I'll Bury My Dead Page 19

  Sherman raised the Colt, and aimed carefully. Harry was only a few feet from him. He looked up at the little black sight of the gun pointing at him, and the cold amber eyes squinting along the barrel.

  Julie screamed wildly.

  “Don’t! No—don’t!”

  The crash of gunfire rattled the windows. The bullet took Harry squarely between his eyes. The force of the blow threw him backward, and he rolled over on his side, his fingers opening and closing convulsively, his muscles twitching, blood smothering his face.

  “A little premature, I’m afraid,” Sherman said, frowning. “Well, it can’t be helped.”

  Julie knelt on the bed, staring at Harry’s body. Every now and then a shiver ran through her. Sherman watched the way her muscles fluttered under her skin. They reminded him of the surface of a river in a flurry of wind.

  He heard a car door slam, and he smiled.

  “Here he is,” he said, and moved quickly to the window. He pulled aside the curtains, opened the window and glanced out. Below ran the river, and away in the distance he could see the lights of a passing tug, and heard the moan of its siren.

  “Go to him, Julie,” he said softly, pointing to the door. “Let him in.”

  Julie didn’t move. Her eyes turned from Harry’s body to Sherman. She scarcely seemed to breathe.

  “Go to him, Julie,” Sherman said again.

  There came a heavy knock on the outer door.

  “He’s there now. Go to him. He may save you.”

  Still she made no move, kneeling on the bed, as if carved out of stone, her eyes blank with terror.

  “Julie!”

  English’s voice came through the outer door.

  “Are you there, Julie?”

  She turned her head toward the sound. A flicker of life came into her eyes.

  Sherman watched her, motionless, the Colt half raised, his fingers on the trigger.

  “Are you there, Julie?”

  “Yes,” she cried suddenly. “Oh, Nick! Save me! Save me!”

  She threw herself off the bed, ran blindly to the bedroom door and flung it open.

  Sherman didn’t move. His teeth bit hard into the wad of gum he was chewing.

  Julie stumbled into the dark sitting room, banged against a chair and fell full length.

  “What’s going on in there?” English shouted and rattled the door handle. “Open up!”

  Moving like a shadow, Sherman reached the bedroom door, and his fingers flicked down the light switch as Julie staggered to her feet. She continued across the room to the front door.

  “Nick!” she screamed. “He’s going to shoot me. Save me, Nick!”

  The front door creaked as English threw his weight against it.

  Sherman raised the Colt as Julie’s hand closed over the key in the lock. The sight of the gun aimed at a point in the exact center of her shoulders.

  Something seemed to warn her he was going to shoot, and she looked back over her shoulder.

  Her terrified scream blended with the crash of gunfire. A small blue-black hole appeared between her shoulder blades. She was flung against the door and her knees sagged.

  Sherman shot her again. The bullet got her above her right hip. Her body arched in agony, her hands clawed at the door, then her knees hinged and she fell face down, her arms and legs sprawling.

  Unruffled, Sherman tossed the gun onto the floor near where she lay, turned and went swiftly back into the bedroom, across to the window.

  He stepped up on the sill as he heard the front door crash open. Still unruffled, he paused long enough to draw the curtains, then he got out onto the sill, closed the window, straightened and dived without hesitation into the dark river flowing below him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I

  L OIS M ARSHALL LEANED forward and impatiently snapped off the television. She had been trying to concentrate on T. S. Eliot’s Cocktail Party, but her mind kept straying from the lighted screen until the words of the play had become a meaningless jumble.

  She turned on the shaded lamp and bent to poke the fire. Rain continued to patter against the window panes. Restlessly, she glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was ten minutes after nine.

  She was wearing a smart housecoat that set off her figure, and her long, slim feet were thrust into a pair of heelless slippers. Before sitting down to watch the play she had shampooed her hair, and it was now hanging about her shoulders, framing her face, and it glistened in the lamplight from the vigorous brushing she had given it.

