James Chase - No Business Of Mine

twisted her arms behind her, held her against me.

“Take it easy, kid,” I said, keeping clear of her vicious kicks. “Show

the Inspector your nice line in underwear.” I caught hold of her

sweater, peeled it over her head. Then tucking her, screaming and

kicking, under my arm, I yanked down the zipper on her trousers,

pulled in two directions.

Corridan gave an angry snort, stepped forward. “Stop it!” he

exclaimed. “What the hel do you think you’re doing.”

“Skinning a rabbit,” I said, carrying Netta over to the chaise-

longue and forcing her face down on it. I had a job to hold her, but I at

last got my knee in her back and pinned her.

Corridan grabbed my arm, but I shook him off.

“Take a look at that belt,” I said, pointing to the heavy money belt

that was strapped around Netta’s waist.

Corridan paused, muttered to himself, stood away.

I undid the buckle, jerked off the belt, stood back.

Netta lay on the chaise-longue, her fists clenched, her breath

coming in great sobbing gasps.

With a quick shake I emptied the contents of the belt on the

carpet at Corridan’s feet.

“There you are, brother,” I said dramatically. “Fifty thousand

pounds’ worth of jewellery! Take a look. Allenby’s loot.”

Corridan gaped down at the heap of assorted rings, necklaces,

bracelets on the carpet. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds gleamed like

fireflies in the electric light.

“I’ll kill you for this!” Netta screamed, suddenly sitting up. She

sprang to her feet, flung herself at me.

I shoved her off so roughly that she sprawled on the floor.

“You’re through, Netta,” I said, standing over her. “Get that into

your thick little skull. If you hadn’t killed Littlejohns I might have

played with you, but you killed him to save your rotten skin, and that

let me out. What the hell do you think I am? A sucker? I wouldn’t

cover up anyone who did what you did to Littlejohns.”

Netta crawled to her feet, then flopped limply on the chaise-

longue, buried her face in her hands.

I turned to Corridan who was still staring at the heap of jewel ery

as if hypnotized.

“Well, I hope you’re satisfied,” I said. “I promised myself I’d crack

the Allenby case because you acted so damn high-hat. I’ve done it.”

Corridan’s face was a study. He looked at Netta, at me. “But how

did you know she had the stuff on her?” he demanded.

“You’ll be surprised how much I do know,” I said. “She and Jack

Bradley were behind the Allenby robbery. I’ll give you all the facts,

and then you can manufacture the evidence. Do you want to hear?”

“Of course, I want to hear,” he said, knelt down, scooped up the

jewelery, dropped it back into the belt. “How did you get on to this?”

He put the belt on the table.

“I got on to it because I never believed Netta committed suicide,”

I said, lighting a cigarette and perching myself on the table. “I was

sure she hadn’t killed herself after I had searched the flat. Most of her

clothes and all her silk stockings had vanished. I’ve known Netta for

some time, and have a good idea of her character. She wasn’t the

type to commit suicide, and she had a passion for clothes. It seemed

to me, after the body had been kidnapped, that some other girl had

died in her flat, and Netta, taking fright, had run off with as many of

her clothes as she could carry.”

Corridan leaned against the wall, eyed me.

“You told me all that before,” he said, “and I worked that out for

myself anyway.”

“Sure,” I said. “But there was plenty still to puzzle me. For one

thing, who was the dead girl? Then another thing foxed me. Why

should Netta, although she’d taken time to pack her clothes, have left

sixteen five-pound notes in the flat and that bunch of bonds worth

five thousand pounds? That got me for some time until Madge

Kennitt told me a girl and a man had been with Netta that night. The

girl was obviously the one who’d died. The man either killed her or

was Netta’s accomplice. It seemed to me the reason why Netta had

left the money in the flat was because she didn’t trust her companion,

and he didn’t give her a chance to get the money from its hiding-place

without him seeing her do it. So she had to leave it there, but hoped

to collect it later, but I found it first.” I glanced over at Netta, but she

didn’t look up. She sat with her head in her hands, motionless.

“Go on,” Corridan said quietly.

“Who was the mysterious man, and why didn’t she want him to

know about the money?” I went on. “I’ve talked to Netta, and she has

told me he was Peter French, who was Anne’s lover. That’s another

way of saying he was Netta’s lover. You see, Netta never had a sister .

But we’ll come back to Peter French in a moment.

“Nine months ago, Netta married Jack Bradley. For some reason

they kept the marriage a secret, and they didn’t live together except

at week-ends which they spent in a cottage at Lakeham, bought by

Bradley as a hide-out for them both. Netta cal ed herself Anne Scott

when she was at Lakeham. She tells me that French killed her sister

because she knew he had killed George Jacobi. Since she never had a

sister, that was obviously a lie. Who then was the girl who had died in

Netta’s flat, and was later found in the cottage? I want you to get this

clear, Corridan. The girl who was kidnapped from the mortuary and

the girl we found in the cottage were one and the same.”

Corridan pursed his lips. “But one was a red-head and the other

was a blonde,” he said. “How do you account for that?”

“Netta explained it to me,” I said. “She tells me that French dyed

the girl’s hair and bleached it back to its normal colour after he had

removed the body to the cottage.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Corridan muttered.

I nodded. “It wants a little believing,” I said, “but after thinking it

over, it seems to me that’s what happened. If the girl wasn’t Netta’s

sister, and I’ve proved beyond doubt that Netta never had a sister,

then who was she and why was she murdered, and why was the

murderer so anxious to prevent her being identified?”

“Have you found that out?” Corridan asked eagerly.

“I think so,” I returned. “Not only have I found it out, but

Littlejohns found it out, too. That’s why he died.”

“Who was it then?”

“Selma Jacobi, the wife of George Jacobi who was murdered by

Jack Bradley,” I said.

Netta sat up, glared across at me.

“It’s a lie!” she screamed. “Jack didn’t kill him. It was Peter

French.”

I shook my head. “Oh, no, it wasn’t,” I said gently. “Let’s go back a

bit.” I slid off the table, began to pace up and down. Let’s go back to

the time when the American soldiers were being repatriated. Before

then, Bradley had been content to make a big profit by selling bad

hooch and fleecing the boys in any other way he could think up. But

when they began to leave, his profits shrank. He had to think up some

other way of making money. Apart from running gaming-tables, he

also decided to go in for large-scale robbery. George Jacobi was an

expert in this line. Bradley hooked up with him, and the Allenby

robbery was planned. About this time Netta was married to Bradley

and Jacobi married Selma. Allenby’s place was near Lakeham, and