Dear Reader,

Harlequin is celebrating its sixtieth anniversary in 2009 with an entire year’s worth of special programs showcasing the talent and variety that have made us the world’s leading romance publisher.

With this collection of vintage novels, we are thrilled to be able to journey with you to the roots of our success: six books that hark back to the very earliest days of our history, when the fare was decidedly adventurous, often mysterious and full of passion—1950s-style!

It is such fun to be able to present these works with their original text and cover art, which we hope both current readers and collectors of popular fiction will find entertaining.

Thank you for helping us to achieve and celebrate this milestone!

Warmly,

Donna Hayes,

Publisher and CEO

The Harlequin Story

To millions of readers around the world, Harlequin and romance fiction are synonymous. With a publishing record of 120 titles a month in 29 languages in 107 international markets on 6 continents, there is no question of Harlequin’s success.

But like all good stories, Harlequin’s has had some twists and turns.

In 1949, Harlequin was founded in Winnipeg, Canada. In the beginning, the company published a wide range of books—including the likes of Agatha Christie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, James Hadley Chase and Somerset Maugham—all for the low price of twenty-five cents.

By the mid 1950s, Richard Bonnycastle was in complete control of the company, and at the urging of his wife—and chief editor—began publishing the romances of British firm Mills & Boon. The books sold so well that Harlequin eventually bought Mills & Boon outright in 1971.

In 1970, Harlequin expanded its distribution into the U.S. and contracted its first American author so that it could offer the first truly American romances. By 1980, that concept became a full-fledged series called Harlequin Superromance, the first romance line to originate outside the U.K.

The 1980s saw continued growth into global markets as well as the purchase of American publisher, Silhouette Books. By 1992, Harlequin dominated the genre, and ten years later was publishing more than half of all romances released in North America.

Now in our sixtieth anniversary year, Harlequin remains true to its history of being the romance publisher, while constantly creating innovative ways to deliver variety in what women want to read. And as we forge ahead into other types of fiction and nonfiction, we are always mindful of the hallmark of our success over the past six decades—guaranteed entertainment!

I’ll Bury My Dead
James Hadley Chase

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JAMES HADLEY CHASE

was a pseudonym for Rene Brabazon Raymond. Born in England on Christmas Eve 1906, Chase left home at the age of eighteen and worked at a number of different jobs before he settled on being a writer. With a map and a slang dictionary, Chase wrote his first book, No Orchids for Miss Blandish, in six weeks. It was published in 1939 and became one of the bestselling books of the decade. It was later made into a stage play in London and then into a film in 1948, which was later remade in 1971 by Robert Aldrich as The Grissom Gang. Chase went on to write more than eighty mysteries before his death on February 6, 1985.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

I

H ARRY V INCE CAME INTO THE outer office, and hurriedly shut the door behind him, cutting off the uproar of men’s voices, each apparently trying to shout down the other, the sound of raucous laughter and the shuffling of many feet.

“Sounds like a zoo in there, doesn’t it? And—phew!—it smells like one, too,” he said, as he crossed the room, moving between the empty desks to where Lois Marshall sat at the telephone switchboard. He carried a bottle of champagne and two glasses which he set down carefully on a nearby desk. “You don’t know what you’re missing, staying out here. You couldn’t cut the atmosphere in there with a hacksaw.” He mopped his face with his handkerchief. “Mr. English says you are to have some champagne. So here it is.”

“I don’t think I want any, thank you,” Lois said, smiling at him. She was a trim, good-looking girl around twenty-six or seven, dark, with severe eyebrows, steady brown eyes and the minimum of makeup. “I’m not mad about the stuff—are you?”

“Only when someone else pays for it,” Vince returned as he expertly broke the wire cage and thumbed over the cork. “Besides, this is an occasion. We don’t win the Light Heavyweight Championship every day of the week.”

The cork sailed across the room with a resounding pop! and he hurriedly tipped the foaming wine into a glass.

“Thank goodness we don’t,” Lois said. “How long do you think they’re going to stay in there?”

“Until they get chucked out. They haven’t finished the whiskey yet.” He handed her the glass. “Here’s to Joe Ruthlin, the new Champ. May he continue to flatten them as he did tonight.”

He poured champagne into the second glass.

“Here’s to Mr. English,” Lois said quietly, and raised her glass.

Vince grinned.

“Okay. Here’s to Mr. English.”

They drank, and Vince grimaced.

“Maybe you’re right. Give me a straight Scotch any day.” He put down his glass. “Why didn’t you let Trixie look after the board? It’s her job.”

Lois lifted her elegant shoulders.

“Think of the company she would have to mix in. They know better than to bother me, but Trixie…”

“Trixie would have loved it. She likes a guy to pat her fanny occasionally. She thinks it proves she’s desirable. Anyway, those apes in there are more or less harmless. Trixie would have taken care of herself if you had given her the chance.”

“Maybe, but she’s still a kid. Sitting around in an office until long past midnight isn’t the sort of life she should live.”

“You talk like a grandmother,” Vince said, grinning. “If anyone has to stay late, it’s always you.”

Lois shrugged.

“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.

He had then looked around for other inventions to promote, and during the next three years he built up a reputation for himself as a man who could get money out of a stone. With his newly acquired capital, he broadened his scope, and went into the entertainment business, promoting small shows and nightclub cabarets, and then branching out to bigger and more ambitious shows.

Money began to pour in, and he formed companies. More money poured in and he took over the lease of two theatres and a dozen night clubs. Later, when money became almost an embarrassment, he moved into the political field. It was his money that put Senator Henry Beaumont into power and was keeping him in office.

Looking at English now, Lois realized just how far he had come and what a power he had become, though she regretted his rise to a height where she could no longer be of real use to him, when she was just one of many who served him.

Vince came out of the inner office with Chuck Eagan, who drove English’s car and did any job that English wanted done without argument or question.

He was a small, jockey-sized man in his late thirties. He had sandy-colored hair, a red, freckled face, stony eyes and quick, smooth movements. He was looking at his worst at the moment: a tuxedo didn’t suit him.

“What’s cooking?” he asked out of the side of his mouth, edging up to Lois. “I was enjoying myself.”

She shook her head at him.

English said into the telephone mouthpiece: “I’ll be right over. Leave things as they are until I get there. I’ll be less than ten minutes.”

Chuck stifled a groan.

“The car?” he asked, looking at Lois.

“At the door,” she told him.

English hung up. As he turned the three stiffened slightly, their eyes on his, waiting for instructions. His solid sun-tanned face told them nothing, but his blue eyes were hard as he said, “Get the car, Chuck. I want to be away at once.”

“It’s waiting, boss,” Chuck said. “I’ll meet you downstairs,” and he went out of the room.

“Let those jackals finish the case of Scotch, and then get rid of them,” English said to Vince. “Tell them I’ve been called away.”

“Yes, Mr. English,” Vince said and went into the inner office. As he opened the door the noise of laughter and voices came into the silent outer office with a violence that made English scowl.

“Stick around, will you?” he said to Lois. “I may need you tonight. If you don’t hear from me within an hour, go home.”

“Yes.” She looked searchingly at him. “Has something happened, Mr. English?”

He looked at her, then moving over to her, he put his hand on her hip and smiled.

“Did you ever meet my brother, Roy?”

She showed her surprise as she shook her head.

“You haven’t missed anything.” He gave her hip a little pat. “He’s just shot himself.”

She caught her breath sharply.

“Oh…I’m sorry….”

“Save it,” he said, and moved toward the door. “He doesn’t deserve your sympathy and he wouldn’t want mine. This could be messy. Stick around for an hour. If the press get it, stall them. Tell them you don’t know where I am.”

He took his hat and coat from a cupboard.

“Did Harry give you some champagne?” he asked, putting the hat on his head and giving the brim an irritable jerk.

“Yes, Mr. English.”

“Good. Well, so long for now. I may call you.”

