No Business Of Mine

by James Hadley Chase

  “But I hadn’t met Harry then,” Netta protested. “I take it all back.”

  Bix leaned close. “We’re the salt of the earth, sugar,” he said.

  “They say so in the newspapers, and newspapers don’t kid their

  readers.”

  “Not much,” I said.

  When the barmaid had served the whiskies and had gone to the

  far end of the counter, Bix said, “So you want to make a trip with me,

  do you?”

  Netta regarded him, suddenly serious. She nodded. “Will you trust

  me to get you there safely?” he asked.

  “I’d trust you in an aircraft, but nowhere else,” she returned.

  Bix roared with laughter. “Say, this baby is quite a kidder, Steve.

  That’s a pretty hot line to hand to a guy like me. Lady, I was kidding

  just now. Dames don’t mean a thing to me. You ask Steve; he’ll tell

  you.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Dames don’t mean a thing to Min, but put

  him alone with one dame and see what happens.”

  “Why, you rat . . .” Bix began, indignant.

  “And suppose he isn’t to be trusted?” Netta asked. “I wouldn’t

  scream for help.”

  “You wouldn’t?” Bix asked, his eyes popping. “Is that on the

  level?” He looked at me. “Beat it, three’s-a-crowd, you’re in the way.”

  “Suppose we cut out this cross-talk and get down to business?” I

  urged. “Now you’ve seen her, will you play?”

  Bix sipped his whisky, eyed Netta, eyed me.

  “Yeah, I guess I can’t refuse a honey like her,” he said. “But it’s a

  hell of a risk.”

  “Skip it,” I said. “You know it’s dead easy. Don’t listen to him,

  Netta, he’s trying to be important.”

  “Seriously, is it risky?” Netta asked; her eyes searching Bix’s face.

  For a moment Bix wrestled with the temptation to exaggerate,

  decided against it. “Well, no,” he admitted, scowling at me. “Once you

  sell the pilot the idea-and you’ve already done that- it’s easy enough.

  We’l meet at the gates of the airport, go in together, have a drink at

  the mess. I’ll then offer to show you over my kite and we’ll go down to

  the dispersal point. No one will be around if we get down there

  before twenty-two-fifteen hours. You two will get into the kite, and I’ll

  show you where to hide. We take off at twenty-two-thirty hours.

  When we get to the other side, there’l be a car waiting for me. All you

  have to do is to get in the back. I’ll dump my kit and some rugs on top

  of you and off we go. Once we’re clear of the airport, you can come

  up for air, and I’ll drop you off wherever you want to be dropped off.”

  Netta thought for a moment. “It’s really as simple as that?”

  “That’s right. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again. But I warn

  you, I claim a kiss from my passengers.”

  “You won’t kiss me,” I said coldly. “I’d rather swim the Atlantic if

  those are your terms.”

  “So would I,” Bix said hurriedly. “I wasn’t talking to you, lug.”

  Netta smiled at him. “There won’t be any difficulty about that,”

  she said. “I think the terms are most reasonable.”

  We kidded back and forth for twenty minutes or so, sank a

  number of whiskies, and then, at eight-ten, Bix said he guessed he’d

  better be getting along.

  “See you two outside the airport at twenty-one-forty-five,” he

  said. “And don’t get steamed up. It’s in the bag.” He took Netta’s

  hand. “See you soon,” he went on. “Don’t forget if you ever grow

  tired of that lug, I’m next on the list. Red-heads go straight to my

  heart.”

  “I’ll remember,” she said, gave him a long stare which seemed to

  weaken him, then she smiled. “If I see much more of you,” she

  continued, “I think I’ll be changing my mind about my lug, although he

  is a nice lug if you overlook his table manners.”

  “He can’t help that,” Bix said, grinning. “He hasn’t been house-

  broken like me.”

  He took himself off as if he was walking on air.

  The moment the door swung behind him, Netta lost her gaiety,

  looked anxiously at me.

  “Are you sure it’s all right?” she asked. “He’s such a boy. Are you

  sure you can trust him to get us across safely?”

  “Quit fussing,” I said. “That guy’s done over a hundred operational

  trips. He’s bombed Germany from hell to breakfast and back again.

  Maybe he does look like a boy, but don’t let that fool you. When he

  says he’l do something, he does it. He’s taken a liking to you, and that

  means we’re as good as there.”

  She heaved a little sigh, took my arm.

  “All right, darling,” she said. “I won’t fuss, but I’m nervous. What

  do we do now?”

  “We go back `to the flat, pick up your things and get over to the

  airport. Come on, Netta, the journey’s begun.”

  Ten minutes later we were back in Madge Kennitt’s flat.

  “You’re travelling light, I hope?” I asked, as I tossed my hat on the

  chaise-longue.

  She nodded. “Just a grip. I hate leaving all my lovely dresses, but

  I’ll be able to buy what I want on the other side.” She came over to

  me, put her arms around my neck. “You’ve been wonderful to me,

  Steve. I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know what I’d’ve done

  without you.”

  For a moment I felt like a heel, then I remembered the way

  Littlejohns had looked, curled up on the floor, and that stiffened me.

