I'll Bury My Dead. James Hadley Chase
went over to the door and waited, his small, hard eyes on English.
“On the mantel, boss,” he said suddenly.
English looked at the mantel. Among the usual junk people keep on mantels was a silver-framed photograph of his brother Roy.
He picked it up.
Written in white ink across the lower part of the photograph in his brother’s big sprawling hand was the legend:
Look at me sometimes, darling, and remember what we’re going to be to each other. Roy.
English swore softly under his breath.
“So he had to fall in love with her!” He looked over at Chuck. “He’s certain to have written to her. His kind always does. Get busy and see if you can find any letters.”
Chuck went into action smoothly, quickly and with professional thoroughness.
English stood aside and watched him go through the various drawers and cupboards in the room. In a very short time Chuck had unearthed a packet of letters done up in blue ribbon which he handed to English, and then continued his search.
English glanced through the letters, recognizing his brother’s handwriting. He had only to read two or three of them to know that Roy and Mary had been passionately in love with each other, and that Roy had been planning to leave Corrine and go away with Mary.
With a wry grimace, he shoved the letters in his pocket as Chuck closed the last drawer.
“That’s the lot in here, boss.”
“Take a look in the other room,” English said, and when Chuck left the bedroom he picked up the framed photograph of his brother and dropped it into his pocket.
Five minutes later, English and Chuck left the apartment, went down the stairs and walked to the car.
“The office, and snap it up,” English said as he climbed into the car. “And keep your mouth shut about this, Chuck.”
Chuck inclined his head, slid under the steering wheel and sent the Cadillac shooting down the road.
II
The intercom on English’s vast mahogany desk buzzed into life, and reaching forward, he pressed down the switch.
“Mr. Crail is here, Mr. English,” Lois told him.
“Send him in, and when he’s gone, come in yourself,” English said, and pushed back his chair.
A moment later the door opened and Sam Crail came in.
Crail was nearly as tall as English, and immensely fat. His hair was black and thick and smoothly oiled. His complexion was pallid and his eyes sharp and beady. His smooth, fat jowls were blue with constant shaving, and his pudgy hands were hairy, his nails immaculately manicured.
Although his appearance wasn’t prepossessing, he was the smartest attorney in town, and had handled all English’s legal work ever since English had begun to climb.
“Hello, Nick,” he said as he pulled up a chair. “This is a bad business.”
English grunted, pushed his cigar box across the desk and eyed Crail speculatively.
“How’s Corrine?” he asked abruptly.
Crail grimaced. He selected a cigar, pierced it with a gold cigar pin, lit it and blew smoke to the ceiling.
“She’s difficult, Nick, and she’s going to make trouble.”
“No she isn’t,” English said shortly. “What do you imagine you’re on my payroll for? It’s your job to stop her making trouble.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing ever since I got there last night?” Crail said a little heatedly. “But she won’t play. Her story is Roy is in debt. He came to you for money, and you threw him out.”
English snorted.
“He came to me for a loan six months ago,” he said. “That’s not much of a story. Why didn’t he shoot himself sooner?”
“She maintains he came to you the day before yesterday.”
“Then she’s lying.”
“Roy told her he came to you.”
“Then he was lying.”
Crail examined the cigar thoughtfully.
“Might be difficult to prove, Nick. The press are only waiting for something to break. She says because you wouldn’t help him, he had to go to some of his old clients to raise the wind. One of them phoned the police. She says you told the police commissioner to withdraw Roy’s licence. With no future in front of him, he shot himself. Her story makes you directly responsible for his death.”
English frowned.
“Did Roy tell her this or is she making it up on her own initiative?”
“She says Roy told her, and that’s the story she’s going to tell the coroner. The inquest’s in an hour, Nick.”
“Yeah.” English stood up and paced over to the window. “She doesn’t like me, does she?”
“No, I guess she doesn’t. She says her life’s ruined, and she doesn’t see why yours shouldn’t be either.”
“The fool! Why does she think my life would be ruined by a yarn like this?” English said, turning from the window. “What put that idea into her empty head?”
Crail shrugged.
“It wouldn’t ruin you, Nick, but it would cause a stink. People think you are rolling in money. Public opinion is a dangerous thing to come up against. She says Roy wanted four thousand to get him out of his mess. Four thousand wouldn’t have scratched your pile. She could make it sound pretty sordid, Nick.”
“He wanted ten thousand and he wouldn’t tell me why,” English said. “I turned him down because I thought it was time he stopped sponging on me. He would have kept on and on if I hadn’t shown him he couldn’t come to me whenever he ran short of money. Look at the way he was living. He didn’t attempt to economize. Why the hell should I keep him and his wife?”
“Sure,” Crail said, “but now he’s shot himself, he gets the sympathy. This could put paid to the hospital idea, Nick. They are only waiting for an excuse to double-cross you.”
“I know.” English came back to the desk. “Now listen, the story is that Roy was overworking. The business was a disappointment. He tried to hold it together, but it was too much for him. Instead of coming to me, he tried to handle it himself, cracked under the strain and shot himself. That’s the story I’ve given the press this morning, and that’s the story you are going to give the coroner. Corrine will go with you and say ‘amen.’”
Crail looked startled.
“She won’t do it. I’ve talked to her, and I know. She’s made up her mind to be difficult.”
“She’ll do it,” English returned, his voice hardening. “If she doesn’t like that story, then I’ll give the press another she’ll like a lot less. Roy had a secretary; a girl named Mary Savitt. They were lovers. They planned to run away together, and leave Corrine out on a limb. Something went wrong; probably Roy couldn’t get enough money to quit. Being the weakling he was, he shot himself. The girl must have gone to the office and found him. She went home and hanged herself.”
Crail stared at him.
“Hanged herself?”
“Yes. I went to talk to her this morning, and found her dead. No one knows yet. Sooner or later they’ll find her, but I’m hoping the inquest will be over before they do.”
“Did anyone see you there?” Crail asked anxiously.
“I was seen going up the stairs.