1953 - I'll Bury My Dead by James Hadley Chase Read Free Book Online Page A

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 colour 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