Why Pick On ME?

by James Hadley Chase

  “I’m past the age for a night on the tiles,” Rawlins said, a little regretfully. “Where were you last night, old man?”

  Corridon flicked ash on the carpet, and rubbed it gently with the toe of his reverse calf shoe.

  “One of these days, Rawlins, you’ll try to be subtle, and I’ll probably faint with the shock. What’s happened?”

  Rawlins beamed at him.

  “You should never jump to conclusions, old boy. That’s a failing of yours. I like you, Corridon. Of course, you’re a shade over-smart, not as honest as you might be, a bit of a crook, and so on, but taken by and large…”

  “All right, all right,” Corridon said curtly. “I’m not in the mood for your jovial lumberings. What’s biting you?”

  Rawlins looked faintly embarrassed. Corridon, who knew him well, wasn’t impressed. He knew Rawlins’ expressions, and what they meant.

  “Weren’t you talking to Milly Lawes last night?” he asked, and his quick, sharp little eyes swept over Corridon’s face.

  Oh Lord! Corridon thought. I suppose she’s been pinched over that ring: the silly little mare!

  “Why, yes. I bought her a drink. What of it?”

  “Take her home?”

  “Are you trying to be funny?” Corridon demanded, his red, fleshy face hardening. “Do you think I’m the type to take a girl like Milly home as you call it?”

  “Now, don’t get excited,” Rawlins said. “You could take her home even if you didn’t stay, couldn’t you?”

  “Well, I didn’t,” Corridon said curtly. “Why are you suddenly interested in Milly?”

  Rawlins sipped at the coffee, his red face suddenly serious.

  “You’re friendly with her, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Is she in trouble?”

  Rawlins shook his head.

  “Not now.”

  There was a long pause while Corridon stared at him.

  “What does that mean?”

  “She’s dead, old man.”

  Corridon put down the cup and saucer and stood up. He felt a little chill run up his spine.

  “Dead? What happened?”

  Rawlins grimaced.

  “She was murdered last night. Around eleven-thirty.”

  “I see.” Corridon began to move slowly around the room, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets. He was shocked. Milly had been part of his background. He knew he would miss her.

  “We haven’t a lot to work on,” Rawlins went on. “One never has in these cases. I was wondering if you knew anything about it. Did she say she was meeting anyone?”

  “She left the Amethyst Club at eleven,” Corridon told him. “I left ten minutes later. I saw her talking to a man at the corner of Piccadilly and Albermarle Street. They went together towards her flat.”

  “That would be – what? Eleven-twenty?”

  Corridon nodded.

  “Don’t ask me to describe him. I wasn’t paying any attention. Damn it! I wish I had now. All I can tell you is he was slight, and wore a dark hat and coat; a slouch hat, not a Homburg.”

  “Pity,” Rawlins said, and rubbed his jaw reflectively. “You’re usually good at spotting people, aren’t you? Well, it can’t be helped.”

  Corridon stubbed out his cigarette, and lit another. He stood staring out of the window, frowning. His mind shifted away from Milly to Milly’s daughter. He’d have to do something about the child. He knew Milly hadn’t saved a bean. That made his urgent need for money even more pressing.

  “Pretty messy death,” Rawlins said quietly. “Probably a maniac. These girls ask for trouble.”

  Corridon glanced round.

  “What happened?”

  “Cut her throat and ripped her,” Rawlins said. “The fella must have gone off his head. Well, we’ll have to watch the other girls, I suppose. These motiveless sex crimes are the devil.”

  “Sure it was motiveless?”

  “It conforms to pattern. This isn’t the first time a tart’s been killed by a sadist,” Rawlins said, and snorted. “And it won’t be the last time.” He looked up sharply. “Do you know anything about a motive?”

  “Anything stolen?” Corridon asked. “Was her handbag there?”

  “Yes. As far as I know there’s nothing missing. What are you getting at?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Corridon said. “Last night, she showed me a jade ring she had picked up inter room. She said one of her visitors must have dropped it. She wanted to know if it was valuable.