He threw his coat over his arm and went out, closing the door behind him.

II

Chuck Eagan swung the big, glittering Cadillac into a downtown side street and reduced speed.

Halfway down the street on the right he saw two prowl cars parked outside a tall building that was in darkness, except for two lighted windows on the sixth floor.

He drew up behind the parked cars, cut the engine and got out as Nick English opened the rear door and untangled his long legs to the sidewalk.

Chuck looked enquiringly at him.

“Want me to come up, boss?”

“May as well. Keep in the background and keep your mouth shut.”

English walked across the sidewalk to where two patrolmen stood on either side of the entrance to the building. They both recognized him, and saluted.

“The Lieutenant’s waiting for you, Mr. English,” one of them said. “There’s an elevator that’ll take you up. Sixth floor.”

English nodded and walked into the dimly lit, stone-floored lobby. He moved through a smell of garbage, faulty plumbing and the acid reek of stale perspiration. Facing the entrance was an ancient elevator scarcely big enough to hold four people.

Chuck slid back the grill and followed English into the elevator. He thumbed the automatic button, and the cage started its jerky ascent.

English had left his overcoat in the car. He stood solidly on the balls of his feet, his hands thrust into the pockets of his tuxedo, a smouldering cigar between his teeth, his eyes brooding and cold.

Chuck glanced at him, then glanced away.

Eventually the elevator jerked to a standstill at the sixth floor and Chuck pulled back the grill.

English stepped into a dimly lit passage. Almost opposite him was an open door through which a light came, throwing a square of brightness on the dirty rubber floor of the passage. Further along the passage to the left was another door, showing a light through the frosted panel. To his right, at the end of the passage, was yet another door without glass. A light showed under the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor.

Lieutenant Morilli came through the open doorway. He was a thickset man in his late forties. His lean hatchet face was pallid, and his small moustache looked startlingly black against his white complexion.

“Sorry to break up the party, Mr. English,” he said, his voice pitched low. “But I thought you’d want to come down.” He had the hushed, deferential manner of an undertaker dealing with a wealthy client. “A very sad business.”

English grunted.

“Who found him?”

“The janitor. He was checking to see if all the offices were locked. He called me, and I called you. I haven’t been here myself much more than twenty minutes.”

English made a sign to Chuck to stay where he was, and then walked into the shabby little room that served as an outer office. Across the frosted panel of the door was the legend:

T HE A LERT A GENCY

Chief Investigator: ROY ENGLISH

The room consisted of a desk, a typist’s chair, a covered typewriter, a filing cabinet and a strip of carpet. On the walls 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.”

The muscles either side of English’s jaw stood out suddenly.

“We’d better have a talk about this some other time. I won’t hold you up now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yes, Mr. English,” Morilli said.

As English crossed to the door, Morilli went on, “I hear your boy won his fight. Congratulations.”

English paused.

“That’s right. By the way, I told Vince to put a bet on for you. A hundred’s brought you three. Look in tomorrow and see Vince. He’ll pay you cash.” His eyes met Morilli’s. “Okay?”

Morilli flushed.

“Why, that’s pretty nice of you, Mr. English. I meant to lay a bet…”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have the time. I know how it is. Well, I didn’t forget you. I like to look after my friends. Glad you won.”

He walked into the outer office, and into the passage. He jerked his head at Chuck and stepped into the elevator.

Morilli and the two detectives stood in the doorway and watched the elevator descend.

“Didn’t seem to care much,” one of the detectives said as he walked into the office again.

“What did you expect him to do?” Morilli said coldly. “Burst into tears?”

III

English had only met Roy’s wife once, and that casually at a cocktail party more than a year ago.

He remembered he hadn’t thought much of her, but was prepared to admit prejudice. She had struck him as a dolly-faced girl of nineteen or twenty with a strident voice and an irritating habit of calling everyone “darling.” But there was no doubt at the time that she had been very much in love with Roy, and he wondered, as he sat hunched up in the Cadillac, whether that love had survived.

It was characteristic of English not to let Morilli break the news to her of her husband’s death. He never allowed himself to shirk any unpleasant task. It would have been easy to have let a police officer see her first, and then call on her, but he had no wish to avoid his responsibilities. Roy was his brother, and Roy’s wife was entitled to hear the news from him, and from no one else.

He glanced out of the window.

Chuck had turned off the main road, and was driving with easy assurance down an avenue lined on either side by small, smart bungalows. Chuck had a brilliantly developed sense of direction. He seemed to know instinctively whether he was driving north or east as if his brain housed a compass. He never appeared to consult a map nor had English ever known him to ask the way.

“This is the joint, boss.” Chuck said suddenly. “The white house by the lamp post.”

He slowed down, swung the car to the curb and pulled up outside a small, white bungalow.

A light showed in one of the upper rooms through the drawn curtains.

English got out of the car, hunching his broad shoulders against the cold wind. He left his hat and coat in the car, and tossed his cigar into the gutter. For some seconds he looked at the bungalow, conscious of surprise and irritation.

For someone who was desperately short of money, Roy had certainly picked himself a luxurious dwelling-place. That was like Roy, English thought sourly, no sense of responsibility. If he wanted anything he had it and worried about paying for it after he had got it; if he worried at all.

English opened the gate and walked up the path to the front door. On either side of the path were dormant rose trees. The neat flowerbeds were packed with daffodils and narcissi.

He pressed the bell push and listened to the loud peal of chimes that the bell push started into life, and he grimaced. Those kind of refinements irritated him.

There was a little delay. He stood in the porch, waiting, aware that Chuck was watching him curiously from the car. Then he heard someone coming, and the door opened a few inches on the chain.

“Who is that?” a woman’s voice asked sharply.

“Nick English,” he returned.

“Who?” He caught the startled note in her voice.

“Roy’s brother,” he said, feeling a surge of irritation run through him at having to associate himself with Roy.

The chain slid back and the door opened and an overhead light flashed up.

Corrine English hadn’t altered a scrap since he had last seen her. Looking at her, he found himself thinking she would probably look like this in thirty years’ time. She was small and very blond, and her body was pleasantly plump with provocative curves. She was wearing a rose-pink silk wrap over black lounging pyjamas. When she saw he was looking at her, her fingers went hastily to her corn-colored curls, patting them swiftly while she stared at him with a surprised, rather vacant expression in her big blue eyes that reminded him of the eyes of a startled baby.

“Hello, Corinne,” he said. “Can I come in?”

“Well, I don’t know,” she said. “Roy’s not back yet. I’m alone. Did you want to see him?”

He restrained his irritation with an effort.

“I think I had better come in,” he said as gently as he could. “You’ll catch cold standing here. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

“Oh?” Her eyes opened a trifle wider. “Hadn’t you better see Roy? I don’t think I want to hear any bad news. Roy doesn’t like me to be worried.”

He thought how typical that was of her. She could live in this smart little bungalow, dress like a Hollywood starlet while Roy was apparently desperate for money, and could say without shame that he didn’t want her to be worried.

“You’ll catch cold,” he said, and moved forward, riding her back into the little lobby. He closed the door. “I’m afraid this bad news is for you, and only for you.”

He saw her face tighten with sudden fear, but before she could speak, he went on, “Is this your sitting room?” and he moved to a nearby door.

“It’s the lounge,” she said, her fear momentarily forgotten in the correction. She wouldn’t own a sitting room; it had to be a lounge.

He opened the door.

“Let’s go in here and sit down for a moment,” he said.

She went past him into a long, low-pitched room. The modern furniture was new and cheap-looking, but it made a brave show. He wondered what it would look like in two or three years’ time. It would probably have fallen to pieces by then, but people like Roy and Corrine wouldn’t be interested in anything permanent.

There was a dying fire in the grate, and he went over to it and stirred it with the poker, then he dropped a log onto it while she came and stood at his side.

