What makes you so het up about it?”
“I’m not het up about it,” I said, “but it’s odd she should have kept
it hidden in a dress like that, isn’t it?” I suddenly wondered if I was
making a fool of myself.
“Well, you can get into trouble having one of these things she
might have hidden it with that in mind,” Corridan returned, stretching
out his long legs and sniffing at his brandy. “Nothing more concrete?”
I told him about the sixteen five-pound notes, and handed them
and the letter to Anne Scott over to him. I also gave him the diamond
ring.
“You certainly searched the place pretty thoroughly,” he said,
cocking an eye at me. “I don’t know if you had any right in there . . .
had you?”
“Maybe not,” I returned, chewing my cigar, “but this business
worries me, Corridan. I feel there’s something wrong somewhere.” I
went on to tell him about the man who had attacked me.
He showed some interest at last.
“Did you see him?”
“It was damned dark, and I was startled. All right,” I went on when
he half smiled. “I was scared pink. So would you’ve been if it had
happened to you. The guy sprang out at me with what looked like a
tyre lever, and he had a damned good shot at bashing my brains in. I
couldn’t see much of him, but he seemed young, slight, and could run
like hell. I think I’d know him again if I saw him.”
“What do you think he was after?”
“The gun perhaps,” I said, “that’s why I suggest you have it
checked. You see there’s a scratch on the barrel and it looks as if at
one time a name was engraved on the butt. I believe the gun might
tell us something.”
“You’ve been reading too many detective stories,” he grunted.
“Still, there’s no harm checking the gun.” He sniffed at it. “Been fired,
I’d say a month or so ago. Smells of lilac, too.”
“Her favourite perfume,” I told him. “Well, that’s my story. I
hoped you’d be more impressed, but I should have known better. The
trouble with you is you’ve no imagination.”
He stroked his long fleshy nose. “Maybe I haven’t, but I’ve a lot of
horse sense, and I still think she committed suicide.” He picked up the
envelope, tapped it on his finger-nails. “Shall we see what’s in here?”
“Can we?”
“The police can do anything,” he said with a wink. He took out a
pencil, slid it under the flap of the envelope, rol ed it gently backwards
and forwards. After a little persuasion the flap lifted.
“Easy once you know how,” he said, looking at me with his half-
hearted smile. “You have to have the right touch, of course.”
“I’ll keep my mail out of your reach,” I said. “Well, what’s inside?”
He glanced into the envelope, whistled. With finger and thumb he
hooked out what seemed a stack of over-printed paper.
“Bearer bonds,” he said.
I leaned forward. “Seems a lot of them,” I said, gaping.
His fingers flicked through them. “Five thousand pounds worth,”
he said. “Now I wonder where these came from?” He glanced inside
the envelope. “No note. Hmm, this is a little odd I must say.”
I laughed at him. “Now you’re starting. The whole thing’s odd to
me. Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“I think I’ll take a trip to Lakeham and see Miss Scott. I’d like to
know where these bonds came from. If she can’t tell me, I’ll have to
check them. That may be a longish job; still, I want to know.”
“Could I come with you to Lakeham?” I asked. “I’ll play Watson to
your Holmes. Besides, I’d like to meet the sister. Maybe she doesn’t
know Netta’s dead. I think I should be there when the news is
broken.”
“By all means come,” he said, getting to his feet. “Shall we say to-
morrow morning? We can go down by car.”
“Swell. But don’t think you’re through yet,” I said. “There’s one
more thing I want you to do. Where can I see Netta? I want to see her
before she’s buried.”
“A bit morbid, aren’t you?” he shot at me. “What good can that
do you?”
“I’m funny that way,” I said, stubbing out my cigar. “Suppose you
come along too? I want you to see her if only to be in a better position
to judge when the lid comes off this business, as I’m sure it will. I have
a hunch we’re on to something that’s going to be big, and you’ll thank
me in the long run for putting you wise.”
“I’ve never met such a chap,” Corridan muttered, went over to
the telephone, called the Yard.
I stood by while he ordered a police car to pick us up outside the
Savoy.
“Come along,” he said, “if it hadn’t been such a damn good dinner
I’d have told you to have gone to blazes, but I suppose I’ll have to pay
for my entertainment. Who knows, you may invite me again.”
“Maybe I will at that,” I said, following him along the corridor to
the elevator.
It took us under a quarter of an hour to reach the mortuary, and
the officer in charge, startled to have a visit from Corridan, came out
to greet us.
“Netta Scott,” Corridan said abruptly. He was always short with
his inferiors in rank. “You have her here. We want to see her.”
The constable, a young, red-faced country-looking fellow, shook
his head. “Not now, sir,” he said. “She was here, but she was taken to
the Hammersmith mortuary an hour ago.”