  “A jade ring?” Rawlins was staring at Corridon, his eyes intent. “What kind of ring?”

  It was Corridon’s turn to stare at Rawlins.

  “It was a copy of an archer’s thumb ring in white jade. At least I think it was a copy. If it wasn’t, then it would be pretty valuable. Those things were made around 200 B.C.”

  “Were they?” Rawlins stood up. “Well, well, and she showed this ring to you?”

  “That’s right. What’s the matter with you? You look as if you’ve swallowed a hot potato.”

  “Do I?” Rawlins stubbed out his cigarette. “Like to come over to Milly’s flat and help me look for this ring?”

  “If you want me to. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing. Come on, let’s get moving. It won’t take us five minutes. I have a police car outside.”

  As they walked down the stairs, Rawlins said, “Life’s full of the damnedest coincidences, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is,” Corridon said. “But why particularly now?”

  “Just thoughts,” Rawlins said darkly.

  They climbed into the police car, and as they were whisked through the park, Rawlins went on, “Was she going to sell the ring?”

  “If she could have found a buyer I think she would have sold it. I told her to give it to a copper. After I had drummed it into her head it was too easily traced to monkey with, she said she’d give it to the first policeman she met. Maybe she did.”

  “I hope so,” Rawlins said.

  There was scarcely any traffic along Piccadilly at that hour, and it only took them a few minutes to reach Milly’s flat in Albermarle Street.

  “They’ve taken her away by now,” Rawlins said as he climbed the stairs, breathing heavily, “but the room isn’t very pretty.”

  “I can stand it if you can,” Corridon said sarcastically.

  “I suppose you can. I was forgetting you’re used to horrors.”

  A constable saluted smartly as they reached the top floor.

  “Yates still here?” Rawlins asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come on in,” Rawlins went on to Corridon. “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

  “Not to her flat,” Corridon returned, following the Inspector’s broad back into a little hall.

  Rawlins turned a door handle and pushed open the door. He walked into a big, airy bedroom where Detective-Sergeant John Yates with two other plain clothes detectives were using insufflators, distributing graphite on the bathroom door and the window-sills.

  At the far end of the room stood the bed. Corridon came into the room, his hands in his trouser pockets, his face set and hard. The bed, the wall at the head of the bed, and the carpet were splashed and saturated with blood. That end of the room looked like an abattoir. Immediately above the head of the bed were a set of bloody handprints.

  “Hers,” Rawlins said grimly. “He cut her throat first so she couldn’t scream.”

  “Save the details. I don’t want to hear them,” Corridon said harshly.

  Rawlins went over to a chest of drawers. On the top of it stood Milly’s handbag. He opened it and emptied its contents on to the floor.

  He and Corridon bent over the pathetic symbols of Milly’s abruptly ended life. There was a powder compact, a cigarette-case, a wallet containing six five-pound notes, a grimy handkerchief and a number of visiting cards held together by an elastic band.

  Rawlins poked about inside the bag and then dropped it.

 
“It’s not there. Here, Yates.”

  Yates, a short, broad-shouldered man with iron-grey hair and searching blue eyes came over. He eyed Corridon without interest, and then concentrated on Rawlins.

  “Seen a ring made of white stone around?” Rawlins asked. “Probably white jade.”

  “No. We’ve been over the place, but we’ve seen nothing like that.”

  “Go over it again. It’s important,” Rawlins said. “Make a job of it. I don’t think you’ll find it. I’ll be surprised if you do.” As Yates moved away to start the search, Rawlins opened the bathroom door and beckoned Corridon to follow him.

  The bathroom was small, and there was scarcely room for the two men to move. Rawlins closed the door, edged his way to the toilet, lowered the flap and sat on it.

  “Squat on the bath. I want to talk to you.”

  “Why not talk outside?” Corridon said, sitting on the edge of the bath, “Or are you being mysterious again?”

  “That’s right,” Rawlins beamed. “This is something I don’t want to broadcast. Seen Colonel Ritchie lately?”

  Corridon made no attempt to conceal his surprise. He stared at Rawlins blankly.

  “Why bring him up?”

