No Business Of Mine Page 17

Sonic of them had been worn, some of them were still in their

  transparent envelopes. I grunted, put them back, turned off the light. I

  opened the door, listened. The silence and stillness made me feel

  spooked. I heard nothing, except my own breathing and the steady

  beat of my pulse.

  I stepped into a narrow, short passage, saw the head of the stairs

  at one end and a door at the other. I crept to the door, put my ear

  against the panel, listened. There was no sound. I turned the handle,

  pushed open the door, looked into the inky darkness. Again I listened,

  uneasy, a little scared. My hand groped along the wall, found the

  electric light switch, hesitated, then snapped it down.

  For a second or so I stood looking around the large well-furnished

  room, then the hair on the back of my neck bristled; I caught my

  breath sharply.

  Lying on the floor, his smal hands flat on the blue-and-fawn

  carpet, his legs screwed up, his eyes sightless, his mouth below the

  straggling moustache twisted in horror, was Henry Littlejohns.

  I stepped forward, saw the broken skin on the side of his head,

  and the blood that had run down his neck and had spread like an

  obscene halo around his head. Near him was a heavy steel poker, its

  knobbed handle stained red.

  I avoided the blood, bent, touched his hand. It was warm, limp. I

  raised his arm, let it fall. It thudded back on the carpet. He hadn’t

  been dead long.

  I was so shocked, so surprised that for several minutes I could

  only stare clown at him, feeling nothing, my mind a blank.

  Then I stiffened, my heart gave a lurch and began to pound so

  violently I could scarcely breathe.

  At the far end of the room was a door which was now slowly

  opening. It inched open, stopped, inched open again.

  “Who is it?” I said in a voice I didn’t recognize as my own. The

  door jerked open. I took an involuntary step back. Netta stood there.

  We looked at each other over Littlejohn’s dead body.

  Then she said, “Oh, Steve, Steve, Steve, thank God you’ve found

  me at last.”

  I still stood there like a dummy, and she ran over to me, caught

  hold of my arm.

  “It’s Netta, Steve,” she sobbed, flung herself in my arms.

  I couldn’t keep my eyes off Littlejohn, but I held her, said nothing.

  “Take me away, Steve,” she sobbed. “Please take me away.”

  I pulled myself together, slipped my arm around her, led her into

  the bedroom. We sat on the divan bed, and I let her cry. There was

  nothing I could do to stop her.

  After a while I said, “Netta, this won’t get us anywhere. Come on,

  snap out of it. I’ll help you if I can.”

  She pulled away from me, her eyes glassy with terror, ran her

  fingers through her thick red hair.

  “You don’t understand,” she said, her husky voice off-key,

  cracked. “I killed him! Do you hear, Steve? I killed him!”

  I went cold, tried to say something, but succeeded in making only

  a croaking noise.

  She suddenly jumped to her feet, ran to the door. Before she

  reached it, I caught hold of her. She struggled to get away, but I held

  her. We stared at each other: both of us scared now.

  “You killed him?” I said. “For God’s sake, Netta!”

  She collapsed against me. I smelt lilac in her hair.

  “They’ll get me now, Steve,” she said, moaned against my chest.

  “I’ve kept out of their way until now, but they’ll get me for this.”

  I felt cold sweat on my face. I wanted to run, get the hel out of

  here, leave her. This was murder; this wasn’t something I could fool

  around with and pass over to Corridan if I made a mess of it. This was

  murder. I gripped her arms, tried to think. Maybe the moments of

  happiness this kid had given me two years ago helped to bridge the

  horror I felt. Maybe that thought stopped me from running out on

  her.

  “Take it easy,” I said, holding her close. “What we need is a drink.

  Have you any Scotch in the place?”

  She shuddered, clung more tightly. “It’s in there,” she said. I knew

  where she meant. I pushed her gently away, sat her on the bed.

  “Hang on,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “No!” she exclaimed, her voice shooting up. “You mustn’t leave

  me. Steve! You mustn’t leave me.” She caught hold of my wrist, her

  nails bit into my flesh.

  “It’s all right,” I said, trying to stop my teeth chattering. “I’ll be

  right back. Take it easy, can’t you?”

  “No! You won’t come back. You’re going to run out on me. You’re

  going to leave me in this mess. You’re not to, Steve ! You’re not to!”

  She began to cry again, then suddenly she put her hands to her face

  and screamed wildly.

  The sound went through my head like white-hot wires. I was stiff

  with fright. I snatched her hands away, smacked her face hard,

  knocking her backwards across the bed.

  I stood over her. “Shut up, you little fool,” I said, trembling,

  sweating. “Do you want someone to come here with that in there?”

  She stopped screaming, looked up at me, her eyes empty; one

  side of her face red where I had hit her.

  “I’m coming back,” I went on. “Stay still and don’t make a sound.”

  I crossed the passage, went into the sitting-room. He was still

  there, small, defenceless, pathetic. I looked down at him, feeling bad.

