Sonic of them had been worn, some of them were still in their
transparent envelopes. I grunted, put them back, turned off the light. I
opened the door, listened. The silence and stillness made me feel
spooked. I heard nothing, except my own breathing and the steady
beat of my pulse.
I stepped into a narrow, short passage, saw the head of the stairs
at one end and a door at the other. I crept to the door, put my ear
against the panel, listened. There was no sound. I turned the handle,
pushed open the door, looked into the inky darkness. Again I listened,
uneasy, a little scared. My hand groped along the wall, found the
electric light switch, hesitated, then snapped it down.
For a second or so I stood looking around the large well-furnished
room, then the hair on the back of my neck bristled; I caught my
breath sharply.
Lying on the floor, his smal hands flat on the blue-and-fawn
carpet, his legs screwed up, his eyes sightless, his mouth below the
straggling moustache twisted in horror, was Henry Littlejohns.
I stepped forward, saw the broken skin on the side of his head,
and the blood that had run down his neck and had spread like an
obscene halo around his head. Near him was a heavy steel poker, its
knobbed handle stained red.
I avoided the blood, bent, touched his hand. It was warm, limp. I
raised his arm, let it fall. It thudded back on the carpet. He hadn’t
been dead long.
I was so shocked, so surprised that for several minutes I could
only stare clown at him, feeling nothing, my mind a blank.
Then I stiffened, my heart gave a lurch and began to pound so
violently I could scarcely breathe.
At the far end of the room was a door which was now slowly
opening. It inched open, stopped, inched open again.
“Who is it?” I said in a voice I didn’t recognize as my own. The
door jerked open. I took an involuntary step back. Netta stood there.
We looked at each other over Littlejohn’s dead body.
Then she said, “Oh, Steve, Steve, Steve, thank God you’ve found
me at last.”
I still stood there like a dummy, and she ran over to me, caught
hold of my arm.
“It’s Netta, Steve,” she sobbed, flung herself in my arms.
I couldn’t keep my eyes off Littlejohn, but I held her, said nothing.
“Take me away, Steve,” she sobbed. “Please take me away.”
I pulled myself together, slipped my arm around her, led her into
the bedroom. We sat on the divan bed, and I let her cry. There was
nothing I could do to stop her.
After a while I said, “Netta, this won’t get us anywhere. Come on,
snap out of it. I’ll help you if I can.”
She pulled away from me, her eyes glassy with terror, ran her
fingers through her thick red hair.
“You don’t understand,” she said, her husky voice off-key,
cracked. “I killed him! Do you hear, Steve? I killed him!”
I went cold, tried to say something, but succeeded in making only
a croaking noise.
She suddenly jumped to her feet, ran to the door. Before she
reached it, I caught hold of her. She struggled to get away, but I held
her. We stared at each other: both of us scared now.
“You killed him?” I said. “For God’s sake, Netta!”
She collapsed against me. I smelt lilac in her hair.
“They’ll get me now, Steve,” she said, moaned against my chest.
“I’ve kept out of their way until now, but they’ll get me for this.”
I felt cold sweat on my face. I wanted to run, get the hel out of
here, leave her. This was murder; this wasn’t something I could fool
around with and pass over to Corridan if I made a mess of it. This was
murder. I gripped her arms, tried to think. Maybe the moments of
happiness this kid had given me two years ago helped to bridge the
horror I felt. Maybe that thought stopped me from running out on
her.
“Take it easy,” I said, holding her close. “What we need is a drink.
Have you any Scotch in the place?”
She shuddered, clung more tightly. “It’s in there,” she said. I knew
where she meant. I pushed her gently away, sat her on the bed.
“Hang on,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
“No!” she exclaimed, her voice shooting up. “You mustn’t leave
me. Steve! You mustn’t leave me.” She caught hold of my wrist, her
nails bit into my flesh.
“It’s all right,” I said, trying to stop my teeth chattering. “I’ll be
right back. Take it easy, can’t you?”
“No! You won’t come back. You’re going to run out on me. You’re
going to leave me in this mess. You’re not to, Steve ! You’re not to!”
She began to cry again, then suddenly she put her hands to her face
and screamed wildly.
The sound went through my head like white-hot wires. I was stiff
with fright. I snatched her hands away, smacked her face hard,
knocking her backwards across the bed.
I stood over her. “Shut up, you little fool,” I said, trembling,
sweating. “Do you want someone to come here with that in there?”
She stopped screaming, looked up at me, her eyes empty; one
side of her face red where I had hit her.
“I’m coming back,” I went on. “Stay still and don’t make a sound.”
I crossed the passage, went into the sitting-room. He was still
there, small, defenceless, pathetic. I looked down at him, feeling bad.