  She had been thinking regretfully of English’s suggestion that they should have dinner together on Saturday night. It was the first time he had asked her to go out with him, and she had been badly caught off balance. Her immediate reaction was to have accepted, then she realized Julie would find out, and she would tell Harry Vince, who would tell someone else, until it was all around the office that poor Lois had at last been taken out by the boss.

  She was sure most of the staff, including Harry, guessed she was in love with English. Blood rose to her face as she thought of the gossip that probably went on in the office about her. Well, she was in love with English. It was something she couldn’t help, and come to that, wouldn’t change if she could.

  Thinking about her relations with English, she decided he was about the only person who didn’t realize she was in love with him, and for that she was grateful.

  “Oh, snap out of it!” she said half aloud. “What’s the use? At least you work for him. At least you see him thirteen hours a day. What have you got to be bitter about?”

  She got up and fetched her workbasket and settled down before the fire again. She was essentially domesticated, and would have preferred to run a home than work in an office, and the small pile of mending she had saved for a rainy evening had a soothing effect on her.

  She paused in her work to look around the sitting room, and it pleased her. It would have pleased her more if she didn’t have to live in it alone. Again she headed herself off from brooding, and to divert her thoughts she leaned over to switch on the radio when the front doorbell rang.

  She frowned, her eyes going to the clock. It was now twenty-five minutes to ten. She hesitated, wondering whether to go to the door or not.

  The bell rang again: two sharp, impatient rings.

  She laid aside her mending and walked into the lobby. Quietly she slipped on the chain, then, keeping to one side, she opened the front door a few inches.

  “Who is it?” she asked sharply.

  “Can I come in, Lois?” English said.

  She felt herself turn hot and then cold, and her heart missed a beat. Quickly she controlled herself and pushed off the chain. Then she opened the door.

  English stood just outside. His light-gray overcoat glistened with damp.

  “I’m sorry to call so late, Lois,” he said quietly. “Am I in the way?”

  “Of course not. Come in,” she said, a cold feeling around her heart at the sight of his white, drawn face.

  He entered the sitting room and stood looking around.

  “What a nice room, Lois!” he said. “I can see your hand in everything here.”

  “I—I’m glad you like it,” she said, watching him. She had never felt so frightened before. She could tell by his expression something bad had happened, and she knew he would never have come to her apartment unless he had nowhere else to go. “Can I take your coat, Mr. English?”

  He smiled at her.

  “Don’t let’s be formal tonight, Lois. Call me Nick, will you?” He pulled off his coat.

  “I’ll take it into the bathroom,” she said. “Go over to the fire, Nick.”

  “That’s better,” he said, and watched her carry his hat and coat into the bathroom.

  When she returned he was sitting before the fire, his hands out toward the blaze, his brows drawn down in a heavy frown.

  She went over to the sideboard, mixed a stiff highball and brought it to him.

  He took it and smiled
up at her.

  “You always know the right thing to do, don’t you?”

  She saw his eyes were frozen and hard.

  “What’s happened?” she asked sharply, standing before him. “Please tell me. Don’t keep me waiting.”

  He gave her a sharp look, then reached out and patted her hand. It felt cold under his touch.

  “Sorry, Lois, this is going to be a shock. Julie was murdered tonight. She and Harry. It all points to me.”

  Lois sat down abruptly; her face went white.

  “Oh!” she said, then she pulled herself together. “What happened, Nick?”

