James Chase - No Business Of Mine

work,” I said sadly. “But never mind. I’ll behave, and thanks for the

break anyway.”

He looked sharply at me to see if I was kidding, decided I was,

compressed his lips.

“Well, that’s all there’s to see. You’d better be moving before the

ambulance arrived.

“Yeah, I’ll be off,” I said, wandering to the front door. “You

wouldn’t be interested in my theory about this second death I

suppose?”

“Not in the slightest,” he said firmly.

“I thought as much. It’s a pity, because I think I could have put you

on the right lines. I guess you’ll have a guard on the body this time?

You don’t want it stolen like the other was, do you?”

“Oh, rubbish,” he said crossly. “Nothing like that’ll happen. But

I’m taking precautions if that’s what you mean.”

“Oddly enough, that’s exactly what I do mean,” I said, smiled at

him, opened the door. “Be seeing you, pal,” I went on, left him.

I winked at the policeman at the gate, got into the Buick and

drove slowly down the lane. I had a lot to think about, and I didn’t

quite know where to start. I thought it mightn’t be a bad idea to have

a word with Mrs. Brambee. That seemed the obvious starting-point.

I knew her cottage couldn’t be far, as Bert, the policeman, had

only been a few minutes fetching her. I didn’t want Corridan to know

what I was up to, so I drove to the end of the lane, parked the Buick

behind a thicket, and walked back. I was lucky to meet a farmhand

who pointed Mrs. Brambee’s place out to me. It was small and

dilapidated with a wild, overgrown garden.

I walked up the weed-covered path, rapped on the door. I had to

knock three times before I heard shuffling feet. A moment later, the

door jerked open and Mrs. Brambee confronted me. At close quarters

she seemed half gypsy. She was very swarthy and her jet-black eyes

were like little wet stones.

“What do you want?” she demanded in a harsh voice that

somehow reminded me of the caw of a crow.

“I’m a newspaper man, Mrs. Brambee,” I said, raising my hat;

hoped she’d appreciate good manners. “I’d like to ask you a few

questions about Miss Scott. You saw the body just now. Are you

absolutely sure it was Miss Scott?”

Her eyes snapped. “Of course, it was Miss Scott,” she said,

beginning to close the door. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Anyway, I don’t intend to answer questions. You get off.”

“I could make it worth your while,” I said, jingling my loose change

suggestively. “I want the inside story of this suicide, and my paper will

pay generously for it.”

“You and your paper can go to hell,” she shouted violently,

slammed the door, only I had my foot ready for just such a move.

“Now be nice,” I said, smiling at her through the three-inch

opening between the door-post and the door. “Who is this guy Peter

you were telling the Inspector about? Where can I find him?”

“She jerked open the door, put her hand on my chest and shoved.

I wasn’t expecting such a move, and I staggered back, lost my balance,

fell full-length. Her shove was like the kick from a horse.

The door slammed and I heard the bolt shoot home.

I got slowly to my feet, dusted myself down, whistled softly. Then

I glanced up at the upper windows, stiffened.

I had a fleeting glimpse of a girl looking down at me. Even as I

looked up, she jerked back from the window and out of sight. I

couldn’t even swear that it was a girl: it might have been a man-even

an optical illusion. But unless my eyes had deceived me, Netta Scott

was upstairs, and had been watching me.

Chapter VI

I WAS glancing through the newspaper, morning coffee on the

table by my bed, when a small item of news caught my eye. I sat up,

nearly upsetting the tray.

MYSTERIOUS FIRE AT HORSHAM MORTUARY

ran the headline. The few lines below the headline stated that at

twelve o’clock the previous night a fire had broken out in the

Horsham mortuary, and the efforts of the local fire brigade were

unavailing. The building had been completely destroyed, and three

policemen, who were on the premises, narrowly escaped with their

lives.

I threw the paper down, grabbed the telephone and put a call

through to Corridan. I was told that he was out of town.

I jumped out of bed, wandered into the bathroom, took a cold

shower. I shaved, came back to the bedroom, began to dress. All the

time I was thinking.

Someone behind the scenes was controlling this set-up, like a

puppet-master pul ing the strings. Whoever it was had to be stopped.

If Corridan wasn’t smart enough to stop him, then I was going to have

a try. Up to now, I’d tagged along in the rear as an interested

spectator. I was now going to take a more active part in this business.

I decided first to give Corridan one more chance. I asked the

switchboard girl to connect me with the Horsham police. After the

inevitable delay I was put through.

“Is Inspector Corridan with you, please?” I asked.

“Hold on, sir,” a voice invited me.

Corridan came on the line. “Yes?” he snapped. “What is it?” He

sounded like a lion who’d seen someone swipe his dinner.

“Hello,” I said. “This is your conscience cal ing you from the Savoy

Hotel. What have you got on your mind this morning?”

“For God’s sake don’t bother me now, Harmas,” Corridan

returned. “I’m busy.”

“When aren’t you?” I said. “That’s a sweet little item in the

newspaper this morning. What does Anne Scott look like now? Done

to a turn or burnt to a crisp?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said savagely. “It was nothing

like that at all. These fools here store their petrol in the mortuary of

all places, and a faulty electric wire set it off. We’ve satisfied ourselves

that there’s no evidence of arson, although it is a most extraordinary

coincidence. The body was practically burnt to a cinder. Fortunately,

of course, it has been officially identified, so there’ll be no trouble at

the inquest. Now you’ve heard the details, for goodness’ sake get off

the line and let me get on with my work.”

“Don’t rush away,” I said quickly. “I’m not satisfied about this

business, Corridan. Coincidence be damned for a tale. Look, I think . ..”

“So long, Harmas,” he broke in. “Someone’s waiting to speak to

me,” and he hung up.

I slammed down the receiver, selected four of the worst words in

my cursing vocabulary, said them, felt better. That settled it, I

thought. I was going to get into this business with both feet and the

hell with Corridan.

I went downstairs, buttonholed the hal porter.

“Brother,” I said to him, “can you tell me where I can hire a

reliable private detective?”

For a moment a look of faint astonishment showed in his eyes,

then he became once more the perfect servant.

“Certainly, sir,” he said, going to his desk. “I have an address here.

J. B. Merryweather, Thames House, Millbank. Mr. Merryweather was,

at one time, a Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard.”

“Swell,” I said, parted with two half-crowns, asked him to call me

a taxi.

I found J. B. Merryweather’s office on the top floor of a vast

concrete and steel building overlooking an uninspired portion of the

Thames.

Merryweather was short and fat; his face the colour of a