In the hard light of the standard lamp, he noticed the rose-pink wrap was a little grubby at the collar and cuffs.

“I think we ought to wait until Roy comes in,” she said, lacing and unlacing her small, plump fingers. He could see she was desperately anxious to avoid any responsibility or to have to make any decision.

“It’s because of Roy that I’ve come,” he said quietly, and turned to look at her. “Sit down, please. I wish I could spare you this, but you’ve got to know sooner or later.”

“Oh!”

She sat down suddenly as if the strength had gone out of her legs, and her face went white under her careful makeup.

“Is—is he in trouble?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“No, he’s not in trouble. It’s worse than that.” He wanted to be brutal and tell her Roy was dead, but looking at the doll-like face, seeing the terror in the baby-blue eyes, the childish quivering of her lips, the sudden clenching of her fists, made it impossible for him to do more than hint at what had happened.

“Is he hurt?” She met his eyes and flinched back as if he had threatened to hit her. “He’s—not dead?”

“Yes, he’s dead,” English said. “I’m sorry, Corrine. I wish I hadn’t to tell you this. If there’s anything I can do…”

“Dead?” she repeated. “He can’t be dead!”

“Yes,” English said.

“But he can’t be dead!” she repeated, her voice going shrill. “You’re saying this to frighten me! You never did like me! Don’t pretend you did. How can he be dead?”

“He shot himself,” English said quietly.

She stared at him. He could see at once she believed that news. Her dolly little face seemed to fall to pieces. She dropped back against the settee, her hand across her eyes. The white column of her throat jerked spasmodically as she struggled with her tears.

He looked around the room, then crossed over to an elaborate cellarette that stood against the wall. He opened it and found an array of bottles and glasses; the bottles labelled with neat ivory tickets. He poured some brandy into a glass and went over to her.

“Drink this.”

He had to hold the glass to her lips, but she managed to get some of the brandy down before pushing his hand away.

“He shot himself?” she said, looking up at him.

He nodded.

“Have you anyone who will stay with you tonight?” he asked, not liking the dazed horror in her eyes. “You can’t be left here alone.”

“But I am alone now,” she said, and tears began to run down her face, smearing her makeup. “Oh, Roy! Roy! How could you do it? How could you leave me alone?”

It was the anguished cry of a child and it disturbed English. He put his hand gently on her shoulder, but she threw it off so violently that he stepped back, startled.

“Why did he shoot himself?” she demanded, looking up at him.

“Try to get it out of your mind for tonight,” he said soothingly. “Would you like me to send someone to you? My secretary…”

“I don’t want your secretary!” She got unsteadily to her feet. “And I don’t want you! You killed Roy! If you had been a proper brother to him, he would never have done this!”

He was so surprised by the suddenness of this attack, he remained motionless, staring at her.

“You and your money!” she went on, her voice strident. “That’s all you’ve ever thought about! You didn’t care what happened to Roy. You didn’t bother to find out how he was getting on! When he came to you for help, you threw him out! Now, you’ve forced him to kill himself. Well, I hope you’re satisfied! I hope you’re happy you’ve saved a few of your dirty dollars! Now, get out! Don’t ever come here again. I hate you!”

“You mustn’t talk like that,” English said quietly. “It’s quite untrue. If I had known Roy was in a jam, I would have helped him. I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t care, you mean!” she cried shrilly. “You haven’t spoken to him for six months. When he asked you for a loan you told him you weren’t giving him another dollar. Help him? Do you call that helping him?”

“I’ve been helping Roy ever since he left college,” English said, his voice hardening. “I thought it was high time he stood on his own feet. Did he expect me to keep him all his life?”

“Get out!” She stumbled to the door and threw it open. “Get out and stay out! And don’t try to offer me any of your dirty money, because I won’t take it! Now, get out!”

English lifted his heavy shoulders in a despairing shrug. He wanted to take this little doll and shake some sense into her, but he knew that shock and the realization that her own extravagance had been partly the cause of Roy’s death had turned her into this shrill fury, venting her conscience-stricken grief on him. He guessed that as soon as he had gone, she would collapse, and he was reluctant to leave her alone.

“Haven’t you someone…” he began, but she broke in, screaming, “Get out! Get out! I don’t want your filthy help or your sympathy! You’re worse than a murderer. Get out!”

He saw it was hopeless to do anything for her, and he went past her into the lobby. As he opened the front door, he heard her sobbing, and he glanced back. She had thrown herself face down on the settee, her head in her arms.

He shook his head, hesitated, then opened the door and walked down the path to the car.

IV

Lieutenant Morilli stood up as English came into his small office. A plain-clothes detective who was with him left the room, and Morilli swung a chair around and pushed it forward.

“Glad you looked in, Mr. English,” he said. “Sit down, won’t you?”

“Can I use your phone, Lieutenant?”

“Sure, go ahead. I’ll be back in five minutes. I want to get the ballistics report on the gun for you.”

English said, “Did your men clean up the office?”

“It’s all okay,” Morilli said as he made for the door.

“Thanks.”

When Morilli had closed the door after him, English called his own office.

Lois Marshall answered the phone.

“I want you to go to my brother’s office and look the place over,” English said. “Take Harry with you. Is it too late for you to go right away?” He glanced at his wristwatch. The time was a quarter after midnight. “It shouldn’t take you long. Get Harry to drive you home.”

“That’s all right, Mr. English,” Lois said. “What do you want me to do?”

“Take a look at the files. See if he kept any books, if he did, bring them to the office tomorrow morning. Get the atmosphere of the place. The atmosphere is more important than anything else. The business was supposed to be long established with a good connection when I bought it for him. He’s had it less than a year. I want to find out what went wrong.”

“I’ll take care of it, Mr. English.”

“Good girl. Sorry to ask you to work so late, but it’s urgent.”

“That’s all right, Mr. English.”

“Take Harry with you. I don’t want you to be there alone.”

Morilli came in.

“Hold on a moment,” English said, turned and asked Morilli, “Did you lock up when you left?”

Morilli shook his head.

“I left a patrolman on duty. The keys are in the top left-hand drawer of his desk.”

English relayed this information to Lois.

“The address is 1356 7th Street. The office is on the sixth floor. It’s called the Alert Agency.”

She said she would go over there right away, and hung up.

English put down the receiver, took out his cigar case and offered it to Morilli. When the two men had lit cigars, English said, “Is it his gun?”

Morilli nodded.

“I’ve had a word with the doc. He says the wound was self-inflicted. Your brother’s prints are on the gun. There are powder burns on the side of his face.”

English nodded, his eyes thoughtful.

“I’m satisfied if you are, Mr. English,” Morilli said, after a short silence.

English nodded again.

“Sounds all right. There’ll be an inquest?”

“Eleven-thirty tomorrow morning. Did he have a secretary?”

English shrugged.

“I don’t know. He may have had. His wife will be able to tell you, but don’t bother her now. She’s upset.”

Morilli fidgeted with the desk blotter, pushing it straight.

“The coroner will want evidence that he was short of money. Unless the commissioner insists, I don’t want to give evidence myself, Mr. English. There’s no need to tell the coroner what your brother was up to.”

English nodded, his mouth hard.

“The commissioner won’t insist. I’ll have a word with him tomorrow morning. I think I’d better get Sam Crail to talk to Mrs. English. There’s no point in telling the world he was short of money. He could have been worried by overwork.”

Morilli didn’t say anything.

English leaned forward and picked up the telephone. He dialled a number and waited, frowning.

Sam Crail, his attorney, answered the phone after some delay.

“Sam? This is Nick,” English said. “I have a job for you.”

“Not tonight, I hope,” Crail said, alarm in his voice. “I’m just going to bed.”

“Yes, tonight. You act for Roy, don’t you?”

“I’m supposed to,” Crail said without enthusiasm, “but he hasn’t consulted me now for months. What’s he been up to?”

“He shot himself about a couple of hours ago,” English said soberly.