Corridan frowned. “Oh? On whose orders?”
“I don’t know, sir,” the constable replied, looked blank.
“You don’t know?” Corridan barked, “But surely you had an
official order before you let them take the body?”
The constable changed colour. “Well, no, sir,” he said. “I’m new
here. I-I didn’t know an order was necessary in this case. The driver of
the ambulance said there’d been a mistake, and the remains should
‘ave gone to Hammersmith. I let him take the body.”
Corridan, his face dark with fury, pushed past the constable, went
into the office, slammed the door.
The constable stared after him, scratched his head. “Now I
wonder what’s up,” he said, looking at me. “Do you think I did wrong,
sir?”
I shrugged. “Search me,” I said, feeling uneasy. “But you’ll know
before long.”
After several minutes, Corridan came out of the office, walked
past the constable, jerked his head at me. At the door he paused,
looked back.
“You’ll hear a lot more about this, my man, before very long,” he
snapped at the constable, walked to the police car.
I got in beside him, and as we drove off, I said, “Well, do we go to
Hammersmith?”
“Hammersmith didn’t send for the body,” Corridan growled.
“Anyone but a fool would have known it was a plant. A couple of
hours back an ambulance was reported stolen. Someone- believe it or
not-has kidnapped Netta Scott’s body. It’s fantastic! Why, for God’s
fist.
Chapter IV
THE next morning, I awoke with a start. The telephone was
ringing, and sitting up in bed, I grabbed the receiver, stifling a yawn as
I did so. I peered at my bedside clock and saw it was ten minutes past
eight, grunted, “Who is it?”
“Inspector Corridan asking for you,” the porter said.
“All right, send him up,” I returned, snatched up my dressing-
gown and rushed into the bathroom for a hasty shower.
I had slept badly, and was still feeling a little piqued at the abrupt
way Corridan had returned me to the Savoy. He had said, “Sorry,
Harmas, but this is police business now. Can’t take you along with
me,” and that was that. Of course, he was rattled, and I realized that
he had something to get rattled about, but I thought he had a nerve
to ditch me after I’d given him so much data to work on; but Corridan
was like that. When he started on a job, he worked alone.
I was just coming out of the bathroom when I heard a rap on my
door. I opened it; Corridan entered. He looked tired, was unshaven.
“Have you only just got up?” he snapped, tossing his hat on a
chair. “I haven’t even been to bed.”
“You don’t expect me to sob over that item of news, do you?” I
returned. “After the way you dropped me last night?”
He looked more surly than ever, sat down. “Get me some coffee,
there’s a good fellow, and don’t grouse,” he said, “I’ve had a hell of a
night.”
I picked up the telephone, called the floor waiter, ordered coffee.
“You have only yourself to blame,” I said. “If you’d have kept me
with you, I’d have halved your work.”
“I’m seeing the Chief in half an hour’s time, and I thought I’d look
in on my way to tell you the news,” Corridan said. “First the gun. It
belonged to a fellow named Peter Utterly, a lieutenant in the U.S.
Army. He’s been repatriated, but we persuaded the authorities on the
other side to get a statement from him. Apparently he knew Netta
Scott, gave her the Luger as a souvenir. You’ll remember I told you
that was the probable explanation of the gun.”
“You’ve been quick,” I said, a little disappointed that the
explanation should be so commonplace.
“Oh, we work fast when necessary,” Corridan said, looked dour.
“So much for the gun. We traced the ambulance. It was found on
Hampstead Heath, but the body is still missing. We have a description
of the driver, but it could fit any young fel ow. Where the body’s got
to defeats me, and why it was stolen defeats me still more.”
“There must be an explanation,” I said, waving to the waiter who
had just entered to put the coffee on the table. “Unless it was a
practical joke.”
Corridan shrugged. “We’ll get to the bottom of it,” he said,
glanced at his watch. “Let’s have that coffee. I have to be off in a
moment.”
While I was pouring the coffee, he went on, “I’ve had the bonds
checked. They are forgeries. That’s always something to worry about.
Can you suggest why this girl should be hiding forged bonds in her
flat?”
“Not unless someone gave them to her, and she thought they
were genuine,” I said, handing him the cup of coffee. “Of course, I’ve
been out of touch with Netta for a long time now. She may have got
into bad company, but I doubt it.
He sipped the coffee, grunted. “I think that’s likely,” he said. “The
diamond ring you found has a history. It’s part of a considerable
amount of jewelery stolen a few weeks ago. The owner of the
jewelery, Hervey Allenby, identified the ring late last night. Our
people have been waiting for the stuff to come into the market. This
ring is the first sign of it. How do you think she got hold of it?”
