James Chase - No Business Of Mine

I said I’d see her in a day or so, steered her to the door, opened it.

Corridan was standing outside, his hand raised to knock. He gave

Crystal a surprised, rather shocked look, stood aside.

Crystal slid past him, hurried down the corridor without a

backward glance.”

“Hullo,” I said. “I thought I told the Desk to tell you I was coming

down.”

He wandered in, closed the door. “Oh, I didn’t want to bother you

to do that,” he said. “I hope I’m not intruding.” He gave me the

nearest he could come to in the leer line. “Friend of yours?”

“Certainly not,” I said. “That’s the floor waiter’s daughter. She was

cleaning the bath.”

He nodded, roamed around the room. “I’ve seen her at the Blue

Club on my one and only official visit, I believe, or am I mistaken?”

“At times you are quite observant,” I said, tartly.

“Oh, I notice blondes,” he returned with a dour smile. “Does that

mean you were at the club to-night?”

“Fortunately I don’t yet have to account to you for my actions,

motives or movements,” I returned, eyeing him. “But if you’re

bursting with curiosity I don’t mind admitting I was there.

Furthermore, I did bring the blonde back with me. I had some silk

stockings, and as I had no one to give them to, I thought she might

have them. There was nothing immoral about the transaction,

although, at a later date, I hope something along those lines may be

arranged. Satisfied?”

He didn’t appear to be listening.

“I dropped in as I was passing because I thought you’d be

interested to hear the coroner’s verdict on Anne Scott,” he said,

pausing to look out of the uncurtained windowed.

“I can guess what it was,” I returned. “Suicide while the balance of

her mind was disturbed. Tell me, have you satisfied yourself that

Netta had a sister?”

He looked at me, his eyelids drooped. “What a rum chap you are,”

he said. “Of course I satisfied myself there is such a person as Anne

Scott and she was Netta’s sister. What kind of a policeman do you

think I am? You’ll find the record in Somerset House if you feel like

checking it.”

“Okay,” I said, shrugging. “I wanted to see how thorough you’ve

been. How about Netta’s verdict?”

He shrugged. “The body will have to be found first. We’re looking

for it.”

“I see the Press haven’t got the story.”

Corridan scowled. “And they’re not having it,” he said grimly. “As

it is the Chief is raising blue murder. The less publicity at this stage the

better. We can rely on you to say nothing I hope?”

I grinned. “Sure,” I said, “I’ll keep your guilty secret. Nothing more

to tell me?”

He shook his head. “Not just yet,” he returned, “but I’ll keep you

in the picture.” He moved to the door. “Come down and have a

drink?”

“I’m coming down, but I can’t stop for a drink. I have something

important to do.”

“It’s nearly eleven o’clock,” Corridan said, raising his eyebrows.

“Come on, and don’t be unsociable.”

“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