“Good God! Why?”

“He seems to have been short of money and was blackmailing some old clients. He was going to lose his licence so he took the quick way out,” English said. “That’s the story, anyway. I’ve told Corrine he’s dead, but not why. She’s upset. I don’t want her left alone tonight. Can you get your wife to go over and stay with her?”

Crail suppressed a grunt of irritation.

“I’ll ask her. She’s a good soul. Maybe she’ll go, but damn it! She’s in bed.”

“If she won’t go, you’ll have to go yourself,” English said curtly. “I don’t want Corrine to be left alone. Maybe you had better go yourself, Sam. Corrine blames me for Roy’s death. Of course, she’s hysterical, but she may make things difficult. She says I should have given him more money. You’d better talk her out of that attitude. If we have to tell the coroner anything, we’ll tell him Roy was overworking. Get that into her head, will you?”

“Okay,” Crail said wearily. “I wonder why the hell I work for you, Nick. I’ll take Helen with me.”

“Keep the press away from her, Sam. I don’t want too much of a stink. Better come and see me around ten-thirty at my office, and we’ll straighten it out.”

“Okay,” Crail said.

“And get over there fast,” English said and hung up.

While he had been talking, Morilli had attempted to efface himself by going over to the window and staring down into the dark street.

He turned when English hung up.

“If Crail could find out where I can find your brother’s secretary, if he had one, we might get the information we want without bothering Mrs. English.”

“What information do you want?” English asked evenly.

“Just that he was short of money or some reason why he killed himself,” Morilli said uncomfortably.

“You don’t have to bother about his secretary,” English said. “I’ll send Crail down to the inquest. He’ll give the coroner all the information he wants.”

Morilli hesitated, then nodded his head.

“Just as you say, Mr. English.”

V

As Chuck Eagan drove swiftly along Riverside Drive, he whistled soundlessly through his teeth. He knew he was on the last leg of his night’s work, and he was looking forward to turning in. The day had been a long and exciting one. It was the first time he had ever had a ringside seat at a Championship match and the first time he had won a thousand dollars on a bet that he knew couldn’t fall down.

He glanced at the illuminated dial of the clock on the dashboard and shook his head: 12:40. He wouldn’t get to bed before 1:15, and the odds were the boss would expect him to pick him up again not later than 9:30: eight hours from now.

He swung the big car into the circular drive that led to an imposing apartment block overlooking the river, and brought the car to a standstill before the entrance.

He got out and held the door open.

“I want to find out if my brother had a secretary or someone to help him in the office,” English said as he got out of the car. “Go down to his office first thing in the morning and see if the janitor knows. I want her address. Be here not later than nine-thirty. We’ll go and see her before we go to the office.”

“Yes, boss,” Chuck said dutifully. “I’ll fix it. Anything else I can do?”

English gave him a quick smile.

“No. Go to bed, and don’t be late tomorrow.”

He walked across to the entrance to the building, pushed against the revolving doors, nodded to the night porter, who snapped to attention when he caught sight of him, and walked to the elevator.

He thumbed the button below the label that read: Penthouse, and leaned against the wall while the automatic elevator bore him swiftly and smoothly up fifteen floors to the roof apartment he had rented for Julie.

He walked down the corridor panelled with polished walnut and paused outside a front door also of polished walnut and equipped with gleaming chromium fitments. As he groped for his keys, his eyes shifted to the card in a chromium frame that was screwed on the door. It bore the single line of neat print: Miss Julia Clair.

He pushed the latch key into the lock, opened the door and stepped into a small, lighted lobby. As he threw his hat and coat on a chair, the door opposite him opened and a girl stood framed in the doorway.

She was tall and broad shouldered, with narrow hips and long legs. Her copper-colored hair was silky and dressed high on top of her small head. Her big almond-shaped eyes were sea-green and glitteringly alive. She had on olive-green lounging pyjamas with red piping, and her small feet were encased in high-heeled red slippers.

Looking at her, English thought how very different she was from Corrine. How much more beautiful, and how much more character she showed in her face, which he considered to be more pleasing to his eyes than any other woman’s he had met. Her makeup, even at this late hour, he thought, was a masterpiece of understatement. He knew she wore makeup, but he couldn’t see where it began or left off.

“You’re late, Nick,” she said, smiling at him. “I was beginning to wonder if you were coming.”

“Sorry, Julie,” he returned, “but I’ve been held up.”

He went over to her, put his hands on her hips and kissed her cheek.

“So Joey won his fight,” she said, looking up at him. “You must be very pleased.”

“Don’t say you listened to the radio?” he said, leading her into the well-appointed sitting room. A big coal fire burned brightly, and the shaded lamps made the atmosphere at once intimate and cozy.

“No, but I heard it on the news.”

“You and Harry are a pair,” he said, sinking into a big over-stuffed armchair and pulling her down on his knees. She curled up on his lap, slipping her arm around his neck, and resting her face against his. “Believe it or not, although he handled most of the arrangements and worked like a dog for weeks, he stayed away from the fight. He’s as squeamish as you are.”

“I think fighting is a beastly business,” she returned with a grimace. “I don’t blame Harry for not being there.”

He stared at the bright flames that licked over the coals, and his hand stroked her silk-clad thigh.

“Maybe it is, but there’s a lot of money in it. Was the show all right?”

She lifted her shoulders in an indifferent shrug.

“I suppose so. They seemed to like it. I wasn’t singing particularly well, but no one seemed to notice.”

“Maybe you want a vacation. Next month I may be able to get away. We might go to Florida.”

“Let’s wait and see.”

He looked at her sharply.

“I thought you would like that, Julie.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t want to leave the club just yet. Tell me about the fight, Nick.”

“There’s something else I have to tell you. Do you remember Roy?”

He felt her stiffen.

“Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

“The fool shot himself tonight.”

She half sat up, but he pulled her down against him again.

“Don’t move, Julie.”

“Is he dead?” she asked, her fingers gripping his arm.

“Yes, he’s dead. That was one job he did manage to do efficiently.”

She shivered.

“Don’t talk like that, Nick. How dreadful! When did it happen?”

“About half-past nine. Morilli phoned me in the middle of the party. What a break for him! Of all that damned Homicide mob, he had to be the one to find Roy. And he made sure I knew he was doing me a favor.”

“I don’t like that man,” Julie said. “There’s something about him…”

“He’s just a cop on the lookout for some easy money. That’s all that’s the matter with him.”

“But why did Roy…?”

“Yeah, that puzzles me. Do you mind if I walk up and down? You’re taking my mind off business.” He lifted her, and got up, set her gently in the chair, then moved over to the fireplace. “Why, Julie, you look pale.”

“I suppose it’s the shock. I wasn’t expecting to hear anything like this. I don’t know if you’re upset, Nick, but if you are, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not upset,” English said, taking out his cigar case. “Maybe it was a shock, but I can’t say I’m particularly sorry. Roy’s been a damned nuisance ever since he was born. I guess he was born lazy. He was always getting into jams. My old man and he were a pair. Did I ever tell you about my old man, Julie?”

She shook her head. She was leaning back, staring into the fire, her fingers laced around her knee.

“He was no good, like Roy was no good. If my mother hadn’t gone out and worked when we were kids we would have starved. I wish you could have seen my home, Julie. It was a three-room hovel in the basement of a tenement. In the winter the walls ran with water, and in the summer it stank to high heaven.”

Julie leaned forward to drop a log on the fire, and English touched the back of her neck gently.

“Oh, well, I guess that’s past history,” he went on. “But I can’t understand Roy shooting himself. Morilli says he was short of money and was trying to raise the wind by threatening two or three of his old clients. He was going to lose his licence at the end of the week. I would have been willing to bet Roy wouldn’t have killed himself because of that. I shouldn’t have believed he would have had the nerve to kill himself no matter how bad a jam he was in. It’s damned odd. Morilli says he’s satisfied, but I still don’t believe it.”

