James Chase - No Business Of Mine

were shoddy, and his hat like a sponge full of grease.

Before I could collar him, he darted out of my reach and went

down the street like a streak of lightning.

I stood looking after him, listening to his light footfalls. My

shoulder ached and I was a little scared.

“For crying out loud,” I muttered to myself, looked uneasily up

and down the street, ran hurriedly towards the lights of Cromwell

Road.

Chapter III

I HAD been in my room only five minutes when the inquiry desk

called to say Inspector Corridan was asking for me.

“Tell him to come up, please,” I said, pressed the bell for the floor

waiter.

Corridan and the floor waiter arrived together.

Corridan was a big, beefy fellow, thirty-five, dark with small blue

eyes that had a nasty habit of appearing to look right through you.

Even to his friends he was somewhat dour, seldom smiled, never

laughed.

He shook hands warmly enough, looked round the room

approvingly.

“They make you comfortable here I must say,” he remarked, shot

a quick glance at the waiter, went on, “I hope you are going to buy me

a drink?”

“Sure, and I thought we might have dinner up here,” I said.

“Nothing’s too good for the London police.”

The floor waiter produced a menu and we chose cold consommé ,

chicken vol au vent , ice-cream. I ordered two double whiskies and a

carafe of Algerian wine.

“You newspaper men know how to live,” Corridan sighed, sinking

into the only arm-chair. “Often thought it might’ve been better for me

to have gone in for something less exacting and more profitable than

police work.”

I grunted. “You should grumble,” I said, sitting on the bed. “I bet

you are up to your ears in graft, with half the criminals in London

paying you hush-money.”

His mouth tightened. “Your sense of humour is as warped as your

morals,” he returned, and I could see he wasn’t amused.

“Okay, let’s skip our morals,” I said, grinning. “I’m damned glad

you could come.”

“Was this Netta Scott a friend of yours?” he asked, wandering to

the window. He went on before I could reply. “I see the Thames

enough from the Yard, but from this angle and in this light it’s really

attractive, don’t you think?”

“Never mind about the Thames,” I said shortly. “You’re not being

wined and dined because I want to hear about the sights of London.”

He gave me a sharp look. “You sound worried. Anything wrong?”

I nodded. “There could be . . .” I began when the floor waiter

returned with our drinks.

When he had gone, I went on, “About Netta Scott. She was a

friend of mine. I met her in ‘42, and we kicked around together for a

couple of years. It was a shock to learn she’d committed suicide.”

He drank some whisky, cocked his head approvingly. “Good

whisky this,” he said. “But obviously you don’t want to talk about

whisky. I’ve read the doctor’s report. The girl wasn’t risking a mistake.

She took a stiff dose of laudanum before she gassed herself. But it’s a

straightforward case . . . obviously suicide. The Kensington Division

handled it. They had a cal at seven o’clock yesterday morning from a

man named Julius Cole who lives in the same house. They found the

girl with her head in the gas oven and the kitchen full of gas. The

windows had been sealed with adhesive tape, but riot the door which

fitted well. She had been dead about six hours. At a rough guess she

killed herself around one o’clock in the morning. There were no marks

of violence on the body, and no evidence that it wasn’t anything but

suicide. She was taken to the local mortuary, having been officially

identified by this Cole chap who claimed to know her well by sight.

We are now trying to get in touch with her relatives without any

success at the moment.”

I finished my whisky, felt better for it.

“No question of foul play?” I asked.

His eyes probed me. “No. Why should there be?”

“Your people are quite happy about that?”

“They’re never happy about anything, but they’re quite satisfied

that there’s no question of foul play. Suicide happens every day. It

may interest you to know an individual’s occupation tends to

influence the likelihood of suicide,” Corridan went on, closing his eyes

and settling farther into his chair. “Occupations involving strain,

responsibility or very late hours provide the greatest numbers of

suicides. Chemists, doctors, solicitors, publicans, night club workers,

butchers and soldiers are to be found high up in the list of

occupations, whilst gardeners, fishermen, clergymen, school teachers

and civil servants are at the foot of the list.”

I groaned. “I guess I stuck my neck out that time,” I said. “Okay,

okay, don’t let’s have any more of that. Then I take it because night

club workers rank high on the list of likely suicides, Netta killed

herself, is that it?”

He nodded. “Something like that. Anyway, it helps us to make up

our minds. If she were a school teacher, for instance, we might look at

the business more closely. See what I mean?”

“And you think a girl like Netta would choose a gas oven? You

don’t think she’d jump out of a window or use poison?”

“Women hesitate to make a mess of themselves even in death,”

Corridan returned, lifting his shoulders. “Especially girls as pretty as

Netta. Jumping out of windows can be very messy . . . I’ve seen some.

Owing to a little thing called the Dangerous Drugs Act suicides by

poison are on the decrease. I believe over six hundred women

committed suicide by coal- gas last year. I’ll get you the exact figures if

you’re interested.”

“That’s good enough for me,” I said. “And why do you think she

killed herself?”

Corridan finished his whisky, put the glass on the table, shrugged.

“It’s interesting to consider the reasons which impel individual

conduct,” he said, crossing his legs and sinking lower in his chair. “A

knowledge of the causes of suicide is also of help in determining the

question of accident, suicide or murder. The four main reasons why

people commit suicide are, in order of their importance, mental

conditions, drink, financial worries and love. There are other causes,

of course, but these are the four important ones. As far as we know

the girl didn’t owe money, she didn’t drink to excess, and she

appeared mental y normal from what Cole and the landlady tel us.

Therefore it’s reasonable to suppose she had an unhappy love affair.”

“The way you coppers get everything down to a rule of thumb kills

me,” I said, as the waiter wheeled in a table ladened with good things

to eat. “Come on, let’s get at it.”

“Another of those excellent whiskies mightn’t be a bad idea,”

Corridan said, getting to his feet and pulling up a straight- backed

chair to the table.

“Make it two,” I said to the waiter, “and then leave us to look

after ourselves.”

We sat down and began on the cold consommé .

“What makes you think she wasn’t murdered?” I asked casually.

He shook his head. “What a chap you are,” he said. “I’ve just told

you. . .” He glanced up sharply, frowned. “But perhaps you know more

about this than I do. Perhaps I’d better hear what you have to say