James Chase - No Business Of Mine

she whispered.

“What is . . . ?” I began, but her hand flew to my mouth.

“ Someone’s in the flat ,” she breathed. “Listen!”

That gave me a hell of a jar. I froze, looked towards the door.

She was right. Very faintly from downstairs I heard footsteps.

With my heart leaping like a salmon caught on a line, I stepped to

the electric light switch, snapped out the light.

“Wait here,” I whispered. “Don’t make a sound. Watch your

opportunity. Get out if you can, but don’t leave that bag here. Do you

think you can carry it?”

I could feel her body trembling against mine.

“I’ll try,” she said. “Oh, God! I’m scared. Who is it, do you think?”

“I’m going to find out,” I whispered back. “But don’t wait for me.”

I crept over to the back window, looked down on a sloping roof,

into a yard.

“That’s your way out,” I said, my lips close to her ear. “Give me a

couple of minutes, then get on to the roof, slide down, and into the

yard. Go to Madge’s place. I’ll get in touch with you in a day or so.”

Her fingers touched my hand.

“Darling Steve,” she said.

“Bolt the door after me, kid,” I returned, pressed her hand,

peered into the passage. I listened, heard nothing, stepped from the

room, shut the door.

I heard Netta slide the bolt. I crossed the passage, entered the

sitting-room, groped my way across to the lamp. I found it after a

moment’s fumbling, removed the bulb, put it carefully on the floor. I

remembered finger-prints, took out my handkerchief, picked up the

bulb, wiped it, laid it down again.

I moved back to the door, stood listening, sweat on my face, my

heart pounding.

For some seconds I heard nothing, then a faint creak came to my

straining ears, followed by another creak. Someone was coming up

the stairs.

I stood against the wall on the far side of the door, waited. I heard

a door handle turn and knew the intruder had reached the top of the

stairs, was trying Netta’s door. I hoped she had the nerve not to

scream. I felt like screaming myself.

More silence. You could cut the stillness in the flat with a knife.

Then suddenly I felt rather than saw the door behind which I was

standing, opening. My mouth went dry, the hair on the back of my

neck moved. Inch by inch the door opened, then stopped. I saw a

white shape, a hand, groping down the wall for the electric light

switch, find it.

The click the switch made as it was snapped down was like a pistol

shot in the silent room. The room stayed dark, and I thanked my stars

I had thought of removing the bulb. I flexed my muscles, clenched my

fists, waited.

There was a long pause, the door didn’t open farther; there was

no sound except my own thumping heart. I waited, my nerves

stretched, my breathing controlled. To my straining ears came a new

sound; someone breathing. I wondered if whoever it was could hear

my breathing, and if that was what made him hesitate.

The door began to open again. I crouched against the wall, ready

to spring.

A dark shadow appeared around the door: the head and

shoulders of a man. I could just make out his blurred outline against

the blind. I knew I was invisible in the darkness, waited to see what

he’d do.

He peered around the room, took another step forward. Then I

heard a new sound, a sharp creak from Netta’s window, as she

pushed it up.

Instantly the man whipped around, dashed across the passage,

tried Netta’s door again.

“I hear you,” he shouted. “Open up! Come on! Open up.”

It was Corridan!

For a moment I was in such a panic I couldn’t move. Then I heard

Corridan throw his weight against Netta’s door, heard the door groan.

I didn’t dare hesitate a moment longer. I kicked over a chair which fell

against a small table. The racket the two things made as they went

over sounded to me like a mine going up.

I heard a startled exclamation from Corridan. A moment later he

entered the sitting-room. I saw him grope in his hip pocket, and I

crept towards him, crouching, prayed he wouldn’t hear me.

A second after the bright beam from an electric torch he had

taken from his pocket fell on Littlejohns.

I heard Corridan catch his breath. In that hard light Littlejohns was

enough to shake the toughest nerve. For a moment Corridan seemed

paralysed with surprise and shock. In that moment, I jumped him.

We went down together like a couple of buffalo, smashed the

small table to matchwood. I slammed my fist in his face, caught the

torch from his hand, flung it with all my strength at the wall. It went

out.

Corridan twisted under me, hit me a sledge-hammer blow in the

chest. I grabbed him, tried to hold him down, but he was much too

strong for me.

For two or three seconds we fought like animals. Both of us were

half crazy with fear, and we punched, bit and kneed each other in a

frenzy of waving arms and legs. Corridan was tough all right. He knew

every dirty trick there was to know in fighting. If I hadn’t had a Ranger

training as a war correspondent, I wouldn’t have lasted two minutes

with him.

I got a head lock on him after a moment, tried to throttle him by

squeezing his throat with my forearm, but he hit me so heavily about

the body, I couldn’t hold him. I broke from him, jumped to my feet.

He had me around the legs before I could step clear, and I came

down on my back. My breath whistled out of my body, and for one

second I was helpless. That was a lot of time to a guy like Corridan. He

was kneeling on my arms by the time I had my wind back, and it was

like being sat upon by St. Paul’s Cathedral.

“Let’s look at you, you bastard,” he panted.

I heard a rattle of matches. If he saw who I was I was done for. I

hadn’t a chance being caught with Littlejohns.

I made a terrific effort, brought my legs up, managed to boot him

at the back of his head. He fell forward on top of me and I got my

arms free. But he came back, grabbed at my head, tried to smash it

down on the floor. By keeping my neck stiff I defeated this move, sank

a punch into his belly that went in a foot.

He gasped, gagged, fell off me. My hand closed around one of the

table legs. I swung blindly at him, felt a jar run up my arm as the table

leg connected, heard him flop.

I lay gasping for breath, feeling as if I’d been fed through a

mangle. I knew I couldn’t waste a moment ; I struggled up kicked his

legs off mine, reached out and touched him. He didn’t move. For one

horrible moment I thought I’d killed him, but then I heard him

breathing. Any second now he’d come to the surface. I had to get out

while the going was good.

I got to my feet, staggered out of the room, peered into Netta’s

room. The window was open. She had gone. I grabbed hold of the

banister rail, nearly fell down the stairs. Reaching the front door, I

waited a moment while I pul ed myself together, opened it, stepped

into the dark cul-de-sac. The night air helped me to come to the

surface, but I was still groggy as I half ran, half walked to the main

road.

I kept on, found myself in Russell Square, then Kingsway. I

reached the Strand, and by that time I was walking steadily. I had to

get myself a cast-iron alibi; an alibi so good that Corridan couldn’t

even suspect it. I wondered if he had recognized me. I hadn’t made a