Julie looked up quickly.

“But surely, Nick, if the police say so…”

“Yeah, I know, but it foxes me. Why didn’t he come to me if he was so hard up? Maybe I did throw him out last time, but that has never stopped him before. I’ve thrown him out a score of times and he’s always come back.”

“Perhaps he was too proud,” Julie said quietly.

“Proud? Roy? My dear sweet, you don’t know Roy. He had a hide like a tank. He’d take any insult so long as he got money out of me.” English lit his cigar and began to move slowly about the room. “Why did the business collapse like that? When he got me to buy it for him, I took the trouble to investigate it pretty thoroughly. It was paying well then. It was an old-established business. He couldn’t have wrecked it so soon, unless he did it deliberately.” He made an impatient gesture. “I was a fool to have had anything to do with it. I might have known he wouldn’t have worked at it. Imagine Roy a private detective. Why, it’s laughable. I was a mug to have given him the money.”

Julie watched him pace the room. There was a wary, alert expression in her eyes that English didn’t notice.

“I’ve sent Lois to check up at his office,” English went on. “She has a nose for that kind of thing. She’ll be able to tell me what went wrong.”

“You sent Lois there tonight?” Julie said sharply.

“I wanted her to have a look at the place before Corrine takes it into her head to go up there.”

“You mean Lois is actually there now?”

English paused in his pacing and looked at her, surprised at the sharpness of her tone.

“Yes. Harry’s with her. She doesn’t mind how late she works. You sound surprised.”

“Well, after all it is nearly half-past one. Couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow?”

“Corrine might go up there,” English said, frowning. He didn’t like his orders questioned. “I want to know what Roy’s been up to.”

“I think she must be in love with you,” Julie said, moving so that her back was turned to him.

“In love with me?” English said, startled. “Who? Corrine?”

“Lois. She acts as if she were your slave. No other girl would tolerate working for you, Nick.”

English laughed.

“Nonsense. I pay her well. Besides, she isn’t the kind of girl to fall in love with anyone.”

“There’s never been a girl who wouldn’t fall in love if she’s given the chance,” Julie said quietly. “I should have thought you would have more insight, Nick, than to say a thing like that.”

“Never mind Lois,” English said a little impatiently. “We were talking about Roy. I went to see Corrine tonight.”

“That was nice of you. I’ve never seen her. What’s she like, Nick?”

“Blond, plump and dumb-looking,” English said, coming to sit on the arm of her armchair. “She told me I was responsible for Roy’s death and threw me out of the house.”

“Nick!” Julie looked quickly at him, but was reassured by his smile.

“I guess she was hysterical, but to be on the safe side I got Sam out of bed and sent him down to talk to her. I’ve got to be careful there isn’t a stink about this business, Julie. I have a big pot on the boil at the moment.” His brown hand slid over her shoulder and his fingers gently stroked her throat. “In a few weeks the senator is going to break the news that I’m the man behind the new hospital. The committee know, of course, but the press haven’t got it yet. The idea is to name the hospital after me.”

“Name it after you?” Julie repeated blankly. “But why, for goodness’ sake?”

English grinned a little sheepishly.

“Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But I want it, Julie. I want it more than anything I’ve ever wanted.” He got up and began to pace up and down. “I’ve made a fair success of my life, Julie. I started from scratch, and now I’m as good as the next man as regards to money, but money isn’t everything. If I drop dead this moment, Julie, no one would remember me in a week’s time. It’s the name people leave after them that counts. If the hospital was named after me—well, I guess I wouldn’t be forgotten quite so easily. And then there’s another thing, more important. I promised my mother I’d make a name for myself, and she believed me. She didn’t live long enough to know I had started on the way up. When she died I was still fooling around with that compass and getting nowhere, but I told her it was going to be a success, and I told her I was going way ahead, and she believed me. She would have got a big bang out of knowing the hospital is going to be named after me, and I’m soft in the head enough to think she’ll still get a big bang out of it.”

Julie listened in a hypnotized silence. She had never had any idea that English could think and talk like this. She wanted to laugh, but instinctively she knew he would be furious with her if she did. To want a hospital to be named after him! All this sentiment about his mother! It was unbelievable and completely out of character. She thought, not without alarm, that she didn’t know him as she had thought she did. She had always regarded him as a completely ruthless business man whose god was money. This new side of him startled her.

“Go ahead and laugh if you want to,” English said, smiling at her. “I know it’s funny. I laugh myself sometimes, but that’s what I want, and that’s what I’m going to have. The English Memorial Hospital! Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?”

Julie put her hand on his arm.

“If that’s what you want, Nick, I want it, too.”

“I guess that’s right,” he said, suddenly thoughtful. “But this business of Roy’s may slap a lid on it.”

“But why?”

“Believe it or not, Julie, it took me a hell of a time to persuade the commission to let me finance the hospital. You wouldn’t believe that, would you?”

“What commission?”

“The City Planning Commission,” he said patiently. “It’s unbelievable what a bunch of stuffed shirts they are. All from the best families, of course, but not one of them has ever earned a dime. They’ve inherited what money they have, and they’re damned miserly with it, too. Although I bet their private lives wouldn’t stand investigation, on the surface they are about the finest collection of plaster saints you’ve ever set eyes on. They didn’t approve of me. Two of them even said I was a gangster. The senator had to talk pretty sharply to them to get them to accept my money. At the time, nothing was mentioned that the hospital was to be named after me. If it turns out that Roy was in bad trouble, that he did blackmail his clients, the chances of my name being used is as remote as the snows of Everest. Morilli knows that. The police commissioner knows it, too. They’ll expect to be taken care of if this is to be hushed up. But Corrine’s the difficulty. She may try to cut off her nose to spite my face. If she lets on that I wouldn’t finance Roy, and Roy was forced to raise money by blackmail, I shall be ruled out. A scandal like that will make the commission give birth to pups.” He tossed the cigar into the fire and went on in a suddenly harsh voice, “Why couldn’t the louse have shot himself next month when this was in the bag?”

Julie stood up.

“Let’s go to bed, Nick,” she said, and slipped her arm through his. “Don’t let’s think any more about it tonight.”

He gave her bottom an affectionate little pat.

“You’re full of good ideas, Julie,” he said. “We’ll go to bed.”

VI

At the back of a modest walk-up apartment house on 45th East Place, a small, shrub-infested garden ran down to an alley hedged in on either side by a six-foot brick wall.

During the summer months this alley was popular among courting couples as it had no lights and was shunned by pedestrians during the hours of darkness.

For the past two hours, a man had been waiting in the alley, his eyes fixed on a lighted window on the third floor of the apartment house.

He was a man of middle height, with broad and powerful shoulders. He wore a wide-brimmed brown slouch hat pulled down over his eyes, and in the dim light of the moon, only his thin-lipped mouth and square-shaped chin could be seen. The rest of his face was hidden by the black shadow cast by the hat brim.

He was expensively dressed. His brown lounge suit, his white silk shirt and polka-dotted bow tie gave him the appearance of a well-to-do dandy, and once when he lifted his arm to consult a gold-strap watch, he showed two inches of white shirt cuffs and the tail of a white silk handkerchief he wore tucked up his sleeve.

While he waited in the alley, he remained motionless. He chewed a strip of gum, his jaws moving rhythmically and continuously. His two-hour vigil was conducted with the patience of a cat waiting for a mouse to appear.

A few minutes after midnight, the light in the third-floor window suddenly went out and completed the darkness of the rest of the apartment house.

The man in the brown suit remained motionless. He leaned his broad shoulders against the brick wall, his hands thrust into his trousers’ pockets while he waited a further half-hour. Then, after consulting his watch, he reached down into the darkness and picked up a coil of thin cord that lay near his feet. A heavy rubber-covered hook was fastened to one end of the cord.

