Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 27, No. 3. Whole No. 148, March 1956

To Bury a Friend by Stanley Anton

Stanley Anton’s “To Bury a Friend” is one of the thirteen “first stories” which won special awards in EQMM’s Ninth Annual Contest. It is a sincere and straightforward example of the tough-sentimental school — the hardboiled species that originated in the golden era of Black Mask. The author was born and raised in New York, and “nurtured in New York’s educational institutions.” He saw a good deal of the world and very little of the war as an Army medic on various troopships. After service, he took a B.A. degree in Drama at Western Reserve University in Cleveland, Ohio, and since then has followed a Joseph’s-coat pattern of odd-and-interesting jobs (the traditional apprenticeship for so many writers) — in Mr. Anton’s case, as a filling station attendant, a publicity man, a theatrical reviewer, a producer, and an advertising representative. And now, after the war and college and sundry occupations, Mr. Anton has come to believe that “the best stories are found in bars, where the atmosphere is most conducive...” Well, we may not agree — but then again, we cannot conscientiously disagree.

It started simply. In Mama Dukas’s kitchen. She showed Danny the letter. It said Nick was dead. In Chicago. It was a police letter.

She was too old, she said. She had buried two sons and his father. Would he go?

And please, why did he die?

It looked like Nick wasn’t going to beat her by much.

Danny went. It was an obligation.

The funeral parlor was dusty and old. Two rubber plants drooped their leaves in the gloom. John’s Funeral Home in gold paint on the window, was flaking, but the display model casket in the window was shiny and the brass handles polished.

There was a man seated at the desk. He was plump and shiny in a blue serge suit. He rose to greet Danny, a questioning smile on his face.

“I want to bury a friend.”

The face arranged itself into brisk sympathy.

“We must all go. May I extend my...”

“Never mind. I want a decent burial and I don’t want to pay an arm and a leg.”

The plump man sat down behind his desk, and wiped perspiration off his face with a large embroidered handkerchief. “Of course. We can arrange one that will be suitable and dignified and within the ah... realm of finance.” he said.

“Fine.”

“Where may we pick up the, er... deceased?”

“At the city morgue.”

He managed to look more distressed. Danny filled out the necessary forms and left.

The station house squatted between two tall tenements. It was faded red and grimy, and people kept going and coming through its wide, low door. At a desk behind a railed enclosure a uniformed man was pecking away at a typewriter. He was beefy, and his face and neck were red from the heat. Drops of perspiration ran down his nose and he wiped them off with an irritated flick of his hand. He pulled the form out of the machine and looked up at Danny.

Danny handed him the letter and waited.

The man read and asked, “You a relative?”

“Friend.”

He said, “That would be Buchanan and Zimmerman. Have a seat and wait.” He swung open the gate in the enclosure and disappeared down a narrow corridor. Danny sat down and waited.

Men in plainclothes and men in uniform kept going by. Citizens came in and made their complaints. The sweat rolled down Danny’s back, and his seat felt wet.

After awhile he dozed. He awoke with a jerk when he realized that his name was being called. He went back to meet Detective Zimmerman.

Zimmerman was seated behind a littered desk in the cubicle. The walls were bare and cracked. A window looked out over a small tenement yard, and Danny could see kids playing.

The detective was a small, wiry man with stooping shoulders and a large head which was balding back from the sides. Dark eyes embedded deep in their sockets set off a sharp, hooked nose. There was a large angry-looking pimple along his jawbone and he kept fingering it. He looked to Danny like a man resigned to his job.

Zimmerman said, “Sit down,” and looked at the letter. “What’s your interest in this, Faber?”

“Nick was my friend. His mother asked me to take care of it.”

“How long did you know Dukas?”

“About eight-ten years.”

“Tell me.”

Danny shrugged. “What’s to tell? Haven’t seen him in about two years. Got my lung shot out in a Carny fight last year and I’m just starting to get around now. The last time I saw Nick, some place down in Indiana. We had a pitch there.”

“He didn’t write? Tell you what he was doing in Chicago?”

