“Sorry, my work is too urgent,” I said, walking with him to the
elevator.
“By the way,” he said casually, as we waited for the elevator to
come from the ground floor. “You and Netta were lovers at one time,
weren’t you?”
I remembered what Littlejohns had said, grinned to myself.
“Not really,” I returned. “Just a boy and a girl romance.”
He nodded, stepped into the elevator and we rode down in
silence.
“Do change your mind,” he said when we reached the lobby.
“Sorry,” I said, shaking hands. “But I’ve got to get along. So long.
Have a drink on me.”
He nodded. “So long, Harmas,” he said, turned back. “Oh, there’s
just one little thing, you’ll keep out of this business, won’t you? I think
I mentioned it before. It’s not easy for my men to follow up leads if
they’ve already been disturbed by enthusiastic newspaper men. That
kind of thing’s all right in your country, but not here. You might bear
that in mind.”
We exchanged somewhat dirty looks.
“Whoever heard of a newspaper man being enthusiastic?” I said,
and hurried off for a chat with Julius Cole.
Chapter IX
I PAID off the taxi outside Mrs. Crockett’s residence, looked up at
the building. There was a light showing in both the first floor and
second floor flats; the top flat was in darkness.
I had intended to try if I could find out something more about
Julius Cole, but when I saw the lighted windows of the first floor flat, I
changed my mind and decided to cal on Madge Kennitt instead. I
wondered if the police had questioned her. If they had and learned
nothing, then I was wasting my time. I could always go upstairs to see
Julius Cole if Madge Kennitt had nothing to tell me, I consoled myself.
I mounted the steps, opened the front door and entered the hall.
On the first landing, Madge Kennitt’s door faced me. As I reached for
the knocker I heard a faint sound from upstairs, looked up quickly. I
was in time to see Julius Cole duck out of sight. I smiled to myself.
That guy missed nothing. I rat-tatted on the door, waited.
There was a long pause, then I head heavy thudding footsteps and
the door jerked open.
A short, fat woman stood squarely in the doorway. She was
around forty-five, and had a lot of face and chin. Her straw-coloured
hair, brittle by constant bleaching was set in a ruthless permanent.
Her moist eyes were as sympathetic as marbles at the bottom of a
pond, and her complexion was raddled with rouge and powder which
failed to hide the purple bloom of a whisky soak.
“Good evening,” I said. “Miss Kennitt?”
She peered at me, belched gently. A puff of whisky-ladened
breath fanned my face. I reminded myself to duck the next time she
did that.
“Who is it?” she asked. “Come in. I can’t see you out there.”
She stepped back into the hard light of the sitting-room. I
followed her. It was quite a room. The main piece of furniture was a
reed chaise-longue by the window. It had a curved back and enough
cushions to stuff an elephant. One side of the room was given up to
dozens of empty bottles of whisky. Just to look at them gave me a
thirst. Then there was a rickety table, a straight-backed chair and a
well-worn imitation Turkey carpet on the floor. A bucket stood by the
chaise-longue, three-quarters filled with cigarette butts. The smell of
stale whisky, nicotine and cheap scent was overpowering.
By the empty fireplace a big black cat lay full-length. It was the
biggest cat I’ve ever seen. Its long hair was silky: it looked in a lot
better shape than Madge Kennitt.
I put my hat on the table, tried to breathe through my mouth, put
on a friendly expression.
Madge Kennitt was looking at me in that puzzled way people have
when they’ve seen a face before but can’t place it. Then suddenly her
eyelids narrowed, and a. sly smirk settled on her thick lips.
“I know you,” she said. “I’ve seen you in and out there. It must be
nearly two years since last you came. You’re that Scott girl’s friend,
aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I wanted to talk to you about her.”
“Oh, did you?” She padded over to the chaise-longue, settled
herself down on it like an elephant about to roll in the dust. “Now I
wonder what you want to talk to me about her for.” Her fat, doughy-
looking hand dipped down on the off-side of the chaise-longue and
hoisted up a bottle of Scotch.
“I have a bad heart,” she explained, eyeing the bottle greedily.
“This stuff’s the only thing that keeps me alive.” She carefully
unscrewed the metal cap, hoisted up a dirty tumbler and poured
three inches of whisky into it. She held up the bottle, inspected it
against the light, grimaced. “I can’t offer you any,” she went on. “I’m
running low. Besides I don’t believe young men should drink for
pleasure.” She belched again, but I was well out of range. “It’s a
disgrace invalids like me have so much worry and trouble getting the
stuff. Doctors ought to supply it to deserving cases.” She looked at me
out of the corners of her eyes. “And don’t think I like it. I loathe the
muck. I can hardly get it down, but it’s the only thing that keeps me
alive—I’ve tried everything else.” She lowered two inches of the raw
spirit down her thick throat, closed her eyes, sighed. For someone
who hated the stuff, she took it remarkably well.
