I'll Bury My Dead. James Hadley Chase

      Donna Hayes,

       Publisher and CEO

       The Harlequin Story

      To millions of readers around the world, Harlequin and romance fiction are synonymous. With a publishing record of 120 titles a month in 29 languages in 107 international markets on 6 continents, there is no question of Harlequin’s success.

      But like all good stories, Harlequin’s has had some twists and turns.

      In 1949, Harlequin was founded in Winnipeg, Canada. In the beginning, the company published a wide range of books—including the likes of Agatha Christie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, James Hadley Chase and Somerset Maugham—all for the low price of twenty-five cents.

      By the mid 1950s, Richard Bonnycastle was in complete control of the company, and at the urging of his wife—and chief editor—began publishing the romances of British firm Mills & Boon. The books sold so well that Harlequin eventually bought Mills & Boon outright in 1971.

      In 1970, Harlequin expanded its distribution into the U.S. and contracted its first American author so that it could offer the first truly American romances. By 1980, that concept became a full-fledged series called Harlequin Superromance, the first romance line to originate outside the U.K.

      The 1980s saw continued growth into global markets as well as the purchase of American publisher, Silhouette Books. By 1992, Harlequin dominated the genre, and ten years later was publishing more than half of all romances released in North America.

      Now in our sixtieth anniversary year, Harlequin remains true to its history of being the romance publisher, while constantly creating innovative ways to deliver variety in what women want to read. And as we forge ahead into other types of fiction and nonfiction, we are always mindful of the hallmark of our success over the past six decades—guaranteed entertainment!

       I’ll Bury My Dead

       James Hadley Chase

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

       JAMES HADLEY CHASE

      was a pseudonym for Rene Brabazon Raymond. Born in England on Christmas Eve 1906, Chase left home at the age of eighteen and worked at a number of different jobs before he settled on being a writer. With a map and a slang dictionary, Chase wrote his first book, No Orchids for Miss Blandish, in six weeks. It was published in 1939 and became one of the bestselling books of the decade. It was later made into a stage play in London and then into a film in 1948, which was later remade in 1971 by Robert Aldrich as The Grissom Gang. Chase went on to write more than eighty mysteries before his death on February 6, 1985.

      CONTENTS

       CHAPTER ONE

       CHAPTER TWO

       CHAPTER THREE

       CHAPTER FOUR

       CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER ONE

      I

      H ARRY V INCE CAME INTO THE outer office, and hurriedly shut the door behind him, cutting off the uproar of men’s voices, each apparently trying to shout down the other, the sound of raucous laughter and the shuffling of many feet.

      “Sounds like a zoo in there, doesn’t it? And—phew!—it smells like one, too,” he said, as he crossed the room, moving between the empty desks to where Lois Marshall sat at the telephone switchboard. He carried a bottle of champagne and two glasses which he set down carefully on a nearby desk. “You don’t know what you’re missing, staying out here. You couldn’t cut the atmosphere in there with a hacksaw.” He mopped his face with his handkerchief. “Mr. English says you are to have some champagne. So here it is.”

      “I don’t think I want any, thank you,” Lois said, smiling at him. She was a trim, good-looking girl around twenty-six or seven, dark, with severe eyebrows, steady brown eyes and the minimum of makeup. “I’m not mad about the stuff—are you?”

      “Only when someone else pays for it,” Vince returned as he expertly broke the wire cage and thumbed over the cork. “Besides, this is an occasion. We don’t win the Light Heavyweight Championship every day of the week.”

      The cork sailed across the room with a resounding pop! and he hurriedly tipped the foaming wine into a glass.

      “Thank goodness we don’t,” Lois said. “How long do you think they’re going to stay in there?”

      “Until they get chucked out. They haven’t finished the whiskey yet.” He handed her the glass. “Here’s to Joe Ruthlin, the new Champ. May he continue to flatten them as he did tonight.”

      He poured champagne into the second glass.

      “Here’s to Mr. English,” Lois said quietly, and raised her glass.

      Vince grinned.

      “Okay. Here’s to Mr. English.”

      They drank, and Vince grimaced.

      “Maybe you’re right. Give me a straight Scotch any day.” He put down his glass. “Why didn’t you let Trixie look after the board? It’s her job.”

      Lois lifted her elegant shoulders.

      “Think of the company she would have to mix in. They know better than to bother me, but Trixie…”

      “Trixie would have loved it. She likes a guy to pat her fanny occasionally. She thinks it proves she’s desirable. Anyway, those apes in there are more or less harmless. Trixie would have taken care of herself if you had given her the chance.”

      “Maybe, but she’s still a kid. Sitting around in an office until long past midnight isn’t the sort of life she should live.”

      “You talk like a grandmother,” Vince said, grinning. “If anyone has to stay late, it’s always you.”

      Lois shrugged.

      “I don’t mind.”

      Vince studied her.

      “Doesn’t your boyfriend mind?”

      “Do we have to talk nonsense, Harry?”

      Her steady brown eyes were suddenly cold.

      Recognizing the danger signals, Vince said, “You were with Mr. English when he started this caper, weren’t you?”

      “Yes. We had only one small office, the typewriter was on hire and the furniture, what there was of it, wasn’t paid for. Now we have this place—thirteen offices and a staff of forty. Good going in five years, isn’t it?”

      “I guess so.” Vince lit a cigarette. “He has the magic touch all right.