Bury Me Deep Read online

  BURY ME DEEP

  Harold Q. Masur

  AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

  Scott Jordan, the hero of this adventure, was begotten one midnight out of vexation and insomnia. It was during the war. I had told the army I was a lawyer who wrote detective stories and they made me a radio instructor. Since my mechanical aptitude is microscopic, this was a painful ordeal. To thwart an accumulating melancholy I spent my free time dreaming up the character of a young attorney whose profession and temperament would continually embroil him in misadventures with the indelicate art of murder.

  It was soothing to conjure up strange cases, assorted mountebanks, and beautiful ladies who were no better than they should be. As a law clerk I had spent considerable time in the Federal House of Detention, meeting there a gallery of unholy charlatans who now became Scott Jordan’s adversaries. I imagined him as a chap with an eye for feminine architecture, who would not dodge peril, but who would joust against rogues and their cross-purposes with spirit, audacity, and humor. In short, he was the kind of fellow I would like to have been if I was not the kind of fellow I am.

  It was some years, though, before my notes and ideas finally burgeoned into a novel. The book was called Bury Me Deep and it was published as an Inner Sanctum Mystery by Simon and Schuster and its reader response was both gratifying and prompt. We had many letters asking to see more of Jordan. Then POCKET BOOKS read the story, felt the same way, and suggested that we make Jordan the hero of further adventures.

  The project, naturally, was appealing. There were enough notes to keep him rolling for some time.

  Certain changes, however, were recommended. The original version closed with Scott Jordan’s marriage to Dulcy Vincent. To this POCKET BOOKS filed a demurrer. Now POCKET BOOKS harbors no malice towards marriage, indeed they will concede with enthusiasm that it is an estimable estate—but not for Scott Jordan. It was felt that he could operate more characteristically without the encumbrance (or advantage) of a wife—Nick and Nora Charles, Mr. and Mrs. North, Jake and Helene Justus notwithstanding. And so it was decided to change the original version and to render Jordan single once again.

  HAROLD Q. MASUR

  CHAPTER 1

  IT WAS a cold Thursday evening when I first saw the blonde. I had just come home from Penn Station and I opened the door to my apartment and found her there. She was curled up on my sofa, listening to my radio, and sipping her own brandy. At least I assumed it was her own because I dislike brandy and never buy it.

  I stood there, rooted. Her costume had me floored. She was wearing black panties and a black bra and that was all. She sat with one long leg folded comfortably under her and she smiled at me. I had never seen her before in my life, and I stood just inside the foyer, gaping at her in slack-jawed astonishment and still hanging onto my Gladstone bag, completely unaware at the moment of its fifty-pound load.

  She was a leggy, bosomy number, flamboyantly constructed, with bright jonquil-yellow hair and a pearly skin that contrasted startlingly against the black underthings. She looked up at me, and the alcoholic glassiness in her eyes didn’t keep her from making them warm and cordial. Women have looked at me like that before, but never in church.

  “Jordan?” she asked, almost in a whisper.

  I nodded, still dazed.

  “You’re a little late,” she said.

  I put my bag down and came warily into the room. “On the contrary,” I said. “I’m early.”

  Which I was. I had arrived at Penn Station aboard the Sun Queen only twenty minutes ago, about a week ahead of schedule. One week of Miami glutted me. The frenzied pace, the flash gambling, the top-heavy women bulging out of undersized bathing suits and flashing with oversized diamonds—all had begun to pall. The quest for pleasure down there is almost grim in its intensity, and so on a sudden impulse I had left the Magic City without a word to anyone in New York.

  And here, completely at home, and about as embarrassed as a trapeze artist, was this undraped blonde.

  I moved toward her. I saw her clothes piled carelessly on a leather hassock in the corner. A moss-green dress and coat, and on top of that a matching hat with a Nile-green feather angled rakishly out of its brim.

