No Business Of Mine Page 22
“But I hadn’t met Harry then,” Netta protested. “I take it all back.”
Bix leaned close. “We’re the salt of the earth, sugar,” he said.
“They say so in the newspapers, and newspapers don’t kid their
readers.”
“Not much,” I said.
When the barmaid had served the whiskies and had gone to the
far end of the counter, Bix said, “So you want to make a trip with me,
do you?”
Netta regarded him, suddenly serious. She nodded. “Will you trust
me to get you there safely?” he asked.
“I’d trust you in an aircraft, but nowhere else,” she returned.
Bix roared with laughter. “Say, this baby is quite a kidder, Steve.
That’s a pretty hot line to hand to a guy like me. Lady, I was kidding
just now. Dames don’t mean a thing to me. You ask Steve; he’ll tell
you.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Dames don’t mean a thing to Min, but put
him alone with one dame and see what happens.”
“Why, you rat . . .” Bix began, indignant.
“And suppose he isn’t to be trusted?” Netta asked. “I wouldn’t
scream for help.”
“You wouldn’t?” Bix asked, his eyes popping. “Is that on the
level?” He looked at me. “Beat it, three’s-a-crowd, you’re in the way.”
“Suppose we cut out this cross-talk and get down to business?” I
urged. “Now you’ve seen her, will you play?”
Bix sipped his whisky, eyed Netta, eyed me.
“Yeah, I guess I can’t refuse a honey like her,” he said. “But it’s a
hell of a risk.”
“Skip it,” I said. “You know it’s dead easy. Don’t listen to him,
Netta, he’s trying to be important.”
“Seriously, is it risky?” Netta asked; her eyes searching Bix’s face.
For a moment Bix wrestled with the temptation to exaggerate,
decided against it. “Well, no,” he admitted, scowling at me. “Once you
sell the pilot the idea-and you’ve already done that- it’s easy enough.
We’l meet at the gates of the airport, go in together, have a drink at
the mess. I’ll then offer to show you over my kite and we’ll go down to
the dispersal point. No one will be around if we get down there
before twenty-two-fifteen hours. You two will get into the kite, and I’ll
show you where to hide. We take off at twenty-two-thirty hours.
When we get to the other side, there’l be a car waiting for me. All you
have to do is to get in the back. I’ll dump my kit and some rugs on top
of you and off we go. Once we’re clear of the airport, you can come
up for air, and I’ll drop you off wherever you want to be dropped off.”
Netta thought for a moment. “It’s really as simple as that?”
“That’s right. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again. But I warn
you, I claim a kiss from my passengers.”
“You won’t kiss me,” I said coldly. “I’d rather swim the Atlantic if
those are your terms.”
“So would I,” Bix said hurriedly. “I wasn’t talking to you, lug.”
Netta smiled at him. “There won’t be any difficulty about that,”
she said. “I think the terms are most reasonable.”
We kidded back and forth for twenty minutes or so, sank a
number of whiskies, and then, at eight-ten, Bix said he guessed he’d
better be getting along.
“See you two outside the airport at twenty-one-forty-five,” he
said. “And don’t get steamed up. It’s in the bag.” He took Netta’s
hand. “See you soon,” he went on. “Don’t forget if you ever grow
tired of that lug, I’m next on the list. Red-heads go straight to my
heart.”
“I’ll remember,” she said, gave him a long stare which seemed to
weaken him, then she smiled. “If I see much more of you,” she
continued, “I think I’ll be changing my mind about my lug, although he
is a nice lug if you overlook his table manners.”
“He can’t help that,” Bix said, grinning. “He hasn’t been house-
broken like me.”
He took himself off as if he was walking on air.
The moment the door swung behind him, Netta lost her gaiety,
looked anxiously at me.
“Are you sure it’s all right?” she asked. “He’s such a boy. Are you
sure you can trust him to get us across safely?”
“Quit fussing,” I said. “That guy’s done over a hundred operational
trips. He’s bombed Germany from hell to breakfast and back again.
Maybe he does look like a boy, but don’t let that fool you. When he
says he’l do something, he does it. He’s taken a liking to you, and that
means we’re as good as there.”
She heaved a little sigh, took my arm.
“All right, darling,” she said. “I won’t fuss, but I’m nervous. What
do we do now?”
“We go back `to the flat, pick up your things and get over to the
airport. Come on, Netta, the journey’s begun.”
Ten minutes later we were back in Madge Kennitt’s flat.
“You’re travelling light, I hope?” I asked, as I tossed my hat on the
chaise-longue.
She nodded. “Just a grip. I hate leaving all my lovely dresses, but
I’ll be able to buy what I want on the other side.” She came over to
me, put her arms around my neck. “You’ve been wonderful to me,
Steve. I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know what I’d’ve done
without you.”
For a moment I felt like a heel, then I remembered the way
Littlejohns had looked, curled up on the floor, and that stiffened me.
