I'll Bury My Dead

“Yes, Mr. English.”

He released the switch and sat down again.

“Go ahead, Lieutenant. Do some talking,” he said, his voice hard and quiet.

Morilli hitched his chair forward, and looking English straight in the face, said, “I don’t have to tell you how the D.A. feels about Senator Beaumont. They’ve been sworn enemies ever since the senator got into office. If the D.A. can do anything to discredit the senator he’s going to do it. Everyone knows you’re behind the senator. If the D.A. can make things tough for you, he’ll do it in the hope it’ll eventually hit the senator. If he can involve you in a scandal, he’s not going to be too particular how he does it.”

“For a lieutenant of homicide, you keep remarkably well informed about politics,” English said. “All right, we’ll take that as read. What has it got to do with Mary Savitt?”

“It could have plenty to do with her,” Morilli said. “Doc Richards told me your brother died between nine and half past ten last night. He couldn’t put it nearer than that. He says Mary Savitt died between ten o’clock and midnight. Miss Hopper tells me she saw your brother leave Mary Savitt’s apartment at nine forty-five last night. It’s not going to take the D.A. long to arrive at the conclusion these two had a suicide pact. That your brother murdered the girl, then went down to his office and shot himself. If he does arrive at that conclusion there’s going to be quite a stink in the press, and it’s going to come this way and bound off you onto the senator.”

English sat still for a long moment, staring at Morilli, his eyes like granite.

“Why are you telling me all this, Lieutenant?” he asked at last.

Morilli lifted his shoulders; his small dark eyes shifted away from English’s face.

“No one but me knows it’s murder, Mr. English. Doc Richards says it’s suicide, but then he didn’t see the stain on the carpet. If he knew about that, he’d change his mind, but he doesn’t know, nor does the D.A.”

“But they’ll know when you’ve put in your report,” English said.

“I guess they will, unless I forget to mention the bloodstain.”

English studied Morilli’s white, expressionless face.

“There’s Miss Hopper’s evidence,” he said. “You say she saw Roy leave the apartment. If she starts talking, the D.A. will investigate. He might even find the stain.”

Morilli smiled.

“You don’t have to worry about Miss Hopper,” he said. “I’ve taken care of her. I happen to know what she does in her spare time. She wouldn’t want to go into the box and give evidence. Some smart attorney like Sam Crail might turn her inside out. I mentioned that fact to her. She isn’t going to talk.”

English leaned forward to knock ash off his cigar.

“You realize the chances are a hundred to one that Roy killed the girl, don’t you?” he said quietly. “If she was murdered, then someone is going to get away with it, if it wasn’t Roy.”

Morilli shrugged.

“It’ll be your brother who murdered her if the D.A. hears about the stain, Mr. English. You can bet your bottom dollar on it. Either way the killer gets away with it.” He made a little gesture with his hand. “It’s up to you. I’ll put the stain in my report on your say-so, but since you’ve taken care of me in the past, I thought it was only right I should give you a break when the chance came my way.”

English looked at him.

“That’s pretty nice of you, Lieutenant. I shan’t forget it. Maybe it would be better to forget about the stain.”

“Just as you say,” Morilli said, getting to his feet. “Only too glad to be of help, Mr. English.”

“Let me see,” English said absently, “you have a bet to collect, haven’t you? How much was it, Lieutenant?”

Morilli ran his thumbnail along his narrow, starkly black moustache before saying, “Five thousand, Mr. English.”

English smiled.

“Was it as much as that?”

“I guess that was the sum,” Morilli returned, his face expressionless.

“In that case I’d better pay you. I always believe in paying my debts.”

“I guess that’s right, and I always believe in giving value for money.”

“You would prefer cash I expect?”

“It would come in handy.”

English leaned forward and pushed down a switch on the intercom.

“Harry? Never mind about that little matter I mentioned to you just now. I’m looking after Lieutenant Morilli.”

“Yes, Mr. English.”

English released the switch, stood up and went over to the wall safe.

“You’ve a pretty good organization here, Mr. English,” Morilli said.

“Nice to know you approve,” English said dryly. He opened the safe and took out two bundles of notes and tossed them on the desk. “I won’t ask for a receipt.”

“You won’t need one,” Morilli returned, picked up the two bundles, checked the amount with a quick flick of his fingers and stowed them away in his overcoat pockets.

“Of course the D.A. might not trust your report,” English said, going back to the desk and sitting down. “He might send up one of his people to check the room, and he might find the stain.”

