standing in a porch out of the rain, the red tip of a cigarette pinpointing his face, half concealed under a pulled-down hat brim.

  Sherman chewed thoughtfully as he watched the man, then he nodded to himself, lowered the shade and walked into the living room, clicking on all the lights as he entered. He crossed the room, opened the door that led into the kitchen and went to the window without turning on the light. Again he lifted the shade and looked down into the back street that ran the length of the rear of his apartment block.

  He finally spotted another man standing under a tree, and again he nodded. It was now obvious to him that English was making certain he would be kept informed of his movements. Since noon Sherman had known he had been tailed, and tailed by experts. He had tried to shake them, but it would have been easier to have rid himself of a flypaper sticking to his hands. These two men knew their business, and they didn’t seem to care if he was aware or not that they were tailing him. They were intent only on not letting him give them the slip. They were now waiting for him to make a move, guarding the only two exits of the block, and it was essential to his plan that he wasn’t followed this evening.

  He returned to the sitting room and turned on the radio. Then he took from his pocket a pair of thin silk gloves, so that when he put them on they seemed to form a second skin on his hands.

  He went over to his desk, opened a top drawer and took out a .38 Colt automatic. He released the clip, checked the bullets, replaced the clip and jacked a bullet into the breech. He clicked down the safety-catch and slipped the gun into his mackintosh pocket. Leaving the lights on in the sitting room, knowing the watcher below had a clear view of the lighted windows, Sherman walked softly to the front door, opened it a few inches and peered into the passage. Away to his right he could see English’s front door, which was closed. Opposite was the gate to the elevator. The passage was empty. Only the loud sound of music coming from the radio filled the quiet of the passage.

  Sherman stepped into the passage, closed the front door and walked swiftly and silently to the staircase. He went up, two steps at a time, until he reached the next landing. He paused for several seconds while he leaned over the banister rail, listening, but he heard nothing to excite his suspicions nor saw any movement.

  He went along the passage to a window, pushed it open and looked out into the dark night. Below him was a sheer drop of a hundred feet or more. The window looked out onto the roo
fs of houses and business premises, dwarfed by the vast block in which he was. He glanced back down the passage, then put one foot up on the windowsill and, holding on to the window frame, he stood up, half in and half out of the window.

  He reached up and his fingers closed around a narrow horizontal pipe that ran the length of the building. Holding on with one hand, he reached in and closed the window.

  Rain beat down on him as he braced himself against the face of the building. His left hand went up and caught hold of the pipe.

  The pipe was wet, and felt slippery; something he hadn’t bargained for, and he cursed the rain. But this was the only way he could leave the block if he was to avoid the two men waiting for him below, and he didn’t hesitate.

  He shifted his hands until his body was at an almost forty-five degree sideways slant, his hands on the pipe, his feet on the windowsill. Then he swung his feet clear of the sill and hung in space by his hands. With the agility of a gymnast, he swung himself along the pipe, hand over hand, until he reached a stack pipe that went down to a foot-wide ledge about twenty feet below his feet.

  He had one dangerous moment as he was changing his hold from the horizontal pipe to the vertical one. His right hand failed to get a grip and he swung outward, hanging on only by his left hand.

  He looked down into the dark depths below, his jaws moving rhythmically as he chewed, completely unafraid and unruffled. His right hand clawed out for the stack pipe, got a grip, and he pulled himself against the pipe, digging his knees into the sides of the pipe while he slowly released his grip of the horizontal pipe with his left hand.

  He remained like that, clinging on with hands, knees and toes until he had properly adjusted his balance, then he began to let himself down inch by inch until he reached the ledge.

  He stood against the face of the building while he recovered his breath. Thirty feet below him was a flat roof, an ugly projection that covered the kitchens of the restaurant of the apartment block.

  He rested for a minute or so, then gripped the vertical pipe again and lowered himself to the flat roof. Bending low, to avoid being seen against the skyline, he walked silently to the edge of the roof to the fire escape ladder that would take him to the ground. He went down the ladder swiftly, and as easily as a man running downstairs.