I'll Bury My Dead Page 2

  English stepped into a dimly lit passage. Almost opposite him was an open door through which a light came, throwing a square of brightness on the dirty rubber floor of the passage. Further along the passage to the left was another door, showing a light through the frosted panel. To his right, at the end of the passage, was yet another door without glass. A light showed under the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor.

  Lieutenant Morilli came through the open doorway. He was a thickset man in his late forties. His lean hatchet face was pallid, and his small moustache looked startlingly black against his white complexion.

  “Sorry to break up the party, Mr. English,” he said, his voice pitched low. “But I thought you’d want to come down.” He had the hushed, deferential manner of an undertaker dealing with a wealthy client. “A very sad business.”

  English grunted.

  “Who found him?”

  “The janitor. He was checking to see if all the offices were locked. He called me, and I called you. I haven’t been here myself much more than twenty minutes.”

  English made a sign to Chuck to stay where he was, and then walked into the shabby little room that served as an outer office. Across the frosted panel of the door was the legend:

  T HE A LERT A GENCY

  Chief Investigator: ROY ENGLISH

  The room consisted of a desk, a typist’s chair, a covered typewriter, a filing cabinet and a strip of carpet. On the walls hung dusty handcuffs and faded testimonials in narrow black frames, some of them dated as far back as 1927.

  “He’s in the other room,” Morilli said, following English into the outer office.

  Two plain-clothes detectives stood around awkwardly.

  They both said in a ragged chorus, “Good evening, Mr. English,” and one of them touched his finger to his hat.

  English nodded at them, then walked across the room and paused in the doorway that led to the inner office.

  The room was a little larger than the outer office. Two big filing cabinets stood against the wall, opposite the window. A worn and dusty rug covered the floor. A big desk took up most of the room space. A shabby armchair for the exclusive use of clients stood near the desk.

  English’s eyes swept quickly over these details, noting with a little grimace the sordidness of the room.

  His brother had been seated at the desk when he had died. He now lay across the desk, his head on the blotter, one arm hanging lifelessly, his fingers just touching the carpet, the other arm on the desk.

  His head and face rested in a pool of blood that had run across the desk and had conveniently dripped into the metal trash basket on the floor.

  English looked at his brother for some seconds, his face expressionless, his eyes brooding.

  Morilli watched him from the doorway.

  English walked over to the desk, leaned forward to see the dead face more clearly. His shoe touched something hard, lying on the floor, and he glanced down.A.38 Police Special lay within a few inches of the dead man’s fingers.

  English stepped back.

  “How long has he been dead?” he asked abruptly.

  “A couple of hours at a guess,” Morilli told him. “No one heard the shot. There’s a news service agency down the passage. The teleprinters were working at the time, and the noise deadened the shot.”

  “That his gun?”

  Morilli lifted his shoulders.

  “It could be. He has a pistol permit. I’ll have it checked.” His eyes searched English’s face. “I don’t think there’s much doubt that it was suicide, Mr. English.”

  English moved around the room, his hands still in his pockets. The fragrant smell of his cigar followed him as he moved.

  “What makes you say that?”

  Morilli hesitated; then, moving into the room, he closed the door behind him.

  “Things I’ve heard. He was short of money.”

  English stopped walking up and down and fixed Morilli with his cold, hard eyes.

  “Don’t let me hold you up any longer, Lieutenant. You’ll be wanting to get some action in here.”

  “I thought I’d wait until you came,” Morilli said uncomfortably.

  “I appreciate that. But I’ve seen all I want to see. I’ll wait in the car. When you’re through here, let me know. I want to look the place over, have a look at his papers.”

  “It could take an hour, Mr. English. Would you want to wait that long?”

  English frowned.

  “Have you told his wife yet?” he asked, jerking his head at the still body across the desk.

  “I’ve told no one but you, Mr. English. Would you like me to take care of his wife? I could send an officer.”

  English shook his head.

  “I guess I’ll see her.” He hesitated, his frown deepening. “Maybe you don’t know it, but Roy and I haven’t exactly hit it off recently. I don’t even know his home address.”

  “I’ve got it here,” Morilli said, his face expressionless. He picked up a wallet on the desk. “I went through his pockets as a matter of form.” He handed English a card. “Know where it is?”

  English read the card.

  “Chuck will.” He flicked the card with his finger nail. “Did he have any money on him?”

  “Four bucks,” Morilli said.

  English took the wallet from Morilli’s hand, glanced into it, then put it in his pocket.

  “I’ll see his wife. Can you get one of your men to clean up here? I may be sending someone down to check his files.”

  “I’ll fix it, Mr. English.”

  “So you heard he was short of money,” English said. “How did you hear that, Lieutenant?”

  Morilli scratched the side of his jaw, his dark eyes uneasy.

  “The commissioner mentioned it. He knew I knew him, and he told me to have a word with him. I was going to see him tomorrow.”

  English took the cigar from between his teeth and touched the ash off onto the floor.

  “A word about what?”

  Morilli looked away.

  “He had been worrying people for money.”

  English stared at him.

  “What people?”

