I'll Bury My Dead. James Hadley Chase
he went out of the room.
“Let those jackals finish the case of Scotch, and then get rid of them,” English said to Vince. “Tell them I’ve been called away.”
“Yes, Mr. English,” Vince said and went into the inner office. As he opened the door the noise of laughter and voices came into the silent outer office with a violence that made English scowl.
“Stick around, will you?” he said to Lois. “I may need you tonight. If you don’t hear from me within an hour, go home.”
“Yes.” She looked searchingly at him. “Has something happened, Mr. English?”
He looked at her, then moving over to her, he put his hand on her hip and smiled.
“Did you ever meet my brother, Roy?”
She showed her surprise as she shook her head.
“You haven’t missed anything.” He gave her hip a little pat. “He’s just shot himself.”
She caught her breath sharply.
“Oh…I’m sorry….”
“Save it,” he said, and moved toward the door. “He doesn’t deserve your sympathy and he wouldn’t want mine. This could be messy. Stick around for an hour. If the press get it, stall them. Tell them you don’t know where I am.”
He took his hat and coat from a cupboard.
“Did Harry give you some champagne?” he asked, putting the hat on his head and giving the brim an irritable jerk.
“Yes, Mr. English.”
“Good. Well, so long for now. I may call you.”
He threw his coat over his arm and went out, closing the door behind him.
II
Chuck Eagan swung the big, glittering Cadillac into a downtown side street and reduced speed.
Halfway down the street on the right he saw two prowl cars parked outside a tall building that was in darkness, except for two lighted windows on the sixth floor.
He drew up behind the parked cars, cut the engine and got out as Nick English opened the rear door and untangled his long legs to the sidewalk.
Chuck looked enquiringly at him.
“Want me to come up, boss?”
“May as well. Keep in the background and keep your mouth shut.”
English walked across the sidewalk to where two patrolmen stood on either side of the entrance to the building. They both recognized him, and saluted.
“The Lieutenant’s waiting for you, Mr. English,” one of them said. “There’s an elevator that’ll take you up. Sixth floor.”
English nodded and walked into the dimly lit, stone-floored lobby. He moved through a smell of garbage, faulty plumbing and the acid reek of stale perspiration. Facing the entrance was an ancient elevator scarcely big enough to hold four people.
Chuck slid back the grill and followed English into the elevator. He thumbed the automatic button, and the cage started its jerky ascent.
English had left his overcoat in the car. He stood solidly on the balls of his feet, his hands thrust into the pockets of his tuxedo, a smouldering cigar between his teeth, his eyes brooding and cold.
Chuck glanced at him, then glanced away.
Eventually the elevator jerked to a standstill at the sixth floor and Chuck pulled back the grill.
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