James Chase - No Business Of Mine

trace her relatives. Fat chance of finding anyone who’d own ‘er, I say.

I can’t imagine what’ll ‘appen to ‘er things. Anyway, I want ‘em out. I

want to let the flat.”

“Has she any relatives?”

“No one knows anything about ‘er,” Mrs. Crockett said with a

sniff. “Maybe the police’ll find out something, and it won’t be any

good, you mark my words.”

“May I have the key, please?” I said, pushing the little heap of

money towards her.

She shook her head doubtful y. “The police wouldn’t like it,” she

said, looked away.

“I’m offering you ten pounds to sooth your conscience,” I

reminded her. “Take it or leave it.”

She opened the drawer of the dresser, took out a key, laid it on

the table.

“It’s people with too much money what gets honest folk into

trouble,” she said.

“I’ll put that in my autograph book,” I said, a little sick of her,

picked up the key, pushed the notes farther in her direction.

She snatched up the money, rammed it into her apron pocket.

“Don’t keep that key too long,” she said, “and don’t you take

anything from the flat.”

I nodded, went out.

I walked up the stairs, paused on the first floor to read the name

on the ‘card screwed to the panel of the door: Madge Kennitt. I

remembered that Julius Cole had said: “the fat bitch in the lower flat,

gloating.” I nodded to myself, walked on up to Netta’s flat. I fitted the

key in the door, turned the handle, pushed gently. The door swung

open. I entered Netta’s sitting-room. As I turned to close the door, I

saw Julius Cole watching me from the half-open door of his flat. He

raised his eyebrows, waggled his head. I pretended I hadn’t seen him,

closed Netta’s door, shot the bolt.

There was a faint, persistent smell of gas in the flat although the

windows were open. I looked around the room, feeling sad and a little

spooked.

The room hadn’t changed much since last I was in it. Some of the

furniture had been shifted around, but there were no new pieces. The

pictures were the same: all rather risqué prints taken from American

and French magazines.

I had once asked Netta why she had such pictures on her walls.

“The boys like them,” she had explained. “They take their minds off

me. People who bore me are shocked by them and don’t come again,

so they have their uses, you see.”

On the mantelpiece was her col ection of china animals. She had

about thirty of them. I had given her several. I went over to see if

mine were still there. They were. I picked up a charming reproduction

of Disney’s Bambi, turned it over. I remembered how pleased Netta

had been with it. She said it was the best of her col ection. I think it

was.

I put the ornament down, wandered around the room my hands

in my pockets. I was only beginning to realize that Netta was dead,

that I wouldn’t see her again.

I didn’t think I would feel bad about it, but I did. Her death

worried me too. I couldn’t believe that she had committed suicide.

She just wasn’t the type to quit. Before the war I had been a crime

reporter. I’d visited hundreds of rooms in which suicides had met their

end. There had been an atmosphere in those rooms which this room

lacked. I don’t know quite what it was, but somehow I couldn’t

believe a suicide had happened here.

I went over to the light oak writing-desk, opened it, glanced

inside. It was empty except for a bottle of ink and a couple of pencils. I

looked at the pigeon-holes, remembered them as they had been

when Netta and I had been going around together, crammed with

letters, bills, papers. Now there was nothing.

I glanced over at the fireplace expecting to see ashes of burned

paper. But the fireplace was empty. I thought this odd, pushed my hat

to the back of my head, frowned down at the desk. Yes, odd.

A faint scratching at the front door made me start. I listened. The

scratching continued.

“Let me in, baby,” Julius Cole whispered through the panels. “I

want to see, too.”

I grimaced, tip-toed across the room, into the kitchen. The small-

gas oven door was ajar. There was an orange-coloured cushion lying

in the far corner of the room. I supposed she had used it when she put

her head in the oven. I didn’t like thinking about it, so I went from the

kitchen into her bedroom.

It was a small, bright room. The big double divan took up most of

the space. There was a fitted wardrobe near the bed, a small dressing-

table by the window. The room was decorated in green and daffodil

yellow. There were no pictures, no ornaments.

I closed the door, stood looking down at the bed. It had memories

for me, and it was several minutes before I walked to the dressing-

table and looked at the amazing assortment of bottles, beauty

creams, grease-paints that were scattered on the powder-covered

glass top. I pulled open the drawers. They were full of the usual junk a

girl collects: handkerchiefs, silk scarves, leather belts, gloves, cheap

jewelery. I stirred with my forefinger the necklaces, bangles, rings in

the cardboard box. It was all junk, and then I remembered the

diamond bracelet and the diamond scarf-pin of which she had been so

proud. I had given her the bracelet; some guy-she never told me who-

had given her the pin. I looked through the drawers, but I couldn’t see

them. I wondered where they had got to, if the police had taken them

for safe custody.

Then I went to the wardrobe, opened it. A subtle smell of lilac

drifted out of the wardrobe when I opened the door: her favourite

perfume. I was struck by the emptiness in the wardrobe. There were

only two evening dresses, a coat and skirt and a frock. At one time the

cupboard was crammed with clothes.

There was a flame-coloured dress which I remembered. It was the

dress she wore the night we first decided to sleep together. The kind

of dress a sentimental guy like me wouldn’t forget. I reached for it,

took it off the hanger, and as I pulled it out I realized that something

heavy was hung up inside the dress.

My fingers traced around the shape of the thing: it was a gun. I

opened the dress, found a Luger pistol hanging by its trigger guard

from a small hook sewn inside the dress.

I sat on the bed, holding the dress in one hand and the Luger in

the other. I was startled. It was the last thing I should have expected

to find in Netta’s flat.

There were two obvious things to notice about the gun. It had a

deep scratch along its barrel, and on the butt was a scar as if

something had been filed off the metal; probably the name of the

owner. I sniffed at the gun, had another shock. It had been fired,

although not recently. The smell of burned powder was faint, but

distinct. I laid the gun on the bed, scratched my head, brooded for a

few minutes, then got up, went back to the wardrobe again. I opened

the two drawers in which Netta used to keep her silk stockings and

undies. Silk stockings had been one of Netta’s passions. During the

time I had known her I had never seen her wear anything but real silk

hose. She had laid in a stock just before the war, and a number of

American service men, and myself for that matter, had kept her stock

up. I turned over the garments in the drawers, but I couldn’t find any

silk stockings.

I stubbed out my cigarette, frowned, wondered if Mrs. Crockett