  I stood in front of her, flat-footed, ransacking my memory and finding it as blank as the expression on a blind man’s face. Even at that range my nostrils clogged. The odor of jasmine wrestled with alcohol fumes and pulled a draw. Her eyes were half closed and her mouth was half smiling. The almost vacant expression on her face told me that she was already drunk or fast getting there.

  “Park yourself,” she said, fingering the sofa at her side with claret-tipped fingers.

  The inner man whispered, Don’t be a chump, Jordan. Go ahead. Never look a gift horse in the mouth. But the lawyer in me was suspicious. Easy, old boy, step lightly. All that glitters is not gold. The effluvium here reaches all the way to Denmark. I gave it some fast thought. She was not in the wrong apartment, for she knew and had spoken my name. Nor had she been planted here by some friend with a bright sense of humor, because no one could possibly have anticipated my arrival.

  I shook my head. “Look, sister,” I said. “This is all very nice. I’m deeply complimented. You have a swell body, and some other time I’d be glad to compare birthmarks. But I’ve just traveled thirteen hundred miles and I’m tired, gritty, and in no mood for games. I need a bath and a ten-hour sleep. In short, I need privacy. And I want to know how you got into this place and what the gag is.”

  “Gag?” The smile wavered, but hung on. She looked confused. She struggled up, peering at me. She said, “Aw, you’re kidding.”

  “I am in a pig’s neck,” I told her.

  The smile lost its grip. She looked as if she had just discovered half a worm in an apple she’d been munching.

  “Say,” she demanded sharply, “isn’t this the Drummond?”

  “It is.”

  “Apartment 7E?”

  “Right.”

  “You’re Jordan?”

  “According to my birth certificate I am.”

  She squirmed comfortably back and was smiling again. “Then take it easy and leave everything to li’l Verna. Verna knows just what to do.”

  “And just what,” I asked, “is Verna going to do?”

  “You’ll see,” she snickered. “Any minute now. Come here and relax.”

  She worried me. She picked up the glass and took a sip of brandy. I scowled down at her.

  “Put your clothes on,” I said.

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head. “You don’t understand. It’s much better with my clothes off because—”

  The doorbell rang and cut her short. She reacted as if someone had suddenly electrified the sofa. Her chin jumped up, her teeth clicked, her face came alive, and she bounced off the sofa like a bolt of silk uncoiling on a drygoods counter. She came surging into me, knocking me back and down into a club chair two paces behind me. Then she twisted and tumbled adroitly into my lap. Her head tilted sideways, her arms went around my neck. “Pay no attention,” she whispered hoarsely. And then she was kissing me. Hard. I sat there, stunned, not moving, rigid as a department-store dummy.

  She was good, very good, an expert technician, even without my co-operation, and I felt myself sliding into a mildly pleasant tail spin.

  Then, quite abruptly, we had company.

  A man stepped softly into the room and stopped dead. It was George, the colored doorman, and he was armed with the two bottles of ginger ale I had asked him to bring me on the way up. His bottom lip hung pendulously and he gave us a quick double take. Then his glance met mine and his right eye winked. He placed the bottles quietly on the floor and backed out.

  That was that. But the blonde was still in my lap and still glued to my mout
h and I’d had more than enough. I got a hand under her chin and pried her loose.

  “Who was it?” she muttered.

  “My conscience,” I said. “Get up.”

  Her fingers clung to my neck. Her eyes were flecked and her mouth, shapeless now, the lacquer veneer smeared, reached up hungrily. “Gimme,” she breathed.

  “Jesus,” I said, screwing my head away. “You’re a pip.”

  Suddenly and overpoweringly I wanted her away from me. I wanted her out of my apartment and out of my life, beautiful body, brandy fumes, libido, and all.

  Her face was crumpled. “Don’t you like me?” she asked in a sullen voice.

  “You’re all right,” I said. “It’s the perfume.”

  I broke her grip on my neck and stood up. She went sliding out of my lap and down my legs and thumped solidly against the broadloom carpet. She sat there, propped against her hands, blinking up at me stupidly, her face blank. A glimmer of doubt crept up inside her and peeked out from behind the glazed eyes. Her lips quivered.

