That settled it. I was being tailed, and I took out a pencil from my
pocket and scribbled the licence number of the car on the back of an
envelope.
Now I had to shake him. I didn’t hesitate. I owed him something
for giving me a scare last night. I started the Buick, drove up to the
Standard, braked sharply and was out of the car before the runt knew
what was happening.
“Hello, pal,” I said, smiling at him. “A little bird tells me you’re
following me. I don’t like it.” While I was speaking I took my penknife
out, opened the blade. “Sorry to give you a little work, sonny,” I went
on, “but it’ll do you a world of good.”
He just sat glowering at me, his lips drawn off his yellow teeth. He
looked like an infuriated ferret.
I bent down, stuck my penknife into one of his tyres. The air
hissed out; the tyre went flat.
“These tyres aren’t what they were, are they, son?” I asked,
folding the blade down, putting the knife in my pocket. “I’ll leave you
to change the wheel. I have an appointment right now.”
He called me a word which in normal times would have annoyed
me, but I felt he had some justification.
“If you’d like to collect a tyre lever, we’ll have another little joust,”
I said amiably.
He repeated the word, so I left him.
He was still sitting there as I drove past, and he was still sitting
there when I reached the bend in the road some six hundred yards
farther on. I guessed he was a sore pup all right.
I reached Horsham in half an hour and I was sure now that I
wasn’t being followed. The traffic was negligible, and for miles I drove
with nothing behind me.
From Horsham I took the Worthing road, branched off after a few
miles and approached Lakeham. The country was magnificent, and
the day hot and sunny. I enjoyed the last few miles, thinking I should
have explored that part of England before instead of spending so
many days and nights in stuffy, dirty London.
A signpost told me I was within three-quarters of a mile of
Lakeham, and I slowed down, driving along the narrow lane until I
reached a few cottages, a pub and a post office. I guessed I’d arrived.
I pulled up outside the pub, went in.
It was a quaint box-like place, almost like a doll’s house. The
woman who served me a double whisky seemed ready to talk,
especial y when she heard my accent.
We chatted about the surrounding country and this and that, then
I asked her if she knew where a cottage called Beverley hung out.
“Oh, you mean Miss Scott?” she said, and there was an immediate
look of disapproval in her eyes. “Her place’s about a mile farther on.
You take the first on your left and the cottage lies off the road. It has a
thatched roof and a yellow gate. You can’t miss it.”
“That’s swell,” I said. “I know a friend of hers. Maybe I’ll look her
up. Do you know her? I was wondering what she was like. Think I’d be
welcome?”
“From what I hear, men are always welcomed there,” she said,
with a sniff. “I’ve never seen ‘er. No one in the village sees ‘er. She
only comes down for the week-ends.”
“Maybe she has someone to look after the cottage?” I suggested,
wondering if I had made the journey for nothing.
“Mrs. Brambee does for ‘er,” the woman told me. “She ain’t much
‘erself.”
I paid for my drink, thanked the woman, returned to the Buick.
It took me only a few minutes to find Beverley. I saw it through
the trees as I drove up the narrow lane. It stood in a charming garden,
a two-storied, thatch-roofed, rough-cast building, as attractive as any
you could wish to see.
I parked the Buick outside, pushed open the gate and walked up
the path. The sun beat down on me, and the smell of pinks, roses and
wallflowers hung in the still air. I wouldn’t have minded living there
myself.
I went up to the oak nail-studded front door, rapped with the
shiny brass knocker, feeling a curious uneasy excitement as I waited. I
was uneasy because I didn’t know if Netta’s sister had heard about
Netta, and I wasn’t sure how I should break the news. I was excited
because I wondered if Anne was like her sister, and how we would get
on together.
But after a few moments, I realized, with a sharp feeling of
disappointment, that there was no one in, or at least, no one was
going to answer my knock. I stood back, glanced up at the windows of
the upper floor, then peered into the first window within reach on the
ground floor. I could see the room stretching the length of the house,
and the big garden through the windows at the back. The place was
well furnished and comfortable. I moved around the house, until I
reached the back. There was no one about, and I stood for a moment,
hat in hand, looking across the well-kept lawn and at the flower-beds,
a mass of brilliant colours.
I passed the back door, hesitated, tried the handle, but the door
was locked. I moved on until I reached another window, paused as I
noticed the curtains had been drawn.
I stared at the curtained window, and for no reason at all I
suddenly felt spooked. I took a step forward, tried to see into the
room, by peering through a chink in the curtain. I could see it was the
kitchen, but my view was so limited I could only make out a dresser
from which hung willow pattern cups and plates in rows along the
ordered shelves.
Then I smelt coal-gas.
