No Business of Mine

“Well, no,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “She always paid up: I’ll say that for her, but she only ’ad the flat on the strict understanding it’d be a month’s notice or a month’s rent.”

“I see,” I said. “Have you any idea why she did what she did?”

Mrs. Crockett stared at me, looked away. “ ’ow should I know?” she asked, anger in her voice. “I didn’t interfere with ’er. I knew nothing about ’er.” Her thin lips set in a hard line. “She was no good. I should never ’ave ’ad ’er ’ere. Bringing disgrace to my ’ouse like this.”

“When did it happen?”

“The night before last. Mr. Cole smelt gas and ’e called me. When I couldn’t get no answer I guessed what she ’ad done — the little fool!” The hard eyes glittered. “Fair upset me it did. Mr. Cole sent for the police.”

“Did you see her?”

Mrs. Crockett started back “Who? Me? Think I want to ave ’er ’aunting my dreams? Not likely. Mr. Cole identified ’er for the police. Ever so considerate ’e is. Besides, ’e knew ’er as well, if not better than wot I did... always popping in and out of ’is room whenever ’e ’ears anything.”

“All right,” I said, taking out my wallet. “Have you a key to her flat.”

“Suppose I ’ave?” she said suspiciously. “What’s it to you?”

“I’d like to borrow it,” I returned, counting pound notes on to the table. Her eyes followed every movement. “Shall we say twenty-five pounds? Ten pounds for the key?”

“What’s the idea?” She was breathing quickly, her eyes overbright.

“Only that I’d like to look around her room. I suppose it’s as it was... nothing’s been touched?”

“Oh, no, the police told me to leave it alone. They’re trying to trace her relatives. Fat chance of finding anyone who’d own ’er, I say. I can’t imagine what’ll ’appen to ’er things. Anyway, I want ’em out. I want to let the flat.”

“Has she any relatives?”

“No one knows anything about ’er,” Mrs. Crockett said with a sniff. “Maybe the police’ll find out something, and it won’t be any good, you mark my words.”

“May I have the key, please?” I said, pushing the little heap of money towards her.

She shook her head doubtfully. “The police wouldn’t like it,” she said, looked away.

“I’m offering you ten pounds to sooth your conscience,” I reminded her. “Take it or leave it.”

She opened the drawer of the dresser, took out a key, laid it on the table.

“It’s people with too much money what gets honest folk into trouble,” she said.

“I’ll put that in my autograph book,” I said, a little sick of her, picked up the key, pushed the notes farther in her direction.

She snatched up the money, rammed it into her apron pocket.

“Don’t keep that key too long,” she said, “and don’t you take anything from the flat.”

I nodded, went out.

I walked up the stairs, paused on the first floor to read the name on the ‘card screwed to the panel of the door: Madge Kennitt. I remembered that Julius Cole had said: “the fat bitch in the lower flat, gloating.” I nodded to myself, walked on up to Netta’s flat. I fitted the key in the door, turned the handle, pushed gently. The door swung open. I entered Netta’s sitting room. As I turned to close the door, I saw Julius Cole watching me from the half-open door of his flat. He raised his eyebrows, waggled his head. I pretended I hadn’t seen him, closed Netta’s door, shot the bolt.

There was a faint, persistent smell of gas in the flat although the windows were open. I looked around the room, feeling sad and a little spooked.

The room hadn’t changed much since last I was in it. Some of the furniture had been shifted around, but there were no new pieces. The pictures were the same: all rather risqué prints taken from American and French magazines.

I had once asked Netta why she had such pictures on her walls. “The boys like them,” she had explained. “They take their minds off me. People who bore me are shocked by them and don’t come again, so they have their uses, you see.”

On the mantelpiece was her collection of china animals. She had about thirty of them. I had given her several. I went over to see if mine were still there. They were. I picked up a charming reproduction of Disney’s Bambi, turned it over. I remembered how pleased Netta had been with it. She said it was the best of her collection. I think it was.

I put the ornament down, wandered around the room my hands in my pockets. I was only beginning to realize that Netta was dead, that I wouldn’t see her again.

I didn’t think I would feel bad about it, but I did. Her death worried me too. I couldn’t believe that she had committed suicide. She just wasn’t the type to quit. Before the war I had been a crime reporter. I’d visited hundreds of rooms in which suicides had met their end. There had been an atmosphere in those rooms which this room lacked. I don’t know quite what it was, but somehow I couldn’t believe a suicide had happened here.