I'll Bury My Dead. James Hadley Chase

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 and fixed Morilli with his cold, hard eyes.

      “Don’t let me hold you up any longer, Lieutenant. You’ll be wanting to get some action in here.”

      “I thought I’d wait until you came,” Morilli said uncomfortably.

      “I appreciate that. But I’ve seen all I want to see. I’ll wait in the car. When you’re through here, let me know. I want to look the place over, have a look at his papers.”

      “It could take an hour, Mr. English. Would you want to wait that long?”

      English frowned.

      “Have you told his wife yet?” he asked, jerking his head at the still body across the desk.

      “I’ve told no one but you, Mr. English. Would you like me to take care of his wife? I could send an officer.”

      English shook his head.

      “I guess I’ll see her.” He hesitated, his frown deepening. “Maybe you don’t know it, but Roy and I haven’t exactly hit it off recently. I don’t even know his home address.”

      “I’ve got it here,” Morilli said, his face expressionless. He picked up a wallet on the desk. “I went through his pockets as a matter of form.” He handed English a card. “Know where it is?”

      English read the card.

      “Chuck will.” He flicked the card with his finger nail. “Did he have any money on him?”

      “Four bucks,” Morilli said.

      English took the wallet from Morilli’s hand, glanced into it, then put it in his pocket.

      “I’ll see his wife. Can you get one of your men to clean up here? I may be sending someone down to check his files.”

      “I’ll fix it, Mr. English.”

      “So you heard he was short of money,” English said. “How did you hear that, Lieutenant?”

      Morilli scratched the side of his jaw, his dark eyes uneasy.

      “The commissioner mentioned it. He knew I knew him, and he told me to have a word with him. I was going to see him tomorrow.”

      English took the cigar from between his teeth and touched the ash off onto the floor.

      “A word about what?”

      Morilli looked away.

      “He had been worrying people for money.”

      English stared at him.

      “What people?”

      “Two or three clients he had worked for last year. They complained to the commissioner. I’m sorry to tell you this, Mr. English, but he was going to lose his licence.”

      English nodded his head. His eyes narrowed.

      “So the commissioner wanted you to talk to him. Why didn’t the commissioner speak to me instead of you, Lieutenant?”

      “I told him he should,” Morilli said, a faint flush rising up his neck and flooding his pale face. “But he isn’t an easy man to talk to.”

      English smiled suddenly; it wasn’t a pleasant smile.

      “Nor am I.”

      “What I’ve told you, Mr. English, is off the record,” Morilli said quickly. “The commissioner would have my hide if he knew I…”

      “All right, forget it,” English broke in. He looked at the body. “It won’t bring him back to life, will it?”

      “That’s right,” Morilli said, relaxing a little. “Still off the record, he would have lost his licence at the end of the week.”

      “For trying to raise money from old clients?” English asked sharply.

      “I guess he was pretty desperate for money. He threatened one party. She wouldn’t bring a charge, but it was near blackmail as damn it.”

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