  “Forget it,” I said. “You ready now?”

  She said what I hoped she would say: what I knew the success or

  failure of my plan depended on.

  “Give me five minutes, Steve,” she said. “I want to change. This

  get-up isn’t warm enough for an air trip.”

  “Go ahead. Get into your woollies,” I said. “I’m damned if I don’t

  come in and help you.”

  She laughed uneasily, went to the bedroom door.

  “You keep out, Mr. Harmas,” she said with mock severity.

  “It’s a long time since you saw me undress, and I’d be shy.”

  “You’re right,” I said, suddenly serious. “It is a long time: too long,

  Netta.”

  But she wasn’t listening. She went into the bedroom, shut the

  door. I listened, heard the key turn.

  I sat on the chaise-longue, lit a cigarette. The palms of my hands

  were damp, the muscles in my thighs twitched. I was in a regular fever

  of excitement.

  Five minutes crawled by, then another five. I could hear Netta

  moving about in the next room. Cigarette ash covered the carpet at

  my feet.

  “Hey!” I called, my nerves getting the better of me. “Time’s

  getting on, Netta.”

  “I’m coming,” she said; a moment later I heard the lock snap back

  and she came out.

  She was wearing a light wool sweater, coal-black slacks and a fur

  coat over her arm. In her right hand she carried a fair-sized suit-case.

  “Sorry to be so long,” she said, smiling, although her face was

  pale, her eyes anxious. “It’s only five minutes after nine. Do I look all

  right?”r />
  I went over to her. “You look terrific,” I said, putting my arm

  around her waist.

  She pushed me away almost roughly, shook her head, tried to

  keep the smile on her lips. It looked lopsided to me.

  “Not now, Steve,” she said. “Let’s wait until we’re safe.”

  “That’s all right, kid,” I said.

  She’d pushed me off too late. I’d already felt what she had on

  under the sweater, around her waist.

  “Come on, let’s go.”

  I picked up my hat, glanced around the room to make sure we’d

  left nothing, crossed to the door.

  Netta followed. I carried her bag. She carried the fur coat on her

  arm.

  I opened the door.

  Facing me, his eyes frosty, his mouth grim, stood Corridan.

  Chapter XXIV

  NETTA’s thin scream cut the air with the sharpness of a pencil

  grating on a slate.

  “Hello, Corridan,” I said, soberly, stepping back, “so you’re in at

  the finish after all.”

  He entered the room, closed the door. His pale eyes looked

  inquisitively at Netta. She shrank away from him, her hand to her

  face.

  “I don’t know what you two are doing in here,” he said coldly,

  “but that can wait. I have a warrant for your arrest, Harmas. I’m sorry.

  I’ve warned you enough times. Bradley has charged you with stealing

  four rings and with assault. You’ll have to come along with me.”

  I laughed mirthlessly. “That’s too bad,” I said. “Right now,

  Corridan, there’s more important things for you to worry about. Take

  a look at this young woman here. Don’t you want to be introduced?” I

  smiled at Netta who stared back at me, tense, her eyes glittering in a

  white face.

  Corridan gave me a sharp glance. “Who is she?”

  “Can’t you guess?” I said. “Look at her red hair. Can’t you smell

  the lilac perfume? Come on, Corridan, what the hell kind of detective

  are you?”

  His face showed his astonishment.

  “You mean it’s . . . ?” he began.

  I shook my head at Netta. “I’m sorry about this, kid,” I said. “But

  you can’t beat the rap now.” I turned back to Corridan. “Of course.

  Meet Netta Anne Scott Bradley.”

  Netta recoiled. “Oh,” she gasped furiously, then: “You — you

  bastard!”

  “Soft-pedal the language, honey,” I said. “Corridan blushes easily.”

  Corridan stared at Netta, then at me.

  “You mean this woman’s Netta Scott?” he demanded.

  “Of course she is,” I said. “Or Mrs. Jack Bradley, known as Anne

  Scott, if you like that better. I told you all along she hadn’t committed

  suicide. Well, here she is as large as life, and I’ll show you something

  else that’ll interest you.”

  I grabbed hold of Netta as she backed away.

  Her face was grey-white like putty; her eyes burned with rage and

  fear. She struck at me, her fingers like claws. I grabbed her wrists,

  twisted her arms behind her, held her against me.

  “Take it easy, kid,” I said, keeping clear of her vicious kicks. “Show

  the Inspector your nice line in underwear.” I caught hold of her

  sweater, peeled it over her head. Then tucking her, screaming and

  kicking, under my arm, I yanked down the zipper on her trousers,

  pulled in two directions.

  Corridan gave an angry snort, stepped forward. “Stop it!” he

  exclaimed. “What the hel do you think you’re doing.”

  “Skinning a rabbit,” I said, carrying Netta over to the chaise-

  longue and forcing her face down on it. I had a job to hold her, but I at

  last got my knee in her back and pinned her.

  Corridan grabbed my arm, but I shook him off.

  “Take a look at that belt,” I said, pointing to the heavy money belt

  that was strapped around Netta’s waist.

