I'll Bury My Dead Page 17

  “It’s a date I can’t break,” Lois said quietly. “Thank you all the same, Mr. English.”

  English looked disconcerted, then he laughed, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Okay, Lois, if you can’t put your boyfriend off, you can’t. Well, maybe some other night. I’ll see what I can fix.”

  “It’s nothing to do with a boyfriend,” Lois exclaimed with a vehemence that startled English. “I just happen to be busy that night,” and she went out of the office, closing the door sharply behind her.

  English frowned down at his blotter, puzzled.

  “Well, that takes care of that,” he said to himself. “And Julie says the girl’s in love with me. Well, what do you know? Won’t even accept an invitation to dinner. Is that what Julie calls love?”

  Some ten minutes later, he put down his pen and walked over to where his hat and coat were hanging. He was struggling into his coat when a tap came on the door and Julie came in.

  “Why, hello, Julie,” he said, straightening his coat. “What brings you here?”

  Julie reached up and gave him a quick kiss.

  “I want some money,” she said. “I’m lunching with Joyce Gibbons, and I’ve come out without my purse.”

  “I wish I could join you,” English said regretfully, taking out his wallet. “Will fifty hold you?”

  “Ample, darling. We’re only going to eat a lettuce. Who are you lunching with?”

  “Bernstein,” English said, grimacing. “He wants me to feature that punk singer of his at the Golden Apple. I’ll be damned if I will, but I want Tesca, and he’s got her under contract. She’s the most fantastic thing on two legs.”

  “If you’ve made up your mind to get her, you’ll get her,” Julie said, putting the fifty-dollar bill into her handbag. “You can drive me downtown if you like.”

  “Where are you lunching?” English asked, reaching for his hat.

  “The Waldorf.”

  “Right, it’s on my way. Come on then. Let’s get going.”

  They walked into the outer office. Harry Vince came in at this moment. He gave Julie a quick, uneasy look, then stood aside.

  “Hello, Harry,” Julie said gaily. “I know what I want you to do for me.”

  “Yes, Julie?” Harry said stiffly.

  His tone made Lois look up sharply. She was sitting at her desk by the window, unnoticed by either Julie or Harry.

  “I want two more tickets for the show. It’s for tonight,” Julie said. “Can you get them for me?”

  “Why, yes,” Harry said, changing color.

  “Hey!” English said with a grin. “Don’t ruin me, Julie. I can’t give too many tickets away.”

  “These are for Joyce. I did promise her.”

  “She’s rolling in money. Why the heck can’t she buy them?”

  “Now don’t be a tightwad,” Julie said, linking her arm in his. “You know people expect me to give them tickets for all your shows.”

  “See what you can do for her, Harry,” English said. “What she says goes, it seems.”

  “Yes, Mr. English,” Harry said huskily.

  “Aren’t you dining with that dreary old senator tonight?” Julie said as she led English across the office. “What time are you meeting him?”

  “Eight-thirty,” English said. “I won’t be seeing you tonight, Julie. It’s bound to be a long session.”

  He followed her into the passage.

  Harry stood motionless, looking after them. There was an expression on his face that startled Lois. She watched him, and when he went abruptly out of the office, she felt a little chill of apprehension run through her.

  III

  Chuck Eagan swung the Cadillac to the curb and pulled up outside the ornate entrance to the Silver Tower.

  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 rumors. 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 wa
iters.”

  “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 per cent!”

  “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 a 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, her face going white. She expected some reaction from English, but his unruffled calm 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 waiting 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 spread it all over the town.”

  English didn’t say anything. He continued to stare out into 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 light 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 pin-pointing 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.