1953 - I'll Bury My Dead (12 page)

As he stepped into the lobby, he could hear the shabby man running down the stairs. He had one more flight to go before he reached the lobby. Moving quickly, Leon went into the street and took up a position in a nearby shop doorway.

He watched the shabby man come out into the spring sunshine and set off along the street. He moved slowly, his feet dragging, and walked for some time toward 22nd Ward.

Leon moved along behind him, taking care to keep out of sight. He saw the shabby man pause outside a cafe, hesitate, then walk in. As Leon passed the cafe, he glanced in. There were only three or four people in the cafe and he spotted the shabby man sitting at a table at the far end of the room.

Leon waited a few seconds, then pushed open the door and walked in. The shabby man glanced up, but didn’t seem to recognize Leon. He was stirring a cup of coffee aimlessly, his face frowning and his eyes worried. Leon inspected the other people in the cafe. There were two men at a table by the door, a girl reading a paperback book at a table near the counter, and a man hidden behind an open newspaper at the end of the room on the opposite side to where the shabby man was sitting.

Leon sat down at the shabby man’s table. The shabby man looked up and stared at him. Recognition swam into his eyes, and his face went a greyish—white. He half started up, then dropped back onto his chair, nearly upsetting his coffee as he did so.

‘Keep your clothes on,’ Leon said and smiled. ‘I’m not going to bite you.’ He turned and waved to the girl behind the counter. ‘Bring me a cup of Java, honey, and put some coffee in the water, will you?’

The girl poured the coffee, flounced over and slapped the cup down in front of him.

‘I’ll have you know we serve the best coffee on the street,’ she said. ‘If you don’t like it, you can go elsewhere.’

‘Thanks, honey,’ Leon said, and smiled his slow, lazy smile. ‘Maybe I’ll just rinse my hands in it.’

She tossed her head and returned to the counter where she watched him, her eyes angry.

‘No sense of humour,’ Leon said to the shabby man. ‘Well, well, can’t always expect to get a laugh. What did you want to see English about?’

The shabby man ran his tongue over his dry lips.

‘See here, mister,’ he said with feeble fierceness. ‘You have no right to follow me. Mr. English and me have a private deal on. It’s nothing to do with you or anyone.’

‘It is to do with me,’ Leon said. ‘I’ve taken over the business. English isn’t with us anymore.’

The shabby man stared at him.

‘I wasn’t told,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

‘I’m telling you,’ Leon said, stirring his coffee. ‘I’m in charge now. Come on, what’s it all about?’

‘You mean you’re taking the money in the future?’

‘Don’t I keep telling you?’ Leon said roughly. ‘What do you want me to do, set it to music and sing it to you?’

‘Where’s Mr. English then?’

‘He’s gone to a warmer climate. Are you going to deal with me or do you want to get tough?’

‘That’s all right,’ the shabby man said hurriedly. ‘I just didn’t know.’ He took out a soiled envelope and slid it across the table. ‘Here it is. Now I’ve got to go.’

‘Sit still!’ Leon snapped, and picked up the envelope. On it was scribbled:
From Joe Hennessey. $10.

‘Are you Hennessey?’ he asked.

The shabby man nodded.

Leon ripped open the envelope and took out two five-dollar bills. He studied Hennessey for a long moment.

‘What’s this in aid of?’ he asked at last.

‘What do you mean? It’s all right, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe. I wouldn’t know. What are you giving me this for?’

Hennessey’s face began to glisten with sweat.

‘Give me back that money!’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘I knew you were a phoney. Give it back to me!’

Leon slid the money across the table.

‘Don’t spill your milk. I don’t want it,’ he said soothingly. ‘I just want to know why you’re parting with this dough. From the look of you, you can’t afford to give ten bucks away.’

‘I can’t!’ Hennessey said bitterly. He stared at the two bills lying before him, not touching them. ‘I’m not going to talk to you! I don’t know who you are.’ He began to push back his chair.

‘Take it easy,’ Leon said, and flicked one of his cards onto the table. ‘That’s who I am, pally, and I can help you if you’ll let me.’

‘A copper!’ Hennessey said when he had looked at the card. His eyes went dark with alarm. ‘No, thank you. There’s nothing you can do for me, mister. I’ll be getting along.’