Morilli smiled.

“I like to kid myself that my service to you, Mr. English, is a pretty good one. The stain doesn’t exist anymore. I’ve fixed it.” He moved over to the door. “Well, I guess I mustn’t hold you up any longer. I’d better get over to the station house and write my report.”

“So long, Lieutenant,” English said. When Morilli had gone, English drew in a deep breath. “Well, I’ll be double damned!” he said softly. “The blackmailing sonofabitch!”

V

From the door of the restaurant, English spotted the senator sitting alone at a corner table, his thin elfish face puckered in a frown of impatience and irritation.

Senator Henry Beaumont was sixty-five years old, small, wiry and thin. His face was wrinkled and the color of old leather, and his eyes were steel-gray and as sharp as needles.

He was a man of insatiable ambition; his ultimate aim was to become president. He had started life washing bottles in a drug store, and he was inordinately proud of the fact. World War I had given him the chance he was looking for, and he proved himself an able leader of men, coming out of the Army with the rank of major and two minor decorations. By chance he had been taken up by the boss of the Democratic machine ruling Chicago at that time, and had been given the job of overseer of highways in recognition of his war service. It was while he was holding this appointment that he met Nick English, who was trying to finance his gyroscope compass. Beaumont introduced him to his circle of wealthy businessmen. It was through Beaumont’s introduction that English financed his compass.

When English finally settled in Essex City, he remembered Beaumont and wrote to him, offering to finance him if he cared to run for the post of county judge. Beaumont jumped at the offer, and with English’s money behind him, he was elected.

English was quick to realize that as his business expanded and his kingdom grew, it was essential to have a powerful friend in the political machine. Although Beaumont was no ball of fire, he was at least sharply aware of his debt to English, and was willing to pull strings when English wanted them pulled.

The next move, English had decided, was to get Beaumont elected senator. The opposition was stiff, but again with English’s money and coupled with his ruthless determination, Beaumont became senator. Now, he was to come up for reelection in another six months’ time, and English knew Beaumont was uneasy as to what the results would be.

The maître d’hôtel came hurrying over to English as he stood in the doorway, and deferentially led him down the long aisle to the senator’s table. As he followed the maître d’hôtel , English was aware that everyone in the luxury restaurant had stopped talking and was looking at him with curious eyes.

He was used to being stared at, but today he felt those stares were accentuated by something more than curiosity. The news of his brother’s suicide had caused a sensation, and people were already beginning to gossip about the reason for the suicide.

The senator half rose from his seat at English joined him.

“I thought you were never coming,” he said in his shrill, waspish voice.

English gave him a hard, cold look and sat down.

“I got held up,” he said shortly. “What are we going to eat?”

While the senator was choosing his meal, the maître d’hôtel slipped an envelope into English’s hand.

“This came for you about ten minutes ago, Mr. English,” he murmured.

English nodded, ordered a rare steak and green peas and half a bottle of claret, then ripped open the envelope and glanced at the scrawled message.

Everything under control. Corrine put on a beautiful performance. Verdict: suicide while mind was unbalanced. There’ll be no kickback.

Sam

English slipped the note into his pocket, a hard little smile lighting his face.

“What’s this I hear about your brother?” the senator asked as soon as the maître d’hôtel had gone away. “What the hell was he playing at?”

English looked at him, a surprised expression on his face.

“Roy’s been heading for a breakdown for weeks now,” he said quietly. “I warned him he was working too hard. Well, it got too much for him, and he took the easy way out.”

The senator snorted. His leathery complexion turned a dark red.

“Don’t feed me that crap!” he said fiercely, keeping his voice down. “Roy never did a hard day’s work in his life. What’s this about blackmail?”

English shrugged.

“There’s bound to be all kinds of rumors,” he said indifferently. “There are plenty of people who would like to make a stink out of it. You don’t have to get hot under the collar. Roy shot himself because he was worried about his business. That’s all there’s to it.”

“Is it?” Beaumont said, leaning forward to glare at English. “There’s talk he tried to blackmail some woman, and he was going to lose his licence. How true is that?”

“Every word of it,” English said, “but no one’s going to say so unless he wants a law suit with me about it.”

Beaumont blinked and sat back.

“Like that, is it?” he said, a look of admiration coming into his eyes.

English nodded.

“The police commissioner started this. I’ve had a word with him. He’s not taking it any further. You’ve got nothing to worry about, Beaumont.”

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