No Business Of Mine Read online

  “Sorry, my work is too urgent,” I said, walking with him to the

  elevator.

  “By the way,” he said casually, as we waited for the elevator to

  come from the ground floor. “You and Netta were lovers at one time,

  weren’t you?”

  I remembered what Littlejohns had said, grinned to myself.

  “Not really,” I returned. “Just a boy and a girl romance.”

  He nodded, stepped into the elevator and we rode down in

  silence.

  “Do change your mind,” he said when we reached the lobby.

  “Sorry,” I said, shaking hands. “But I’ve got to get along. So long.

  Have a drink on me.”

  He nodded. “So long, Harmas,” he said, turned back. “Oh, there’s

  just one little thing, you’ll keep out of this business, won’t you? I think

  I mentioned it before. It’s not easy for my men to follow up leads if

  they’ve already been disturbed by enthusiastic newspaper men. That

  kind of thing’s all right in your country, but not here. You might bear

  that in mind.”

  We exchanged somewhat dirty looks.

  “Whoever heard of a newspaper man being enthusiastic?” I said,

  and hurried off for a chat with Julius Cole.

  Chapter IX

  I PAID off the taxi outside Mrs. Crockett’s residence, looked up at

  the building. There was a light showing in both the first floor and

  second floor flats; the top flat was in darkness.

  I had intended to try if I could find out something more about

  Julius Cole, but when I saw the lighted windows of the first floor flat, I

  changed my mind and decided to cal on Madge Kennitt instead. I

  wondered if the police had questioned her. If they had and learned

  nothing, then I was wasting my time. I could always go upstairs to see

  Julius Cole if Madge Kennitt had nothing to tell me, I consoled myself.

  I mounted the steps, opened the front door and entered the hall.

  On the first landing, Madge Kennitt’s door faced me. As I reached for

  the knocker I heard a faint sound from upstairs, looked up quickly. I

  was in time to see Julius Cole duck out of sight. I smiled to myself.

  That guy missed nothing. I rat-tatted on the door, waited.

  There was a long pause, then I head heavy thudding footsteps and

  the door jerked open.

  A short, fat woman stood squarely in the doorway. She was

  around forty-five, and had a lot of face and chin. Her straw-coloured

  hair, brittle by constant bleaching was set in a ruthless permanent.

  Her moist eyes were as sympathetic as marbles at the bottom of a

  pond, and her complexion was raddled with rouge and powder which

  failed to hide the purple bloom of a whisky soak.

  “Good evening,” I said. “Miss Kennitt?”

  She peered at me, belched gently. A puff of whisky-ladened

  breath fanned my face. I reminded myself to duck the next time she

  did that.

  “Who is it?” she asked. “Come in. I can’t see you out there.”

  She stepped back into the hard light of the sitting-room. I

  followed her. It was quite a room. The main piece of furniture was a

  reed chaise-longue by the window. It had a curved back and enough

  cushions to stuff an elephant. One side of the room was given up to

  dozens of empty bottles of whisky. Just to look at them gave me a

  thirst. Then there was a rickety table, a straight-backed chair and a

  well-worn imitation Turkey carpet on the floor. A bucket stood by the

  chaise-longue, three-quarters filled with cigarette butts. The smell of

  stale whisky, nicotine and cheap scent was overpowering.

  By the empty fireplace a big black cat lay full-length. It was the

  biggest cat I’ve ever seen. Its long hair was silky: it looked in a lot

  better shape than Madge Kennitt.

  I put my hat on the table, tried to breathe through my mouth, put

  on a friendly expression.

  Madge Kennitt was looking at me in that puzzled way people have

  when they’ve seen a face before but can’t place it. Then suddenly her

  eyelids narrowed, and a. sly smirk settled on her thick lips.

  “I know you,” she said. “I’ve seen you in and out there. It must be

  nearly two years since last you came. You’re that Scott girl’s friend,

  aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I wanted to talk to you about her.”

  “Oh, did you?” She padded over to the chaise-longue, settled

  herself down on it like an elephant about to roll in the dust. “Now I

  wonder what you want to talk to me about her for.” Her fat, doughy-

  looking hand dipped down on the off-side of the chaise-longue and

  hoisted up a bottle of Scotch.

  “I have a bad heart,” she explained, eyeing the bottle greedily.

  “This stuff’s the only thing that keeps me alive.” She carefully

  unscrewed the metal cap, hoisted up a dirty tumbler and poured

  three inches of whisky into it. She held up the bottle, inspected it

  against the light, grimaced. “I can’t offer you any,” she went on. “I’m

  running low. Besides I don’t believe young men should drink for

  pleasure.” She belched again, but I was well out of range. “It’s a

  disgrace invalids like me have so much worry and trouble getting the

  stuff. Doctors ought to supply it to deserving cases.” She looked at me

  out of the corners of her eyes. “And don’t think I like it. I loathe the

  muck. I can hardly get it down, but it’s the only thing that keeps me

  alive—I’ve tried everything else.” She lowered two inches of the raw

  spirit down her thick throat, closed her eyes, sighed. For someone

  who hated the stuff, she took it remarkably well.