  “I was having a drink with Beaumont,” English said, speaking rapidly. “Corrine came in. She was drunk. She made a scene. The bar was crowded—everyone, including Rees and Lola Vagas, heard what she said. She told me Julie and Harry were lovers—had been lovers for months—that Julie was with Harry in his apartment. I got rid of Corrine and took a taxi to Harry’s place. The door was locked. I knocked and called out. Julie answered. She sounded terrified. She said she was going to be shot. She screamed for me to save her. It took me some moments to get the door open. I heard a shot, then another. I smashed the lock. Julie was lying on the floor. She was dying.” He paused and took a long drink, set down the glass and rubbed his eyes. “She died hard, Lois. She didn’t deserve a death like that. She said it was Sherman who shot her. That he had gone out through the bedroom window. I held her in my arms until she died.” He groped in his pocket vaguely, frowned, and began to grope in another pocket. Lois reached out, took a cigarette from a box, lit it and gave it to him. “Thanks,” he said, not looking at her. “I hope I made things a bit easier for her,” he went on, half to himself. “She was frightened I’d be angry with her. She didn’t seem to realize she was dying. She kept asking me to forgive her.”

  Lois suppressed a shudder.

  “What happened then?” she asked sharply.

  He looked up and frowned.

  “I went into the bedroom. Harry was on the floor. He was dead, too. I pulled aside the curtain, but I couldn’t see anyone in the river. It was dark and raining hard. I went to the telephone to call the police, then I saw the gun on the floor. It looked familiar. I picked it up. That was stupid of me, but I was startled and I wasn’t thinking. It was my gun. It’s been in my desk drawer for years. Sherman must have stolen it. Then I realized what a frame he had built for me. A dozen witnesses will testify that Corrine told me Julie and Harry were lovers. The taxi driver will testify he took me to Harry’s apartment. The gun that killed them is my gun. They were shot a minute or so after I had arrived. The motive, the time, the weapon—what more can the D.A. want?”

  “If Sherman killed them,” Lois said quietly, “Leon will know about it. He was following Sherman, wasn’t he?”

  English stiffened, and then drove his right fist into the palm of his left hand.

  “Why, damn it! I’d forgotten that. Of course, Ed wouldn’t let him out of his sight. That’s it! I believe we’ve got him, Lois! Try to get Ed. Call my apartment first. He may be waiting for me.”

  As Lois began to dial the number, she said. “You didn’t call the police?”

  “No. I walked out. I wanted to get my bearings.”

  “You left the gun?”

  “Yes.”

  Leon’s voice came over the line.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Lois Marshall,” Lois said. “Did you keep contact with Sherman tonight?”

  “He never left his apartment,” Leon returned. “What’s the idea? Why are you calling?”

  “He says Sherman didn’t leave his apartment,” Lois said, turning cold as she looked at English. “Are you sure he didn’t leave?” she went on to Leon.

  “Of course I’m sure! Both exits are guarded. There’s no other way out. Besides, I’ve been along to his apartment every half-hour. The radio’s playing nonstop, and the lights are on.”

  “He’s certain Sherman didn’t leave his apartment,” she said, turning to English.

  “Tell him to come here at once!”

  Lois turned back to the phone.

  “Will you come to my apartment?” she said. “It’s 24 Frant Street, top floor. It’s urgent.”

  “I’m waiting for English,” Leon said impatiently. “What’s the trouble?”

  “I can’t talk on the phone,” she returned. “You must come at once.”

  “Well, all right,” Leon growled and hung up.

  “Shall I get Mr. Crail?” Lois asked, as she broke the connection.

  English nodded.

  “Yes. Not that he can do anything.”

  While she was dialling Crail’s home number, English began to pace slowly up and down.

  “Julie couldn’t have been mistaken,” he said savagely. “She described Sherman. Damn Leon! He promised me he wouldn’t let him out of his sight.”

  Lois spoke rapidly into the telephone mouthpiece, and then hung up.

  “He’s coming,” she said, and went unsteadily to a chair and sat down. “You shouldn’t have left the gun, Nick.”

  “The gun doesn’t matter,” English said, continuing to pace up and down. “It would ruin my case if I hid it. I’ve got to stick to the truth, Lois, if I’m to beat this rap. I’ve got to prove Sherman stole that gun.”

  “How did Corrine know about Julie?” Lois asked.

  English frowned.

  “I don’t know, unless…” He stopped to think. “Yes! that’s it! Of course! Roy was blackmailing Julie. He must have found out what was going on between Julie and Harry. He must have told Corrine.”

