No Business of Mine

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 Six

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 pulling 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 calling 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 cinder. 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 hall porter.

“Brother,” I said to him, “can you tell me where I can hire a reliable private detective?”