I'll Bury My Dead Page 18

  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 roofs 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 down stairs.

  He found himself in a dark alley, lined with garbage cans: the tradesmen’s entrance to the apartment block. At the far end of the alley was the main street, and he walked quickly and silently toward it. When he reached the end of the alley, he stopped and peered cautiously into the street.

  Some thirty yards to his right was the main entrance to the apartment block. He looked across the street. The watcher was still in the porch, sheltering from the rain, his eyes on the revolving doors opposite.

  Sherman shifted the wad of gum from one side of his mouth to the other. He pulled his hat brim over his face, and moved out of the mouth of the alley, keeping in the shadows, his eyes fixed on the man in the porch.

  He began to walk sideways away from the watcher, but the man in the porch didn’t look his way, and, as Sherman turned the corner into a side street, he gave a little nod of satisfaction.

  He was free now to go ahead with his plan unmolested and unwatched.

  He walked in the rain for some minutes until he was well clear of the apartment block, then he signalled to a passing taxi.

  “Take me to 5th and 27th Street,” he said, got into the cab and slammed the door.

  V

  Julie lifted her head from the pillow and peered at the dial of the bedside clock. The hands showed three minutes after nine o’clock.

  “It’s not time yet surely?” Harry Vince said, pulling her close to him.

  “No. Another half-hour. Dear Harry.” Julie sighed, her hand touching his bare chest. “I wish I didn’t have to leave you. Time goes so quickly.”

  “English will be tied up for hours yet,” Harry said. “Can’t you give up the club tonight, Julie? Can’t you give it up altogether?”

  “I don’t think Nick would like that,” Julie said, knowing that it would be she who wouldn’t like it. “If I gave it up he’d want me to be around with him more often, Harry.”

  “I guess so,” Harry said, depressed. “Oh, well, I guess I must be grateful for small mercies.”

  “Are they so very small, darling?”

  “You know what I mean. I want you all the time. I want you to be with me always.”

  “So do I,” Julie said, a little untruthfully. She lifted her face so he could kiss her, and for some moments they gave themselves up to their love. Then Julie said suddenly, “Better not, darling. No, really, Harry. I must be going in a few minutes.”

  “Oh, Julie…” Harry said, breathing heavily. “Let’s forget the damned club for tonight. Stay here with me. Don’t go.”

  “I must go, Harry. They would wonder where I was. If they phoned Nick…”

  “Oh, all right,” Harry said crossly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Don’t be angry, darling,” Julie said, and cautiously moved away from him, half sitting up. “We must be sensible about this.”

  “Yes, by all means let us be sensible,” Harry said bitterly.

  She turned to smile at him.

  “I love this room. I love the warm firelight, and I love you, darling.”

  He shook off his rising depression.

  “We’re lucky, Julie, to have each other. You’re so lovely. You’re the most beautiful girl that’s ever lived.”

  She laughed, pleased.

  “You know that’s nonsense, but I’m glad you think that. Please go on thinking it.”

  Harry reached out and pulled her to him.

  “I’m mad about you, Julie,” he said. “Crazy about you.”

  She slid her arms around his neck, pressing against him.

  “And I’m crazy about you, too, darling.”

  “You’re going to be late, Julie,” he said. “I don’t care, and you’re not going to care.”

  “I mustn’t be,” Julie said, her mind only half made up.

  “You’re going to be.”

  “Then quickly, darling,” she said, and she kissed him so hard that he tasted salty blood as her mouth crushed against his. “Oh, darling,” she said, and caught her breath. “Oh, darling, darling, darling!”

  Time stood still for them. Only their quick breathing and her sharp little cry of pleasure disturbed the s
ilence.

  Then suddenly he felt her fingers stiffen into little hooks, digging into his shoulders, and her body arch like a bow that has been bent by its string.

  “What was that?” she said sharply, her mouth against his ear.

  Her hands pushed him away, and she half sat up, staring into the firelit darkness.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, lying back on the pillow and frowning at her.

  “I heard something,” she said, and he saw how pale she had gone as the light from the fire lit up her tense face.

  A cold chill snaked down his spine, and he sat up to listen.

  “There’s someone in the other room,” Julie whispered.