Danny looked out the window. “You never talk much about your business to other guys... How did it happen?”

Zimmerman sorted through the papers on his desk looking for one. Danny heard the voices of the kids at play. One was crying now, in shrill high tones. A man came out in undershirt and soiled khaki pants and shouted at the kid to shut up. When she didn’t, he slapped her and went back into the building.

Zimmerman found the paper he had been looking for. He scanned it, found the part he wanted, and started reading. “Shot, at extremely close range from back. Twice.” He skipped some. “Twenty-two caliber.” He looked up at Danny, “A woman?” then went back to his skip-and-read. “Deceased known to have been involved as front in various rackets. Possible reason for slaying. Living with man Harry Adler... dope addict. No known past record.” He lay the paper down with a shrug.

“He was your friend, Faber, what would you say had happened?”

“This Adler. Who’s he?”

“Came to Chicago from Cleveland about two years ago. Says he met Dukas at a party and they decided to move in together. I’d say he was a little queer. What about your friend?”

Danny said, “Not that I ever knew.”

“You taking care of the burial?”

“Yes.”

“Well, keep in touch.” The detective went back to his papers, and Danny sat there a moment longer. He looked out at the yard, and another kid was crying. He left.

The next day Danny buried Nick Dukas. He was the only mourner.

He stood with his hat in hand and a suitcase by his feet while a bored minister read the service. Dirt rattled onto the wood.

Later, he walked down State Street. He had forgotten how noisy Chicago was. Men kept going in and out of bars, and the women were just beginning to make their rounds. He hurried along, the suitcase banging against his calves. His chest hurt the worst it had in weeks, and he worried about that.

The apartment house was old. High ceilings made the three flights up a climb, and Danny felt winded. He used the key he had got from Zimmerman to open the door. It was different from anything he had expected. There were clocks. Dozens of them — all ornate, with pendulums swinging. All ticking their own rhythm. At one end of the stuffy room a big overstuffed couch faced the window. Danny couldn’t see over the back of it.

He wandered aimlessly around the room, ending up by the couch. A small man with bloodless lips was lying there, breathing with a little wheeze that Danny hadn’t heard because of the clocks.

He was a very thin man and the skin of his face was drawn tight over his cheek bones. Occasionally his body would jerk in his sleep, and he kept mumbling something that Danny couldn’t make out.

Danny doubled up with a spasm of coughing and waited for it to pass. The noise woke the man. He leaped from the couch and scrambled for the door. When he realized that Danny wasn’t going to bother him, he stopped and peered at him.

Danny asked, “Who are you?”

He perched on one foot uncertainly. “Harry.” He snickered a little.

“Harry Adler?”

“Harry... that’s all. Harry.” He came uncertainly back into the room and his courage came back with him. “Who do you think you are, busting in on a man’s place like this! I’ll call the cops... the cops. That’s what I’ll do!”

Then he forgot what he had said and started stumbling around the room.

His voice was thin and reedy. “Where’s Nicky? Where’s Nicky?” He kept brushing back the hair at his temple.

He turned anxiously to Danny, “What time is it, Mister? What’s the time of day? I’ve got to wind the clocks. Nicky won’t like it if they aren’t running.” He came up to Danny, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, leaned close to him and whispered, “Nicky’s particular about his clocks, Mister. Oh, he’s very particular. But then he’s a particular man. Isn’t he, Mister... Mister?”

“Faber.”

“Isn’t he, Mister?” Harry giggled liked a school girl.

It was the fall season and Chicago was damp and dreary, and Danny sat huddled on the couch feeling the dampness creep into his bones. He was weary, and his head was sagging on his neck. He laid his head on the arm-piece and closed his eyes. Harry’s frantically erratic steps and mutterings came to him vaguely.

Danny began coughing again, and the pain of it doubled him up. He passed out.

He had been conscious of the murmuring for some time before he could focus on it. It was a woman’s voice, husky and soft, and she was talking with Harry.

“But who is he?”

“A friend. A friend of Nick’s. He buried Nick.” Harry’s voice became a sharp whisper, “But Nick’ll come back. I know. His friend doesn’t know. But I do...”

