No Business of Mine

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 Nine

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 call 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 offside 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.