“Forget it,” I said. “You ready now?”
She said what I hoped she would say: what I knew the success or
failure of my plan depended on.
“Give me five minutes, Steve,” she said. “I want to change. This
get-up isn’t warm enough for an air trip.”
“Go ahead. Get into your woollies,” I said. “I’m damned if I don’t
come in and help you.”
She laughed uneasily, went to the bedroom door.
“You keep out, Mr. Harmas,” she said with mock severity.
“It’s a long time since you saw me undress, and I’d be shy.”
“You’re right,” I said, suddenly serious. “It is a long time: too long,
Netta.”
But she wasn’t listening. She went into the bedroom, shut the
door. I listened, heard the key turn.
I sat on the chaise-longue, lit a cigarette. The palms of my hands
were damp, the muscles in my thighs twitched. I was in a regular fever
of excitement.
Five minutes crawled by, then another five. I could hear Netta
moving about in the next room. Cigarette ash covered the carpet at
my feet.
“Hey!” I called, my nerves getting the better of me. “Time’s
getting on, Netta.”
“I’m coming,” she said; a moment later I heard the lock snap back
and she came out.
She was wearing a light wool sweater, coal-black slacks and a fur
coat over her arm. In her right hand she carried a fair-sized suit-case.
“Sorry to be so long,” she said, smiling, although her face was
pale, her eyes anxious. “It’s only five minutes after nine. Do I look all
right?”
I went over to her. “You look terrific,” I said, putting my arm
around her waist.
She pushed me away almost roughly, shook her head, tried to
keep the smile on her lips. It looked lopsided to me.
“Not now, Steve,” she said. “Let’s wait until we’re safe.”
“That’s all right, kid,” I said.
She’d pushed me off too late. I’d already felt what she had on
under the sweater, around her waist.
“Come on, let’s go.”
I picked up my hat, glanced around the room to make sure we’d
left nothing, crossed to the door.
Netta followed. I carried her bag. She carried the fur coat on her
arm.
I opened the door.
Facing me, his eyes frosty, his mouth grim, stood Corridan.
Chapter XXIV
NETTA’s thin scream cut the air with the sharpness of a pencil
grating on a slate.
“Hello, Corridan,” I said, soberly, stepping back, “so you’re in at
the finish after all.”
He entered the room, closed the door. His pale eyes looked
inquisitively at Netta. She shrank away from him, her hand to her
face.
“I don’t know what you two are doing in here,” he said coldly,
“but that can wait. I have a warrant for your arrest, Harmas. I’m sorry.
I’ve warned you enough times. Bradley has charged you with stealing
four rings and with assault. You’ll have to come along with me.”
I laughed mirthlessly. “That’s too bad,” I said. “Right now,
Corridan, there’s more important things for you to worry about. Take
a look at this young woman here. Don’t you want to be introduced?” I
smiled at Netta who stared back at me, tense, her eyes glittering in a
white face.
Corridan gave me a sharp glance. “Who is she?”
“Can’t you guess?” I said. “Look at her red hair. Can’t you smell
the lilac perfume? Come on, Corridan, what the hell kind of detective
are you?”
His face showed his astonishment.
“You mean it’s . . . ?” he began.
I shook my head at Netta. “I’m sorry about this, kid,” I said. “But
you can’t beat the rap now.” I turned back to Corridan. “Of course.
Meet Netta Anne Scott Bradley.”
Netta recoiled. “Oh,” she gasped furiously, then: “You — you
bastard!”
“Soft-pedal the language, honey,” I said. “Corridan blushes easily.”
Corridan stared at Netta, then at me.
“You mean this woman’s Netta Scott?” he demanded.
“Of course she is,” I said. “Or Mrs. Jack Bradley, known as Anne
Scott, if you like that better. I told you all along she hadn’t committed
suicide. Well, here she is as large as life, and I’ll show you something
else that’ll interest you.”
I grabbed hold of Netta as she backed away.
Her face was grey-white like putty; her eyes burned with rage and
fear. She struck at me, her fingers like claws. I grabbed her wrists,
twisted her arms behind her, held her against me.
“Take it easy, kid,” I said, keeping clear of her vicious kicks. “Show
the Inspector your nice line in underwear.” I caught hold of her
sweater, peeled it over her head. Then tucking her, screaming and
kicking, under my arm, I yanked down the zipper on her trousers,
pulled in two directions.
Corridan gave an angry snort, stepped forward. “Stop it!” he
exclaimed. “What the hel do you think you’re doing.”
“Skinning a rabbit,” I said, carrying Netta over to the chaise-
longue and forcing her face down on it. I had a job to hold her, but I at
last got my knee in her back and pinned her.
Corridan grabbed my arm, but I shook him off.
“Take a look at that belt,” I said, pointing to the heavy money belt
that was strapped around Netta’s waist.
