No Business Of Mine Page 10

  The run to Cromwell Road seemed interminable, but in actual

  fact, it only took ten minutes. I paid off the taxi, noted that Madge

  Kennitt’s light still burned, grinned to myself. I guessed the old hag

  was waiting as impatiently for the whisky as I was for the information.

  I pushed open the front door and stepped softly across the hall,

  mounted the stairs, I didn’t want Julius Cole to hear me. Madge

  Kennitt’s door was ajar. I paused, frowned. I remembered closing it

  when I left. Maybe she had opened it to let the cat out, I thought,

  pushed the door, glanced into the room.

  Madge was lying on the chaise-longue, her mouth open, her eyes

  glassy. Blood welled from a great gash in her throat, poured down her

  floppy bosom on to the Turkey carpet.

  She was as dead as a soused mackerel.

  Chapter X

  FOR a full minute I stood staring at Madge Kennitt too shocked to

  move, then I stepped into the room, stood over her.

  Her sightless eyes glared up at me, the blood dripped steadily on

  to the floor. I turned away, weak at the knees.

  Because I didn’t know what to do, I wandered around the room,

  looking aimlessly for the weapon that had killed her. I couldn’t find it.

  I stepped to the chaise-longue, peered over the offside.

  Three empty whisky bottles and the carton of Woodbines met my

  eyes. The dust on the floor-boards that side was thick; written in the

  dust within reach of Madge’s hand which flopped lifelessly on the

  floor was a word. I moved closer, peered at it. It was badly written,

  and it seemed to me that Madge might have written it either when

  she was dying or just before the killer had struck. It took me a few

  seconds to decipher the scrawl. She had written on the floor in the

  dust the name: Jacobi. It meant nothing to me, but I stored it away in

  my mind for future reference.

  I suddenly remembered Corridan. If he was still hanging about

  outside and decided to come in to see what I was doing, I’d be in a

  hell of a spot. I made a dive for the door, ran down the stairs, opened

  the front door. I looked up and down the street, but could see no one.

  Across the street was a telephone box, and I hurried over, dialled

  Whitehal 1212, asked for Corridan.

  While I waited, I glanced idly along the street. The headlights of a

  car appeared out of what seemed an alley, down the street on the

  opposite side to where I was telephoning. A moment later a car came

  swiftly towards me, went on towards the West End. As it passed

  under a street light, I recognized it. It was the battered Standard

  Fourteen and Frankie was at the wheel.

  Before I could think anything of this, someone came on the line to

  say Corridan was out on patrol with a police car. I asked for them to

  get into immediate touch with him and to tell him to come at once to

  Mrs. Crockett.

  “Tell him it’s a murder,” I said, hung up.

  I didn’t fancy waiting for Corridan in Madge’s room, so I returned

  to the house, sat on the doorstep. While I waited, I did a little

  thinking.

  I was at last getting somewhere. I’d have probably solved the

  whole business if Madge hadn’t dropped her bottle of whisky; but I

  wasn’t discouraged. I had found out that a girl had been in the flat

  with Netta, and I was positive that it was she who had died and not

  Netta. It seemed pretty obvious that she had been murdered, and I

  wondered with a feeling of sick apprehension, if Netta had taken a

  hand in the murder. Could the man who had returned with Netta and

  the other girl be Jacobi, whoever he might be? Had he been listening

  to Madge and me talking, and had killed Madge before she could give

  me the information she had promised? Was that what Madge had

  tried to convey when she had scrawled the name in the dust? What

  was Frankie doing on the scene of the murder? How much was I going

  to tell Corridan? If he suspected me before, he had every reason for

  suspecting me still more now. I should have to handle him with care.

  Corridan arrived in a fast police car in less than ten minutes. He

  jumped out of the car, ran up the steps before I could get to my feet.

  “What’s this, Harmas?” he snapped, his cold eyes searching my

  face. “What’s happened?”

  “Madge Kennitt’s been murdered,” I said briefly.

  “What are you doing here?” he said.

  “I came to see her,” I returned, told him briefly what had

  happened. “You saw me leave, Corridan,” I went on. “I spotted you as

  I was driving away. Why were you tailing me?”

  “It’s just as well that I was, isn’t it?” he returned curtly. “I’m

  beginning to wonder about you, Harmas. You’re not making things

  easy for yourself, are you?”

  “You don’t think I had anything to do with her death?”

  “You could have killed her, couldn’t you?” he returned, shortly.

  “Every time someone dies connected with this case, you appear on

  the scene. I don’t like it. I’ve told you before to keep out of this, and

  I’m telling you again for the last time. This is no business of yours.

  Now, will you please understand that once and for all?”

  “Hadn’t you better take a look at Madge?” I said.

  He snapped his fingers impatiently, went past me into the house.

  Two plain-clothes men followed him. I brought up the rear.

  “Stay in the hall, please,” he said to me, entered Madge’s flat.

  That settled it, I decided. Corridan could stew in his own juice.