  She said inanely, “You’re crazy. My perfume comes from Paris. Ten dollars an ounce. It’s called ‘Disaster.’”

  “I don’t care if it’s called ‘Catastrophe,’” I said. “Get up and get dressed.”

  Her mouth broke open. She was bewildered. “Hey! I don’t get this.”

  “Then I’ll make it plain,” I said. I picked up her clothes and tossed them at her feet. “Put these on and start talking. If you’re not dressed in five minutes I’ll throw you out into the hall naked. I mean it. I don’t even care what the neighbors think. I’m in an ugly mood and it’s getting worse. Now hop on it.”

  Her eyes widened. They seemed to hang out like greengage plums. She looked at me, incredulous. Suddenly her face changed, twisted like a cruller, grew hard and tight, and for a moment it held a touch of pure jungle. She began to curse, harshly and with competence.

  I bent down and jerked her off the floor. I gripped her shoulders and shook her. Not gently. The yellow hair tumbled loosely around her face. Her teeth were chattering.

  “Save the language,” I growled, “for somebody who appreciates it. Answer me, what are you doing here?”

  “Ouch!” she whimpered. “You’re hurting me.”

  Under the lip rouge, her mouth was bloodless. Her tongue licked out. I let her go and stepped back. She swayed unsteadily.

  “I wanna drink,” she muttered.

  “Talk first.”

  Her mouth tightened stubbornly.

  I sighed. “All right. Go ahead. Just one. And you can take the bottle with you.”

  She lurched for the bottle and poured herself a drink that would float the Staten Island ferry. She put it down in one long pull like a shot of medicine. It was something to see.

  I said, “I hope it loosens your tongue, sweetheart. Now, let’s hear your story.”

  She slopped down the glass and bent forward. “I’ll talk,” she squawked. “I’ll talk plenty. Nobody can pull a stunt like this on Verna and get away with it. Somebody’s going to pay. You wait and see.”

  “I’m waiting,” I said. “Let’s hear it.”

  Her face was stiff, and strain pinched her nostrils. She took a long, shivering breath and trembled the full length of her body. There was a moist shine on her temples. A yellowish pallor drew at her cheeks, and she teetered back, clutching at the sofa for support.

  She said. “You know who sent me… because… because…” The words broke off and trailed into a ragged whisper that became harsh breathing.

  She stood in front of me, trying to speak. Her mouth was working crookedly but no sounds came out. I saw the greenish irises of her eyes rise up very slowly and vanish under the heavy lids, leaving nothing but two balls of mottled white.

  Then she slid around in a half circle, very deliberately, exactly as if she hadn’t a bone or a muscle in her body, and she oozed liquidly to the floor like a lump of melting wax.

  CHAPTER 2

  SHE LAY there with her hair splayed out and glistening brightly under the lamp, snoring like a pipe fitter with asthma.

  Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Her breathing was harsh and irregular. She was drunker than two sailors on a week-end leave.

  I muttered an oath and looked down at her, considering the alternatives. I could permit her to sleep it off and then question her some more. Or I could carry her to the street, dump her into a cab, and let the driver take her home. The first got a fast rejection. She seemed good for about fifteen hours. The second called for an investigation.

  I emptied the contents of her purse onto the sofa. It contained surprisingly little. A latchkey, a flacon of perfume which I handled with great care. If it broke I might have to move out of the building. A hundred-dollar bill, crisp and brand-new. Some assorted currency, and that was about all. No address. No marks of identification. Nothing except thirty-three cents in a small change purse and a piece of stiff while bond paper, bearing my name and address written in ink: Scott Jordan, Apt. 7E, The Drummond.

  That was the lot.

  Everything went back into the purse except the piece of paper. I frowned down at her. Without an address I could not send her home. But one thing was certain. She was not going to stay here. I could put her into a cab and let the driver roll her around the park until she got sober. The crisp air might hasten the job.