Corridan paused, muttered to himself, stood away.
I undid the buckle, jerked off the belt, stood back.
Netta lay on the chaise-longue, her fists clenched, her breath
coming in great sobbing gasps.
With a quick shake I emptied the contents of the belt on the
carpet at Corridan’s feet.
“There you are, brother,” I said dramatically. “Fifty thousand
pounds’ worth of jewellery! Take a look. Allenby’s loot.”
Corridan gaped down at the heap of assorted rings, necklaces,
bracelets on the carpet. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds gleamed like
fireflies in the electric light.
“I’ll kill you for this!” Netta screamed, suddenly sitting up. She
sprang to her feet, flung herself at me.
I shoved her off so roughly that she sprawled on the floor.
“You’re through, Netta,” I said, standing over her. “Get that into
your thick little skull. If you hadn’t killed Littlejohns I might have
played with you, but you killed him to save your rotten skin, and that
let me out. What the hell do you think I am? A sucker? I wouldn’t
cover up anyone who did what you did to Littlejohns.”
Netta crawled to her feet, then flopped limply on the chaise-
longue, buried her face in her hands.
I turned to Corridan who was still staring at the heap of jewel ery
as if hypnotized.
“Well, I hope you’re satisfied,” I said. “I promised myself I’d crack
the Allenby case because you acted so damn high-hat. I’ve done it.”
Corridan’s face was a study. He looked at Netta, at me. “But how
did you know she had the stuff on her?” he demanded.
“You’ll be surprised how much I do know,” I said. “She and Jack
Bradley were behind the Allenby robbery. I’ll give you all the facts,
and then you can manufacture the evidence. Do you want to hear?”
“Of course, I want to hear,” he said, knelt down, scooped up the
jewelery, dropped it back into the belt. “How did you get on to this?”
He put the belt on the table.
“I got on to it because I never believed Netta committed suicide,”
I said, lighting a cigarette and perching myself on the table. “I was
sure she hadn’t killed herself after I had searched the flat. Most of her
clothes and all her silk stockings had vanished. I’ve known Netta for
some time, and have a good idea of her character. She wasn’t the
type to commit suicide, and she had a passion for clothes. It seemed
to me, after the body had been kidnapped, that some other girl had
died in her flat, and Netta, taking fright, had run off with as many of
her clothes as she could carry.”
Corridan leaned against the wall, eyed me.
“You told me all that before,” he said, “and I worked that out for
myself anyway.”
“Sure,” I said. “But there was plenty still to puzzle me. For one
thing, who was the dead girl? Then another thing foxed me. Why
should Netta, although she’d taken time to pack her clothes, have left
sixteen five-pound notes in the flat and that bunch of bonds worth
five thousand pounds? That got me for some time until Madge
Kennitt told me a girl and a man had been with Netta that night. The
girl was obviously the one who’d died. The man either killed her or
/> was Netta’s accomplice. It seemed to me the reason why Netta had
left the money in the flat was because she didn’t trust her companion,
and he didn’t give her a chance to get the money from its hiding-place
without him seeing her do it. So she had to leave it there, but hoped
to collect it later, but I found it first.” I glanced over at Netta, but she
didn’t look up. She sat with her head in her hands, motionless.
“Go on,” Corridan said quietly.
“Who was the mysterious man, and why didn’t she want him to
know about the money?” I went on. “I’ve talked to Netta, and she has
told me he was Peter French, who was Anne’s lover. That’s another
way of saying he was Netta’s lover. You see, Netta never had a sister.
But we’ll come back to Peter French in a moment.
“Nine months ago, Netta married Jack Bradley. For some reason
they kept the marriage a secret, and they didn’t live together except
at week-ends which they spent in a cottage at Lakeham, bought by
Bradley as a hide-out for them both. Netta cal ed herself Anne Scott
when she was at Lakeham. She tells me that French killed her sister
because she knew he had killed George Jacobi. Since she never had a
sister, that was obviously a lie. Who then was the girl who had died in
Netta’s flat, and was later found in the cottage? I want you to get this
clear, Corridan. The girl who was kidnapped from the mortuary and
the girl we found in the cottage were one and the same.”
Corridan pursed his lips. “But one was a red-head and the other
was a blonde,” he said. “How do you account for that?”
“Netta explained it to me,” I said. “She tells me that French dyed
the girl’s hair and bleached it back to its normal colour after he had
removed the body to the cottage.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Corridan muttered.
I nodded. “It wants a little believing,” I said, “but after thinking it
over, it seems to me that’s what happened. If the girl wasn’t Netta’s
sister, and I’ve proved beyond doubt that Netta never had a sister,
then who was she and why was she murdered, and why was the
murderer so anxious to prevent her being identified?”
“Have you found that out?” Corridan asked eagerly.
“I think so,” I returned. “Not only have I found it out, but
Littlejohns found it out, too. That’s why he died.”