  “Play along with me,” Rawlins pleaded. “You know I like my fun. Just answer the questions. You’ll be put in the picture before long.”

  Corridon took out a packet of Players, offered it. While he lit Rawlins’ cigarette, and then his own, he said, “No, I haven’t seen him. I haven’t seen him since I quit in 1945.”

  “Nice chap,” Rawlins said reflectively.

  Corridon didn’t say anything. He drew in a lungful of smoke and cast his mind back into the past. He had a vivid picture of Colonel Ritchie even after five and a half years. He wouldn’t have described him as nice. It wasn’t the right word. He could be charming when he liked. He was a man you could trust. He was ruthless. He had sent a number of Corridon’s friends to their deaths, and he had sorrowed for them, but he hadn’t hesitated to send them where he was fairly certain they would die.

  “Like to meet him again?” Rawlins asked, studying his big, broad fingernails in an effort to appear casual.

  “No, thank you,” Corridon said promptly. “He would want me to work for him. I’ve had all I want of that job to last me a lifetime.”

  Rawlins’ face fell.

  “Pity. He needs good men. It’s not a bad life either: plenty of excitement, free travel, and the money isn’t bad.”

  “The money’s lousy,” Corridon said curtly. “And I don’t fancy that kind of excitement. It was all right during the war: one had to do something; but not now. You might not think it, but I’m quite fond of life. But why bring Ritchie into this?”

  “I was only talking to him yesterday,” Rawlins said, and beamed. “He said he had a job for you. You’re a bit short of the ready, aren’t you?”

  Corridon lifted his shoulders helplessly.

  “Why can’t you keep your nose out of my business? And I don’t want his job. I’m going to Paris at the end of the week.”

  “Are you?” Rawlins looked surprised. “Les girls, eh? Well, well, can’t say I blame you.”

  “Has this ring anything to do with Ritchie?” Corridon asked. He had a knack of putting his finger on the right spot at the right moment.

  Rawlins nodded.

  “Didn’t think I’d keep that from you for long. Oh yes, it has something to do with Ritchie. But he’ll tell you about it. That’s what I meant a while ago when I said life was full of coincidences. We’re going to see him now.”

  “I’m not,” Corridon said briskly, and stood up. “If I never see him again I shan’t grieve. There are plenty of other men who can do his dirty jobs. I’ve had enough of them.”

  Rawlins rose regretfully to his feet. He had been up all night and was feeling tired.

  “Don’t be difficult, old man. He’ll want to hear about the ring. This is a murder case. You must try to be co-operative.”

  “What’s it to him?”

  “Plenty.” Rawlins stifled a yawn. “Come on, let’s get it over. It won’t take long.”

  He went into the bedroom again, and stood looking at the two bloody handprints on the wall.

  “Don’t you want to see the fella caught who did that to Milly?” he asked. “With you help, we’ll catch him. She was a friend of yours, wasn’t she? Didn’t I hear you’re the godfather of her child?”

  “Don’t be corny,” Corridon said, and grinned jeeringly. “You’ll have me in tears in a moment. All right, come.”

  Rawlins beamed.

  “I thought you would. I told Ritchie a warrant wasn’t necessary.”

  “So he’s still up to his old tricks,” Corridon said sourly. “What was it to be this time? His watch again?”

  Rawlins closed one eye.

  “As a matter of fact it was to be his cigarette-case. You better give it to me back. I slipped it in your pocket just now.”

  Corridon handed it back gravely, his face expressionless.

  “And if I didn’t play, it would have been a month’s hard labour. Is that it?”

  Rawlins laughed sheepishly.

  “The trouble with you, Corridon, is you know the moves before they’re made. Between you and me, I think it would have been more like two months. Ritchie particularly wants to see you.”

  III

  Fat, dumpy Miss Fleming was rattling away at a typewriter when Rawlins and Corridon entered the outer office. Corridon looked at her with resigned distaste. To him, it was unbelievable that any woman could be so dowdy and unattractive. He remembered thinking the same thing five years ago when he had come to say good-bye to Ritchie and had seen her for the first time. She hadn’t changed a scrap over the period of five and a half years. Her nose was as red and as shiny, her hair as unkempt and her clothes as unimaginative. She hadn’t even aged, and her total disregard for her personal appearance affronted him.

