I'll Bury My Dead. James Hadley Chase

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      He waited in silence, then crossed the room and knocked on a door facing him.

      Chuck entered the room and quietly shut the front door.

      English knocked again, then opened the door and looked into a darkened room. Enough light filtered through the drawn curtains to show him that it was a bedroom. He looked toward the bed; it was empty and the blankets were thrown back.

      “I believe she’s out,” he said to Chuck.

      “Maybe she’s having a bath,” Chuck said. “Want me to go and see?”

      English ignored his eagerness and moved into the bedroom, turning on the light as he did so.

      He came to an abrupt standstill.

      To the right of the door leading into the bedroom was another door. Against this door, and hanging by a white silk cord which had been thrown over the top of the door and fastened to something on the other side, was the body of a dark-haired girl in her early twenties. She was wearing a white silk dressing gown that hung open to show a blue nylon nightdress. What beauty she might have had was spoilt now by her waxen color and her swollen tongue that protruded from her open mouth. Dried blood made a red thread from her nose to her chin.

      Chuck drew in a sharp breath.

      “Holy mackerel! What did she want to do that for?” he said in a tight, low voice.

      English went over to her and touched her hand.

      “She’s been dead about seven hours at a guess,” he said. “This is getting complicated, Chuck.”

      Chuck came and stood at his side, his eyes appraising the dead girl.

      “It sure is,” he said, then went on, “That’s exactly the kind of nightie I want my girl to wear, but she won’t wear anything but pyjamas.”

      English wasn’t listening. He stood staring at the dead girl, his mind busy.

      “We’d better get out of here, boss,” Chuck said after a long silence.

      “Shut up, will you?” English snapped, and began to move around the room.

      Chuck 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 СКАЧАТЬ