He swung himself over the wall and walked silently and rapidly up the cinder path that led through the uncared-for garden to the back of the apartment house.

In the light of the moon, the iron staircase of the outside fire escape showed up sharply against the white stucco of the building.

The man in the brown suit paused under the swing-up end of the escape that was some five feet above his outstretched hand. He uncoiled the cord and tossed the hook into the air. The hook caught in the iron work of the escape and held. He gently tightened his grip on the cord, then pulled. The end of the escape came down slowly and silently, and bumped to the ground.

He released the hook, recoiled the cord and left it on the bottom step where he could pick it up quickly on his way down.

He went up the escape, two steps at a time, without hesitation or without looking back to see if anyone happened to be watching him. He reached the third-floor window he had been watching for the past two hours, and saw with satisfaction that the window was open a few inches at the top and bottom. He noticed also the curtains across the windows were drawn. He knelt down by the window, his ear to the gap between the window frame and the sill and listened. He remained like that for several minutes, then he put his fingers under the window frame and gently exerted pressure. The window moved up inch by inch, making no sound.

When it was fully opened, he glanced over his shoulder and looked down into the dark garden and the darker alley. Nothing moved down there, and except for his own well-regulated breathing, he could hear no sound.

The curtains hung well clear of the window, and he slid into the room without disturbing them. Cautiously, he turned and began to close the window, again moving it inch by inch, and again in silence. When the window was as he had found it, he straightened, turned and parted the curtains a few inches. He looked into darkness. The oversweet smell of face powder, stale perfume and cosmetics told him he had made no mistake as to the room. He listened, and after a moment or so, he heard quick light breathing not far from where he stood.

He took out a pencil-thin flashlight, and shielding the bulb with his fingers, he switched the flashlight on. In the faint light, he saw a bed, a chair on which were some clothes, and a night table by the bed on which stood a small shaded lamp, a book and a clock.

The back of the bed was to the window. He could see the outline of a figure under the blankets. Hanging on the bedpost was a silk dressing gown.

Careful to keep the shielded light of his flashlight away from the sleeper in the bed, the man in the brown suit reached forward and gently pulled the silk cord of the dressing gown through its loops until he had disengaged it. He tested its strength, and, then satisfied, he reached forward and picked up the book that was lying on the night table.

With the dressing gown cord and the flashlight in his left hand and the book in his right, he stepped behind the curtains again. He turned off the flashlight and slipped it into his pocket, then, still keeping behind the curtains, and holding one of them aside with his left hand, he tossed the book high and wide into the air.

The book landed on the polished boards of the floor. Coming down flat-side up, it made a loud slapping noise that was intensified by the silence that brooded over the whole apartment.

The man in the brown suit closed the curtains and waited, his jaws moving rhythmically as he chewed. He heard the bed creak, and then a girl’s voice said sharply, “Who’s that?”

He waited, unmoved, his breathing normal, his head a little on one side as he listened.

The bedside lamp went on, sending a soft glow of light through the curtains. He opened them slightly so he could see into the room.

A dark, slim girl in a blue nylon nightdress was sitting up in the bed. She was looking toward the door, her hands clutching the blankets, and he could hear her rapid, alarmed breathing.

Silently he took one end of the dressing gown cord in his right hand, and the other end in his left. He turned sideways so that he could push aside the curtains with his shoulder. He watched her, waiting.

She saw the book on the floor, and she looked quickly at the night table, and then back to the book again. Then she did what he was hoping she would do. She threw back the blankets and swung her feet to the floor, her hand reaching out for her dressing gown. She stood up and began to slide her arms into the sleeves of the dressing gown, turning her back on the window as she did so.

The man in the brown suit pushed aside the curtains with his shoulder and stepped silently into the room. With a movement too quick to follow he whipped the cord over the girl’s head, crossed the cord and tightened it around her throat. His knee came up and drove into the small of her back, sending her down on her hands and knees. He dropped on her, flattening her to the floor. The cord bit into her throat, turning her wild scream into a thin, almost inaudible cry. He knelt on her shoulders and his two hands tightened the cord.

He remained like that, chewing steadily, and watching the convulsive heaving of her body and the feeble movement of her hands scrabbling at the carpet. He was careful not to use too much violence, and kept the cord just tight enough to stop blood flowing to her head and air getting to her lungs. He had no difficulty in holding her down, and he saw with detached interest her movements were becoming less convulsed, until only her muscles twitched in a reflex of agony.

He remained kneeling on her, the cord tight, for three or four minutes, then when he saw there was no longer any movement, he carefully took the cord from her throat and turned her over on her back.

He frowned when he saw that a trickle of blood had run down one nostril and had made a smear on the rug. He put his finger on her eyeball, and when there was no answering flicker, he stood up and dusted his trousers’ knees while he looked quickly around the room.

He went to the door opposite the bed, opened it and looked into a small bathroom. He noted with a nod of his head the sturdy hook screwed to the back of the door.

He spent the next ten minutes or so arranging the scene to his satisfaction. His movements were unhurried and unruffled. When he had finished what he was doing, he surveyed the scene with quick, bright eyes that missed no detail nor overlooked anything that might afford a clue.

Then he turned off the lamp and went to the window. He opened it, turned to adjust the curtains, stepped out on the fire escape and pulled down the window, leaving it as he had found it.

CHAPTER TWO

I

T HE FOLLOWING MORNING, a few minutes to nine-thirty, Chuck Eagan drove the Cadillac into the circular drive leading to Julie’s Riverside apartment block, and pulled up outside the main entrance.

As he got out of the car, Nick English came through the revolving doors.

Chuck was wearing his favorite black suit, black slouch hat and white tie. This get-up, which Chuck regarded as the nearest to a uniform he would condescend to wear, set him off as a good frame can very often set off an indifferent picture. In a tuxedo he had looked like a third-rate waiter, but in this black lounge suit and slouch hat tilted over one eye at a jaunt angle, he looked what he was: hard, tough and dangerous.

“Morning, Chuck,” English said as he got into the car. “What’s the good word?”

“I went down and talked to the janitor like you said,” Chuck announced, leaning against the side of the 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 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 drawers and cupboards in the room. In a very short time Chuck had unearthed a packet of letters done up in blue ribbon which he handed to English, and then continued his search.

English glanced through the letters, recognizing his brother’s handwriting. He had only to read two or three of them to know that Roy and Mary had been passionately in love with each other, and that Roy had been planning to leave Corrine and go away with Mary.

With a wry grimace, he shoved the letters in his pocket as Chuck closed the last drawer.

“That’s the lot in here, boss.”

“Take a look in the other room,” English said, and when Chuck left the bedroom he picked up the framed photograph of his brother and dropped it into his pocket.

Five minutes later, English and Chuck left the apartment, went down the stairs and walked to the car.

“The office, and snap it up,” English said as he climbed into the car. “And keep your mouth shut about this, Chuck.”

Chuck inclined his head, slid under the steering wheel and sent the Cadillac shooting down the road.

II

The intercom on English’s vast mahogany desk buzzed into life, and reaching forward, he pressed down the switch.

“Mr. Crail is here, Mr. English,” Lois told him.

“Send him in, and when he’s gone, come in yourself,” English said, and pushed back his chair.

A moment later the door opened and Sam Crail came in.

Crail was nearly as tall as English, and immensely fat. His hair was black and thick and smoothly oiled. His complexion was pallid and his eyes sharp and beady. His smooth, fat jowls were blue with constant shaving, and his pudgy hands were hairy, his nails immaculately manicured.

Although his appearance wasn’t prepossessing, he was the smartest attorney in town, and had handled all English’s legal work ever since English had begun to climb.

“Hello, Nick,” he said as he pulled up a chair. “This is a bad business.”

English grunted, pushed his cigar box across the desk and eyed Crail speculatively.

“How’s Corrine?” he asked abruptly.

