I'll Bury My Dead. James Hadley Chase

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      “I don’t mind.”

      Vince studied her.

      “Doesn’t your boyfriend mind?”

      “Do we have to talk nonsense, Harry?”

      Her steady brown eyes were suddenly cold.

      Recognizing the danger signals, Vince said, “You were with Mr. English when he started this caper, weren’t you?”

      “Yes. We had only one small office, the typewriter was on hire and the furniture, what there was of it, wasn’t paid for. Now we have this place—thirteen offices and a staff of forty. Good going in five years, isn’t it?”

      “I guess so.” Vince lit a cigarette. “He has the magic touch all right. It doesn’t seem to matter what he takes on. He has to make a success of it. Fight promotion this week, a circus last week, a musical show the week before that. What’s he going to do next?”

      Lois laughed.

      “He’ll find something.” She looked up at Vince, seeing a square-shouldered man of medium height, around thirty-three, with a crew hair-cut, pale brown eyes that looked worried and uneasy, a good mouth and chin and a straight narrow nose. “You’ve done pretty well for yourself, too, Harry.”

      He nodded.

      “Thanks to Mr. English. I’m not kidding myself. If he hadn’t given me the chance I would have been still sweating my guts out as an accountant with no prospects. You know, sometimes, I just can’t believe I’m his general manager. I can’t make out why the devil he ever gave me the job.”

      “He has a good eye for talent,” Lois said. “He didn’t give you the job because he liked the way you wear your clothes, Harry. You earn your money.”

      “I guess I do,” Vince said, running his fingers through his close-cut hair. “Look at the awful hours we keep.” He glanced at his wrist-watch. “Eleven fifteen. This shindig’s going on until two o’clock at least.” He finished his champagne, waved the bottle at Lois. “Have some more?”

      She shook her head.

      “No, thank you. Does he seem to be enjoying himself?”

      “You know what he’s like. He’s been standing around all evening watching the other guys drink. Every so often he puts in a word here and there. He acts like he has just dropped in on somebody else’s party. Abe Mendelssohn has been trying to corner him for the past hour, but he’s having no luck.”

      Lois laughed.

      “He wants Mr. English to finance his women wrestlers.”

      “That’s not a bad idea,” Vince said. “I’ve seen some of those babes wrestle. I wouldn’t mind getting a job as their trainer. I’d like to have the chance of showing them a few holds.”

      “Better talk to Mr. English. He might give you the job.”

      The telephone buzzer sounded.

      Lois pushed in a plug and picked up the harness she had laid on the desk.

      “English Promotions,” she said. “Good evening.”

      She listened while Vince watched her. He saw one of her dark eyebrows lift in surprise.

      “I’ll ask him to speak to you, Lieutenant,” she said, and laid down the harness. “Harry, would you tell Mr. English Lieutenant Morilli of the Homicide Bureau is calling? He wants a personal word.”

      “These coppers!” Vince said, grimacing. “Wants some favor, I’ll bet. A couple of fight dockets or free seats for a show. You don’t want me to disturb Mr. English to talk to that chiseller, do you?”

      She nodded, her eyes serious.

      “Please tell him it’s urgent, Harry.”

      He gave her a quick look, then slid off the desk.

      “Okay.”

      He went across the big room and pushed open the door that led into Nick English’s private office. The uproar of voices surged past him as he went in.

      Lois said, “I’m getting Mr. English now.”

      At the other end of the line Morilli grunted.

      “Better get his car to the door, Miss Marshall,” he said. “When he hears what I’ve got to tell him he’ll want some fast action.”

      Lois thanked him, plugged in another line and told the garage attendant who answered to have Mr. English’s car at the front entrance right away.

      As she pulled out the plug, Nick English came out of his office, followed by Vince.

      English was six foot three in his socks, and broad, giving the appearance of massiveness without fat. He was on the right side of forty, and his hair was jet-black, cut short and inclined to curl. There were white streaks on each side of his temples that helped to soften an otherwise hard and relentless face. He had a high broad forehead, a short blunt nose, a thin mouth and a square dimpled chin. His eyes were wide set, pale blue and piercing. He was arresting to look at without being handsome, and gave an immediate impression of granite-hard strength.

      Lois moved away from the switch-board, indicating a telephone on a nearby desk.

      “Lieutenant Morilli is on that line, Mr. English.”

      English lifted the receiver.

      “What’s on your mind, Lieutenant?”

      Lois moved quickly over to Vince.

      “Better get Chuck out here, Harry. I think he’ll be needed.”

      Vince nodded and went into the inner office.

      Lois heard English say, “When did it happen?”

      She looked anxiously at the big man as he leaned over the desk, frowning into space, his long fingers tapping on the blotter.

      She had known Nick English now for five years. She had first met him after he had thrown up an engineering job in South America and had opened a small office in Chicago to promote a gyroscope compass he had invented to be used in petroleum drilling operations. He had engaged her to run the office while he had walked the streets in search of the necessary capital to manufacture the compass.

      There had been difficulties, but she had quickly learned that difficulties and disappointments only made English work harder. She discovered he had an undefeatable spirit. There had been times when she had gone without salary and he had gone without food. His optimism and determination had been infectious. She knew he must succeed. No one who worked as hard as he did could fail to succeed. But it had been a year of no rewards and constant setbacks and had forged a link between them that she had never forgotten, but at times, she wondered if he had forgotten. Finally the compass had been financed and had proved a success. English had sold his invention for two hundred thousand dollars plus a royalty on future sales that still brought him in a comfortable income.

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