No Business Of Mine

by James Hadley Chase

  what happens now?”

  “I’m waiting for the ambulance,” Corridan said, following me

  downstairs. “The body will be taken to the Horsham mortuary, and

  the inquest will also be held there. I don’t expect anything will come

  out at the inquest. It’s pretty straightforward.” But he sounded

  worried.

  “Do you really think she learned about Netta’s suicide and

  followed suit?” I asked.

  “Why not?” he returned. “You’d be surprised how suicides fol ow

  in families. We have a bunch of statistics about it.”

  “I was forgetting you worked by rule of thumb,” I returned. “What

  was the idea of keeping me out until you sniffed around?”

  “Now see here, Harmas, you have no damn business here at all.

  You are here on sufferance,” Corridan retorted. “This is a serious

  business, and I can’t have rubbernecks watching me work.”

  “Calling me a rubberneck is as big a lie as calling what you do

  work,” I said sadly. “But never mind. I’ll behave, and thanks for the

  break anyway.”

  He looked sharply at me to see if I was kidding, decided I was,

  compressed his lips.

  “Well, that’s all there’s to see. You’d better be moving before the

  ambulance arrived.

  “Yeah, I’ll be off,” I said, wandering to the front door. “You

  wouldn’t be interested in my theory about this second death I

  suppose?”

  “Not in the slightest,” he said firmly.

  “I thought as much. It’s a pity, because I think I could have put you

  on the right lines. I guess you’ll have a guard on the body this time?

  You don’t want it stolen like the other was, do you?”

  “Oh, rubbish,” he said crossly. “Nothing like that’ll happen. But

  I’m taking precautions if that’s what you mean.”

  “Oddly enough, that’s exactly what I do mean,” I said, smiled at

  him, opened the door. “Be seeing you, pal,” I went on, left him.

  I winked at the policeman at the gate, got into the Buick and

  drove slowly down the lane. I had a lot to think about, and I didn’t

  quite know where to start. I thought it mightn’t be a bad idea to have

  a word with Mrs. Brambee. That seemed the obvious starting-point.

  I knew her cottage couldn’t be far, as Bert, the policeman, had

  only been a few minutes fetching her. I didn’t want Corridan to know

  what I was up to, so I drove to the end of the lane, parked the Buick

  behind a thicket, and walked back. I was lucky to meet a farmhand

  who pointed Mrs. Brambee’s place out to me. It was small and

  dilapidated with a wild, overgrown garden.

  I walked up the weed-covered path, rapped on the door. I had to

  knock three times before I heard shuffling feet. A moment later, the

  door jerked open and Mrs. Brambee confronted me. At close quarters

  she seemed half gypsy. She was very swarthy and her jet-black eyes

  were like little wet stones.

  “What do you want?” she demanded in a harsh voice that

  somehow reminded me of the caw of a crow.

  “I’m a newspaper man, Mrs. Brambee,” I said, raising my hat;

  hoped she’d appreciate good manners. “I’d like to ask you a few

  questions about Miss Scott. You saw the body just now. Are you

  absolutely sure it was Miss Scott?”

  Her eyes snapped. “Of course, it was Miss Scott,” she said,

  beginning to close the door. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Anyway, I don’t intend to answer questions. You get off.”

  “I could make it worth your while,” I said, jingling my loose change

  suggestively. “I want the inside story of this suicide, and my paper will

  pay generously for it.”

  “You and your paper can go to hell,” she shouted violently,

  slammed the door, only I had my foot ready for just such a move.

  “Now be nice,” I said, smiling at her through the three-inch

  opening between the door-post and the door. “Who is this guy Peter

  you were telling the Inspector about? Where can I find him?”

  “She jerked open the door, put her hand on my chest and shoved.

  I wasn’t expecting such a move, and I staggered back, lost my balance,

  fell full-length. Her shove was like the kick from a horse.

  The door slammed and I heard the bolt shoot home.

  I got slowly to my feet, dusted myself down, whistled softly. Then

  I glanced up at the upper windows, stiffened.

  I had a fleeting glimpse of a girl looking down at me. Even as I

  looked up, she jerked back from the window and out of sight. I

  couldn’t even swear that it was a girl: it might have been a man-even

  an optical illusion. But unless my eyes had deceived me, Netta Scott

  was upstairs, and had been watching me.

  Chapter VI

  I WAS glancing through the newspaper, morning coffee on the

  table by my bed, when a small item of news caught my eye. I sat up,

  nearly upsetting the tray.

  MYSTERIOUS FIRE AT HORSHAM MORTUARY

  ran the headline. The few lines below the headline stated that at

  twelve o’clock the previous night a fire had broken out in the

  Horsham mortuary, and the efforts of the local fire brigade were

  unavailing. The building had been completely destroyed, and three

  policemen, who were on the premises, narrowly escaped with their

  lives.

  I threw the paper down, grabbed the telephone and put a call

  through to Corridan. I was told that he was out of town.