“Stop it, Harry. Nick’s not coming back. He’s dead. Please understand. He’s dead.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? That’s what you came for. Oh, I know, you’d like that.” Harry was mad. Danny heard steps and the slam of the bedroom door.

Danny tried to sit up too quickly. It hurt, and he put his head against the back of the couch with a groan. She sat beside him. She had a rag that was damp and cool, and she wiped his face with it.

“How do you feel?”

“Dizzy.”

“Don’t you think you had better lie down?”

“It’ll pass.”

She made a gesture to the other part of the room, “Did you hear...?”

“Yeh.” He felt vaguely embarrassed.

“He’s not like that. Really he’s not. He and Nick were very close...” She shrugged and looked out the window. “My name’s Terry.” She was twisting the rag between her fingers. Danny looked at her. It wasn’t a pretty face. Her mouth was too wide, and the chin came to a point, but Danny thought she looked young and appealing.

“I’m Danny Faber,” he said and smiled. “A friend of Nick’s. His mother asked me to come up and settle what was to be settled.” The dizziness became stronger and he lay down, propping his head on the arm.

She said, “I’m sorry. I should be doing something instead of making you talk. Would some food help?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you get some sleep or something? I’ll see what I can scare up.”

He closed his eyes gratefully. She started to walk away.

“Terry, where do you live?” He kept his eyes closed.

“On that couch.” She sensed the next question. “Harry’s my husband.” She went to the kitchen.

After a while Danny slept.

A knock at the door startled him awake. He heard Terry cry, “Don’t, Harry,” but Harry came running out of the kitchen to the door.

“Maybe it’s Nick,” he said. He threw the lock and swung the door open. There were two men. The one in front was tall and fat with a thick neck and a ponderous way of moving. He steadily pushed Harry back into the room.

He looked back over his shoulder at the gaunt, pale one. “We’re in, John,” he said.

John glanced over to Danny. His pale green eyes were flecked with excitement.

Terry came running out of the kitchen. “Harry, come back here. Don’t...” Then she saw the men and stopped abruptly.

John said, “Hello. We’re back.”

“What do you want?” She was sullen, “I told you we don’t know anything about it.”

“I’ll bet Harry does, though.” He put a hand on the back of Harry’s neck. It looked like an affectionate gesture, but Harry screamed and tried to scramble away. John held him.

Terry yelled, “Leave him alone!” She clawed at John and he let go of Harry and swung at her with a closed fist. The blow glanced off her cheekbone and sent her sprawling.

John said, “Mike, keep her away from me.”

Mike helped her up and brought her over to the couch by Danny. She sat dazed. The skin under her eye and around her cheek was discoloring. Her hands were folded in her lap and she kept looking down at them. Danny touched her shoulder, and she shook off his hand angrily.

Harry screamed again. Terry flinched and started to get up, but Mike stood in front of her and pushed her back down. She moaned.

John said, “Where is it?”

Harry didn’t know. He hung limp under the grasp and sobbed. “Nick’ll fix you for this. Nick’ll do that!”

Mike laughed, “Character! Nick’s dead.”

Harry writhed from John’s grasp and started running toward Mike, but John tripped him. He slid on the floor and his head banged against the table leg. Terry stared at Danny, waiting. He felt trapped. He stood up suddenly and brushed past a surprised Mike. He saw Harry sprawled out on the floor crying, and it cut through Danny because he recognized its terror.

He was stopped by a gun in John’s hand, the terrible personal knowledge of the feel of the slug chewing his lung away. The skin around John’s eyes tightened in excitement.

“The money,” John said.

Danny shifted his weight to his left foot and the gun swung up to him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

John kicked Harry in the side and said, “Get up. Get up!” but Harry lay sobbing.

Terry screamed, “Stop it! Stop!” and she looked at Danny in the middle of the room.

John ignored her screaming. “Come here!” Mike pulled her up by the wrists and dragged her, and she stood next to Danny looking at him... waiting. He could not look at her. Her husband was crawling around the floor.

