James Chase - No Business Of Mine

them back with a hand as big as a man’s.

She ran up the flagged path. Her eyes were wild, her mouth was

working. She looked as if she were suffering from acute grief and

shock.

Bert winked at the other policeman as he followed the woman

into the cottage.

I lit another cigarette, settled down in the car, waited a little

anxiously.

A sudden animal-like cry drifted through the open windows, and

was followed by the sound of wild hysterical sobbing.

“It must be Anne Scott,” I said, troubled.

“Looks like it,” the policeman returned, staring in the direction of

the cottage.

After a long while the sobbing died down. We waited almost half

an hour before the woman appeared again. She walked slowly, her

face hidden by a dirty handkerchief, her shoulders sagging.

The policeman opened the gate for her, helped her through by

taking her elbow. It was meant sympathetical y, but she immediately

shook him off.

“Take your bloody hands off me,” she said in a muffled voice,

went on down the lane.

“A proper lady,” the policeman said, chewing his chin-strap and

going red.

“Maybe she’s been reading Macbeth,” I suggested, but that didn’t

seem to console him.

It was how almost an hour and a half since I had seen Corridan. I

was hungry. It was past one-thirty; but I decided to wait, hopeful I

might see something more or get a chance of telling Corridan what I

thought of him.

Ten minutes later he came to the door and waved to me. I was

out of the car, past the policeman in split seconds.

“All right,” he said curtly as I dashed up to him. “I suppose you

want to look around. But for God’s sake don’t tell anyone I’ve let you

in.”

I decided that after al I hadn’t wasted my money feeding this lug.

“Thanks,” I said. “I won’t tell a soul.”

There was still a strong smel of gas in the cottage, which grew

stronger as we entered the kitchen.

“It’s Anne Scott all right,” Corridan said gloomily, pointing to a

huddled figure lying on the floor.

I stood over her, felt inadequate, could think of nothing to say.

She wore a pink dressing-gown and white pyjamas, her feet were

bare, her hands clenched tightly into fists. Her head lay hidden in the

gas oven. By moving around, carefully stepping over her legs, I could

see into the oven. She was a blonde, about twenty-five; even in death

she was attractive, although I could see no resemblance to Netta in

the serene rather lovely face.

I stepped back, looked at Corridan. “Sure she’s Anne Scott?” I

asked.

He made an impatient movement. “Of course,” he said. “The

woman identified her. You’re not trying to make out there’s a mystery

in this, are you?”

“Odd they should both commit suicide, isn’t it?” I said, feeling in

my bones that something was very wrong.

He jerked his head, walked into the sitting-room.

“Read that,” he said, handed me a sheet of note-paper. “It was

found by her side.”

I took the note, read:

Without Netta life means nothing to me. Please forgive me. ANNE.

I handed it back. “After fifty years in the police force, I feel

justified in saying that’s a plant,” I said.

He took the paper. “Don’t try to be funny,” he said coldly.

I grinned. “Who do you suppose it was addressed to?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Mrs. Brambee tells me a lot of

men used to come down here. There was one fellow-Peter-who Anne

used to talk a lot about. Maybe it was for him.”

“Would that be Peter Utterly?” I asked. “The guy who gave Netta

the gun?”

Corridan rubbed his chin. “Doubtful,” he said. “Utterly went back

to the States a month or so ago.”

“Yeah, I’d forgotten that,” I said, wandering over to the writing-

desk that stood in the window recess. “Well, I suppose you’ll look for

this guy?” I opened the lid of the desk, glanced inside. There were no

papers, no letters. All the pigeon-holes had been carefully cleared.

“She tidied up before she threw in her hand,” I pointed out. “Any

letters or papers anywhere?”

He shook his head.

“No means of checking if the handwriting of the note is really

Anne’s?”

“My dear fellow . . .” he began a little tartly.

“Skip it,” I said. “I’ve a suspicious nature. Find anything

interesting?”

“Nothing,” he returned, eyed me narrowly. “I’ve searched the

place thoroughly; there’s nothing to connect her with forged bonds,

diamond rings or anything like that. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“I’ll get over it,” I said, grinning. “Just give me time. Find any silk

stockings in the place?”

“I didn’t look for silk stockings,” he snapped back. “I’ve more

important things to do.”

“Let’s look,” I said. “I have a thing about silk stockings. “Where’s

the bedroom?”

“Now look here, Harmas, this has gone far enough. I’ve let you in .

. .”

“For your rupture’s sake, if not for me, calm down,” I said, patting

him on his arm. “What’s the harm in looking? Netta had silk stockings

and they vanished. Anne may have had silk stockings and they may

still be here. Let’s look.”

He gave me an exasperated glare, turned to the door. “Wait

here,” he said, began to mount the stairs.

I kept on his heels. “You may need me. Always a good thing to

have a witness.”

He led the way into a small but luxuriously furnished bedroom,

went immediately to a chest of drawers and began to paw over a

mass of silk undies, sweaters and scarves.

“You handle that stuff like a married man,” I said, opened the

wardrobe, peered in. There were only two frocks and a two- piece

costume hanging up. “She didn’t have many clothes, poor kid,” I went

on. “Maybe she couldn’t get coupons, or do you think she was a

nudist?”

He scowled at me. “There’re no stockings here,” he said.

“No stockings of any kind at all?”

“No.”

“Seems to confirm my nudist theory, doesn’t it?” I said. “You

might like to turn this stocking angle over in your nimble, sharp-witted

mind. I’m going to do that myself, and I’m going to keep at it until I

find out why neither of these girls had any stockings.”

“What the hel are you driving at?” Corridan burst out. “You have

a shilling-shocker mind. Who do you think you are- Perry Mason?”

“Don’t tell me you read detective stories,” I said, surprised. “Well,

what happens now?”

“I’m waiting for the ambulance,” Corridan said, following me

downstairs. “The body will be taken to the Horsham mortuary, and

the inquest will also be held there. I don’t expect anything will come

out at the inquest. It’s pretty straightforward.” But he sounded

worried.

“Do you really think she learned about Netta’s suicide and

followed suit?” I asked.

“Why not?” he returned. “You’d be surprised how suicides fol ow

in families. We have a bunch of statistics about it.”

“I was forgetting you worked by rule of thumb,” I returned. “What

was the idea of keeping me out until you sniffed around?”

“Now see here, Harmas, you have no damn business here at all.

You are here on sufferance,” Corridan retorted. “This is a serious

business, and I can’t have rubbernecks watching me work.”

“Calling me a rubberneck is as big a lie as calling what you do