  I jumped out of bed, wandered into the bathroom, took a cold

  shower. I shaved, came back to the bedroom, began to dress. All the

  time I was thinking.

  Someone behind the scenes was controlling this set-up, like a

  puppet-master pul ing the strings. Whoever it was had to be stopped.

  If Corridan wasn’t smart enough to stop him, then I was going to have

  a try. Up to now, I’d tagged along in the rear as an interested

  spectator. I was now going to take a more active part in this business.

  I decided first to give Corridan one more chance. I asked the

  switchboard girl to connect me with the Horsham police. After the

  inevitable delay I was put through.

  “Is Inspector Corridan with you, please?” I asked.

  “Hold on, sir,” a voice invited me.

  Corridan came on the line. “Yes?” he snapped. “What is it?” He

  sounded like a lion who’d seen someone swipe his dinner.

  “Hello,” I said. “This is your conscience cal ing you from the Savoy

  Hotel. What have you got on your mind this morning?”

  “For God’s sake don’t bother me now, Harmas,” Corridan

  returned. “I’m busy.”

  “When aren’t you?” I said. “That’s a sweet little item in the

  newspaper this morning. What does Anne Scott look like now? Done

  to a turn or burnt to a crisp?”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said savagely. “It was nothing

  like that at all. These fools here store their petrol in the mortuary of

  all places, and a faulty electric wire set it off. We’ve satisfied ourselves

  that there’s no evidence of arson, although it is a most extraordinary

  coincidence. The body was practically burnt to a cinde
r. Fortunately,

  of course, it has been officially identified, so there’ll be no trouble at

  the inquest. Now you’ve heard the details, for goodness’ sake get off

  the line and let me get on with my work.”

  “Don’t rush away,” I said quickly. “I’m not satisfied about this

  business, Corridan. Coincidence be damned for a tale. Look, I think . ..”

  “So long, Harmas,” he broke in. “Someone’s waiting to speak to

  me,” and he hung up.

  I slammed down the receiver, selected four of the worst words in

  my cursing vocabulary, said them, felt better. That settled it, I

  thought. I was going to get into this business with both feet and the

  hell with Corridan.

  I went downstairs, buttonholed the hal porter.

  “Brother,” I said to him, “can you tell me where I can hire a

  reliable private detective?”

  For a moment a look of faint astonishment showed in his eyes,

  then he became once more the perfect servant.

  “Certainly, sir,” he said, going to his desk. “I have an address here.

  J. B. Merryweather, Thames House, Millbank. Mr. Merryweather was,

  at one time, a Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard.”

  “Swell,” I said, parted with two half-crowns, asked him to call me

  a taxi.

  I found J. B. Merryweather’s office on the top floor of a vast

  concrete and steel building overlooking an uninspired portion of the

  Thames.

  Merryweather was short and fat; his face the colour of a

  mulberry, and covered with a network of fine blue veins. His small

  eyes were watery, and the whites tinged with yellow. His long nose

  gave him a hawk-like appearance, which, I should imagine, was good

  for trade. I wasn’t particularly impressed by him, but from what I had

  seen of private investigators in my country, the less impressive they

  were the better results they obtained.

  Merryweather eyed me over as I entered his tiny, somewhat

  dusty office, offered a limp hand, waved me to a straight-backed

  chair. He folded himself down in his swivelled chair which creaked

  alarmingly under his weight, sunk his knobbly chin deep into a rather

  soiled stiff collar. His eyes drooped as he gave what he probably

  imagined to be a fair imitation of a booze-ridden Sherlock Holmes.

  “I should like your name,” he said, taking a pad and pencil from

  his desk drawer, “for my records, and the address, if you please.”

  I told him who I was, said I was staying at the Savoy Hotel. He

  nodded, wrote the information on the pad, said the Savoy was a nice

  place to live in.

  I agreed, waited.

  “It’s your wife, I suppose?” he asked in a deep, weary voice which

  seemed to start from his feet.

  “I’m not married,” I said, taking out a carton of cigarettes, lighting

  one. He leaned forward hopefully, so I pushed the carton across the

  desk. He eased out a cigarette, struck a match on his desk, lit up.

  “Difficult things to get these days,” he sighed. “I’m out of them

  this morning. Nuisance.”

  I said it was, ran my fingers through my hair, wondered what he’d

  say when he knew what I’d come about. I had a feeling he might have

  a stroke.

  “Blackmail, perhaps?” he asked, blowing a cloud of smoke down

  his vein-covered nose.

  “Something rather more complicated than that,” I said, trying to

  make myself comfortable in the chair. “Suppose I begin at the

  beginning?”

  He made a slight grimace as if he wasn’t anxious to hear a long

  story, muttered something about being pretty busy this morning.

  I looked around the shabby office, decided he could never be

  busy, but was suffering from an inferiority complex, said I’d been

  recommended to him by the hall porter of the Savoy Hotel.

  He brightened immediately. “Damn good chap that,” he said,

  rubbing his hands. “Many a time we’ve worked together in the old

  days.”

