No Business of Mine

“Miss Kennitt,” I said, staring at my cigarette and wondering how much to tell 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 casually.

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, rolled 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 tell 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 well 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.