I sat on the straight-backed chair, wondered if I’d ever get used to
the smell in the room, took out a cigarette.
“Have a smoke?” I asked, waving the carton at her.
She shook her head. “Only smoke my own brand,” she said,
hoisting up a vast box of Woodbines from behind the chaise-longue,
selected one, lowered the box out of sight.
We lit up.
“Miss Kennitt,” I said, staring at my cigarette and wondering how
much to tel her. “Netta Scott was a friend of mine. Her death came as
a great shock to me. I wonder if you know anything about it. I’m trying
to find out why she did it.”
The fat woman settled herself more comfortably, thumped her
floppy bosom, belched gently.
“You were lovers, weren’t you?” she asked, a sly smirk crossing
her purple face.
“Does that matter?” I asked.
“It does to me,” she said, sipped the whisky: “two young people
making love reminds me of my own youth.”
I couldn’t imagine her ever being young or in love.
“Netta wasn’t the loving type,” I said, after a moment’s hesitation
as to how to steer her away from this topic.
“She was a sexy little bitch,” Madge Kennitt said, winking at the
ceiling. “You can’t tell me anything I don’t know.”
I flicked ash on to the carpet, wished I hadn’t ever met the hag.
“All right,” I said, shrugging. “What does it matter? She’s dead.
Names can’t hurt her.”
“I wasn’t good enough for her,”
the woman muttered, drained her
glass, hoisted up the bottle again. “I thought she’d come to a sticky
end. I suppose she was pregnant?”
“You know as much about it as I do,” I said.
“Perhaps I know more,” she returned, looking sly. “You’ve only
just got back, haven’t you? You don’t know what’s been going on here
during the past two years. Mr. Cole and I know most things.”
“Yeah, he doesn’t miss much,” I said, hoping to draw her. She
shook her bleached head, poured more whisky into the tumbler.
“He’s a filthy rat,” she said, closing her eyes. “Peeping and prying
all day long. I bet he knows you’re with me now.”
I nodded. “Sure. He saw me come in here.”
“It won’t do him any good. One of these days I’m going to tell him
what I think of him. I’ll enjoy that.”
“Did the police ask you anything about Netta?” I asked casual y.
She smiled. “Oh, yes, they asked questions. I didn’t tell them
anything. I don’t believe in helping the police. I don’t like them. They
came in here, sniffing and prying; I could see they thought I was a
drunken old woman. They don’t believe I have a bad heart. One of the
detectives, a cold, smug-looking brute, smirked at me. I don’t like men
smirking at me, so I didn’t tell him anything.” She poured more whisky
down her throat, grunted. “You’re an American, aren’t you?”
I said I was.
“I thought so. I like Americans. Mr. Churchill likes Americans. I like
Mr. Churchill. What he likes, I seem to like, too. I’ve noticed it over
and over again.” She waved her tumbler excitedly, slopped whisky on
her chest. “What do you do for a living?”
“Oh, I write,” I said. “I’m a newspaper man.”
She nodded. “I was sure of it. I’m good at guessing professions.
When I first saw you, coming in with that little slut, I said to myself
you were a writer. Did she know how to make love? Some of these
modern chits—especially the pretty ones rely on their looks. They
don’t know or care how to please a man. I knew. Men liked me. They
were always coming back.”
“Do you think Netta committed suicide?” I asked abruptly, rather
sick of her.
She lay still, staring up at the ceiling. “They said she did,” she
returned cautiously. “That’s a funny question to ask, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think she did,” I said, lighting another cigarette. “That’s
why I thought I’d talk to you.”
She emptied her glass, put it on the floor beside her. It toppled
over, rol ed under the chaise-longue. I thought she was beginning to
get a little tight.
“I don’t know anything about it,” she said, smiled to herself.
“Pity,” I said. “I thought you might. Maybe I’d better talk to Mr.
Cole.”
She frowned. “He won’t tel you anything. He knows too much.
Why did he tell the police Netta came home alone? I heard him. Why
did he lie about that?”
I tried not to show too much interest. “Didn’t she come home
alone? “
“Course she didn’t. Cole knows that as wel as I do.” She groped
for her bottle, hoisted it up, examined it. I could see it was a quarter
full. “This damn stuff evaporates,” she said in disgust. “A full bottle
not an hour ago, and now look at it. How the hell can I go on hunting
for the stuff if it goes like this?”
“Who else was with her?” I asked.
She didn’t seem to hear, but leaned over and tried to find the
tumbler.
“I’ll get it,” I said, bent down, hooked out the tumbler, handed it
to her. Her reeking breath fanned my cheek.
I had a glimpse of an indescribable heap of rubbish pushed under
the chaise-longue: dirty garments, shoes, cigarette cartons, crockery,
old newspapers.
She grabbed the tumbler, clutched it to her.
