James Chase - No Business Of Mine

had been up here and had taken them, or if the police had been

tempted. Silk stockings were almost unobtainable, and the

temptation was easy to understand. There should have been at least a

dozen pairs. When I last saw her-two years ago- she had thirty-six

pairs. I know, because one night, when she had asked me to get her

some, I had turned her drawer out and counted them to prove to her

she didn’t need any more. Yes, she should have at least a dozen pairs,

if not more. Where were they?

I decided to search her flat. I had been trained during my years as

a crime reporter to take a house to pieces so that it wouldn’t show. It

would be a long, dull job, but somehow I felt it would pay dividends.

I went through each room carefully and systematically. I left

nothing to chance, even unwinding the blinds, feeling along the

pelmets, taking up the carpets and sounding the floors.

In the bedroom by the fireplace I found a small recess in the floor,

under a loose board. It was obvious that something had been kept

there, but it was no longer there. In the bathroom, wrapped around

the toilet roll I found eight five-pound notes. In the sitting-room

between a picture of one of Varga’s lovelies and the back of the frame

were eight more five-pound notes. At the bottom of a jar of cold

cream I found a diamond ring. It looked a good diamond, and the

setting was platinum. I hadn’t seen it before. It was an odd hiding

place, but then so were the hiding places of the five-pound notes.

I went into the kitchen, and after a painstaking search found at

the bottom of the flour bin, buried under the flour, a foolscap

envelope. I drew it out, dusted off the flour and read the address on

the envelope, written in Netta’s big, untidy hand:

Miss Anne Scott,

Beverley,

Could this be a sister? I wondered, feeling the bulky envelope

between my fingers. It seemed full of papers, and was heavy.

The whole business seemed to me odd. I was uneasy, suspicious. I

didn’t know what to make of it all.

I satisfied myself that there was nothing of further interest in the

kitchen, went back to the sitting-room.

I laid out on the table all the things I had found. There was the

Luger pistol, the diamond ring, the sixteen five-pound notes, and the

letter addressed to Anne Scott.

Why should a girl commit suicide when she possessed eighty

pounds and a diamond ring? I asked myself. What other trouble apart

from money could have made Netta do away with herself? I couldn’t

imagine anything bad enough. In fact, I was now as sure as I could be

that she hadn’t committed suicide. Murder? Well, if it wasn’t suicide,

it had to be murder. It couldn’t have been an accident. Accidents

didn’t happen quite like that.

I lit another cigarette, brooded. I’d have to discuss this with the

police. I remembered Inspector Corridan of the Yard. He and I had

been friendly when last I was in London. He had taken me around to

the various haunts of petty criminals, and the material I had col ected

with his help had made a good article for the Saturday Evening Post .

Corridan was just the man to consult and I immediately reached

for the telephone.

After a delay, Cordian came on the line.

I reminded him who I was, and he remembered me.

“Glad to hear from you again, Harmas,” he said. “You’re lucky to

have caught me. I was just going home.”

“Are you in a hurry?” I asked, glancing at my wrist watch.

It was nearly nine o’clock.

“Well, I want to get home. Is it anything urgent?”

“Interesting rather than urgent,” I said. “I want your advice, and

perhaps help. It’s to do with a girl named Netta Scott who committed

suicide the night before last.”

“Who did you say?” he asked sharply.

“The girl’s name is Netta Scott. She used to be an old friend of

mine. Frankly, Corridan, I’m not satisfied that she did kill herself.”

There was a pause, then he said, “Well, I have nothing special to

do to-night. What do you suggest?”

“Suppose you meet me in half an hour at the Savoy?” I said. “If

you’d make inquiries about the girl, it might simplify things. Any

details may be useful.” I gave him Netta’s address, and he promised to

have the information, and hung up. That was one of the things I liked

about Corridan. He was never surprised at anything, never asked a lot

of unnecessary questions, and was always willing to be helpful no

matter how busy he was or how late the hour.

I put the gun, envelope, ring and money in my various pockets.

Satisfied I hadn’t missed anything, I turned off the light, opened the

front door, stepped on to the landing.

Julius Cole had brought a chair into his little hall and was sitting

there smoking, with the front door open, waiting for me.

“Why didn’t you let me in, baby?” he asked, smiling his secret

smile. “You had no right to be in there yourself.”

“Go bowl a hoop,” I said, went on down the stairs.

“Don’t run away, baby,” he said, sliding off his chair and coming to

the head of the stairs. “What’s it like in there?” He sniggered. “Did she

have pretty things? I suppose you’ve been through all her clothes. I

wish I’d been there.”

I kept on, without looking back.

Mrs. Crockett answered my rap on her door.

“You’ve been up there long enough,” she snapped, taking the key

I handed to her. “You ‘aven’t taken anything, ‘ave you? Most

particular the police were about leaving everything as it was.”

I shook my head. “It’s all right,” I said. “Has anyone been in there

since she died . . . I mean anyone except the police? Mr. Cole for

instance?”

She shook her head. “No one, but you, and I’m sure I didn’t ought

to ‘ave . . .”

“There were some silk stockings . . . they don’t seem to be there,”

I interrupted. “Do you know anything about them?”

“What should I want with silk stockings?” she snapped. “Course I

don’t!”

I thanked her, made noncommittal noises, walked up the narrow

stairs to the front door.

In the street I paused for a moment to look at the house. A light

burned in Julius Cole’s flat: the rest of the house was in darkness. I

wondered about Madge Kennitt, decided she didn’t fit in the picture;

anyway, not for the time being, began to walk in the direction of

Cromwell Road, fifty yards or so ahead of me.

The street was lit by only three lamps, one at the top, the other at

the bottom and the third half-way between the other two. It was

dark, and there were deep shadows, otherwise I shouldn’t have been

so easily surprised.

I heard a patter of feet behind me, felt a sudden premonition of

danger, ducked, jumped aside.

Something very hard hit my shoulder, brought me to my knees. I

flung up my arm, staggered upright and again jumped back. I caught a

glimpse of a shadowy figure of a man holding what seemed to me to

be a tyre lever above his head. He slashed wildly at me. I heard the

lever whistle past my face, stepped in close, and belted the guy in the

ribs with everything I had. He dropped the tyre lever, reeled back, his

breath coming out of him like a punctured balloon.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” I demanded,

crowding him.

I could see him now. He was a little runt, young, slim, underfed. I

couldn’t see much of his face except that he was pasty. His clothes