  “Well, maybe I’d better get on with it,” I said, a little bored with

  him. I told him about Netta, how we had met, the kind of things we

  did, and how I had arrived at her flat to find she had committed

  suicide.

  He sank lower in his chair, a bewildered, rather dismayed

  expression on his face as I talked.

  I told him how the body had been stolen from the mortuary, and

  he flinched. I went on to tell him about Anne, how I had gone to her

  cottage and what happened there.

  “The police moved her body to the Horsham mortuary last night,”

  I concluded, beginning to enjoy myself. I presented him with my Piece

  de resistance, the clipping from the morning’s newspaper.

  He had to find his spectacles before he could read it, and when he

  had, I could see he wished he hadn’t; also wished I hadn’t come to

  worry him.

  “The body was burned to a cinder, so I’m told,” I went on. “Now

  you know the set-up, what do you think?”

  “My dear sir,” he said, waving his hands vaguely, “this isn’t in my

  line at all. Divorce, blackmail, breach of promise, yes. This kind of

  novelette drama no.”

  I nodded understandingly. “I thought you might feel that way

  about it,” I said. “It’s a pity. Never mind, I’ll probably find someone

  else to do the work.” As I was speaking I took out my wallet, glanced

  inside as if looking for something. I gave him plenty of time to see the

  five hundred one-pound notes I was still carrying. Whatever else was

  wrong with him, his eyesight, as far as spotting money was concerned,

  was excellent.

  He levered himself up in his chair, adjusted his tie.

  “What do you suggest I might do to help you?” he ventured

  cautiously.

  I put the wallet away. To him, it was like a black cloud passing

  before the face of the sun.

  “I wanted someone to investigate at Lakeham,” I said. “I want to

  get everything I can on this woman, Mrs. Brambee, and I want a

  background picture of Anne Scott.”

  He brightened visibly. “Well, that’s something we might be able to

  do,” he said, and looked hopeful y at the carton of cigarettes on his

  desk. “I wonder if you’d mind . . .”

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  He took another cigarette, became quite genial.

  “Yes, I think we could help you do that,” he went on, drawing

  down a lungful of smoke. “I have an excellent man, very discreet. I

  could put him on the job.” His eyes closed for a moment, then

  snapped open. “It isn’t our usual line of investigation, you know. It

  might-hum — cost a little more.”

  “I’ll pay well for results,” I returned. “What are your terms?”

  “Well, now let me see. Shall we say ten pounds a week and three

  pounds a day expenses?” He looked hopeful y at me, looked away.

  “For that I’d expect to hire Sherlock Holmes himself,” I said, and

  meant it.

  Mr. Merryweather tittered, put his hand over his mouth, looked

  embarrassed.

  “It’s an expensive age we live in,” he sighed, shaking his head.

  I was glad I hadn’t told
him about the attempted attack on me, or

  about the guy following me in the Standard car. He would probably

  have added danger money to the bill.

  “Well, all right,” I said, shrugging. “Only I want results.” I counted

  thirty-one pounds on to his desk. “That’ll hold you for one week. Get

  me everything you can on Anne Scott, have someone watch Mrs.

  Brambee’s cottage. I want to know who goes in and who comes out,

  what she does and why she does it.”

  “It’s a police job really,” he said, whisking the money into a

  drawer and turning the key. “Who’s in charge of the case?”

  “Inspector Corridan,” I told him.

  His face darkened. “Oh, that fellow,” he said, scowling. “One of

  the bright boys. Wouldn’t have lasted a day in my time. I know him-a

  Chief’s pet.” He seemed to withdraw into himself, brooding and

  bitter. “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised if we find out a lot more than he

  does. I believe in old-fashioned methods. Police work is ninety per

  cent patience and ten per cent luck. These new scientific methods

  make a man lazy.”

  I grunted, stood up. “Well, I guess I’ll be hearing from you.

  Remember: no results, no more money.”

  He nodded, smiled awkwardly. “Quite so, Mr. Harmas. I like

  dealing with business men. One knows where one is so to speak.”

  The door opened at this moment, and a little guy slid into the

  room. He was shabby, middle-aged, pathetically sad-looking. His

  straggling moustache was stained with nicotine, his watery eyes

  peered at me like a startled rabbit’s.

  “Ah, you’ve come at the opportune moment,” Mr. Merry-

  weather said, rubbing his hands. He turned to me. “This is Henry

  Littlejohns, who will personally work on your case.” He made it sound

  as if this odd little man was Philo Vance, Nick Charles and Perry

  Mason all rolled into one. “This is Mr. Harmas who has just given us a

  most interesting case.”

  There was no enthusiastic light in Mr. Littlejohn’s faded eyes. I

  guessed he had visions of hanging around more draughty passages,

  looking through more sordid keyholes, standing outside more houses

  in the rain. He muttered something through his moustache, stood

  staring down at his boots.

  “I’d like to talk to Mr. Littlejohns,” I said to Merryweather. “Can I

  take him along with me?”