  Getting her dressed was a tough assignment. She was no help at all. I propped her up against a leg of the sofa and lifted her arms and managed to get the dress down over her head. She was as limp as a caterpillar playing dead. Twice she slipped forward into my arms and I caught a double lungful of jasmine and alcohol. I finally got her dress zippered down the side.

  I slid the moss-green coat over her shoulders and fastened the top button under her chin, capelike. I located a pair of slippers, wedged them on her bare feet—no stockings were visible—and was all set to go.

  Her breathing worried me. It was difficult and labored. She kept sucking air in through her mouth raggedly. Her face was very wet, the rouge caked in the hollows under her cheekbones. I didn’t like it, but alcohol often had that reaction.

  I crossed to the bedroom for a swift survey. Conditions were normal. Bed tight, drawers shut, everything under control. I didn’t really know what I was looking for, but with a blonde in the living room there might be a brunette or an albino in the bedroom. There wasn’t.

  I went down to the street and flagged a cab and stood on the running board, directing it to the service entrance.

  “What’s up?” asked the driver.

  He was a sharp-jawed specimen with pointed ears that kept his tweed cap from falling into his eyes. I folded a ten-dollar bill and hung it under his nose. He sniffed at it like a bird dog.

  “Want this?” I asked.

  He gave me a lopsided grin. “Who do you want killed?”

  “Got any scruples?”

  “Yeah. Like an alley cat.”

  “Good. I have a lady friend upstairs who has exceeded her alcoholic capacity.”

  “Stuccoed?”

  “Completely. I’m going to bring her down and put her in your cab. I want you to drive her around until she’s sober.”

  “And then?”

  “Dump her at the nearest subway. Run her to Los Angeles. Take her home. Anything she wants.”

  He eyed me carefully. “What if she sleeps all night?”

  “The air will bring her around. I’m not asking for a refund if she wakes up in ten minutes.”

  He sucked speculatively on a tooth. “Where does this dame live?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. You get another sawbuck if you take her home and bring me the address. The name is Jordan.”

  He was still cagey. “What if she lives up in White Plains?”

  “The lady is well heeled. She can pay for anything she gets. The ten dollars is a bonus.”

  He cut the ignition and ducked his chin.

  “You got a deal, Jack. Haul her down.”

 
I left him. When I got back to the apartment I found the blonde sprawled out on the floor again. Her mouth was open, showing the edge of her teeth. She was paler than before, her face drained and a little pasty. I cocked the feathered hat on her head. I put her purse into my pocket and was just hoisting her off the floor when the doorbell rang again.

  I let her go and she slipped to the floor like a bundle of laundry. I stood motionless, my back rigid, head cocked to one side, ears tuned. Nobody knew I was home and I was not expecting visitors. For a moment there was silence, then the vibrator rattled against the bell with the urgency of a fire alarm.

  A determined finger was pushing the buzzer. I let it ring. After a while it stopped and as the silence lengthened I let out a slow breath.

  I was beginning to smile when the bell suddenly got convulsions again.

  Under my breath I muttered oaths in Arabic, Hindustani, and Chinese, all mementos of the last war. I stopped as the bell’s shrill insistence faded. It did not ring again.

  Instead a heavy fist hammered against the door. I bent forward a little, the back of my neck bristling like a cat’s back. I inhaled sharply and strode out of the living room and into the foyer and grabbed the knob and yanked the door open.

  Three people stood in the corridor.

  Two men and a girl. The man who was knocking had his fist upraised for another try and almost fell into the room. Glasses, thicker than the palm of your hand, were braced against the bridge of a clublike nose. It was enormous. It was a shapeless monstrosity pasted against his face by a make-up man with a macabre sense of humor. A black derby stood on his skull. A long-skirted trench coat flapped against his knees.

  At his side was a nervous young man with an unhealthy face wearing a blank grin. I turned and the girl held my gaze like a rivet. She stared at me the same way. She had a slender, graceful figure, hair like burnished copper, animated blue eyes. Her mouth was slightly parted as she watched me. For a moment I felt weak. It was as though I had met her a long time ago. Her smooth brow was puckering into a frown.