James Chase - No Business Of Mine

I avoided the blood, bent, touched his hand. It was warm, limp. I

raised his arm, let it fall. It thudded back on the carpet. He hadn’t

been dead long.

I was so shocked, so surprised that for several minutes I could

only stare clown at him, feeling nothing, my mind a blank.

Then I stiffened, my heart gave a lurch and began to pound so

violently I could scarcely breathe.

At the far end of the room was a door which was now slowly

opening. It inched open, stopped, inched open again.

“Who is it?” I said in a voice I didn’t recognize as my own. The

door jerked open. I took an involuntary step back. Netta stood there.

We looked at each other over Littlejohn’s dead body.

Then she said, “Oh, Steve, Steve, Steve, thank God you’ve found

me at last.”

I still stood there like a dummy, and she ran over to me, caught

hold of my arm.

“It’s Netta, Steve,” she sobbed, flung herself in my arms.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off Littlejohn, but I held her, said nothing.

“Take me away, Steve,” she sobbed. “Please take me away.”

I pulled myself together, slipped my arm around her, led her into

the bedroom. We sat on the divan bed, and I let her cry. There was

nothing I could do to stop her.

After a while I said, “Netta, this won’t get us anywhere. Come on,

snap out of it. I’ll help you if I can.”

She pulled away from me, her eyes glassy with terror, ran her

fingers through her thick red hair.

“You don’t understand,” she said, her husky voice off-key,

cracked. “I killed him! Do you hear, Steve? I killed him!”

I went cold, tried to say something, but succeeded in making only

a croaking noise.

She suddenly jumped to her feet, ran to the door. Before she

reached it, I caught hold of her. She struggled to get away, but I held

her. We stared at each other: both of us scared now.

“You killed him?” I said. “For God’s sake, Netta!”

She collapsed against me. I smelt lilac in her hair.

“They’ll get me now, Steve,” she said, moaned against my chest.

“I’ve kept out of their way until now, but they’ll get me for this.”

I felt cold sweat on my face. I wanted to run, get the hel out of

here, leave her. This was murder; this wasn’t something I could fool

around with and pass over to Corridan if I made a mess of it. This was

murder. I gripped her arms, tried to think. Maybe the moments of

happiness this kid had given me two years ago helped to bridge the

horror I felt. Maybe that thought stopped me from running out on

her.

“Take it easy,” I said, holding her close. “What we need is a drink.

Have you any Scotch in the place?”

She shuddered, clung more tightly. “It’s in there,” she said. I knew

where she meant. I pushed her gently away, sat her on the bed.

“Hang on,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

“No!” she exclaimed, her voice shooting up. “You mustn’t leave

me. Steve! You mustn’t leave me.” She caught hold of my wrist, her

nails bit into my flesh.

“It’s all right,” I said, trying to stop my teeth chattering. “I’ll be

right back. Take it easy, can’t you?”

“No! You won’t come back. You’re going to run out on me. You’re

going to leave me in this mess. You’re not to, Steve ! You’re not to!”

She began to cry again, then suddenly she put her hands to her face

and screamed wildly.

The sound went through my head like white-hot wires. I was stiff

with fright. I snatched her hands away, smacked her face hard,

knocking her backwards across the bed.

I stood over her. “Shut up, you little fool,” I said, trembling,

sweating. “Do you want someone to come here with that in there?”

She stopped screaming, looked up at me, her eyes empty; one

side of her face red where I had hit her.

“I’m coming back,” I went on. “Stay still and don’t make a sound.”

I crossed the passage, went into the sitting-room. He was still

there, small, defenceless, pathetic. I looked down at him, feeling bad.

I looked at his worn suit, at his shabby boots, at his thick ribbed socks

that hung in wrinkles. I looked at the terror in his eyes, the twisted

mouth. I reached down, patted his arm.

Clutched tightly between his finger and thumb was a scrap of

paper. I bent closer, gently pulled it from between his fingers. It was a

glossy scrap of paper-a piece torn from a photograph. I stared at it,

puzzled.

A bluebottle walked across one of his fixed eyes, then buzzed

around his blood. I shivered, put the scrap of paper in my vest pocket,

went to the cupboard by the fire-place and found a full bottle of

Scotch. I carried it and two glasses into the bedroom, shut the door.

Netta was lying face down across the bed. Her skirt had nicked up

and I could see an inch or so of bare thigh. Bare thighs mean nothing

to a guy in a moment like this. Her thigh meant less than nothing to

me.

I poured a big shot of whisky into both glasses, noted my hand

was no steadier than an aspen leaf. I drank the liquor; it went down

like water, hit my stomach; a moment later, I felt alive again.

I leaned over Netta, pulled her up.

“Come on,” I said, “get this down into you.”

I had to feed it to her. Her hand made mine look like a rock. She

got it down, gagged, then stopped crying. I gave her my handkerchief,

gave myself another shot of Liquor, put the bottle down.

“Have a cigarette,” I said, pushing one between her trembling lips,

took one myself, lit both.

I sat on the bed, at her side.

You have to talk, and talk fast,” I said. “I’ll help you if I can. I don’t

know what game you’ve been playing or why, but if you’ll give it me

straight, I’ll do what I can for you. Now, shoot.”

She dragged down smoke, pressed back the mass of red hair that

was hiding her face. She looked pretty bad. Dark shadows circled her

eyes; her nose seemed pinched. She had lost a lot of weight since last

I saw her. Worse still, she had a blank, crazy expression in her eyes

that scared me. I didn’t like that expression. The rest of her looks

were bad, but nothing rest and sunshine couldn’t put right. But the

blank expression was something else: I had seen it in the faces of the

French girls after days of air strafing or after we’d rescued them from

some Hun. It was that kind of expression.

“I killed him,” she said quietly. The whisky had pul ed her together

as I meant it to do. “I heard a sound, crept in there. It was dark. I saw

something move and hit out.” She shuddered, hid her face. “Then I

put on the light. I—I thought it was Peter French.”

I was listening, sitting forward, cigarette between my lips,

listening with both ears.

“It won’t do, Netta,” I said, putting my hand on her knee.

We’ll start from the beginning. Never mind about the little guy.

Forget him for the moment. Start right from the beginning.”

She clenched her fists, not looking up.

“I can’t go through all that. I can’t.”

“You’ve got to. Come on, Netta. If I’m to help you, I must know

how bad it is. Right from the beginning.”

“No!” She sprang to her feet, upsetting the glass she had balanced

on the divan. “Let me go! I can’t stay here with him in there. You’ve

got to get me away.”

I grabbed her wrists, shook her, dragged her down beside me on

the bed.

“Shut up!” I said fiercely. “You’re not moving out of here until