  From now on, I was going to work on the case and keep all my

  findings to myself. Then I’d surprise the lug when I’d solved it.

  I sat on the stairs, lit a cigarette, waited.

  I heard the three men moving about the room, and after a while

  one of the plain-clothes men came out, went across the street to

  telephone.

  When he returned, he glanced at me and I said, “How much

  longer do I have to wait here? I want to go to bed.”

  “The Inspector will want to talk to you,” he returned, went into

  the room again.

  I lit another cigarette, continued to wait.

  The stairs creaked, and I glanced around. Julius Cole was coming

  down stealthily, holding the skirt of his yellow-and-black dressing-

  gown in one hand, the other hand on the banister rail.

  Looking at the dressing-gown I thought of the yellow-and-black

  Bentley, wondered if there was any connection.

  “Hello, baby,” he whispered, his eyes on Madge Kennitt’s door.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’d have thought you’d have been on the scene before now,” I

  said, scowling at him. “You’d better beat it. You’re in the way, Fatso.”

  He came on, plumped himself down beside me, smiled his secret

  smile. I smelt perfume, drew away from him.

  “Has something happened to the old hag?” he asked, rubbing his

  big, white hands together. “Has she lost something? Is it the police?”

  “Someone cut her throat,” I said brutally. “Odd you didn’t see him

  arrive, or did you?”

  “Cut her throat?” he squeaked, his face going slac
k. “You mean

  she’s dead?”

  I nodded. “Yeah,” I said, staring at him. “She knew too much.”

  He was on his feet now, his mouth working, his eyes full of terror.

  “You’ll be next,” I said, kidding him. “You know too much, too.” I

  wanted to loosen him up, and then I was going to move in and take

  him to pieces, but I guess I punched him too hard. He bolted up the

  stairs before I could grab him. I heard him rush into his room, slam the

  door and shoot the bolt.

  I hadn’t expected quite such a reaction, but on consideration, I

  realized that he also had seen the man and girl return with Netta. He,

  too, stood a likely chance of getting his throat cut; and he knew it.

  I got to my feet, undecided whether to follow him or not, when

  Corridan came out of the room. His face was grim.

  “Now, let’s hear some more from you,” he said, planting himself

  before me. “How long have you known this woman?”

  I frowned at him. “Why, I’ve only just met her. I told you I thought

  she might have seen something the night Netta was supposed to have

  died. I came here, talked with her, and she admitted she did know

  something. Then she upset her bottle of Scotch, wouldn’t talk until I’d

  got her another. I got another from Sam at the Blue Club, but when I

  got back I found her dead. Someone had stopped her talking for

  good.”

  “It’s lucky for you I saw you come out when you did,” Corridan

  said coldly. “Even then, it still doesn’t mean you couldn’t have killed

  her.”

  “For God’s sake, Corridan!” I exploded.

  “You’ve brought it on yourself,” he returned. “You are definitely

  on my suspect list.”

  “That’s fine,” I said bitterly. “After all the meals I’ve bought for

  you, too.”

  “Tell me exactly what she said,” he ordered, watching me with

  uncomfortable intentness.

  I couldn’t avoid tel ing him the truth, although it irritated me to do

  so. It was his job to find out that Netta had come back with two other

  people, not to receive it as a gift from me.

  He listened in silence, seemed very thoughtful by the time I had

  finished.

  “There goes your suicide theory,” I said, eyeing him. “I told you all

  along Netta didn’t kill herself.”

  “I know,” he said, looking up sharply. “If she didn’t kill herself,

  then you might have a reason for stopping Madge Kennitt from

  talking. Thought of that?”

  I just gaped at him.

  “On the other hand it still could be suicide,” he went on. “These

  two visitors could have left her after doing whatever they had come

  to do, and then she committed suicide. It depends on what time they

  left.”

  “Well, Julius Cole can tell you. He saw them too.”

  “I’ll have a word with him,” Corridan said grimly. “Will you walk to

  the corner with me?” I asked, remembering

  Frankie. “I want to check something.”

  He opened the front door without a word, and together we

  walked to the entrance of the alley from which the Standard had

  come. I struck a match, peered at a small pool of motor oil on the

  cobbles. It would seem from that that the Standard had been parked

  there for some time.

  “Look at this,” I said. “When I was trying to get you on the phone,

  I spotted a Standard car come out of this mews. There’s some oil here

  that leaked from it. I should say it’d been standing there some time. I

  happen to know the car belongs to Jack Bradley. Does that mean

  anything to you?”

  “Except you seem to know more about this case than I thought,”

  Corridan returned. “How do you know the car belongs to Bradley?”

  “I consulted my Ouija board,” I returned.

  “You’re not in the position to be funny,” he snapped sharply.

  “How did you know?”

  “Frankie was driving. I knew he was Bradley’s stooge.”

  Corridan grunted. “You know a hell of a lot, don’t you?”