  “Don’t you think it’s more likely that Sherman told Corrine?” Lois said. “Don’t you think they’re working together?”

  “What makes you say that?” English asked, staring at her.

  “How could Sherman know for certain that you would go to Harry’s apartment?” Lois said. “How could he be sure you’d arrive when he was there unless the whole thing had been planned? Of course Corrine was in on this!”

  “I believe you’re right,” English said. “If we could get her to talk…! I’ll tell Ed to pick her up as soon as he gets here. If we can make her talk we’re halfway to proving Sherman did it.”

  “I’ll get her,” Lois said, jumping to her feet. “You have to talk to Leon. It’ll only waste time for him to go. I’ll be back by the time you have finished talking to him.”

  “She may not come,” English said uneasily.

  “Oh, yes, she will,” Lois said, her face hardening. “I promise you that.” She went quickly into her bedroom to change. She came out a few minutes later, struggling into a mackintosh. “Don’t move from here, Nick,” she said. “I won’t be half an hour.”

  “I don’t like you going.” English said. “It’s raining like hell.”

  Lois tried to smile.

  “A little rain won’t hurt me. I won’t be long.”

  He reached out and took her hand.

  “I’m damned if I know what I should do without you,” he said.

  She pulled her hand away and ran to the door, fighting back her tears.

  “I won’t be long,” she repeated huskily, and went swiftly from the room.

  II

  Roger Sherman’s fingers hooked over the rungs of the ladder. Slowly he hauled himself up, paused to look up and down the deserted waterfront, and then climbed onto the jetty.

  Moving quickly and silently, he squelched to a dark hut that stood at the shore end of the jetty, pushed open the door and entered a room half-full of empty crates and barrels.

  He dipped into one of the crates and pulled out an expanding suitcase he had left there the previous evening.

  He stripped off his wet clothes and rubbed himself down with a towel. Then he took from the case a complete change of clothing, dressed quickly and packed his wet clothes in the case.

  He left the hut, looked to the right and left, then dropped the case into the river. It sank with scarcely a ripple. Again he
looked right and left, and satisfied he had the waterfront to himself, he walked quickly off the jetty, up an alley until he reached 27th Street.

  He headed for the subway, and paused at the head of the steps leading to the ticket office as he heard the wail of a police siren. He watched two prowl cars tear by, heading for 5th Street, and he gave a slight nod of satisfaction.

  He got an uptown train and got off at 110th Street. He walked the length of the street before hailing a taxi.

  “Mason Street,” he said as he climbed in.

  He sat in the corner of the taxi, chewing, his eyes thoughtful, every now and then glancing through the rear window to make sure no one was following him.

  He left the taxi at the corner of Mason Street and walked up Addison Street, turned left at Lawrence Boulevard, and, still keeping in the shadow, walked quickly toward Corrine English’s bungalow.

  He met no one. Rain beat down on him, soaking his mackintosh, and water dripped from his pulled-down hat brim and ran down his chin.

  He kept on, not appearing to notice the rain, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his jaws moving steadily as he chewed.

  A light showed in the front room of Corrine’s bungalow. He pushed open the gate, walked up the path and paused in the shelter of the porch. He leaned forward, his face near the bay window and listened.

  He heard nothing, but he remained listening at the window for more than five minutes. Still he heard nothing.

  He reached forward and pressed the bell push, grimacing as he heard the chimes on the other side of the door. He waited several minutes, frowning, then he pressed the bell push again.

  A light sprang up in the lobby and the front door opened. Corrine stood before him, holding on to the door. Her spirit-ladened breath fanned his face.

  “Who is it?” she said, peering at him as he stood in the darkness.

  “Have you forgotten me so soon, Corrine?” he said softly.

  He saw her stiffen, and her hand went to the door handle. He put his foot against the door to stop her slamming it in his face.

  “What do you want?” she said sullenly.