John said, “Take them off.”

“Listen!” Danny said, “What’s that going to get you? She won’t have the money on her!”

Mike slapped him lightly on the back of the head and said, “Shut up!”

Terry slowly pulled her blouse out of her skirt.

It was quiet in the room. Even Harry had stopped crying. Just the whirring and ticking of the clocks.

It didn’t take long, and John said, “Tell me!” and when she didn’t answer he slapped her on the chest and she gave a cry of pain and was silent. Harry started laughing uncontrollably.

Danny stepped forward and said, “You can’t—” but John was on top of him. The gun barrel came down on the side of Danny’s head and his knees gave away, landing him on all fours.

Mike looked bored. “We’d better get back. We’ve been away too long already.” And John, his eyes returning to a focus of reality, answered, “Yeh.” He looked at them and said, “We have to have it. Remember. We have to have it.”

The door closed and the sound of it snapped Harry’s laughter. Danny stumbled against the table and pulled himself up band over hand. He leaned, head down.

Terry said, “You can move now. They’ve gone,” and there was contempt in her voice. She gathered her clothes in a heap and walked to the bedroom. He lay down on the couch, his head throbbing...

The clocks chimed the hours. Down below children were playing tag, and one was yelling, “Home free! Home free!” An automobile began blowing its horn. The clocks ticked.

There was a loud knock on the door. Danny sat up with a jerk. The knocker walked in.

A square man. Square in shoulder, square in hips and face. Deep lines creasing down from the corners of his mouth and eyes, a mustache penciled roughly in over his mouth. The eyes, from deep caves, stared at the blood on Danny’s face.

He said, “I know where they are.”

“Who are you?” said Danny.

“I’m Detective Buchanan, Zimmerman’s partner. Want to know where they are?” He watched Danny, knowing he could use him. Buchanan knew how to maneuver people in the game; shake them up and wait for the right answers to come up. He was a good cop.

He repeated, “I know where they are.”

“Where?”

“On the South Side.” The cop wrote on a piece of paper and put it on the table. “Here.”

He looked at Terry and Harry, then back at Danny. “They hurt you much?”

“Not so you can see it.” Terry had her fists down on the table by the slip of paper, supporting herself and laughing.

Buchanan left.

Danny slowly put on his jacket, opened his suitcase, methodically took the .45 out of its wrappings, clip in and shell jacked into the chamber. Not thinking, the waiting over, moving as he had to, Buchanan pulling him, an old woman’s face asking questions.

Danny in the middle.

Terry handed him the slip of paper and then reached over to straighten his tie with an angry flip. As he brought his hand up she turned away and stood there with her back to him and he left.

The night didn’t help the heat. The sweat trickled down Danny’s side and the shirt stuck to his back. His jacket covered the gun butt sticking out of his belt, the barrel pressing on his belly, making him walk stiffly.

A cab took him to the address on the South Side near the airport. Frame houses, once painted white, now gray with dirt, separated by strips of dirt and beer cans. Kids had knocked out the street light.

The cabbie said, “Want I should wait?” and Danny thought a minute and said, “No, never mind,” and the cab pulled away. Danny wished the moon would dig a hole in a cloud.

He stood across the street from the house and looked at it. It was no dirtier than the rest. It had a porch, with a broken step leading up to it. The house was dark on the ground floor, but there was a light in a second floor window and every once in a while a figure would pass. It was John.

Danny waited till John had passed the window again. Then he broke across the street, trying to do it on his toes, but it sounded loud. He ran into the shadow between the houses and hugged the wall and waited for his chest to stop hurting. His breathing sounded loud, bouncing off the buildings.

He started inching along the wall toward the back. The gun worked itself up and fell out of his pants, and he grabbed it in midair above a pile of cans and junk. He shook, the sweat rolling down his face.

Below him he saw a cellar window, the kind you push in. Danny stooped and gave it a small shove and it moved a little, squeaking. He coaxed till it was back far enough for him to slide under. He landed with a thump on a dirt floor.

He waited.