Crail grimaced. He selected a cigar, pierced it with a gold cigar pin, lit it and blew smoke to the ceiling.

“She’s difficult, Nick, and she’s going to make trouble.”

“No she isn’t,” English said shortly. “What do you imagine you’re on my payroll for? It’s your job to stop her making trouble.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing ever since I got there last night?” Crail said a little heatedly. “But she won’t play. Her story is Roy is in debt. He came to you for money, and you threw him out.”

English snorted.

“He came to me for a loan six months ago,” he said. “That’s not much of a story. Why didn’t he shoot himself sooner?”

“She maintains he came to you the day before yesterday.”

“Then she’s lying.”

“Roy told her he came to you.”

“Then he was lying.”

Crail examined the cigar thoughtfully.

“Might be difficult to prove, Nick. The press are only waiting for something to break. She says because you wouldn’t help him, he had to go to some of his old clients to raise the wind. One of them phoned the police. She says you told the police commissioner to withdraw Roy’s licence. With no future in front of him, he shot himself. Her story makes you directly responsible for his death.”

English frowned.

“Did Roy tell her this or is she making it up on her own initiative?”

“She says Roy told her, and that’s the story she’s going to tell the coroner. The inquest’s in an hour, Nick.”

“Yeah.” English stood up and paced over to the window. “She doesn’t like me, does she?”

“No, I guess she doesn’t. She says her life’s ruined, and she doesn’t see why yours shouldn’t be either.”

“The fool! Why does she think my life would be ruined by a yarn like this?” English said, turning from the window. “What put that idea into her empty head?”

Crail shrugged.

“It wouldn’t ruin you, Nick, but it would cause a stink. People think you are rolling in money. Public opinion is a dangerous thing to come up against. She says Roy wanted four thousand to get him out of his mess. Four thousand wouldn’t have scratched your pile. She could make it sound pretty sordid, Nick.”

“He wanted ten thousand and he wouldn’t tell me why,” English said. “I turned him down because I thought it was time he stopped sponging on me. He would have kept on and on if I hadn’t shown him he couldn’t come to me whenever he ran short of money. Look at the way he was living. He didn’t attempt to economize. Why the hell should I keep him and his wife?”

“Sure,” Crail said, “but now he’s shot himself, he gets the sympathy. This could put paid to the hospital idea, Nick. They are only waiting for an excuse to double-cross you.”

“I know.” English came back to the desk. “Now listen, the story is that Roy was overworking. The business was a disappointment. He tried to hold it together, but it was too much for him. Instead of coming to me, he tried to handle it himself, cracked under the strain and shot himself. That’s the story I’ve given the press this morning, and that’s the story you are going to give the coroner. Corrine will go with you and say ‘amen.’”

Crail looked startled.

“She won’t do it. I’ve talked to her, and I know. She’s made up her mind to be difficult.”

“She’ll do it,” English returned, his voice hardening. “If she doesn’t like that story, then I’ll give the press another she’ll like a lot less. Roy had a secretary; a girl named Mary Savitt. They were lovers. They planned to run away together, and leave Corrine out on a limb. Something went wrong; probably Roy couldn’t get enough money to quit. Being the weakling he was, he shot himself. The girl must have gone to the office and found him. She went home and hanged herself.”

Crail stared at him.

“Hanged herself?”

“Yes. I went to talk to her this morning, and found her dead. No one knows yet. Sooner or later they’ll find her, but I’m hoping the inquest will be over before they do.”

“Did anyone see you there?” Crail asked anxiously.

“I was seen going up the stairs. My story is I rang on the bell, and getting no answer, assumed she had gone down to the office.”

“Are you sure they were lovers?”

English opened a drawer, took out the photograph he had found in Mary Savitt’s bedroom and pushed it across the desk. He tossed the packet of letters into Crail’s lap.

“There’s all the proof. If Corrine thinks she can mess up my pitch by telling a snivelling yarn like this, she’s got another think coming. Tell her to toe the line or this muck goes to the press.”

Crail paused long enough to read two or three of the letters, then he put them in his briefcase, together with the photograph.

“This is going to be a shock to her, Nick,” he said slowly. “She was crazy about Roy.”

English regarded him, his eyes hard.

“She doesn’t have to know. That’s up to you. Persuade her to toe the line if you’re all that anxious to spare her feelings.”

“I guess she’ll have to see these letters,” Crail said. “All the same I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to do the job,” English said. “I can always get another attorney, Sam.”

Crail shrugged his fat shoulders.

“Oh, I’ll do it,” he said. “I wouldn’t like to be as hard as you are, Nick.”

“Let’s skip the sentiment. Did Roy leave a will?”

“Yes. He left everything to Corrine. As far as I can see it amounts to a flock of debts. He had a safe deposit, and I hold the key. I haven’t had time to examine it, but I don’t reckon to find anything in it.”

“Let me know how his estate stands before you tell Corrine,” English said. “We could arrange to find an insurance policy in his safe deposit. Fix it that she has a couple of hundred bucks a week for life. I’ll pay.”

Crail grinned.

“Who’s going soft now?” he asked, getting to his feet.

“Get over to the coroner’s office,” English said curtly, “and make that story stand up.”

“I’ll make it stand up,” Crail said, nodded and crossed the room to the door. “I’ll call you as soon as it’s over.”

III

A minute or so after Crail had gone, Lois left her desk, crossed the room to English’s office door and tapped as she opened it.

English was staring at his cigar with cold, brooding eyes. He looked up and gave her a little nod.

“Come on in and sit down,” he said, and hunched his massive shoulders as he leaned across the desk. “What time did you get to bed this morning?”

Lois smiled as she pulled up a chair to the desk and sat down.

“It was after four, but I don’t need much sleep.”

“Nonsense. Of course you do. Go home after lunch and go to bed.”

“But really, Mr. English…” she began.

“That’s an order,” he broke in curtly. “Let the work wait. You’re always working. Let Harry do what’s necessary.”

“Harry was late, too,” she reminded him quietly. “It’s all right, Mr. English. I’m not a bit tired. We’re working on the fight figures.”

English ran his fingers through his dark hair and scowled.

“Damn it! I’d forgotten about the fight. What was the take?”

“Harry will have the figures for you in about half an hour.”

“Good. Now about last night. What did you think of the setup there?”

“Not much, Mr. English. I went through all the files. There’s been no new business since August.”

English frowned.

“Are you sure? Let’s see, I bought the business for him in March, didn’t I?”

“Yes, Mr. English. I’ve found correspondence dated up to July 31st, but nothing since then.”

“What was he doing then for the past nine months?”

Lois shook her head.

“The place might just as well have been closed. Nothing came in, and nothing went out. At least, there are no copies of letters in the files.”

English rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

“How about his cases? Did he keep any record of those?”

“He handled eighteen cases from April to the end of July. Twelve of them were divorce cases, three missing people cases and three husband-and-wife watching. But after the end of July there are no records of him having any other cases.”

“What about his books?”

“There was a set in the safe. I took copies of the details from March to July. I thought the police mightn’t like it if I took the books away. I have the copies if you would like to see them.”

“What was his net average take?”

“Around seventy-five a week.”

English grimaced.

“That’s nothing. Did the books show anything after July?”

She shook her head.

“Then how in the world did he manage to run a house like that on seventy-five a week?” English said blankly. “You mean to tell me that since August the business hasn’t earned a dime?”

“He may have kept another set of books, Mr. English, but according to the one I found, nothing came in since August.”

English shrugged.

“Well, okay. What else did you find?”

“There was a card index holder in one of his desk drawers. It had a few blank cards in it. I have an idea the cards that were in use have been taken away.”

English studied her, his eyes interested.

“What makes you say that?”

“From the appearance of the box. The bottom of it was very dusty, and by the marks in the dust it was pretty obvious that there had been a number of cards in the box. I’m just making a guess, but it did strike me that a number of cards had been recently removed.”