I looked at his worn suit, at his shabby boots, at his thick ribbed socks
that hung in wrinkles. I looked at the terror in his eyes, the twisted
mouth. I reached down, patted his arm.
Clutched tightly between his finger and thumb was a scrap of
paper. I bent closer, gently pulled it from between his fingers. It was a
glossy scrap of paper-a piece torn from a photograph. I stared at it,
puzzled.
A bluebottle walked across one of his fixed eyes, then buzzed
around his blood. I shivered, put the scrap of paper in my vest pocket,
went to the cupboard by the fire-place and found a full bottle of
Scotch. I carried it and two glasses into the bedroom, shut the door.
Netta was lying face down across the bed. Her skirt had nicked up
and I could see an inch or so of bare thigh. Bare thighs mean nothing
to a guy in a moment like this. Her thigh meant less than nothing to
me.
I poured a big shot of whisky into both glasses, noted my hand
was no steadier than an aspen leaf. I drank the liquor; it went down
like water, hit my stomach; a moment later, I felt alive again.
I leaned over Netta, pulled her up.
“Come on,” I said, “get this down into you.”
I had to feed it to her. Her hand made mine look like a rock. She
got it down, gagged, then stopped crying. I gave her my handkerchief,
gave myself another shot of Liquor, put the bottle down.
“Have a cigarette,” I said, pushing one between her trembling lips,
took one myself, lit both.
I sat on the bed, at her side.
You have to talk, and talk fast,” I said. “I’ll help you if I can. I don’t
know what game you’ve been pla
ying or why, but if you’ll give it me
straight, I’ll do what I can for you. Now, shoot.”
She dragged down smoke, pressed back the mass of red hair that
was hiding her face. She looked pretty bad. Dark shadows circled her
eyes; her nose seemed pinched. She had lost a lot of weight since last
I saw her. Worse still, she had a blank, crazy expression in her eyes
that scared me. I didn’t like that expression. The rest of her looks
were bad, but nothing rest and sunshine couldn’t put right. But the
blank expression was something else: I had seen it in the faces of the
French girls after days of air strafing or after we’d rescued them from
some Hun. It was that kind of expression.
“I killed him,” she said quietly. The whisky had pul ed her together
as I meant it to do. “I heard a sound, crept in there. It was dark. I saw
something move and hit out.” She shuddered, hid her face. “Then I
put on the light. I—I thought it was Peter French.”
I was listening, sitting forward, cigarette between my lips,
listening with both ears.
“It won’t do, Netta,” I said, putting my hand on her knee.
We’ll start from the beginning. Never mind about the little guy.
Forget him for the moment. Start right from the beginning.”
She clenched her fists, not looking up.
“I can’t go through all that. I can’t.”
“You’ve got to. Come on, Netta. If I’m to help you, I must know
how bad it is. Right from the beginning.”
“No!” She sprang to her feet, upsetting the glass she had balanced
on the divan. “Let me go! I can’t stay here with him in there. You’ve
got to get me away.”
I grabbed her wrists, shook her, dragged her down beside me on
the bed.
“Shut up!” I said fiercely. “You’re not moving out of here until
you’ve talked. Do you know what you’re asking me to do? You’re
asking me to stick my neck in a noose.”
She gasped, tried to break away, but I held her close.
“I won’t do that for anyone, Netta. Not unless I’m sure whoever it
is is worth it and deserves it. That goes for you, so if you want my
help, sit still and talk, and talk fast.”
She went limp against me, her breath coming in shuddering gasps.
“Listen, Netta,” I went on, “that little guy was working for me.
Maybe you didn’t mean to kill him, but you killed him just the same,
and nothing either of us can do can bring him back to life again. I liked
him, and I feel bad about it. He had a lot of guts. If it’d been anyone
else but you I’d be calling the police right now. But I haven’t forgotten
what you did for me in the past. I owe you plenty, but I’m not helping
you until you talk. Now relax and tell me. Tell me everything from the
beginning.”
She beat her hands together. “But what do you want to know?”
she gasped. “Can’t you see, Steve, the longer we stay here the worse
it’ll be? They’ll find us . . . find me.”
“Who was the girl in your flat . . . the one who died?” I asked,
deciding questions were more direct, would get me quicker results.
She shuddered. “Anne . . . my sister.”
“Who was the guy with her?”
She looked up. “How did you know . . . ?”
I took hold of her chin between finger and thumb, looked into her
eves. She didn’t flinch.
“Quit stalling,” I said. “Answer my questions. Who was the guy
with her.”
“Peter French.”
“What was he to her?”
“Her lover.”
“And to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“He killed her, didn’t he?”
Her face went paler, her teeth chewed her lower lip, but she said
it, “Yes.”
I drew back, wiped my face with the back of my hand.