The house wasn’t quiet. He could hear rats moving, a radio playing. It must have been playing all the time. It sounded like a hillbilly band.

Someone came down the stairs from the top floor to the first. They were light steps and in a hurry. John? They went to the back of the house, where the kitchen probably was. A refrigerator door opened and closed, and after a while the steps went upstairs again. A door closed. Where was Mike?

Danny pulled out a pencil flashlight and shone it around. It found the stairs and the door at the top. He took the gun out of his belt, snicked off the catch, and went up. At the top he put the light away, and listened. He wished he knew where Mike was. The hillbilly band was gone on the radio and something sweet with a lot of violins was playing. It didn’t do anything for him. He figured he had been in the house a half-hour now.

It was time.

The door knob turned easily and the latch clicked softly. The door moved. He stepped into a dark hallway, waited. Then turned toward the front of the house, where the stairs should be. Two arms whipped under his armpits and over his shoulders. Heavy hands locked behind his neck. Danny had found Mike.

His chin was on his chest. The pressure pain came down from his ears to the back of his neck. The blood was rushing black behind his eyes.

Danny went limp and the pressure let up slightly. He whipped his left foot behind Mike’s right and fell backward, both of them falling, the hold broken.

Danny frantically tried to roll. But Mike caught him, hugging him around the chest, and the pain was terrible... Slowly Danny brought the hand with the gun in it over his body and pointed it behind him. The blast was loud. He could feel the bullet singeing his side. Mike jerked. The grip loosened and Danny squirmed around in it and the gun blasted again.

The big man’s breathing was noisy, fighting. Blood came out of his mouth.

A door banged upstairs, and John came, yelling, “Did you get him, Mike?”

Danny’s mouth grinned and he backed off into a shadow.

“Mike?”

More light filtered down now. Mike’s face was dulling.

“Mike! Where are you? What happened?”

Mike died.

John was a worrier. He couldn’t wait. He came edging down the stairs, a gun gripped in one hand, peering over the banister, trying to see into the darkness. A step at a time.

Danny inched under the stairs.

John was at the bottom of the steps now. He turned and saw his partner. Fear made his eyes roll. He stood in a half-crouch, trying to see into the shadows. Then he bolted for the front door.

John tried to jump off the porch, but his foot came down on the broken step, sending him sprawling, the gun flying out of his hand into the street. His scream was high and shrill like a woman’s.

Danny moved up to him. The tic gave his mouth a wolf’s grin. John lay whimpering, squirming with the pain.

“My foot. It’s caught. Help me!”

His foot was held by the broken step at a crooked angle.

Danny said, “Answer me first.”

John closed his eyes and moaned. “All right, all right. But hurry.”

“Why was Nick killed?”

“I don’t know.”

Danny set one foot on the step and put a little weight on it.

“Don’t! Don’t! I tell you I don’t know why. Don’t!” Sweat was running down his face. Danny took his weight off.

“You killed Nick.”

“We didn’t. Honest. We didn’t!” Danny started to shift his weight again.

“What did Nick have that you wanted so bad?”

John’s eyes were ready to pop. “Help me, please...”

“Tell me.”

“It was money. A hundred thousand dollars. In hundred dollar bills. It was tied up in five packets, see. And Nick was the banker... My leg is killing me!”

Danny said, “Keep going.”

“It was a payment for a shipment. And he died before it was split. We had nothing against Nick. Honest. We were friends. But Nick died and the dough’s gone, and the people we work for want it. He didn’t have to die. Honest. He didn’t have to.”

“But he did.”

“Help me now. I talked.”

The porch creaked, and Danny whirled, gun up. Detective Buchanan stood there. Danny hadn’t heard him.

They stared at each other.

Danny said, “Any more dirty work I can do for you?”

Buchanan looked back where Mike was, then at John. “You’re doing fine.”

Danny put the gun back into his belt.

“I can go?”

“Not too far. There’s still some questions.” Buchanan rolled a cigarette around his square mouth.

Danny looked down at John. He had stopped squirming.

“I don’t have all the answers.”