“Maybe the box belonged to the previous owner.”

“It looked new to me, Mr. English.”

English pushed back his chair and stood up. He began to prowl around the office, his brows wrinkling into a frown.

“It’s damned funny, isn’t it?” he said after a long silence. “So no business at all was done in the office from August of last year to date. Is that right?”

“Yes, unless copies of letters and dossiers covering that period have been taken away.”

“Any sign of any paper having been burned in the office?”

“No.”

“Well, all right, Lois, thanks a lot. Sorry to have kept you out of bed so late. Be a good girl and go home after lunch. What’s important for me today?”

“You have two interviews this afternoon—Miss Nankin and Mr. Burnstein. You are lunching with the senator at one-thirty. There’s the mail and a number of contracts for your signature, and Harry would like you to see the balance sheet and figures of the fight.”

“Let’s have the mail first. Then send Harry in to me.” English glanced at his watch. “I have an hour and a half before I need worry about the senator.”

“Yes, Mr. English.”

She went out and returned almost immediately with the mail. She sat down at the desk with her notebook ready for his dictation.

Working with his usual speed, English polished off the mail, glanced through a number of contracts that had been initialled by Sam Crail, signed them, then pushed the pile of papers over to Lois.

“Let’s have Harry in now,” he said.

Harry Vince came in with slightly dragging feet. He looked pale, and there were smudges under his eyes.

English gave him a quick glance, then grinned.

“Late hours don’t seem to suit you, Harry,” he said. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”

“I guess I feel like it, too,” Harry said with a wan smile. “I have the figures for you. We have a net take of two hundred and seventy-five thousand.”

English nodded.

“That’s not so bad. Did you put a bet on Joey, Harry?”

Harry shook his head.

“I guess I forgot.”

English gave him a sharp look.

“What’s the matter with you? Don’t you want to pick up some free money? I told you you couldn’t go wrong.”

“I meant to, Mr. English,” Harry said, flushing, “but in the rush it went out of my mind.”

“Chuck made himself a thousand. Didn’t Lois back Joey?”

“I don’t think she did.”

“You two are hopeless,” English said with a resigned shrug. “Well, it’s your own funeral. I can’t do more than put the opportunity to make some money in front of you. That reminds me. Morilli will look in some time this morning. Give him three hundred out of my expense account. He’s supposed to have won it on the fight.”

“Yes, Mr. English.”

English stubbed out his cigar.

“Ever thought of getting married, Harry?” he asked abruptly.

Harry stiffened. His eyes shifted away from English.

“Why, no. I guess I haven’t.”

“Haven’t you even got a girl?” English asked, smiling.

“I just haven’t had time to get around to girls yet,” Harry said in a low, flat voice.

“Well, for God’s sake! You’re—what? Thirty-two or three?”

“Thirty-two.”

“You’d better buck up,” English said, and laughed. “Why, when I was half your age I had a string of girls.”

“Yes, Mr. English.”

“Maybe I’m working you too hard. Is that it?”

“Oh, no, Mr. English. Nothing like that.”

English stared at him, puzzled, then he shrugged.

“Well, it’s your life. Better send that balance sheet over to Asprey, and get him to certify it. I have a lunch date with the senator, worse luck.”

As Harry moved to the door, the buzzer on the desk sounded. English pressed down the switch.

“Lieutenant Morilli is here, Mr. English,” Lois said. “He would like a word.”

“Harry will see him,” English said. “I’m going to lunch.”

“He particularly wants to see you, Mr. English. He says it’s important and urgent.”

English hesitated, frowning.

“Okay, send him in. I’ve still got ten minutes. Tell Chuck to have the car ready.” As he released the switch, he said to Harry, “Get his money ready and give it to him as he goes out.”

“Yes, Mr. English,” Harry said and opened the door and stood aside to let Morilli enter the office.

“You’ve caught me at a bad time,” English said as Harry went out, shutting the door behind him. “I’ve got to go out in five minutes. What’s on your mind?”

“I thought I ought to have a word with you,” Morilli said, coming over to the desk. “We’ve located your brother’s secretary. A girl named Mary Savitt.”

English looked at him, his darkly tanned face expressionless.

“So what?”

“She’s dead.”

English frowned and stared at Morilli, who stared back at him.

“Dead? What—suicide?”

Morilli lifted his shoulders.

“That’s what I’ve come to see you about. It could be murder.”

IV

For a long second, English stared at Morilli, then waved him to a chair.

“Sit down, and let’s hear about it.”

Morilli sat down.

“I telephoned Mrs. English this morning,” he said, “to find out if Mr. English had a secretary. She gave me the girl’s name and address. I and a sergeant went down there. She has an apartment on 45th East Place.” He paused and looked hard at English.

“I know,” English said, taking his cue from Morilli’s look. “I went there myself this morning. I couldn’t get an answer. I thought she must have gone down to the office.”

Morilli nodded.

“That’s right,” he said. “Miss Hopper, who lives in the apartment above Miss Savitt’s, said she had seen you.”

“Well, go on,” English said curtly. “What happened?”

“We didn’t get an answer to our buzz. There was a bottle of milk and a newspaper outside the door, and that made me suspicious. We got a pass-key and found her hanging on the bathroom door.”

English pushed his cigar box across the desk after taking one himself.

“Go ahead and help yourself,” he said. “What’s this about murder?”

“On the face of it, it looked like suicide,” Morilli said. “The police surgeon said it was a typical suicide.” He rubbed his bony nose and added softly, “And he still thinks it’s suicide.” Then he went on. “After the body was removed, I had a look around the room. I was on my own, Mr. English, and I made a discovery. Near the bed was a damp patch on the carpet as if it had been recently washed. When I examined it carefully I found a small stain. I gave it a benzidine test. It was a bloodstain.”

English took his cigar from between his lips and frowned at the glowing end.

“I don’t reckon to be as smart as you, Lieutenant, but I fail to see how that makes it murder.”

Morilli smiled.

“A faked suicide is very often difficult to spot, Mr. English,” he said. “We’re trained to look for the giveaway. That stain on the carpet was a pretty complete giveaway. You see, when I cut the girl down I noticed she had bled from the nose. There were no marks on her nightdress, and I expected to find at least a drop or two of blood somewhere about her clothes. Then I find a stain on the floor. That tells me she died on the floor, and not hanging from the door.”

“You mean she was strangled on the floor?”

“That’s right. If someone surprised her, slipped the dressing-gown cord around her throat and tightened it she would have lost consciousness very quickly. She would have fallen face down on the carpet, and while the killer was exerting pressure on the cord, it is likely she would bleed from the nose, making a stain on the carpet. Having killed her, it would be simple for him to string her up against the bathroom door to give the appearance of suicide.”

English thought about this, then nodded.

“I guess that’s right. So you think it’s murder?”

“I won’t swear to it, but how else did the stain get on the carpet?”

“You’re sure it’s blood?”

“No doubt about it.”

English glanced at his wristwatch. He was already four minutes late for his appointment.

“Well, thanks for telling me, Lieutenant,” he said. “This is unexpected. I don’t know what to make of it. Maybe we can talk about it later on. Right now I have a date with the senator.” He got to his feet. “I’ve got to be running along.”

Morilli didn’t move. He sat looking up at English, an odd expression in his eyes that English didn’t like.

“What’s on your mind?” English asked curtly.

“It’s up to you, Mr. English, but I should have thought you would have wanted to settle this business right now. I haven’t put my report in yet, but I’ll have to within the next half-hour.”

English frowned.

“What’s your report got to do with me?”

“That’s for you to say,” Morilli returned carefully. “I like to help you where I can, Mr. English. You’ve always been pretty good to me.”

English had a sudden idea that there was something very wrong behind Morilli’s visit.

He leaned forward and flicked down the intercom switch.

“Lois? Get hold of the senator and tell him I’m going to be late. I shan’t be with him until two o’clock.”

“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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