James Chase - No Business Of Mine

“Never mind the Oscar Wilde act,” I said impatiently. “Are you

telling me Netta Scott’s dead?”

He nodded, smiled up at me. “Sad, isn’t it? Such a delightful girl;

beautiful, lovely little body; so ful of vigour — now, just meal for the

worms.” He sighed. “Death is a great level er, isn’t it?”

“How did it happen?” I asked, wanting to take him by his fat

throat and shake the daylights out of him.

“By her own hand,” he said mournfully. “Shocking business. Police

rushing up and down stairs . . . the ambulance . . . doctors . . . Mrs.

Crockett screaming . . . that fat bitch in the lower flat gloating . . . a

crowd in the street, hoping to see the remains quite, quite ghastly.

Then the smell of gas — couldn’t get it out of the house all day.

Shocking business, baby, really most, most shocking.”

“You mean she gassed herself?” I asked, going cold.

“That’s right, the poor lamb. The room was sealed with adhesive

tape . . . roll upon roll of adhesive tape, and the gas oven going full

blast. I’ll never be able to buy adhesive tape again without thinking of

her.” The words were a vibrationless hum, intimate and secret-

sounding. The perpetual smile bothered me too.

“I see,” I said, turning away.

Well, that was that. I felt suddenly deflated, a little sick, infinitely

sad.

I thought: If you had only waited twenty-four hours, Netta, we’d

have faced whatever it was together, and we’d have licked it.

“Thank you,” I said at the door.

“Don’t thank me, baby,” he said, heaving himself out of the chair

and following me on to the landing. “It’s nice to know I’ve rendered a

little service, although a sad one. I can see you’re suffering from

shock, but you’ll get over it. Plenty of hard work is the best healer.

Doesn’t Byron say, The busy have no time for tears? Perhaps you don’t

admire Byron. Some people don’t.”

I stared at him, not seeing him, not listening to him. From out of

the past, I heard Netta’s voice saying: “So the fool killed himself. He

hadn’t the guts to take what was coming to him. Well, whatever I do,

I’d be ready to pay for it. I wouldn’t take that way out-ever.”

She had said that one night when we had read of a millionaire

who had bulled when he should have beared and had blown out his

brains. I remembered how Netta had looked when she had said that,

and I felt a little cold breath of wind against my cheek.

There was something wrong here. I knew Netta would never have

killed herself.

I pulled my hat farther down on my nose, felt in my pocket for a

cigarette, offered the carton.

“Why did she do it?” I asked.

“I’m Julius Cole,” the pixy said, drawing out a cigarette from the

carton between a grubby forefinger and thumb. “Are you a friend of

hers?”

I nodded. “I knew her a couple of years ago,” I said, lighting his

cigarette and then mine.

He smiled. “She would be interested in an American,” he said as if

to himself. “And, of course, with her figure and looks an American

would be interested in her.” He looked up, his eyes sleepy. “It would

be interesting to know the exact number of girls in this country who

were ravished by American service men during their stay here,

wouldn’t it? I make a point of collecting such statistics.” He lifted his

broad, limp shoulders. “Probably a waste of time,” he added, wagging

his head.

“How did it happen?” I said sharply.

“You mean, why did she do it?” he gently corrected me. Again he

lifted his shoulders. The silk of his dressing-gown rustled. “It’s a

mystery, baby. No note . . . five pounds in her bag . . . food in the

refrigerator . . . no love letters . . . no one knows.” He raised his

eyebrows, smiled. “Perhaps she was with child. “

I couldn’t continue this conversation. Talking about Netta with

him was like reading something written on a lavatory wall.

“Well, thanks,” I said, and walked down the stairs.

“Don’t mention it, baby,” he said. “So sad for you: so

disappointing.” He went back into his room and closed the door.

Chapter II

MRS. CROCKETT was a thin little woman with bright, suspicious

eyes and a thin, disapproving mouth.

I could see she didn’t recognize me. She seemed to think I was a

newspaper man after a story, and she peered at me from around the

half-open door, ready to slam it in my face.

“What do you want?” she demanded in a reedy, querulous voice.

“I ‘ave enough to do without answering a lot of silly questions, so be

off with you.”

“Don’t you remember me, Mrs. Crockett?” I asked. “I’m Steve

Harmas, one of Miss Scott’s friends.”

“One of ‘er friends, are you?” she said. “Fancy men, that’s wot I

call ‘em.” She peered at me, then nodded her head. Her eyes showed

her disapproval. “Yes, I seemed to ‘ave seen you before. Well, you’ve

‘eard what’s ‘appened to ‘er, ‘aven’t you?”

I nodded. “Yes. I wanted to talk to you about her. Did she leave

any debts? I’ll settle anything she owed.”

The disapproving look was replaced by one of greed and

calculating shrewdness.

“She owed me a month’s rent,” she said promptly. “Never

expected to get that either. Still, if you’re paying ‘er debts, may as

well ‘ave it. You’d better come in.”

I followed her along a dark passage that smelt of cats and boiled

cabbage, into a dark, dingy room crammed with bamboo furniture.

“So she owed money?” I asked, watching the woman.

“Well, no,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “She always

paid up: I’ll say that for her, but she only ‘ad the flat on the strict

understanding it’d be a month’s notice or a month’s rent.”

“I see,” I said. “Have you any idea why she did what she did?”

Mrs. Crockett stared at me, looked away. “ ‘ow should I know?”

she asked, anger in her voice. “I didn’t interfere with ‘er. I knew

nothing about ‘er.” Her thin lips set in a hard line. “She was no good. I

should never ‘ave ‘ad ‘er ‘ere. Bringing disgrace to my ‘ouse like this.”

“When did it happen?”

“The night before last. Mr. Cole smelt gas and ‘e called me. When

I couldn’t get no answer I guessed what she ‘ad done — the little

fool!” The hard eyes glittered. “Fair upset me it did. Mr. Cole sent for

the police.”

“Did you see her?”

Mrs. Crockett started back “Who? Me? Think I want to ave ‘er

‘aunting my dreams?-Not likely. Mr. Cole identified ‘ er for the police.

Ever so considerate ‘e is. Besides, ‘e knew ‘er as well, if not better

than wot I did . . . always popping in and out of ‘is room whenever ‘e

‘ears anything.”

“All right,” I said, taking out my wallet. “Have you a key to her

flat.”

“Suppose I ‘ave?” she said suspiciously. “What’s it to you?”

“I’d like to borrow it,” I returned, counting pound notes on to the

table. Her eyes fol owed every movement. “Shall we say twenty-five

pounds? Ten pounds for the key?”

“What’s the idea?” She was breathing quickly, her eyes

overbright.

“Only that I’d like to look around her room. I suppose it’s as it was

. . . nothing’s been touched?”

“Oh, no, the police told me to leave it alone. They’re trying to