‘Sit still!’ Leon said, and, leaning forward, went on, ‘English is dead. He shot himself three nights ago. Don’t you read the newspapers?’

Hennessey stiffened, his fists clenched and his mouth fell open.

‘I don’t believe it!’

‘I can’t help that. It was in the papers,’ Leon said, and half turning in his chair, he spotted a pile of newspapers on a table. ‘Maybe the account is in one of these.’ He got up and went over to the newspapers, shuffled through them, found what he wanted and brought it over to the table. He dropped it in front of Hennessey and sat down again.

Hennessey read the account, his breath whistling through his nostrils. Then when he had finished, he dropped the newspaper on the floor and drew in a long, deep breath. The look of fear went out of his eyes like the light in a window when the blind is drawn.

‘So he’s really dead,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it. It sounds too good to be true.’

‘He’s dead all right,’ Leon said. ‘Now listen to me. I’m investigating his death. You can help me. Why are you paying him money?’

Hennessey hesitated, then shook his head.

‘It’s nothing to do with you, mister,’ he said. ‘The less said about it the better. I think I’ll be getting along now.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Leon said, his voice hardening. ‘Do you want me to take you down to the station? You could be held as a material witness. You’d better talk, and talk fast. English was murdered!’

Hennessey went white again.

‘It says he shot himself.’

‘Never mind what it says. I’m telling you he was murdered. Why were you paying him money?’

‘He was blackmailing me,’ Hennessey blurted out. ‘I’ve paid him ten dollars a week for eleven months, and if he hadn’t died I would have gone on paying him.’

‘What had he got on you?’

Hennessey hesitated, then he said, ‘Something I did years ago, something bad. He was going to tell my wife.’

‘Were all the other people who called on English paying blackmail money? Leon asked.

‘I guess so. I never talked to any of them, but I’ve seen the same faces every time I went to that office. Why else should they go and talk to a rat like English?’

Leon took out two cigarettes and rolled one of them across the table. He lit his and held the match so Hennessey could light his. This was news Nick wouldn’t be glad to hear, Leon thought as he flicked out the match.

‘Know who any of them are?’ he asked.

‘There’s a girl who lives on my street. I’ve seen her leaving English’s office.’

‘What’s her name and address?’

‘I don’t know if I should tell you that. I wouldn’t want to get her into trouble.’

‘She won’t get into trouble. I just want to check on your story. You’ve got to tell me, Hennessey. You’ve gone too far to stop talking now.’

‘I don’t know what you mean!’ Hennessey blustered. ‘I don’t reckon I’m going to talk anymore.’

‘You’re kidding yourself,’ Leon said quietly. ‘English was murdered. You’ve got a motive for killing him. You’ve got to talk to me or to the police - please yourself.’

Hennessey wiped his sweating face.

‘Her name’s May Mitchell. She lives at 23A Eastern Street.’

‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ Leon said. ‘How did English contact you?’

‘A fella came to my shop. He told me he knew about what I’d done, and if I didn’t pay ten dollars a week he would tell my wife. He told me to take the money every Thursday to the Alert Agency, and that’s what I did.’

‘It wasn’t English?’

Hennessey shook his head.

‘No, but English took the money. This other fella was the outside man. I reckon English was the boss.’

‘What was this fella like?’

‘A big tough-looking guy. He had a nasty scar from his right ear to his mouth - looked like an old razor wound - and he had a cast in his left eye. He was big and powerful - not the kind of fella you’d argue with.’

‘Let’s have your address,’ Leon said. ‘I might want to talk to you again.’

‘I’m at 27 Eastern Street.’

‘Okay, pally, now relax. You’re okay. There’s nothing for you to worry about. English is dead. Go home and forget about him and blackmail. Forget it ever happened.’

‘You mean I don’t have to pay any more money?’

Leon reached out and patted his arm.

‘No. If the tough guy shows up, stall him and tell me. I’ll take care of him, and I’ll see you’re in the clear. That’s a promise.’

Hennessey got slowly to his feet. He looked suddenly five years younger.

‘You don’t know what this means to me,’ he said, a break in his voice. ‘Ten dollars was skinning me. The wife and I couldn’t even go to the movies, and all the time I had to tell her lies about how badly the business was doing.’