Buchanan bit too hard on the cigarette and it shredded. He picked the tobacco off his lip. “Zimmerman’ll be here with a squad car. Want a lift?”

“No.”

The climb up the stairs seemed longer. His wind was heavy and whistling.

The lights were still on, spilling from under the door. They hurt his eyes when he opened the door, and he stood there blinking. He saw the tall clocks first. The paneling had been smashed and the hollow insides gaped. Harry was in a chair facing the door and looking surprised. He had a woman’s overnight bag cradled in his arms. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

The light was on in the other room, too, and Danny could hear Terry moving around.

He said, “Hello, Harry.” Harry clutched the bag tighter. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

The sounds in the bedroom stopped. There was a dead spot, then he heard Terry running. She stopped when she saw Danny and stood stiffly against the door. “Danny. Danny, I thought...”

Harry had got out of the chair. His eyes didn’t look surprised any more. Danny nodded at the clocks with the splintered cabinets. He said, “You found it?”

Harry held the case tighter.

“Where were you going with it, Harry?”

Harry wet his lips. “I was going to take it away. Where it would be safe. So Nick wouldn’t lose it. Me and Nick, we’d have a good time with the money.” He screamed, “It’s ours. Nobody else can have it. Mine and Nick’s!”

Danny glanced at Terry. Her eyes were closed. She still leaned against the door.

He said, “Nick’s not coming back any more. He’s dead. Remember?”

“You lie! He’s coming... Oh, he’s smart, Nick is. He wouldn’t let anyone know.”

Danny walked over to the clocks on the mantelpiece.

“No, Harry. He’s not coming back. Look, would I do something like this if I thought Nick was coming back?” He took down one of the clocks and dropped it on the floor. The wood split and parts of the mechanism fell out.

Harry cried, “No, don’t!”

Danny threw another. “Or this?”

Harry clawed at him. Danny threw him aside and turned to Terry. “What about Nick? Where did he fit?”

Terry took a couple of steps into the room and she stretched her arms out from her body, palms out.

“He wanted me. He wanted me to ditch Harry and go with him.”

Harry made a noise like an animal. He was high and he rocked back and forth with the night case in his arms. Terry started to go to him. But Danny gripped her arm. She didn’t struggle.

“Give me the bag now, Harry.” Danny moved toward him.

“No.” The trembling had stopped in Harry. The mind had pulled itself together enough to scurry around the trap. “No. It was Nick’s, so it’s mine now.”

Danny moved closer. But he stopped. A small gun was in Harry’s hand. A twenty-two.

“It’s not yours, Harry,” Danny said patiently. “Nick wanted Terry. So it’s hers. It’s not yours. Give it to me, Harry.”

“She’s lying.” Harry was waving the gun at them. “We were friends!” His voice got confidential. “Nick didn’t like women. He told me.”

“You killed him because he wanted Terry. Didn’t you?” Harry didn’t answer. He started keening again. Danny took a cautious step. Terry darted between them and cried, “No!” and the gun went off and Terry spun around and sat down with a surprised look.

Harry dropped the bag and scuttled to the bathroom.

There was a shot as Danny hit the door.

Danny turned back. The bag had fallen open, the money spilled over the floor. Terry was crying. Blood was staining her dress on the right side below the rib cage. He didn’t think there was too much damage.

“Lie down, I’ll see how bad it is.”

It wasn’t bad. The slug had gone through.

“Where were you planning to go?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere. Away. I didn’t know Harry killed Nick.”

The pounding at the door was impatient. He unlocked it and Buchanan and Zimmerman came in.

Danny said, “You ought to try getting some place on time.”

Buchanan looked at Terry and the money and he asked, “Where’s the big bad killer?”

Danny pointed.

The two detectives went into the bathroom. Zimmerman looked embarrassed.

Danny lit two cigarettes and brought Terry one. She took a deep drag and lay back closing her eyes. “It’s all over now,” she said.

But Danny said, “How do I tell Mrs. Dukas why Nick had to die?”

Later, it didn’t bother him so much.