“Who else was with Netta?” I repeated, kneeling at her side,
looking at her intently. “Was it another girl?”
Her face showed surprise.
“How do you know?” she asked, lifting her head so she could see
me. “You weren’t there, were you?”
“So it was another girl,” I said, a sudden tingling running down my
spine.
She nodded, added, “And a man.”
Now I was getting somewhere.
“Who were they?”
A look of cunning came into the glassy eyes.
“Why should I tell you? Ask Cole if you’re so interested. He saw
them. He sees everything.”
I returned to my chair, sat down.
“I’m asking you. Listen, I don’t think it was suicide. I think it was
murder.”
She had unscrewed the cap of the whisky and was pouring the
spirit into the tumbler. The bottle and tumbler dropped out of her
hands, rolled on to the carpet. She gave a thin scream, her face turned
grey.
“Murder?” she gasped. “Murder!”
I made a dive for the bottle, but I was too late. The whisky poured
out on to the carpet.
I stood over her. “Yes,” I said. “Murder.”
“I won’t be frightened,” she exclaimed, struggling to sit up. “It’s
bad for my heart. Here, give me that whisky. I want a drink.”
“Then you’d better open another bottle,” I said, watching her
closely. “There’s none left in this one.”
“I haven’t got another bottle,” she wailed, sinking back. “Oh, God!
What am I going to do now?”
“Aw, forget it,” I exclaimed, wanting to shake her. “Who were the
man and woman who came back with Netta? What time did they
leave? Come on, this is important. They may know something.”
She lay still for a moment, a great inert lump of flesh, then she
looked at me, her smal eyes cunning.
“How important is it to you?” she demanded. “I can tell you who
the man is, and the girl, too. I know them. I can tell you what time the
man left. I saw him. I’ll tell you if you get me a bottle of whisky.”
“I’ll get you one,” I said. “I’l bring you one to-morrow. Now, come
on! Who were they?”
“I want one to-night-now.” She clenched her fat hands into fists.
“You can get one. Americans can get anything.”
“Don’t talk like a fool,” I said, exasperated. “It’s past eleven
o’clock. Of course I can’t get whisky to-night.”
“Then I’m not telling you.”
“I could call the police,” I threatened, furious with her.
She smirked. “You wouldn’t do that,” she said, winking. “I’m on to
you. You wouldn’t want to get that little slut into trouble.”
“Now, look,” I said, controlling my temper with an effort, “don’t
be unreasonable. I’ll get you the whisky to-morrow morning. I’ll get
you two bottles, and I’ll give you right now five pounds if you’ll talk. I
can’t be fairer than that.”
She half raised herself on her elbow. Her face was now dark with
frustrated fury.
“Get that damn whisky now or get out!” she screamed at me.
I got to my feet, moved across the room, back
again. Then I
remembered Sam, the barman at the Blue Club. He’d sel me a bottle
of whisky if I made it worth his while.
“Okay,” I said, turning to the door. “I’ll see what I can do. But no
fooling, or I’ll drink the damn stuff myself.”
She nodded, waved me away.
“Hurry!” she said. “I’ll tell you what you want to know if you get
it. Go on . . . hurry!”
I ran down the steps into the street, looked left and right for a
taxi. There wasn’t a sign of one. I decided it would be quicker in the
long run to wait, so I stood on the edge of the kerb, kept watch.
It looked as if I was now on the right track. Netta had brought a
girl back with her and I was willing to stake everything I owned that it
was this girl who had died in Netta’s flat. Who could the man be?
Netta’s boy friend? Someone else? Could it have been Julius Cole?
And who was the girl?
I suddenly felt I was being watched. I didn’t look around
immediately, but lit a cigarette, tossed the match into the gutter, then
glanced over my shoulder. There seemed no one about, but for all
that, I was pretty sure someone was tailing me. I thought of Frankie,
wondered if he was going to have another try at beating my brains in.
I stood there for ten minutes or so before a taxi returning to the West
End, drew up. I told him to take me to the Blue Club, and as we drove
off, I peered through the rear window. I spotted a sudden movement.
Inspector Corridan stepped out of a dark doorway, stood in the
middle of the pavement, looking after me. He glanced up and down
the street as if hoping to find another taxi to follow me, but he was
unlucky.
I grinned to myself. So Corridan had followed me to Madge
Kennitt’s place. He wouldn’t know I had visited her. He probably
thought I had been to see Julius Cole. It looked as if Corridan was
keeping an eye on me; did think I might be hooked up in this case.
A quarter of an hour later I arrived at the Blue Club. Ten minutes
after that, I was trying to pick up another taxi back to Cromwell Road,
the precious bottle of Scotch under my arm. It had cost me five
pounds, but I hoped the information I was going to receive would be
worth that and more.
When a taxi eventually turned up, my wrist watch showed eleven
forty-five. I gave the address, sat back, relaxed.
No Business Of Mine Page 9