  “Two or three clients he had worked for last year. They complained to the commissioner. I’m sorry to tell you this, Mr. English, but he was going to lose his licence.”

  English nodded his head. His eyes narrowed.

  “So the commissioner wanted you to talk to him. Why didn’t the commissioner speak to me instead of you, Lieutenant?”

  “I told him he should,” Morilli said, a faint flush rising up his neck and flooding his pale face. “But he isn’t an easy man to talk to.”

  English smiled suddenly; it wasn’t a pleasant smile.

  “Nor am I.”

  “What I’ve told you, Mr. English, is off the record,” Morilli said quickly. “The commissioner would have my hide if he knew I…”

  “All right, forget it,” English broke in. He looked at the body. “It won’t bring him back to life, will it?”

  “That’s right,” Morilli said, relaxing a little. “Still off the record, he would have lost his licence at the end of the week.”

  “For trying to raise money from old clients?” English asked sharply.

  “I guess he was pretty desperate for money. He threatened one party. She wouldn’t bring a charge, but it was near blackmail as damn it.”

  The muscles either side of English’s jaw stood out suddenly.

  “We’d better have a talk about this some other time. I won’t hold you up now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Yes, Mr. English,” Morilli said.

  As English crossed to the door, Morilli went on, “I hear your boy won his fight. Congratulations.”

  English paused.

  “That’s right. By the way, I told Vince to put a bet on for you. A hundred’s brought you three. Look in tomorrow and see Vince. He’ll pay you cash.” His eyes met Morilli’s. “Okay?”

  Moril
li flushed.

  “Why, that’s pretty nice of you, Mr. English. I meant to lay a bet…”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t have the time. I know how it is. Well, I didn’t forget you. I like to look after my friends. Glad you won.”

  He walked into the outer office, and into the passage. He jerked his head at Chuck and stepped into the elevator.

  Morilli and the two detectives stood in the doorway and watched the elevator descend.

  “Didn’t seem to care much,” one of the detectives said as he walked into the office again.

  “What did you expect him to do?” Morilli said coldly. “Burst into tears?”

  III

  English had only met Roy’s wife once, and that casually at a cocktail party more than a year ago.

  He remembered he hadn’t thought much of her, but was prepared to admit prejudice. She had struck him as a dolly-faced girl of nineteen or twenty with a strident voice and an irritating habit of calling everyone “darling.” But there was no doubt at the time that she had been very much in love with Roy, and he wondered, as he sat hunched up in the Cadillac, whether that love had survived.

  It was characteristic of English not to let Morilli break the news to her of her husband’s death. He never allowed himself to shirk any unpleasant task. It would have been easy to have let a police officer see her first, and then call on her, but he had no wish to avoid his responsibilities. Roy was his brother, and Roy’s wife was entitled to hear the news from him, and from no one else.

  He glanced out of the window.

  Chuck had turned off the main road, and was driving with easy assurance down an avenue lined on either side by small, smart bungalows. Chuck had a brilliantly developed sense of direction. He seemed to know instinctively whether he was driving north or east as if his brain housed a compass. He never appeared to consult a map nor had English ever known him to ask the way.

  “This is the joint, boss.” Chuck said suddenly. “The white house by the lamp post.”

  He slowed down, swung the car to the curb and pulled up outside a small, white bungalow.

  A light showed in one of the upper rooms through the drawn curtains.

  English got out of the car, hunching his broad shoulders against the cold wind. He left his hat and coat in the car, and tossed his cigar into the gutter. For some seconds he looked at the bungalow, conscious of surprise and irritation.

  For someone who was desperately short of money, Roy had certainly picked himself a luxurious dwelling-place. That was like Roy, English thought sourly, no sense of responsibility. If he wanted anything he had it and worried about paying for it after he had got it; if he worried at all.

  English opened the gate and walked up the path to the front door. On either side of the path were dormant rose trees. The neat flowerbeds were packed with daffodils and narcissi.

  He pressed the bell push and listened to the loud peal of chimes that the bell push started into life, and he grimaced. Those kind of refinements irritated him.

  There was a little delay. He stood in the porch, waiting, aware that Chuck was watching him curiously from the car. Then he heard someone coming, and the door opened a few inches on the chain.

  “Who is that?” a woman’s voice asked sharply.

  “Nick English,” he returned.

  “Who?” He caught the startled note in her voice.

  “Roy’s brother,” he said, feeling a surge of irritation run through him at having to associate himself with Roy.

  The chain slid back and the door opened and an overhead light flashed up.

  Corrine English hadn’t altered a scrap since he had last seen her. Looking at her, he found himself thinking she would probably look like this in thirty years’ time. She was small and very blond, and her body was pleasantly plump with provocative curves. She was wearing a rose-pink silk wrap over black lounging pyjamas. When she saw he was looking at her, her fingers went hastily to her corn-colored curls, patting them swiftly while she stared at him with a surprised, rather vacant expression in her big blue eyes that reminded him of the eyes of a startled baby.

  “Hello, Corinne,” he said. “Can I come in?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” she said. “Roy’s not back yet. I’m alone. Did you want to see him?”