‘Consider it taken care of,’ Leon said. ‘I’m here to help you if you want help, and listen, I don’t promise anything, but I may be able to get some of your money back for you. Ten dollars a week for eleven months, was that it?’

Hennessey stared at him as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said hoarsely.

‘Don’t count on it,’ Leon said, ‘but I’ll see what I can do.’

He got up, went over to the counter and paid for the two coffees.

‘You haven’t drunk yours,’ the girl pointed out, snatching the dollar bill he offered her.

‘I’ve got a fussy ulcer,’ Leon returned, tipping his hat. ‘Coffee like that would start a battle in my gut that even the Secretary of State wouldn’t be able to smooth over. But thanks for the chair. I’ll come again when I want to rest my feet.’

He went out into the street, followed by Hennessey.

The man who had been sitting at the table near Hennessey’s and who had been hidden behind a newspaper, lowered the paper and looked after Leon, his jaws moving rhythmically as he chewed. He put the paper aside and got up, crossed over to the counter and gave the girl a couple of nickels.

She smiled warmly at him, impressed by his faultlessly fitting brown suit and the silk handkerchief he wore tucked in his sleeve. He looked at her and her smile faltered. She had never seen such eyes. They were amber coloured with small pupils and the whites were the colour of blue-white porcelain. They were as compelling and as expressionless as the eyes of an owl, and looking into them, she felt a little chill run up her spine. He watched her reaction with cat-like interest, then turned and moved briskly to the door.

He stood looking after Leon and Hennessey as they walked down the street together. Then he ran across the road to where a dusty, shabby Packard was parked. He got into the car, started the engine and waited. He watched Hennessey and Leon pause for a moment at the corner. Leon shook hands with Hennessey, and then went off up town. Hennessey walked away in the opposite direction.

The man in the brown suit shifted into gear and sent the car rolling slowly after Hennessey.

Hennessey walked with a light step. He was anxious to get back to his shop. It wasn’t much of a shop, but it provided a fair living for his wife and himself, although the business wouldn’t run to any hired help.

Hennessey’s wife had a bad heart, and he was anxious to get back so he could take over and let her sit down for a while. He stepped out, swinging his short arms, his mind seething as he thought of what Leon had said.

I don’t promise anything, but I may be able to get some of your money back
for you.

Even if he got only a quarter back - and now that he no longer had to payout ten dollars a week - he would be able to afford an assistant and let his wife take it a bit easier.

The man in the brown suit drove along near the curb, his amber-coloured eyes fixed on Hennessey’s distant back, his jaws moving as he chewed. He drove patiently, keeping out of the way of the faster traffic, and every now and then he looked searchingly at the number of the shops as if he were hunting for a particular number to explain his slow crawl.

At the end of the street there was a narrow alley, a shortcut to Eastern Street. It was an alley dwarfed by high warehouses, and even in daylight it was shadowy and dark. Few people used it, but to save his legs, Hennessey always went home that way.

The man in the brown suit knew this and he accelerated slightly as he saw Hennessey cross the street to enter the alley. As Hennessey began to walk down the long, narrow alley he heard a car behind him, and looking round sharply saw the Packard swing into the alley. No cars ever came this way. The alley was far too narrow. There was only a foot clearance on each side of the car’s wings. Hennessey realized the car was coming after him, and fear clutched at his heart, for a moment paralyzing him.

He stood in the middle of the alley, hesitating, looking frantically to the right and left. Ahead of him, some two hundred paces, was an archway, leading to a courtyard. The archway was too narrow for a car, but a haven for him. He began to run toward the archway, his old blue overcoat flapping and his breath rattling at the back of his throat. He was too old and stiff to make much headway, but he did his best.

The man in the brown suit pushed down on the gas pedal and sent the Packard surging forward. For a few seconds the running, stumbling man and the swiftly moving car seemed to remain equidistant. Hennessey looked over his shoulder. He saw the car rushing down on him. He cried out in fear and desperation as he made a frantic effort to reach the archway. He was within ten yards of it when the car hit him.

It hit him the way a charging bull hits a matador. It threw him high into the air and forward so he came down on his back within a few yards of the car.