I shook my head, perplexed. “Maybe someone gave it to her,” I
said.
“Then why should she hide it at the bottom of a jar of cold
cream?” Corridan returned, finishing his coffee. “Odd place to keep a
ring unless you have a guilty conscience, isn’t it?”
I said it was.
“Well, it’ll sort itself out,” Corridan went on. “I still don’t think we
have any grounds to suppose the girl was murdered, Harmas. After all
that’s the thing that was worrying you. You can leave this other
business to me.”
“So you’re going to play copper, are you?” I said. “Well, I think
someone knocked her off. If you’ll take the trouble to use that hat
rack you call a head, I’ll explain in two minutes why it wasn’t suicide.”
He eyed me coldly, moved to the door.
“I’m afraid I can’t spare the time, Harmas,” he said. “I have a lot to
do, and newspaper men’s theories scarcely interest me. Sorry, but I
suggest you leave this to those competent to handle it.”
“There must be times when Mrs. Corridan is very proud of you,” I
said sarcastically. “This is one of them, I should think.”
“I’m single,” he said. “Sorry to disappoint you. I must be getting
along.” He paused at the door. “I’m afraid there can be no question of
you coming with me to see this Anne Scott. This is official business
now. We can’t have Yankee newspaper men barging in on our
preserves.”
I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “If that’s the way you feel, think no more
about it.”
“I won’t,” he said, with a sour smile, quietly left the room.
For a moment or so I was too mad to think clearly, then I calmed
down, had to grin. If Corridan thought he could keep me out of this
business he was crazy.
I bundled into my clothes, grabbed the telephone and asked
Inquiries how I could hire a car. They said they’d have one ready for
me in twenty minutes after I’d explained I could get petrol on my
Press card. I smoked two cigarettes, did a little thinking, then went
downstairs.
They had found me a Buick. I was too scared to ask them how
much it would cost, took the hall porter aside and inquired my way to
Lakeham. He said that it was a few miles from Horsham, and
suggested I should leave London via Putney Bridge and the Kingston
By-pass. The rest of the run, he told me, would be simple as Horsham
was well signposted.
In spite of its rather obvious age, the Buick ran well, and I reached
the Fulham Road in less than a quarter of an hour and without having
to ask the way. At this time of the morning, the traffic was coming
into London, and I had practically a clear road ahead of me.
As I passed the Stamford Bridge football ground, one of the
landmarks described by the hall porter, I noticed in the driving mirror
a battered Standard car which I was fairly certain I’d seen behind me
at Knightsbridge. I thought nothing of it until I reached Putney Bridge
when I spotted it again. Being still a little jittery from the attack of last
night, I began to wonder if I was being tailed.
I tried to cat
ch sight of the driver, but the car was equipped with a
blue anti-dazzle windscreen, and I could only make out the silhouette
of a man’s head.
I drove up Putney High Street, stopped at the traffic lights as they
turned red. The Standard parked behind me.
I decided I would have to make certain that this man in the
battered Standard was following me. If he was, I’d have to shake him.
I wondered if Corridan had set one of his cops on to tailing me,
decided it wasn’t likely.
I was glad I had the Buick because it was obviously more powerful
than the Standard which looked to me to be only a fourteen
horsepower job against my thirty-one. As soon as the traffic lights
changed to yellow, I shoved down the accelerator pedal, made a
racing get-away. I roared up the hill leading from Putney, changed
into top, missing second, and belted forward with the speedometer
swinging dangerously near eighty miles an hour.
I saw people staring after me, but as no policeman hove into
sight, I couldn’t care less. I let the Buick have all the petrol it could
take until I reached the top of the hill. Then I eased off the throttle,
looked rather contentedly into the mirror, had the shock of my life.
The Standard was about twenty feet from my tail.
I was still uncertain that I was being tailed. It might be that the
guy had decided to show me I wasn’t the only one with a fast car. I
now had a healthy respect for the battered Standard, whose shabby
body obviously concealed a first-class engine, tuned for speed.
I kept on; so did the Standard. When I reached the beginning of
the By-pass, and he was still a hundred yards or so behind me, I
decided to be foxy.
I flapped my hand out of the window, pulled up by the side of the
road, watched the Standard shoot past me. As it went by I spotted the
driver. He looked a youth. He was dark, a greasy slouch hat was pulled
down low, but I saw enough of his face to recognize him. He was the
runt who’d tried to make a batter out of my brains the previous night.
Now feeling certain he had been tailing me, I watched the
Standard go on, and I reached for a cigarette. I guessed he would be
pretty mad by now, wondering what he could do. He couldn’t very
well stop — couldn’t he? I had to grin. A couple of hundred yards
farther up the road, he pulled up.
No Business Of Mine Page 4
