I'll Bury My Dead. James Hadley Chase

car and looking down at English as he sank into the car seat. “A Joe named Tom Calhoun. He seemed a helpful sort of a guy after I had clinked some money by his ear. Your brother had a secretary. Her name’s Mary Savitt, and she’s got an apartment on 45th East Place.”

      “Okay,” English said. “Let’s go there. Snap it up, Chuck. I want to catch her before she leaves.”

      Chuck got into the Cadillac and set it in motion. While he drove rapidly through the traffic-congested streets, English glanced at the newspapers he had brought down with him.

      All of them devoted considerable space to Roy’s suicide, coupling his name with Nick’s. At least Sam Crail had done a good job, English thought; there was no mention of Corrine. Morilli also appeared to be earning his keep. He had given out that Roy had been overworking, and it was believed he had shot himself in a fit of depression, following a nervous breakdown. The story sounded a little thin, but English was satisfied it would stand up so long as someone didn’t come along to challenge it.

      Before leaving Julie’s apartment, English had called his office. Harry had told him newspaper reporters were at the office waiting for him, and he had told him to stall them until he arrived.

      He wondered irritably if he were wasting his time going to see Mary Savitt. There was a lot to do. He had to see Senator Henry Beaumont and calm his fears. He had to have a word with the police commissioner. He had to talk to Sam Crail, and then there were the news hounds to deal with. But he was pretty sure if anyone knew why Roy had killed himself, this girl, Mary Savitt, would know. A private secretary had more opportunities than anyone to know the inside workings of her employer’s mind, and unless she was a feather-brain, she must have some idea what had gone wrong.

      Chuck said, “Running up now, boss. This joint on the left.”

      “Don’t stop at the door,” English said. “Drive on a half a block, and we’ll walk back.”

      Chuck did as he was told, then stopped the car. The two men got out.

      “You’d better come with me,” English said, and set off with long, quick strides to the brownstone apartment house Chuck had indicated.

      A row of mail boxes in the lobby, each with the owner’s name on it, told English Mary Savitt’s apartment was on the third floor. The entrance to the apartments was guarded by a door by which was a row of buzzers. Chuck thumbed the third-floor buzzer, and waited for the latch to click up. Nothing happened, and after pressing the buzzer three times, he looked over at English.

      “I guess the nest’s empty,” he said.

      “She’s probably seen the newspapers and has gone down to the office,” English returned, frowning.

      At this moment the door to the stairs opened and a girl came into the lobby. She was smartly dressed, and she looked sleepy and pale in the hard morning light. She stared at English, and her eyes opened wide. Her fingers went hastily to her hair, tucking in a stray curl under her hat. English watched her reaction indifferently. He had had his photograph so often in the newspapers, he had become used to being recognized by strangers.

      He raised his hat.

      “Pardon me, I was hoping to find Miss Savitt. She’s out, I guess?”

      “Oh, no, she’s not out, Mr. English,” the girl said, smiling. “It is Mr. English, isn’t it?”

      “That’s right,” English returned, holding his hat in his hand. “Clever of you to recognize me.”

      “Oh, gee! I’d know you anywhere, Mr. English. I saw The Moon Rides High last week. I thought it was a terrific show.”

      “I’m glad,” English said, and somehow he managed to convey that he was glad, and her opinion was something to cherish. “Maybe Miss Savitt’s still asleep. I’ve buzzed her three times.”

      While he was speaking, Chuck was examining the girl with unconcealed interest. His sharp eyes admired her long, slim legs and he pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.

      “Perhaps her buzzer’s on the blink,” the girl said, unaware of Chuck’s scrutiny. She had only eyes for English. “I know she’s in. Her milk’s still outside the door and her newspaper’s there, too. Besides, she never leaves before ten.”

      “Then I guess I’ll go up and knock on the door,” English said. “Thank you for your help.”

      “You’re welcome, I’m sure.”

      He gave her a warm, friendly smile that left her looking a little dazed, and moved past her to the stairs, followed closely by Chuck.

      As they walked up the stairs, Chuck said wistfully, “Brother! If only I could pull stuff like that. Did you see the way she looked at you—like jelly going into a faint! All you had to do was to snap your fingers, and she would have…”

      “Cut it out!” English said curtly.

      “Sure, boss,” Chuck said, rolling his eyes. As he climbed the stairs, his lips moved as he continued to talk silently to himself.

      A bottle of milk and a folded newspaper lay outside Mary Savitt’s front door.

      English jerked his head toward the door, and Chuck rapped sharply on it. No one answered. Again Chuck knocked, again no one answered.

      “Think you could open the door, Chuck?” English asked, lowering his voice.

      For a moment Chuck looked surprised, then he examined the lock.

      “Nothing to it, but maybe she’ll squawk for the cops.”

      “Go ahead and open it,” English said.

      Chuck took out a small metal lever from his pocket, inserted it into the lock, fiddled for a moment, then pushed open the door.

      English stepped into a neatly kept sitting room—small, well furnished and bright with spring flowers.

      “Is anyone here?” he called, raising his voice.

      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