No Business of Mine

“By her own hand,” he said mournfully. “Shocking business. Police rushing up and down stairs... the ambulance... doctors... Mrs. Crockett screaming... that fat bitch in the lower flat gloating... a crowd in the street, hoping to see the remains quite, quite ghastly. Then the smell of gas — couldn’t get it out of the house all day. Shocking business, baby, really most, most shocking.”

“You mean she gassed herself?” I asked, going cold.

“That’s right, the poor lamb. The room was sealed with adhesive tape... roll upon roll of adhesive tape, and the gas oven going full blast. I’ll never be able to buy adhesive tape again without thinking of her.” The words were a vibrationless hum, intimate and secret-sounding. The perpetual smile bothered me too.

“I see,” I said, turning away.

Well, that was that. I felt suddenly deflated, a little sick, infinitely sad.

I thought: If you had only waited twenty-four hours, Netta, we’d have faced whatever it was together, and we’d have licked it.

“Thank you,” I said at the door.

“Don’t thank me, baby,” he said, heaving himself out of the chair and following me on to the landing. “It’s nice to know I’ve rendered a little service, although a sad one. I can see you’re suffering from shock, but you’ll get over it. Plenty of hard work is the best healer. Doesn’t Byron say, The busy have no time for tears? Perhaps you don’t admire Byron. Some people don’t.”

I stared at him, not seeing him, not listening to him. From out of the past, I heard Netta’s voice saying: “So the fool killed himself. He hadn’t the guts to take what was coming to him. Well, whatever I do, I’d be ready to pay for it. I wouldn’t take that way out — ever.”

She had said that one night when we had read of a millionaire who had bulled when he should have beared and had blown out his brains. I remembered how Netta had looked when she had said that, and I felt a little cold breath of wind against my cheek.

There was something wrong here. I knew Netta would never have killed herself.

I pulled my hat farther down on my nose, felt in my pocket for a cigarette, offered the carton.

“Why did she do it?” I asked.

“I’m Julius Cole,” the pixy said, drawing out a cigarette from the carton between a grubby forefinger and thumb. “Are you a friend of hers?”

I nodded. “I knew her a couple of years ago,” I said, lighting his cigarette and then mine.

He smiled. “She would be interested in an American,” he said as if to himself. “And, of course, with her figure and looks an American would be interested in her.” He looked up, his eyes sleepy. “It would be interesting to know the exact number of girls in this country who were ravished by American service men during their stay here, wouldn’t it? I make a point of collecting such statistics.” He lifted his broad, limp shoulders. “Probably a waste of time,” he added, wagging his head.

“How did it happen?” I said sharply.

“You mean, why did she do it?” he gently corrected me. Again he lifted his shoulders. The silk of his dressing-gown rustled. “It’s a mystery, baby. No note... five pounds in her bag... food in the refrigerator... no love letters... no one knows.” He raised his eyebrows, smiled. “Perhaps she was with child.”

I couldn’t continue this conversation. Talking about Netta with him was like reading something written on a lavatory wall.

“Well, thanks,” I said, and walked down the stairs.

“Don’t mention it, baby,” he said. “So sad for you: so disappointing.” He went back into his room and closed the door.

Chapter Two

Mrs. Crockett was a thin little woman with bright, suspicious eyes and a thin, disapproving mouth.

I could see she didn’t recognize me. She seemed to think I was a newspaper man after a story, and she peered at me from around the half-open door, ready to slam it in my face.

“What do you want?” she demanded in a reedy, querulous voice. “I ’ave enough to do without answering a lot of silly questions, so be off with you.”

“Don’t you remember me, Mrs. Crockett?” I asked. “I’m Steve Harmas, one of Miss Scott’s friends.”

“One of ’er friends, are you?” she said. “Fancy men, that’s wot I call ’em.” She peered at me, then nodded her head. Her eyes showed her disapproval. “Yes, I seemed to ’ave seen you before. Well, you’ve ’eard what’s ’appened to ’er, ’aven’t you?”

I nodded. “Yes. I wanted to talk to you about her. Did she leave any debts? I’ll settle anything she owed.”

The disapproving look was replaced by one of greed and calculating shrewdness.

“She owed me a month’s rent,” she said promptly. “Never expected to get that either. Still, if you’re paying ’er debts, may as well ’ave it. You’d better come in.”

I followed her along a dark passage that smelt of cats and boiled cabbage, into a dark, dingy room crammed with bamboo furniture.

“So she owed money?” I asked, watching the woman.