  He knew she was extraordinarily efficient. He knew she could speak ten languages fluently and had been awarded the O.B.E. for secret work during the war. The fact she was Ritchie’s personal assistant was proof of her efficiency. You had to be right on your toes if you wanted to remain five minutes with Ritchie. His standards of efficiency were as high and as ruthless as his standards of personal behaviour. But in spite of her usefulness and her capacity to work long hours, Corridon could not understand how Ritchie tolerated her.

  She glanced up, looked him over with that impersonal, searching stare that was almost an insult, and waved an ink-smeared hand to a door near her desk.

  “Go straight in, please,” she said. “Colonel Ritchie’s expecting you.”

  Rawlins enveloped her with his beaming smile. Personal appearances were unimportant to him. Integrity, sincerity and kindness were to him the worthwhile attributes. He was never influenced by a pretty face nor an ugly one. Beauty being skin deep, he preferred to lift the skin and see what it hid.

  “Thank you,” he said. “What a lovely day. Makes you feel…”

  The rest of his remark was drowned by the rattle of the typewriter as Miss Fleming continued her work.

  “Save it for the Salvation Army,” Corridon said, giving Rawlins a push towards the door. “Fanny doesn’t encourage mashers in here.”

  Rawlins looked reproachfully at him, opened the door and entered the inner room.

  Colonel Ritchie was standing before a small, dismal-looking fire, his hands behind his back, a relaxed expression on his face. Over six feet tall, with broad, heavy shoulders, his back as straight as a plumb-line, he looked every inch a soldier. His greying hair was clipped short, and a black patch that hid his left eye, gouged out by a Turk during the First World War, gave him a swashbuckling appearance.

  He glanced beyond Rawlins at Corridon, and smiled.

  “Hello, Martin,” he said. “I’m very glad to see you.”

  “I dare say you are,” Corridon said sourly, and shook hands. “You’re looking a little under th
e weather.”

  “We can’t all lead a soft life,” Ritchie said, continuing to smile. “I’m kept pretty busy.” He waved to an armchair. “Take a pew. I can’t give you much more than twenty minutes. I have an appointment at the Foreign Office at twelve.”

  Corridon sat down, searched for a cigarette, lit it, and tossed the match into the fireplace. He looked round the room, aware of a feeling of uneasiness. This annoyed him. He had heard Ritchie was working himself to a standstill, that he couldn’t get the right men to help him, that he was even doing some of the donkey work, and Corridon had been tempted in his less sober moments to offer his help. But the thought had no sooner entered his head than he had forced it out. Those days were over. This was no longer a state of emergency. The man who volunteered to help Ritchie was a sucker, and deserved what came to him. But now, once more in this room, seeing the dark smudge under Ritchie’s eye and the deep etched lines from his nose to his mouth, aware that these signs meant Ritchie was working too hard, Corridon did feel a twinge of conscience.

  Ritchie had treated him well, and they had been friends. It was Ritchie who had called off the police when Corridon had shot the ambassador’s secretary. That was ancient history now, but if Ritchie hadn’t intervened when he did, things might have been a lot more difficult than they had been. Ritchie had also got him the D.S.O. and the small pension for the wounds inflicted on him by the Gestapo. Yes, Ritchie was a good chap, but that didn’t mean Corridon wanted to work for him again.

  “You’re looking thoughtful,” Ritchie said, watching Corridon. Ritchie could read most men like a book. “What are you thinking about?”

  Corridon gave him a jeering little smile.

  “I was wondering why you still have that awful Miss Fleming out there. Why don’t you get yourself someone bright and snappy to cheer up this ghastly hole?”

  For a moment Ritchie looked blank.

  “What’s the matter with Miss Fleming? She’s brilliant.”

  “Never mind. Perhaps you don’t notice her. It doesn’t matter. Rawlins is bursting to tell you the news.”