  Corridan paused, muttered to himself, stood away.

  I undid the buckle, jerked off the belt, stood back.

  Netta lay on the chaise-longue, her fists clenched, her breath

  coming in great sobbing gasps.

  With a quick shake I emptied the contents of the belt on the

  carpet at Corridan’s feet.

  “There you are, brother,” I said dramatically. “Fifty thousand

  pounds’ worth of jewellery! Take a look. Allenby’s loot.”

  Corridan gaped down at the heap of assorted rings, necklaces,

  bracelets on the carpet. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds gleamed like

  fireflies in the electric light.

  “I’ll kill you for this!” Netta screamed, suddenly sitting up. She

  sprang to her feet, flung herself at me.

  I shoved her off so roughly that she sprawled on the floor.

  “You’re through, Netta,” I said, standing over her. “Get that into

  your thick little skull. If you hadn’t killed Littlejohns I might have

  played with you, but you killed him to save your rotten skin, and that

  let me out. What the hell do you think I am? A sucker? I wouldn’t

  cover up anyone who did what you did to Littlejohns.”

  Netta crawled to her feet, then flopped limply on the chaise-

  longue, buried her face in her hands.

  I turned to Corridan who was still staring at the heap of jewel ery

  as if hypnotized.

  “Well, I hope you’re satisfied,” I said. “I promised myself I’d crack

  the Allenby case because you acted so damn high-hat. I’ve done it.”

  Corridan’s face was a study. He looked at Netta, at me. “But how

  did you know she had the stuff on her?” he demanded.

  “You’ll be surprised how much I do know,” I said. “She and Jack

  Bradley were behind the Allenby robbery. I’ll give you all the facts,

  and then you can manufacture the evidence. Do you want to hear?”

  “Of course, I want to hear,” he said, knelt down, scooped up the

  jewelery, dropped it back into the belt. “How did you get on to this?”

  He put the belt on the table.

  “I got on to it because I never believed Netta committed suicide,”

  I said, lighting a cigarette and perching myself on the table. “I was

  sure she hadn’t killed herself after I had searched the flat. Most of her

  clothes and all her silk stockings had vanished. I’ve known Netta for

  some time, and have a good idea of her character. She wasn’t the

  type to commit suicide, and she had a passion for clothes. It seemed

  to me, after the body had been kidnapped, that some other girl had

  died in her flat, and Netta, taking fright, had run off with as many of

  her clothes as she could carry.”

  Corridan leaned against the wall, eyed me.

  “You told me all that before,” he said, “and I worked that out for

  myself anyway.”

  “Sure,” I said. “But there was plenty still to puzzle me. For one

  thing, who was the dead girl? Then another thing foxed me. Why

  should Netta, although she’d taken time to pack her clothes, have left

  sixteen five-pound notes in the flat and that bunch of bonds worth

  five thousand pounds? That got me for some time until Madge

  Kennitt told me a girl and a man had been with Netta that night. The

  girl was obviously the one who’d died. The man either killed her or

/>   was Netta’s accomplice. It seemed to me the reason why Netta had

  left the money in the flat was because she didn’t trust her companion,

  and he didn’t give her a chance to get the money from its hiding-place

  without him seeing her do it. So she had to leave it there, but hoped

  to collect it later, but I found it first.” I glanced over at Netta, but she

  didn’t look up. She sat with her head in her hands, motionless.

  “Go on,” Corridan said quietly.

  “Who was the mysterious man, and why didn’t she want him to

  know about the money?” I went on. “I’ve talked to Netta, and she has

  told me he was Peter French, who was Anne’s lover. That’s another

  way of saying he was Netta’s lover. You see, Netta never had a sister.

  But we’ll come back to Peter French in a moment.

  “Nine months ago, Netta married Jack Bradley. For some reason

  they kept the marriage a secret, and they didn’t live together except

  at week-ends which they spent in a cottage at Lakeham, bought by

  Bradley as a hide-out for them both. Netta cal ed herself Anne Scott

  when she was at Lakeham. She tells me that French killed her sister

  because she knew he had killed George Jacobi. Since she never had a

  sister, that was obviously a lie. Who then was the girl who had died in

  Netta’s flat, and was later found in the cottage? I want you to get this

  clear, Corridan. The girl who was kidnapped from the mortuary and

  the girl we found in the cottage were one and the same.”

  Corridan pursed his lips. “But one was a red-head and the other

  was a blonde,” he said. “How do you account for that?”

  “Netta explained it to me,” I said. “She tells me that French dyed

  the girl’s hair and bleached it back to its normal colour after he had

  removed the body to the cottage.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Corridan muttered.

  I nodded. “It wants a little believing,” I said, “but after thinking it

  over, it seems to me that’s what happened. If the girl wasn’t Netta’s

  sister, and I’ve proved beyond doubt that Netta never had a sister,

  then who was she and why was she murdered, and why was the

  murderer so anxious to prevent her being identified?”

  “Have you found that out?” Corridan asked eagerly.

  “I think so,” I returned. “Not only have I found it out, but

  Littlejohns found it out, too. That’s why he died.”