I'll Bury My Dead. James Hadley Chase

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      He got out and held the door open.

      “I want to find out if my brother had a secretary or someone to help him in the office,” English said as he got out of the car. “Go down to his office first thing in the morning and see if the janitor knows. I want her address. Be here not later than nine-thirty. We’ll go and see her before we go to the office.”

      “Yes, boss,” Chuck said dutifully. “I’ll fix it. Anything else I can do?”

      English gave him a quick smile.

      “No. Go to bed, and don’t be late tomorrow.”

      He walked across to the entrance to the building, pushed against the revolving doors, nodded to the night porter, who snapped to attention when he caught sight of him, and walked to the elevator.

      He thumbed the button below the label that read: Penthouse, and leaned against the wall while the automatic elevator bore him swiftly and smoothly up fifteen floors to the roof apartment he had rented for Julie.

      He walked down the corridor panelled with polished walnut and paused outside a front door also of polished walnut and equipped with gleaming chromium fitments. As he groped for his keys, his eyes shifted to the card in a chromium frame that was screwed on the door. It bore the single line of neat print: Miss Julia Clair.

      He pushed the latch key into the lock, opened the door and stepped into a small, lighted lobby. As he threw his hat and coat on a chair, the door opposite him opened and a girl stood framed in the doorway.

      She was tall and broad shouldered, with narrow hips and long legs. Her copper-colored hair was silky and dressed high on top of her small head. Her big almond-shaped eyes were sea-green and glitteringly alive. She had on olive-green lounging pyjamas with red piping, and her small feet were encased in high-heeled red slippers.

      Looking at her, English thought how very different she was from Corrine. How much more beautiful, and how much more character she showed in her face, which he considered to be more pleasing to his eyes than any other woman’s he had met. Her makeup, even at this late hour, he thought, was a masterpiece of understatement. He knew she wore makeup, but he couldn’t see where it began or left off.

      “You’re late, Nick,” she said, smiling at him. “I was beginning to wonder if you were coming.”

      “Sorry, Julie,” he returned, “but I’ve been held up.”

      He went over to her, put his hands on her hips and kissed her cheek.

      “So Joey won his fight,” she said, looking up at him. “You must be very pleased.”

      “Don’t say you listened to the radio?” he said, leading her into the well-appointed sitting room. A big coal fire burned brightly, and the shaded lamps made the atmosphere at once intimate and cozy.

      “No, but I heard it on the news.”

      “You and Harry are a pair,” he said, sinking into a big over-stuffed armchair and pulling her down on his knees. She curled up on his lap, slipping her arm around his neck, and resting her face against his. “Believe it or not, although he handled most of the arrangements and worked like a dog for weeks, he stayed away from the fight. He’s as squeamish as you are.”

      “I think fighting is a beastly business,” she returned with a grimace. “I don’t blame Harry for not being there.”

      He stared at the bright flames that licked over the coals, and his hand stroked her silk-clad thigh.

      “Maybe it is, but there’s a lot of money in it. Was the show all right?”

      She lifted her shoulders in an indifferent shrug.

      “I suppose so. They seemed to like it. I wasn’t singing particularly well, but no one seemed to notice.”

      “Maybe you want a vacation. Next month I may be able to get away. We might go to Florida.”

      “Let’s wait and see.”

      He looked at her sharply.

      “I thought you would like that, Julie.”

      “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t want to leave the club just yet. Tell me about the fight, Nick.”

      “There’s something else I have to tell you. Do you remember Roy?”

      He felt her stiffen.

      “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

      “The fool shot himself tonight.”

      She half sat up, but he pulled her down against him again.

      “Don’t move, Julie.”

      “Is he dead?” she asked, her fingers gripping his arm.

      “Yes, he’s dead. That was one job he did manage to do efficiently.”

      She shivered.

      “Don’t talk like that, Nick. How dreadful! When did it happen?”

      “About half-past nine. Morilli phoned me in the middle of the party. What a break for him! Of all that damned Homicide mob, he had to be the one to find Roy. And he made sure I knew he was doing me a favor.”

      “I don’t like that man,” Julie said. “There’s something about him…”

      “He’s just a cop on the lookout for some easy money. That’s all that’s the matter with him.”

      “But why did Roy…?”

      “Yeah, that puzzles me. Do you mind if I walk up and down? You’re taking my mind off business.” He lifted her, and got up, set her gently in the chair, then moved over to the fireplace. “Why, Julie, you look pale.”

      “I suppose it’s the shock. I wasn’t expecting to hear anything like this. I don’t know if you’re upset, Nick, but if you are, I’m sorry.”

      “I’m not upset,” English said, taking out his cigar case. “Maybe it was a shock, but I can’t say I’m particularly sorry. Roy’s been a damned nuisance ever since he was born. I guess he was born lazy. He was always getting into jams. My old man and he were a pair. Did I ever tell you about my old man, Julie?”

      She shook her head. She was leaning back, staring into the fire, her fingers laced around her knee.

      “He was no good, like Roy was no good. If my mother hadn’t gone out and worked when we were kids we would have starved. I wish you could have seen my home, Julie. It was a three-room hovel in the basement of a tenement. In the winter the walls ran with water, and in the summer it stank to high heaven.”

      Julie leaned forward to drop a log on the fire, and English touched the back of her neck gently.

      “Oh, well, I guess that’s past history,” he went on. “But I can’t understand Roy shooting himself. Morilli says he was short of money and was trying to raise the СКАЧАТЬ