No Business of Mine

“Why should I tell you? Ask Cole if you’re so interested. He saw them. He sees everything.”

I returned to my chair, sat down.

“I’m asking you. Listen, I don’t think it was suicide. I think it was murder.”

She had unscrewed the cap of the whisky and was pouring the spirit into the tumbler. The bottle and tumbler dropped out of her hands, rolled on to the carpet. She gave a thin scream, her face turned grey.

“Murder?” she gasped. “Murder!”

I made a dive for the bottle, but I was too late. The whisky poured out on to the carpet.

I stood over her. “Yes,” I said. “Murder.”

“I won’t be frightened,” she exclaimed, struggling to sit up. “It’s bad for my heart. Here, give me that whisky. I want a drink.”

“Then you’d better open another bottle,” I said, watching her closely. “There’s none left in this one.”

“I haven’t got another bottle,” she wailed, sinking back. “Oh, God! What am I going to do now?”

“Aw, forget it,” I exclaimed, wanting to shake her. “Who were the man and woman who came back with Netta? What time did they leave? Come on, this is important. They may know something.”

She lay still for a moment, a great inert lump of flesh, then she looked at me, her small eyes cunning.

“How important is it to you?” she demanded. “I can tell you who the man is, and the girl, too. I know them. I can tell you what time the man left. I saw him. I’ll tell you if you get me a bottle of whisky.”

“I’ll get you one,” I said. “I’ll bring you one tomorrow. Now, come on! Who were they?”

“I want one tonight — now.” She clenched her fat hands into fists. “You can get one. Americans can get anything.”

“Don’t talk like a fool,” I said, exasperated. “It’s past eleven o’clock. Of course I can’t get whisky tonight.”

“Then I’m not telling you.”

“I could call the police,” I threatened, furious with her.

She smirked. “You wouldn’t do that,” she said, winking. “I’m on to you. You wouldn’t want to get that little slut into trouble.”

“Now, look,” I said, controlling my temper with an effort, “don’t be unreasonable. I’ll get you the whisky tomorrow morning. I’ll get you two bottles, and I’ll give you right now five pounds if you’ll talk. I can’t be fairer than that.”

She half raised herself on her elbow. Her face was now dark with frustrated fury.

“Get that damn whisky now or get out!” she screamed at me.

I got to my feet, moved across the room, back again. Then I remembered Sam, the barman at the Blue Club. He’d sell me a bottle of whisky if I made it worth his while.

“Okay,” I said, turning to the door. “I’ll see what I can do. But no fooling, or I’ll drink the damn stuff myself.”

She nodded, waved me away.

“Hurry!” she said. “I’ll tell you what you want to know if you get it. Go on... hurry!”

I ran down the steps into the street, looked left and right for a taxi. There wasn’t a sign of one. I decided it would be quicker in the long run to wait, so I stood on the edge of the kerb, kept watch.

It looked as if I was now on the right track. Netta had brought a girl back with her and I was willing to stake everything I owned that it was this girl who had died in Netta’s flat. Who could the man be? Netta’s boyfriend? Someone else? Could it have been Julius Cole? And who was the girl?

I suddenly felt I was being watched. I didn’t look around immediately, but lit a cigarette, tossed the match into the gutter, then glanced over my shoulder. There seemed no one about, but for all that, I was pretty sure someone was tailing me. I thought of Frankie, wondered if he was going to have another try at beating my brains in. I stood there for ten minutes or so before a taxi returning to the West End, drew up. I told him to take me to the Blue Club, and as we drove off, I peered through the rear window. I spotted a sudden movement.

Inspector Corridan stepped out of a dark doorway, stood in the middle of the pavement, looking after me. He glanced up and down the street as if hoping to find another taxi to follow me, but he was unlucky.

I grinned to myself. So Corridan had followed me to Madge Kennitt’s place. He wouldn’t know I had visited her. He probably thought I had been to see Julius Cole. It looked as if Corridan was keeping an eye on me; did think I might be hooked up in this case.

A quarter of an hour later I arrived at the Blue Club. Ten minutes after that, I was trying to pick up another taxi back to Cromwell Road, the precious bottle of Scotch under my arm. It had cost me five pounds, but I hoped the information I was going to receive would be worth that and more.

When a taxi eventually turned up, my wrist watch showed eleven forty-five. I gave the address, sat back, relaxed.

The run to Cromwell Road seemed interminable, but in actual fact, it only took ten minutes. I paid off the taxi, noted that Madge Kennitt’s light still burned, grinned to myself. I guessed the old hag was waiting as impatiently for the whisky as I was for the information.