  I looked at his worn suit, at his shabby boots, at his thick ribbed socks

  that hung in wrinkles. I looked at the terror in his eyes, the twisted

  mouth. I reached down, patted his arm.

  Clutched tightly between his finger and thumb was a scrap of

  paper. I bent closer, gently pulled it from between his fingers. It was a

  glossy scrap of paper-a piece torn from a photograph. I stared at it,

  puzzled.

  A bluebottle walked across one of his fixed eyes, then buzzed

  around his blood. I shivered, put the scrap of paper in my vest pocket,

  went to the cupboard by the fire-place and found a full bottle of

  Scotch. I carried it and two glasses into the bedroom, shut the door.

  Netta was lying face down across the bed. Her skirt had nicked up

  and I could see an inch or so of bare thigh. Bare thighs mean nothing

  to a guy in a moment like this. Her thigh meant less than nothing to

  me.

  I poured a big shot of whisky into both glasses, noted my hand

  was no steadier than an aspen leaf. I drank the liquor; it went down

  like water, hit my stomach; a moment later, I felt alive again.

  I leaned over Netta, pulled her up.

  “Come on,” I said, “get this down into you.”

  I had to feed it to her. Her hand made mine look like a rock. She

  got it down, gagged, then stopped crying. I gave her my handkerchief,

  gave myself another shot of Liquor, put the bottle down.

  “Have a cigarette,” I said, pushing one between her trembling lips,

  took one myself, lit both.

  I sat on the bed, at her side.

  You have to talk, and talk fast,” I said. “I’ll help you if I can. I don’t

  know what game you’ve been pla
ying or why, but if you’ll give it me

  straight, I’ll do what I can for you. Now, shoot.”

  She dragged down smoke, pressed back the mass of red hair that

  was hiding her face. She looked pretty bad. Dark shadows circled her

  eyes; her nose seemed pinched. She had lost a lot of weight since last

  I saw her. Worse still, she had a blank, crazy expression in her eyes

  that scared me. I didn’t like that expression. The rest of her looks

  were bad, but nothing rest and sunshine couldn’t put right. But the

  blank expression was something else: I had seen it in the faces of the

  French girls after days of air strafing or after we’d rescued them from

  some Hun. It was that kind of expression.

  “I killed him,” she said quietly. The whisky had pul ed her together

  as I meant it to do. “I heard a sound, crept in there. It was dark. I saw

  something move and hit out.” She shuddered, hid her face. “Then I

  put on the light. I—I thought it was Peter French.”

  I was listening, sitting forward, cigarette between my lips,

  listening with both ears.

  “It won’t do, Netta,” I said, putting my hand on her knee.

  We’ll start from the beginning. Never mind about the little guy.

  Forget him for the moment. Start right from the beginning.”

  She clenched her fists, not looking up.

  “I can’t go through all that. I can’t.”

  “You’ve got to. Come on, Netta. If I’m to help you, I must know

  how bad it is. Right from the beginning.”

  “No!” She sprang to her feet, upsetting the glass she had balanced

  on the divan. “Let me go! I can’t stay here with him in there. You’ve

  got to get me away.”

  I grabbed her wrists, shook her, dragged her down beside me on

  the bed.

  “Shut up!” I said fiercely. “You’re not moving out of here until

  you’ve talked. Do you know what you’re asking me to do? You’re

  asking me to stick my neck in a noose.”

  She gasped, tried to break away, but I held her close.

  “I won’t do that for anyone, Netta. Not unless I’m sure whoever it

  is is worth it and deserves it. That goes for you, so if you want my

  help, sit still and talk, and talk fast.”

  She went limp against me, her breath coming in shuddering gasps.

  “Listen, Netta,” I went on, “that little guy was working for me.

  Maybe you didn’t mean to kill him, but you killed him just the same,

  and nothing either of us can do can bring him back to life again. I liked

  him, and I feel bad about it. He had a lot of guts. If it’d been anyone

  else but you I’d be calling the police right now. But I haven’t forgotten

  what you did for me in the past. I owe you plenty, but I’m not helping

  you until you talk. Now relax and tell me. Tell me everything from the

  beginning.”

  She beat her hands together. “But what do you want to know?”

  she gasped. “Can’t you see, Steve, the longer we stay here the worse

  it’ll be? They’ll find us . . . find me.”

  “Who was the girl in your flat . . . the one who died?” I asked,

  deciding questions were more direct, would get me quicker results.

  She shuddered. “Anne . . . my sister.”

  “Who was the guy with her?”

  She looked up. “How did you know . . . ?”

  I took hold of her chin between finger and thumb, looked into her

  eves. She didn’t flinch.

  “Quit stalling,” I said. “Answer my questions. Who was the guy

  with her.”

  “Peter French.”

  “What was he to her?”

  “Her lover.”

  “And to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “He killed her, didn’t he?”

  Her face went paler, her teeth chewed her lower lip, but she said

  it, “Yes.”