  I sat on the straight-backed chair, wondered if I’d ever get used to

  the smell in the room, took out a cigarette.

  “Have a smoke?” I asked, waving the carton at her.

  She shook her head. “Only smoke my own brand,” she said,

  hoisting up a vast box of Woodbines from behind the chaise-longue,

  selected one, lowered the box out of sight.

  We lit up.

  “Miss Kennitt,” I said, staring at my cigarette and wondering how

  much to tel her. “Netta Scott was a friend of mine. Her death came as

  a great shock to me. I wonder if you know anything about it. I’m trying

  to find out why she did it.”

  The fat woman settled herself more comfortably, thumped her

  floppy bosom, belched gently.

  “You were lovers, weren’t you?” she asked, a sly smirk crossing

  her purple face.

  “Does that matter?” I asked.

  “It does to me,” she said, sipped the whisky: “two young people

  making love reminds me of my own youth.”

  I couldn’t imagine her ever being young or in love.

  “Netta wasn’t the loving type,” I said, after a moment’s hesitation

  as to how to steer her away from this topic.

  “She was a sexy little bitch,” Madge Kennitt said, winking at the

  ceiling. “You can’t tell me anything I don’t know.”

  I flicked ash on to the carpet, wished I hadn’t ever met the hag.

  “All right,” I said, shrugging. “What does it matter? She’s dead.

  Names can’t hurt her.”

  “I wasn’t good enough for her,”
the woman muttered, drained her

  glass, hoisted up the bottle again. “I thought she’d come to a sticky

  end. I suppose she was pregnant?”

  “You know as much about it as I do,” I said.

  “Perhaps I know more,” she returned, looking sly. “You’ve only

  just got back, haven’t you? You don’t know what’s been going on here

  during the past two years. Mr. Cole and I know most things.”

  “Yeah, he doesn’t miss much,” I said, hoping to draw her. She

  shook her bleached head, poured more whisky into the tumbler.

  “He’s a filthy rat,” she said, closing her eyes. “Peeping and prying

  all day long. I bet he knows you’re with me now.”

  I nodded. “Sure. He saw me come in here.”

  “It won’t do him any good. One of these days I’m going to tell him

  what I think of him. I’ll enjoy that.”

  “Did the police ask you anything about Netta?” I asked casual y.

  She smiled. “Oh, yes, they asked questions. I didn’t tell them

  anything. I don’t believe in helping the police. I don’t like them. They

  came in here, sniffing and prying; I could see they thought I was a

  drunken old woman. They don’t believe I have a bad heart. One of the

  detectives, a cold, smug-looking brute, smirked at me. I don’t like men

  smirking at me, so I didn’t tell him anything.” She poured more whisky

  down her throat, grunted. “You’re an American, aren’t you?”

  I said I was.

  “I thought so. I like Americans. Mr. Churchill likes Americans. I like

  Mr. Churchill. What he likes, I seem to like, too. I’ve noticed it over

  and over again.” She waved her tumbler excitedly, slopped whisky on

  her chest. “What do you do for a living?”

  “Oh, I write,” I said. “I’m a newspaper man.”

  She nodded. “I was sure of it. I’m good at guessing professions.

  When I first saw you, coming in with that little slut, I said to myself

  you were a writer. Did she know how to make love? Some of these

  modern chits—especially the pretty ones rely on their looks. They

  don’t know or care how to please a man. I knew. Men liked me. They

  were always coming back.”

  “Do you think Netta committed suicide?” I asked abruptly, rather

  sick of her.

  She lay still, staring up at the ceiling. “They said she did,” she

  returned cautiously. “That’s a funny question to ask, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think she did,” I said, lighting another cigarette. “That’s

  why I thought I’d talk to you.”

  She emptied her glass, put it on the floor beside her. It toppled

  over, rol ed under the chaise-longue. I thought she was beginning to

  get a little tight.

  “I don’t know anything about it,” she said, smiled to herself.

  “Pity,” I said. “I thought you might. Maybe I’d better talk to Mr.

  Cole.”

  She frowned. “He won’t tel you anything. He knows too much.

  Why did he tell the police Netta came home alone? I heard him. Why

  did he lie about that?”

  I tried not to show too much interest. “Didn’t she come home

  alone? “

  “Course she didn’t. Cole knows that as wel as I do.” She groped

  for her bottle, hoisted it up, examined it. I could see it was a quarter

  full. “This damn stuff evaporates,” she said in disgust. “A full bottle

  not an hour ago, and now look at it. How the hell can I go on hunting

  for the stuff if it goes like this?”

  “Who else was with her?” I asked.

  She didn’t seem to hear, but leaned over and tried to find the

  tumbler.

  “I’ll get it,” I said, bent down, hooked out the tumbler, handed it

  to her. Her reeking breath fanned my cheek.

  I had a glimpse of an indescribable heap of rubbish pushed under

  the chaise-longue: dirty garments, shoes, cigarette cartons, crockery,

  old newspapers.

  She grabbed the tumbler, clutched it to her.