Feet crunched on the gravel. I swung around. Corridan and two
uniformed policemen came striding towards me. Corridan’s face was
dour, his eyes showed irritation and anger.
“You better bust in quick,” I said, before he could speak. “I smell
gas.”
Chapter V
I SAT fuming in the Buick outside the cottage, and watched the
activity going on in and out the front door.
Corridan had been extremely curt and official when he had
recovered from his surprise at seeing me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he had demanded. Then he,
too, smelt the gas. “This is no place for you. It’s no good glaring at me.
This is police business, and newspaper men are not wanted.”
I began to argue with him, but he brushed past me, saying to one
of the policemen, “Escort Mr. Harmas off the premises, please, and
see he keeps out.”
I felt inclined to clock the policeman on his beaky nose, but I knew
it wouldn’t get me anywhere so I returned to the car, sat in it, lit a
cigarette and watched.
Corridan and the other policeman succeeded in breaking down
the front door. They entered the cottage, while the second policeman
remained at the gate to scowl at me. I scowled right back.
After a few moments, I saw Corridan opening the windows, then
move out of sight. The sickly smell of gas drifted across the lawn. I
waited a quarter of an hour before anything else happened. Then a
car drove up and a tal dismal
-looking guy carrying a black bag got out,
had a word with the policeman at the gate, and together they went
inside.
I didn’t have to be clairvoyant to guess the guy was the village
croaker.
After ten minutes, the dismal guy came out. I was waiting for him
near his car, and he gave me a sharp, unfriendly look as he opened his
car door.
“Pardon me, doc,” I said, “I’m a newspaper man. Can you tell me
what’s going on in there?”
“You must ask Inspector Corridan,” he snapped back, got into his
car, drove away.
The policeman at the gate grinned behind his hand.
After a while the other policeman came out of the cottage,
whispered something to his colleague, hurried off down the lane.
“I suppose he’s gone to buy Corridan a toffee apple,” I said to the
policeman at the gate. “But don’t tell me. Just let it mystify me.”
The policeman grinned sympathetical y. I could see he was the
gossiping type and was bursting to talk to someone.
“E’s off to get Mrs. Brambee wot looks after this ‘ere cottage,” he
said, after a quick look around to make sure he wasn’t overheard.
“Someone dead in there?” I asked, jerking my thumb to the
cottage.
He nodded. “A young lady,” he returned, moving closer to the
Buick. “Pretty little thing. Suicide, of course. Put ‘er ‘ead in the gas
oven. Been dead three or four days I should say.
“Never mind what you say,” I returned. “What did the doc say.”
The policeman grinned a little sheepishly. “That’s wot ‘e did say as
a matter of fact.”
I grunted. “Is it Anne Scott?”
“I dunno. The doc couldn’t identify ‘er. That’s why Bert’s gone for
this ‘ere Mrs. Brambee.”
“What’s comrade Corridan doing in there?” I asked.
“Sniffing around,” the policeman returned, shrugging. From the
expression on his face I guessed Corridan wasn’t his favourite person.
“I bet ‘e’s trying to make out there’s more to this than meets the eye.
The Yard men always do. It ‘elps their promotion.”
I thought this was a little unfair, but didn’t say so, turned around
to watch two figures coming down the lane. One of them was Bert,
the policeman, the other was a tall, bulky woman in a pink sack-like
dress.
“Here they come,” I said, nodding in their direction.
The woman was walking quickly. She had a long stride, and the
policeman seemed pressed to keep up with her. As they drew nearer,
I could see her face. She was dark, sun-tanned, about forty, with a
mass of black greasy hair, rolled up in an untidy bun at the back of her
head. Straggling locks of hair fell over her face, and she kept brushing
them back with a hand as big as a man’s.
She ran up the flagged path. Her eyes were wild, her mouth was
working. She looked as if she were suffering from acute grief and
shock.
Bert winked at the other policeman as he followed the woman
into the cottage.
I lit another cigarette, settled down in the car, waited a little
anxiously.
A sudden animal-like cry drifted through the open windows, and
was followed by the sound of wild hysterical sobbing.
“It must be Anne Scott,” I said, troubled.
“Looks like it,” the policeman returned, staring in the direction of
the cottage.
After a long while the sobbing died down. We waited almost half
an hour before the woman appeared again. She walked slowly, her
face hidden by a dirty handkerchief, her shoulders sagging.
The policeman opened the gate for her, helped her through by
taking her elbow. It was meant sympathetical y, but she immediately
shook him off.
“Take your bloody hands off me,” she said in a muffled voice,
went on down the lane.
“A proper lady,” the policeman said, chewing his chin-strap and
going red.
“Maybe she’s been reading Macbeth,” I suggested, but that didn’t
seem to console him.