  “Do you know anything about Frankie?” I asked.

  “We’ve been hoping to get our hands on him for some time, but

  he’s a slippery customer, as well as a vicious one. He’s on our suspect

  list for several robberies, but Bradley always turns up with a cast-iron

  alibi for him.”

  “Think he’d run to murder?”

  Corridan shrugged. “He’d run to anything if it paid well enough.”

  As we retraced our steps to the house, I asked him if he had found

  any clues in Madge’s flat.

  “None,” he said.

  “You mean you haven’t found one single clue?” I asked, startled,

  thinking of the name Jacobi written in the dust. “No,” he repeated.

  I had an idea, darted away from him, bolted into Madge’s flat.

  The two plain-clothes dicks were together at the far end of the

  room, looking for finger-prints. I came in so quickly they weren’t

  aware of me until I had reached the chaise-longue. I peered over the

  far side. The dust had been swept clean. The scrawled name, Jacobi,

  had vanished. I immediately thought of Julius Cole. Had he got in here

  while I was waiting for Corridan?

  But I hadn’t much time for thought as Corridan came into the

  room, his face dark with anger. I moved away from the chaise- longue,

  looked around the room.

  “What the hell are you playing at?” he demanded. “You’ve no

  business in here. I’m getting tired of your behaviour, Harmas. It’s got

  to stop. Why are you in here?”

  I decided I wouldn’t tell him about the name in the dust. Anyway,

  not until I had investigated the clue myself. I tried to look ashamed of

  myself, didn’t succeed very well.

  “There was a cat here,” I said vaguely. “I wondered if it was still in

  the room.”

  “What the blazes has a cat to do with it?” he demanded, glaring at

  me.

  I lifted my shoulders. “Maybe the killer took it away,” I said.

  “That’s a clue, isn’t it?”

  “He didn’t take the cat away,” Corridan snarled. “It’s locked up in

  the other room. Any more bright ideas?”

  “Well, I’m only trying to help,” I said. “How about you and me

  calling on Julius Cole?”

  “I’m calling on, him,” Corridan said. “You’re getting the hell out of

  here. Now see here, Harmas, I’m warning you for the last time. Keep

  out of this. You’re lucky you’re not charged with murder. I’m going to

  check your story and if it doesn’t click, I’m going to arrest you. You’re

  a damn nuisance. Now get out.”

  “If you listen carefully,” I said, as I edged to the door, “you’l hear

  my knees knocking.”

  Chapter XI

  As I was crossing the Savoy lobby to take the elevator to my room,

  I ran into Fred Ullman, crime reporter to the Morning Mail. We had

  met when I was in London during the war, and he had been helpful in

  advising me on angles for my articles on London crime.

  He seemed as pleased to see me as I was to see him.

  “We’ve just time for a drink,” he said, after we had got thr
ough

  back-slapping and explaining what we were doing in the Savoy at this

  time of night. “I don’t want to be too late as I have a heavy day before

  me, so don’t start one of your drinking contests.”

  I said I wouldn’t, led him into the residents’ lounge, ordered

  whiskies, sat down.

  Ullman hadn’t changed much since last we met. He was a tall,

  lanky individual, and his most distinctive feature was the bags under

  his eyes. He was known as the Fred Allen of Fleet Street.

  After we had chatted about the past, checked up on the activities

  of mutual friends, I asked him casually if the name Jacobi meant

  anything to him.

  I saw surprise on his face, and his eyebrows went up.

  “What makes you ask?” he inquired. “A couple of months ago that

  name was in every English newspaper. Have you just got on to it? “

  I said I had. “I heard some guy talking, and he mentioned the

  name. I wondered if I was missing anything.”

  “I shouldn’t say you’re missing much,” he said. “The affair is as

  dead as a dodo now.”

  “Well, tel me,” I said. “Even if it’s past news, I should know what’s

  been going on.”

  “All right,” he returned, sinking back in his arm-chair. “The

  business began when a rich theatrical magnate, Hervey Allenby,

  decided to do what a number of rich people were doing: buy

  diamonds and other precious stones against invasion or inflation or

  both. He bought heavily: rings, bracelets, necklaces, loose stones;

  stuff that could be easily carried, and of good value. He amassed a

  collection worth fifty thousand pounds. As he wanted to be able to

  put his hands on the stuff quickly, he kept the lot in his country house.

  The purchase of these gems was kept secret, but after four years-

  three months ago-the news leaked out somehow or other, and before

  you could say ‘mild-and-bitter,’ the collection was pinched.”

  “Quite a nice haul,” I said. The name, Hervey Allenby, made me

  prick up my ears. “Where was this country house?”

  “Lakeham, Sussex, just outside Horsham,” Ullman returned. “I

  went down there to cover the robbery. The village is small, but

  attractive, and Allenby’s house is just a half a mile beyond it. The

  robbery was a real slick job. The house was crammed with burglar

  alarms and police dogs, and the safe was a real snorter. The thief