  “Who else was with Netta?” I repeated, kneeling at her side,

  looking at her intently. “Was it another girl?”

  Her face showed surprise.

  “How do you know?” she asked, lifting her head so she could see

  me. “You weren’t there, were you?”

  “So it was another girl,” I said, a sudden tingling running down my

  spine.

  She nodded, added, “And a man.”

  Now I was getting somewhere.

  “Who were they?”

  A look of cunning came into the glassy eyes.

  “Why should I tell you? Ask Cole if you’re so interested. He saw

  them. He sees everything.”

  I returned to my chair, sat down.

  “I’m asking you. Listen, I don’t think it was suicide. I think it was

  murder.”

  She had unscrewed the cap of the whisky and was pouring the

  spirit into the tumbler. The bottle and tumbler dropped out of her

  hands, rolled on to the carpet. She gave a thin scream, her face turned

  grey.

  “Murder?” she gasped. “Murder!”

  I made a dive for the bottle, but I was too late. The whisky poured

  out on to the carpet.

  I stood over her. “Yes,” I said. “Murder.”

  “I won’t be frightened,” she exclaimed, struggling to sit up. “It’s

  bad for my heart. Here, give me that whisky. I want a drink.”

  “Then you’d better open another bottle,” I said, watching her

  closely. “There’s none left in this one.”

  “I haven’t got another bottle,” she wailed, sinking back. “Oh, God!

  What am I going to do now?”

  “Aw, forget it,” I exclaimed, wanting to shake her. “Who were the

  man and woman who came back with Netta? What time did they

  leave? Come on, this is important. They may know something.”

  She lay still for a moment, a great inert lump of flesh, then she

  looked at me, her smal eyes cunning.

  “How important is it to you?” she demanded. “I can tell you who

  the man is, and the girl, too. I know them. I can tell you what time the

  man left. I saw him. I’ll tell you if you get me a bottle of whisky.”

  “I’ll get you one,” I said. “I’l bring you one to-morrow. Now, come

  on! Who were they?”

  “I want one to-night-now.” She clenched her fat hands into fists.

  “You can get one. Americans can get anything.”

  “Don’t talk like a fool,” I said, exasperated. “It’s past eleven

  o’clock. Of course I can’t get whisky to-night.”

  “Then I’m not telling you.”

  “I could call the police,” I threatened, furious with her.

  She smirked. “You wouldn’t do that,” she said, winking. “I’m on to

  you. You wouldn’t want to get that little slut into trouble.”

  “Now, look,” I said, controlling my temper with an effort, “don’t

  be unreasonable. I’ll get you the whisky to-morrow morning. I’ll get

  you two bottles, and I’ll give you right now five pounds if you’ll talk. I

  can’t be fairer than that.”

  She half raised herself on her elbow. Her face was now dark with

  frustrated fury.

  “Get that damn whisky now or get out!” she screamed at me.

  I got to my feet, moved across the room, back
again. Then I

  remembered Sam, the barman at the Blue Club. He’d sel me a bottle

  of whisky if I made it worth his while.

  “Okay,” I said, turning to the door. “I’ll see what I can do. But no

  fooling, or I’ll drink the damn stuff myself.”

  She nodded, waved me away.

  “Hurry!” she said. “I’ll tell you what you want to know if you get

  it. Go on . . . hurry!”

  I ran down the steps into the street, looked left and right for a

  taxi. There wasn’t a sign of one. I decided it would be quicker in the

  long run to wait, so I stood on the edge of the kerb, kept watch.

  It looked as if I was now on the right track. Netta had brought a

  girl back with her and I was willing to stake everything I owned that it

  was this girl who had died in Netta’s flat. Who could the man be?

  Netta’s boy friend? Someone else? Could it have been Julius Cole?

  And who was the girl?

  I suddenly felt I was being watched. I didn’t look around

  immediately, but lit a cigarette, tossed the match into the gutter, then

  glanced over my shoulder. There seemed no one about, but for all

  that, I was pretty sure someone was tailing me. I thought of Frankie,

  wondered if he was going to have another try at beating my brains in.

  I stood there for ten minutes or so before a taxi returning to the West

  End, drew up. I told him to take me to the Blue Club, and as we drove

  off, I peered through the rear window. I spotted a sudden movement.

  Inspector Corridan stepped out of a dark doorway, stood in the

  middle of the pavement, looking after me. He glanced up and down

  the street as if hoping to find another taxi to follow me, but he was

  unlucky.

  I grinned to myself. So Corridan had followed me to Madge

  Kennitt’s place. He wouldn’t know I had visited her. He probably

  thought I had been to see Julius Cole. It looked as if Corridan was

  keeping an eye on me; did think I might be hooked up in this case.

  A quarter of an hour later I arrived at the Blue Club. Ten minutes

  after that, I was trying to pick up another taxi back to Cromwell Road,

  the precious bottle of Scotch under my arm. It had cost me five

  pounds, but I hoped the information I was going to receive would be

  worth that and more.

  When a taxi eventually turned up, my wrist watch showed eleven

  forty-five. I gave the address, sat back, relaxed.