I'll Bury My Dead. James Hadley Chase
gave him a quick glance, then grinned.
“Late hours don’t seem to suit you, Harry,” he said. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”
“I guess I feel like it, too,” Harry said with a wan smile. “I have the figures for you. We have a net take of two hundred and seventy-five thousand.”
English nodded.
“That’s not so bad. Did you put a bet on Joey, Harry?”
Harry shook his head.
“I guess I forgot.”
English gave him a sharp look.
“What’s the matter with you? Don’t you want to pick up some free money? I told you you couldn’t go wrong.”
“I meant to, Mr. English,” Harry said, flushing, “but in the rush it went out of my mind.”
“Chuck made himself a thousand. Didn’t Lois back Joey?”
“I don’t think she did.”
“You two are hopeless,” English said with a resigned shrug. “Well, it’s your own funeral. I can’t do more than put the opportunity to make some money in front of you. That reminds me. Morilli will look in some time this morning. Give him three hundred out of my expense account. He’s supposed to have won it on the fight.”
“Yes, Mr. English.”
English stubbed out his cigar.
“Ever thought of getting married, Harry?” he asked abruptly.
Harry stiffened. His eyes shifted away from English.
“Why, no. I guess I haven’t.”
“Haven’t you even got a girl?” English asked, smiling.
“I just haven’t had time to get around to girls yet,” Harry said in a low, flat voice.
“Well, for God’s sake! You’re—what? Thirty-two or three?”
“Thirty-two.”
“You’d better buck up,” English said, and laughed. “Why, when I was half your age I had a string of girls.”
“Yes, Mr. English.”
“Maybe I’m working you too hard. Is that it?”
“Oh, no, Mr. English. Nothing like that.”
English stared at him, puzzled, then he shrugged.
“Well, it’s your life. Better send that balance sheet over to Asprey, and get him to certify it. I have a lunch date with the senator, worse luck.”
As Harry moved to the door, the buzzer on the desk sounded. English pressed down the switch.
“Lieutenant Morilli is here, Mr. English,” Lois said. “He would like a word.”
“Harry will see him,” English said. “I’m going to lunch.”
“He particularly wants to see you, Mr. English. He says it’s important and urgent.”
English hesitated, frowning.
“Okay, send him in. I’ve still got ten minutes. Tell Chuck to have the car ready.” As he released the switch, he said to Harry, “Get his money ready and give it to him as he goes out.”
“Yes, Mr. English,” Harry said and opened the door and stood aside to let Morilli enter the office.
“You’ve caught me at a bad time,” English said as Harry went out, shutting the door behind him. “I’ve got to go out in five minutes. What’s on your mind?”
“I thought I ought to have a word with you,” Morilli said, coming over to the desk. “We’ve located your brother’s secretary. A girl named Mary Savitt.”
English looked at him, his darkly tanned face expressionless.
“So what?”
“She’s dead.”
English frowned and stared at Morilli, who stared back at him.
“Dead? What—suicide?”
Morilli lifted his shoulders.
“That’s what I’ve come to see you about. It could be murder.”
IV
For a long second, English stared at Morilli, then waved him to a chair.
“Sit down, and let’s hear about it.”
Morilli sat down.
“I telephoned Mrs. English this morning,” he said, “to find out if Mr. English had a secretary. She gave me the girl’s name and address. I and a sergeant went down there. She has an apartment on 45th East Place.” He paused and looked hard at English.
“I know,” English said, taking his cue from Morilli’s look. “I went there myself this morning. I couldn’t get an answer. I thought she must have gone down to the office.”
Morilli nodded.
“That’s right,” he said. “Miss Hopper, who lives in the apartment above Miss Savitt’s, said she had seen you.”
“Well, go on,” English said curtly. “What happened?”
“We didn’t get an answer to our buzz. There was a bottle of milk and a newspaper outside the door, and that made me suspicious. We got a pass-key and found her hanging on the bathroom door.”
English pushed his cigar box across the desk after taking one himself.
“Go ahead and help yourself,” he said. “What’s this about murder?”
“On the face of it, it looked like suicide,” Morilli said. “The police surgeon said it was a typical suicide.” He rubbed his bony nose and added softly, “And he still thinks it’s suicide.” Then he went on. “After the body was removed, I had a look around the room. I was on my own, Mr. English, and I made a discovery. Near the bed was a damp patch on the carpet as if it had been recently washed. When I examined it carefully I found a small stain. I gave it a benzidine test. It was a bloodstain.”
English took his cigar from between his lips and frowned at the glowing end.
“I don’t reckon to be as smart as you, Lieutenant, but I fail to see how that makes it murder.”
Morilli smiled.
“A faked suicide is very often difficult to spot, Mr. English,” he said. “We’re trained to look for the giveaway. That stain on the carpet was a pretty complete giveaway. You see, when I cut the girl down I noticed she had bled from the nose. There were no marks on her nightdress, and I expected to find at least a drop or two of blood somewhere about her clothes. Then I find a stain on the floor. That tells me she died on the floor, and not hanging from the door.”
“You mean she was strangled on the floor?”
“That’s right. If someone surprised her, slipped the dressing-gown cord around her throat and tightened it she would have lost consciousness very quickly. She would have fallen face down on the carpet, and while the killer was exerting pressure on the cord, it is likely she would bleed from the nose, making a stain on the carpet. Having killed her, it would be simple for him to string her up against the bathroom door to give the appearance of suicide.”
English thought about this, then nodded.
“I guess that’s right. So you think it’s murder?”
“I won’t swear to it, but how else did the stain get on the carpet?”
“You’re sure it’s blood?”
“No doubt about it.”
English glanced at his wristwatch. He was already four