“Why?”
“She found out he killed George Jacobi.”
“How?”
She shook her head. “She never had the chance to tel me.”
“French and you were seen around together. How did that come
about?”
“He was trying to find Anne. He thought if he kept near me I’d
lead him to her.”
“Where was she?”
“Hiding. She found out he and Jacobi were behind the Allenby
robbery, and then later that French had killed Jacobi. She was scared,
so she hid.”
“And French found her?”
She nodded. “He found her in a night club. She was drunk. Anne
was always getting drunk. French knew that, and he was afraid she’d
talk. He brought her to me.”
Why?
She twisted her hands in her lap. “He wanted to talk to her, to
find out how much she knew. The night club was close and there
wasn’t much time.”
“When did they arrive?”
“About one. I was asleep. I let them in. I could see Anne was
terrified, although she was very drunk. She managed to whisper to me
that French was going to kill her, and I wasn’t to let her out of my
sight.” Netta hid her face. “I can hear her voice now.”
I poured out another shot of whisky, fed it down her throat.
“Keep going,” I said. “Then what happened?”
“I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to get dressed, but Anne
wouldn’t let me leave her alone with French, and he wouldn’t let her
go into my room. I stal ed for time, and brought out drinks. He spiked
our drinks. I went out like a light. I hadn’t a chance to warn Anne. It
worked so quickly. I heard Anne scream, and then I knew nothing
more.”
“Then he murdered her?” I asked quietly.
She nodded dully, struggled with her tears. “I’m so frightened.
He’ll do the same to me!”
“Take it easy. What happened then? Come on, Netta, I want the
whole story. What happened then?”
“I have a confused recollection of getting into my clothes, being
half carried down the stairs. Ju Cole was on the landing. French spoke
to him, but I was too doped to hear what was said. French pushed me
out of the house. The night air pulled me together, and I started to
struggle.” She closed her eyes. “He hit me, and the next thing I
remember was being in his car. I struggled up, and he hit me again. I
came to later in a room. There was a woman watching me : Mrs.
Brambee. French came in after a while. He warned me he’d kill me if I
didn’t stay there and do what I was told.”
“Ever hear of Mrs. Brambee before?”
She nodded. “Anne had a cottage at Lakeham. French bought it
for her. He used to go down week-ends or whenever he had the time.
Mrs. Brambee looked after the place.”
“Why did they keep you a prisoner?” I asked, giving her another
cigarette.
“French wanted the police to think I and not Anne died in my
flat.”
“But why, for God’s sake?”
“He knew they couldn’t trace him through me, but he and Anne
had been around a lot together, and he was scared they’d connect
him with her death. There was something going on at
the cottage he
didn’t want the police to find out, and he thought the police would
find the cottage if they began to make inquiries about Anne.”
“What was going on at the cottage?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did you find this out?”
“Mrs. Brambee told me. She was scared of French and liked
Anne.”
“When I turned up, he realized his scheme wouldn’t work, is that
it?”
“Yes. But Cole telephoned him, told him you had been up and
that you would most likely want to see the—the body. French got into
a panic, and with a couple of his men took Anne from the mortuary.
They rushed her down to the cottage, fixed it to look as if Anne had
committed suicide there instead of at my flat.”
“Well, I’ll be double damned,” I exclaimed. “You mean to tell me
the girl who died in your flat and the girl found in the cottage were
one and the same?”
“It was Anne.”
“But one of them was a red-head and the other a blonde.”
Netta shuddered. “French stopped at nothing. My hair’s not really
red. I had a bottle of henna dye and he dyed Anne’s hair while she
was drugged. Then when he brought her to the cottage he used a
peroxide wash, brought her hair back to its natural colour.”
I grimaced. This guy was certainly a cold-blooded rat if ever there
was one.
“Well, go on, what happened then?”
“I was in the way. The police were looking for my body. French
planned to kill me and plant my body where the police could find it. Ju
Cole wouldn’t let him. Ju and I had always got on together. As long as
Ju was with me, I was safe. He told me French had planted one of
Allenby’s rings in my flat and the police were looking for me. I got
scared. I thought the police were after me, and I knew French was
waiting his chance to kill me. I made Ju help me escape. I got away,
came to London. There was only one place I could think of to hide in .
. . here. Selma and I were friends. I used to come here in the old days,
before she married Jacobi. I knew Selma had gone to America with
Peter, after George had been killed. Peter smuggled her over.”
“Peter? Peter who?”
She frowned, passed her hand across her eyes. “I was forgetting
you didn’t know him. Peter Utterly. He was an American, over here in
the Army. He was nice, and when Selina was in trouble, he offered to
take her back to his home and to look after her.”
No Business Of Mine Page 17