It was how almost an hour and a half since I had seen Corridan. I
was hungry. It was past one-thirty; but I decided to wait, hopeful I
might see something more or get a chance of telling Corridan what I
thought of him.
Ten minutes later he came to the door and waved to me. I was
out of the car, past the policeman in split seconds.
“All right,” he said curtly as I dashed up to him. “I suppose you
want to look around. But for God’s sake don’t tell anyone I’ve let you
in.”
I decided that after al I hadn’t wasted my money feeding this lug.
“Thanks,” I said. “I won’t tell a soul.”
There was still a strong smel of gas in the cottage, which grew
stronger as we entered the kitchen.
“It’s Anne Scott all right,” Corridan said gloomily, pointing to a
huddled figure lying on the floor.
I stood over her, felt inadequate, could think of nothing to say.
She wore a pink dressing-gown and white pyjamas, her feet were
bare, her hands clenched tightly into fists. Her head lay hidden in the
gas oven. By moving around, carefully stepping over her legs, I could
see into the oven. She was a blonde, about twenty-five; even in death
she was attractive, although I could see no resemblance to Netta in
the serene rather lovely face.
I stepped back, looked at Corridan. “Sure she’s Anne Scott?” I
asked.
He made an impatient movement. “Of course,” he said. “The
woman identified her. You’re not trying to make out there’s a mystery
in this, are you?”
“Odd they should both commit suicide, isn’t it?” I said, feeling in
my bones that something was very wrong.
He jerked his head, walked into the sitting-room.
“Read that,” he said, handed me a sheet of note-paper. “It was
found by her side.”
I took the note, read:
Without Netta life means nothing to me. Please forgive me. ANNE.
I handed it back. “After fifty years in the police force, I feel
justified in saying that’s a plant,” I said.
He took the paper. “Don’t try to be funny,” he said coldly.
I grinned. “Who do you suppose it was addressed to?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Mrs. Brambee tells me a lot of
men used to come down here. There was one fellow-Peter-who Anne
used to talk a lot about. Maybe it was for him.”
“Would that be Peter Utterly?” I asked. “The guy who gave Netta
the gun?”
Corridan rubbed his chin. “Doubtful,” he said. “Utterly went back
to the States a month or so ago.”
“Yeah, I’d forgotten that,” I said, wandering over to the writing-
desk that stood in the window recess. “Well, I suppose you’ll look for
this guy?” I opened the lid of the desk, glanced inside. There were no
papers, no letters. All the pigeon-holes had been carefully cleared.
“She tidied up before she threw in her hand,” I pointed out. “Any
letters or papers anywhere?”
He shook his hea
d.
“No means of checking if the handwriting of the note is really
Anne’s?”
“My dear fellow . . .” he began a little tartly.
“Skip it,” I said. “I’ve a suspicious nature. Find anything
interesting?”
“Nothing,” he returned, eyed me narrowly. “I’ve searched the
place thoroughly; there’s nothing to connect her with forged bonds,
diamond rings or anything like that. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I’ll get over it,” I said, grinning. “Just give me time. Find any silk
stockings in the place?”
“I didn’t look for silk stockings,” he snapped back. “I’ve more
important things to do.”
“Let’s look,” I said. “I have a thing about silk stockings. “Where’s
the bedroom?”
“Now look here, Harmas, this has gone far enough. I’ve let you in .
. .”
“For your rupture’s sake, if not for me, calm down,” I said, patting
him on his arm. “What’s the harm in looking? Netta had silk stockings
and they vanished. Anne may have had silk stockings and they may
still be here. Let’s look.”
He gave me an exasperated glare, turned to the door. “Wait
here,” he said, began to mount the stairs.
I kept on his heels. “You may need me. Always a good thing to
have a witness.”
He led the way into a small but luxuriously furnished bedroom,
went immediately to a chest of drawers and began to paw over a
mass of silk undies, sweaters and scarves.
“You handle that stuff like a married man,” I said, opened the
wardrobe, peered in. There were only two frocks and a two- piece
costume hanging up. “She didn’t have many clothes, poor kid,” I went
on. “Maybe she couldn’t get coupons, or do you think she was a
nudist?”
He scowled at me. “There’re no stockings here,” he said.
“No stockings of any kind at all?”
“No.”
“Seems to confirm my nudist theory, doesn’t it?” I said. “You
might like to turn this stocking angle over in your nimble, sharp-witted
mind. I’m going to do that myself, and I’m going to keep at it until I
find out why neither of these girls had any stockings.”
“What the hel are you driving at?” Corridan burst out. “You have
a shilling-shocker mind. Who do you think you are- Perry Mason?”
“Don’t tell me you read detective stories,” I said, surprised. “Well,
No Business Of Mine Page 5