  “Can’t be,” he said, feeling suddenly sick. “The door’s locked. You’re imagining things.”

  “No. Someone’s there,” Julie said, and her groping hand caught his. “I know there is.”

  Harry tried to listen, but all he could hear was the steady hammering of his heart, and the sound of blood pounding through his arteries.

  “There can’t be anyone,” he said hoarsely. “You’re scaring me out of my wits, Julie.”

  “Go and see,” she said. “I’m sure I heard something.”

  He hesitated, not believing her, but wondering if English could have got in. Suppose he had? Suppose when he opened the bedroom door he found English out there?

  “Harry!” Julie said sharply. “Go and see!”

  He pushed back the sheet and swung his legs off the bed, his hand grabbing up his dressing gown.

  “You’re imagining it,” he said. “No one can get in. There’s no possible way for anyone to get in.”

  Then he stiffened into a rigid, horrified stillness, feeling the hair on the nape of his neck bristle.

  Across the silence of the room came a faint scraping noise, then very slowly the bedroom door began to open.

  Harry went cold. His paralyzed fingers remained in the silken folds of the dressing gown, and his breath whistled through his open mouth in a fear that left him helpless.

  “Oh, Harry!” Julie breathed, her fingers digging into his arm.

  Harry didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes staring as he watched the door push open.

  Roger Sherman came in. He moved like a ghost. In his right hand he held the Colt automatic. Dark patches from the heavy rain stained his mackintosh. Water dripped from the brim of his hat. His smooth skin was shiny with damp. He stepped into the room, his jaws moving slowly as he chewed, his amber eyes reflecting the bright flames of the fire.

  The automatic swung up and covered Harry.

  “Don’t move,” Sherman said quietly, “either of you.”

  He came farther into the room and shut the door.

  The relief to Harry that it wasn’t English was overpowering.

  “Get out of here!” he said, his voice still unsteady, his eyes on the gun.

  Sherman moved over to an armchair by the fire and sat down. His deliberate, quiet movements horrified Julie.

  “Stay where you are,” he said, crossing one leg over the other. The automatic pointed between Julie and Harry. “Don’t do anything stupid or I’ll have to kill you.”

  “Who—who are you?” Harry said, suddenly realizing this man couldn’t be a burglar—he was too well dressed to be that.

  “My name is Roger Sherman,” Sherman returned mildly. “Not that that will tell you anything.” His amber eyes moved from Harry to Julie, who was holding the sheet over her breasts, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. “Hello, Julie. You don’t know me, but I know you. I’ve been watching you two for some time. It seems to me you are taking unnecessary risks coming here. After all, you were paying Roy English to keep his mouth shut, weren’t you?”

  “How do you know that?” Harry said, his face paling.

  “My dear man, I’m the one who gave English the information. I was English’s boss.”

  “So it’s blackmail. All right. How much?”

  Sherman smiled.

  “This time it is not money I want. I’m using you two to bait a trap.”

  Harry felt Julie stiffen. He half turned, taking her hands.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nick English is making a nuisance of himself,” Sherman said. “I’m making arrangements to get him out of the way.”

  “What’s that to do with us?” Harry demanded, drawing his dressing gown toward him.

  “Don’t move!” Sherman snapped. “Leave that alone!”

  “Let us put something on,” Harry said, freezing into stillness as the gun covered him. “Be reasonable.”

  “My dear fool,” Sherman returned, “I want English to find you exactly as you are.”

  Harry half started up, but the threat of the gun made him sink back on the bed again.

  “You’re not bringing him here?”

  “I’m waiting for him,” Sherman said and smiled. He looked at Julie. “By now he should have heard what you two are up to. I imagine he’ll come here as fast as a car can bring him.”

  “Now look,” Harry said feverishly. “I don’t care what it costs; I’ll pay to get out of this. How much?”

  “It’s not a matter of money…” Sherman began when the telephone bell interrupted him. “Don’t move. I’ll take it,” he went on, got up and moved to the telephone that stood on the night table close to Julie.

  She shrank away from him as he pointed the gun at her. He lifted the receiver.

  “Yes?” He stood listening, his eyes on Harry, his jaws moving slowly. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll take it from here.” He hung up and moved back to his chair. “English is on his way now. He should be here in under ten minutes.”

