James Chase - No Business Of Mine

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 !”