  He restrained his irritation with an effort.

  “I think I had better come in,” he said as gently as he could. “You’ll catch cold standing here. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “Oh?” Her eyes opened a trifle wider. “Hadn’t you better see Roy? I don’t think I want to hear any bad news. Roy doesn’t like me to be worried.”

  He thought how typical that was of her. She could live in this smart little bungalow, dress like a Hollywood starlet while Roy was apparently desperate for money, and could say without shame that he didn’t want her to be worried.

  “You’ll catch cold,” he said, and moved forward, riding her back into the little lobby. He closed the door. “I’m afraid this bad news is for you, and only for you.”

  He saw her face tighten with sudden fear, but before she could speak, he went on, “Is this your sitting room?” and he moved to a nearby door.

  “It’s the lounge,” she said, her fear momentarily forgotten in the correction. She wouldn’t own a sitting room; it had to be a lounge.

  He opened the door.

  “Let’s go in here and sit down for a moment,” he said.

  She went past him into a long, low-pitched room. The modern furniture was new and cheap-looking, but it made a brave show. He wondered what it would look like in two or three years’ time. It would probably have fallen to pieces by then, but people like Roy and Corrine wouldn’t be interested in anything permanent.

  There was a dying fire in the grate, and he went over to it and stirred it with the poker, then he dropped a log onto it while she came and stood at his side.

  In the hard light of the standard lamp, he noticed the rose-pink wrap was a little grubby at the collar and cuffs.

  “I think we ought to wait until Roy comes in,” she said, lacing and unlacing her small, plump fingers. He could see she was desperately anxious to avoid any responsibility or to have to make any decision.

  “It’s because of Roy that I’ve come,” he said quietly, and turned to look at her. “Sit down, please. I wish I could spare you this, but you’ve got to know sooner or later.”

  “Oh!”

  She sat down suddenly as if the strength had gone out of her legs, and her face went white under her careful makeup.

  “Is—is he in trouble?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “No, he’s not in trouble. It’s worse than that.” He wanted to be brutal and tell her Roy was dead, but looking at the doll-like face, seeing the terror in the baby-blue eyes, the childish quivering of her lips, the sudden clenching of her fists, made it impossible for him to do more than hint at what had happened.

  “Is he hurt?” She met his eyes and flinched back as if he had threatened to hit her. “He’s—not dead?”

  “Yes, he’s dead,” English said. “I’m sorry, Corrine. I wish I hadn’t to tell you this. If there’s anything I can do…”

  “Dead?” she repeated. “He can’t be dead!”

  “Yes,” English said.

  “But he can’t be dead!” she repeated, her voice going shrill. “You’re saying this to frighten me! You never did like me! Don’t pretend you did. How can he be dead?”

  “He shot himself,” English said quietly.

  She stared at him. He could see at once she believed that news. Her dolly little face seemed to fall to pieces. She dropped back against the settee, her hand across her eyes. The white column of her throat jerked spasmodically as she struggled with her tears.

  He looked around the room, then crossed over to an elaborate cellarette that stood against the wall. He opened it and found an array of bottles and glasses; the bottles labelled with neat ivory tickets. He poured some brandy into a glass and went
over to her.

  “Drink this.”

  He had to hold the glass to her lips, but she managed to get some of the brandy down before pushing his hand away.

  “He shot himself?” she said, looking up at him.

  He nodded.

  “Have you anyone who will stay with you tonight?” he asked, not liking the dazed horror in her eyes. “You can’t be left here alone.”

  “But I am alone now,” she said, and tears began to run down her face, smearing her makeup. “Oh, Roy! Roy! How could you do it? How could you leave me alone?”

  It was the anguished cry of a child and it disturbed English. He put his hand gently on her shoulder, but she threw it off so violently that he stepped back, startled.

  “Why did he shoot himself?” she demanded, looking up at him.

  “Try to get it out of your mind for tonight,” he said soothingly. “Would you like me to send someone to you? My secretary…”

  “I don’t want your secretary!” She got unsteadily to her feet. “And I don’t want you! You killed Roy! If you had been a proper brother to him, he would never have done this!”

  He was so surprised by the suddenness of this attack, he remained motionless, staring at her.

  “You and your money!” she went on, her voice strident. “That’s all you’ve ever thought about! You didn’t care what happened to Roy. You didn’t bother to find out how he was getting on! When he came to you for help, you threw him out! Now, you’ve forced him to kill himself. Well, I hope you’re satisfied! I hope you’re happy you’ve saved a few of your dirty dollars! Now, get out! Don’t ever come here again. I hate you!”

  “You mustn’t talk like that,” English said quietly. “It’s quite untrue. If I had known Roy was in a jam, I would have helped him. I didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t care, you mean!” she cried shrilly. “You haven’t spoken to him for six months. When he asked you for a loan you told him you weren’t giving him another dollar. Help him? Do you call that helping him?”

  “I’ve been helping Roy ever since he left college,” English said, his voice hardening. “I thought it was high time he stood on his own feet. Did he expect me to keep him all his life?”