James Chase - No Business Of Mine

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.

The run to Cromwell Road seemed interminable, but in actual

fact, it only took ten minutes. I paid off the taxi, noted that Madge

Kennitt’s light still burned, grinned to myself. I guessed the old hag

was waiting as impatiently for the whisky as I was for the information.

I pushed open the front door and stepped softly across the hall,

mounted the stairs, I didn’t want Julius Cole to hear me. Madge

Kennitt’s door was ajar. I paused, frowned. I remembered closing it

when I left. Maybe she had opened it to let the cat out, I thought,

pushed the door, glanced into the room.

Madge was lying on the chaise-longue, her mouth open, her eyes

glassy. Blood welled from a great gash in her throat, poured down her

floppy bosom on to the Turkey carpet.

She was as dead as a soused mackerel.

Chapter X

FOR a full minute I stood staring at Madge Kennitt too shocked to

move, then I stepped into the room, stood over her.

Her sightless eyes glared up at me, the blood dripped steadily on

to the floor. I turned away, weak at the knees.

Because I didn’t know what to do, I wandered around the room,

looking aimlessly for the weapon that had killed her. I couldn’t find it.

I stepped to the chaise-longue, peered over the offside.

Three empty whisky bottles and the carton of Woodbines met my

eyes. The dust on the floor-boards that side was thick; written in the

dust within reach of Madge’s hand which flopped lifelessly on the

floor was a word. I moved closer, peered at it. It was badly written,

and it seemed to me that Madge might have written it either when

she was dying or just before the killer had struck. It took me a few

seconds to decipher the scrawl. She had written on the floor in the

dust the name: Jacobi. It meant nothing to me, but I stored it away in

my mind for future reference.

I suddenly remembered Corridan. If he was still hanging about

outside and decided to come in to see what I was doing, I’d be in a

hell of a spot. I made a dive for the door, ran down the stairs, opened

the front door. I looked up and down the street, but could see no one.

Across the street was a telephone box, and I hurried over, dialled

Whitehal 1212, asked for Corridan.

While I waited, I glanced idly along the street. The headlights of a

car appeared out of what seemed an alley, down the street on the

opposite side to where I was telephoning. A moment later a car came

swiftly towards me, went on towards the West End. As it passed

under a street light, I recognized it. It was the battered Standard

Fourteen and Frankie was at the wheel.

Before I could think anything of this, someone came on the line to

say Corridan was out on patrol with a police car. I asked for them to

get into immediate touch with him and to tell him to come at once to

Mrs. Crockett.

“Tell him it’s a murder,” I said, hung up.

I didn’t fancy waiting for Corridan in Madge’s room, so I returned

to the house, sat on the doorstep. While I waited, I did a little