  I drew back, wiped my face with the back of my hand.

  “Why?”

  “She found out he killed George Jacobi.”

  “How?”

  She shook her head. “She never had the chance to tel me.”

  “French and you were seen around together. How did that come

  about?”

  “He was trying to find Anne. He thought if he kept near me I’d

  lead him to her.”

  “Where was she?”

  “Hiding. She found out he and Jacobi were behind the Allenby

  robbery, and then later that French had killed Jacobi. She was scared,

  so she hid.”

  “And French found her?”

  She nodded. “He found her in a night club. She was drunk. Anne

  was always getting drunk. French knew that, and he was afraid she’d

  talk. He brought her to me.”

  Why?

  She twisted her hands in her lap. “He wanted to talk to her, to

  find out how much she knew. The night club was close and there

  wasn’t much time.”

  “When did they arrive?”

  “About one. I was asleep. I let them in. I could see Anne was

  terrified, although she was very drunk. She managed to whisper to me

  that French was going to kill her, and I wasn’t to let her out of my

  sight.” Netta hid her face. “I can hear her voice now.”

  I poured out another shot of whisky, fed it down her throat.

  “Keep going,” I said. “Then what happened?”

  “I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to get dressed, but Anne

  wouldn’t let me leave her alone with French, and he wouldn’t let her

  go into my room. I stal ed for time, and brought out drinks. He spiked

  our drinks. I went out like a light. I hadn’t a chance to warn Anne. It

  worked so quickly. I heard Anne scream, and then I knew nothing

  more.”

  “Then he murdered her?” I asked quietly.

  She nodded dully, struggled with her tears. “I’m so frightened.

  He’ll do the same to me!”

  “Take it easy. What happened then? Come on, Netta, I want the

  whole story. What happened then?”

  “I have a confused recollection of getting into my clothes, being

  half carried down the stairs. Ju Cole was on the landing. French spoke

  to him, but I was too doped to hear what was said. French pushed me

  out of the house. The night air pulled me together, and I started to

  struggle.” She closed her eyes. “He hit me, and the next thing I

  remember was being in his car. I struggled up, and he hit me again. I

  came to later in a room. There was a woman watching me : Mrs.

  Brambee. French came in after a while. He warned me he’d kill me if I

  didn’t stay there and do what I was told.”

  “Ever hear of Mrs. Brambee before?”

  She nodded. “Anne had a cottage at Lakeham. French bought it

  for her. He used to go down week-ends or whenever he had the time.

  Mrs. Brambee looked after the place.”

  “Why did they keep you a prisoner?” I asked, giving her another

  cigarette.

  “French wanted the police to think I and not Anne died in my

  flat.”

  “But why, for God’s sake?”

  “He knew they couldn’t trace him through me, but he and Anne

  had been around a lot together, and he was scared they’d connect

  him with her death. There was something going on at
the cottage he

  didn’t want the police to find out, and he thought the police would

  find the cottage if they began to make inquiries about Anne.”

  “What was going on at the cottage?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did you find this out?”

  “Mrs. Brambee told me. She was scared of French and liked

  Anne.”

  “When I turned up, he realized his scheme wouldn’t work, is that

  it?”

  “Yes. But Cole telephoned him, told him you had been up and

  that you would most likely want to see the—the body. French got into

  a panic, and with a couple of his men took Anne from the mortuary.

  They rushed her down to the cottage, fixed it to look as if Anne had

  committed suicide there instead of at my flat.”

  “Well, I’ll be double damned,” I exclaimed. “You mean to tell me

  the girl who died in your flat and the girl found in the cottage were

  one and the same?”

  “It was Anne.”

  “But one of them was a red-head and the other a blonde.”

  Netta shuddered. “French stopped at nothing. My hair’s not really

  red. I had a bottle of henna dye and he dyed Anne’s hair while she

  was drugged. Then when he brought her to the cottage he used a

  peroxide wash, brought her hair back to its natural colour.”

  I grimaced. This guy was certainly a cold-blooded rat if ever there

  was one.

  “Well, go on, what happened then?”

  “I was in the way. The police were looking for my body. French

  planned to kill me and plant my body where the police could find it. Ju

  Cole wouldn’t let him. Ju and I had always got on together. As long as

  Ju was with me, I was safe. He told me French had planted one of

  Allenby’s rings in my flat and the police were looking for me. I got

  scared. I thought the police were after me, and I knew French was

  waiting his chance to kill me. I made Ju help me escape. I got away,

  came to London. There was only one place I could think of to hide in .

  . . here. Selma and I were friends. I used to come here in the old days,

  before she married Jacobi. I knew Selma had gone to America with

  Peter, after George had been killed. Peter smuggled her over.”

  “Peter? Peter who?”

  She frowned, passed her hand across her eyes. “I was forgetting

  you didn’t know him. Peter Utterly. He was an American, over here in

  the Army. He was nice, and when Selina was in trouble, he offered to

  take her back to his home and to look after her.”