  “But this won’t get English out of your way,” Harry said desperately. “It’ll make him all the more determined to crack down on you. All right, I admit it, it’ll hit him hard, but you don’t know him as I do. He’ll hit back at you. It won’t get him out of the way.”

  “Oh, yes, it will,” Sherman said. He lifted the Colt in his silk-clad hand. “This is his gun. I stole it from his apartment this afternoon. He’s going to be arrested for murder—two murders, in fact.”

  Harry stiffened.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? When I hear his car arrive, I am going to shoot you both. Who’s going to prove he didn’t do it?”

  Julie caught her breath sharply.

  “He’s bluffing, darling,” Harry said. “He wouldn’t dare do it.”

  She was looking at Sherman. The amber, expressionless eyes terrified her.

  “He’s going to do it,” she said through dry lips.

  “Of course I am,” Sherman said mildly. “You two have had your fun, and now you’re going to pay for it.”

  “You won’t be able to get away!” Harry exclaimed. “You’ll be caught.”

  Sherman laughed.

  “This window overlooks the river. I shall go that way. I am an exceptionally strong swimmer, and no one will notice me in a night as dark as this.”

  “You can’t do it!” Harry said, suddenly realizing that Sherman wasn’t bluffing.

  “That you will see,” Sherman said in a tone that made Harry’s blood run cold.

  “Let her go,” he said huskily. “Don’t touch her. One murder’s enough.”

  “Sorry, I can’t oblige,” Sherman returned. “You must see I can’t afford to let her live after I have shot you. She would give me away.”

  “She wouldn’t,” Harry said. “She’d promise not to.”

  “Sorry,” Sherman repeated. “Besides, a double killing is much more dramatic. English might get off if he just killed you, but the jury wouldn’t like him killing Julie.” He moved back to the chair and sat down again. “You haven’t a great deal longer on this earth. Don’t you want to say a prayer? Don’t mind me. I won’t listen.”

  Harry decided he was dealing with a lunatic. He realized it was useless to continue to beg for their liv
es. Somehow he had to divert Sherman’s attention, and then get close to him. If he could get the gun, there was a chance he might save both their lives.

  He judged the distance between them. He was badly placed, as he was sitting on the side of the bed away from Sherman. Eight to nine feet separated them.

  Julie said, “I’ll give you all the money I have if you’ll stop this. I can raise twenty thousand. If you give me time I can get more.”

  Sherman shook his head.

  “Save your breath,” he said. “I’m not interested in money.” He glanced at his strap watch, and Harry’s hand reached behind him and gripped the pillow.

  Julie saw the move. She was breathing quickly, her face white and drawn. She sensed Harry was going to do something.

  “I—I think I’m going to faint,” she gasped, closing her eyes, and she reached out as if to steady herself, and her hand pushed over the night table, which crashed to the floor.

  Sherman’s eyes went from Harry to the overturned table. Harry flung the pillow, threw himself off the bed as the pillow hit Sherman in the chest, smothering the gun.

  Harry, white-faced, his eyes staring, sprang forward, propelling his body across the nine-foot space toward Sherman.

  Sherman half started up, throwing the pillow from him. Harry saw he couldn’t reach Sherman before Sherman shot him, but he kept on, his mouth dry, his heart hammering, trying to close the space between himself and Sherman.

  There was a crash of gunfire that rattled the windows.

  The bullet got Harry just below his knee, bringing him down. His hands caught Sherman’s mackintosh belt, gripped, dragging Sherman forward.

  Sherman hit Harry a glancing blow with the gun barrel on his temple and kicked him away. He was completely unruffled, and his jaws moved rhythmically as he looked quickly at Julie who crouched petrified on the bed, the sheet fallen from her, her hands covering her breasts. She looked like a figure sculptured in marble.

  Harry rolled away, blood running down his leg. He began to crawl toward Sherman, his lips drawn off his teeth in a snarl.

  Sherman backed away, smiling.

  “You fool!” he said softly. “You heroic fool!”

  Harry kept on. The pain in his shattered knee filled him with a murderous rage. He wasn’t frightened anymore. All he wanted to do now was to get his hands on Sherman.