No Business of Mine

“Okay, Bradley,” I said, “we’re quits. The next time you think of teaching someone a lesson be more careful who you chose for a subject.”

I looked him over, decided my face was now handsome compared with his, hauled off, hit him on the point of his fat chin, watched his flop. Then I unrolled my sleeves, put on my coat, walked to the door and scrammed.

Chapter Eighteen

I paid off the taxi at the corner of Hampden Street, walked down the narrow cul-de-sac. Three of the big buildings were blitzed, mere shells of charred brick and wood. The last building was a small printer’s shop; the windows were boarded up, and the shop had a forlorn, neglected appearance. A door on the far side of the shop was numbered 311.

I stood back, looked up at the curtained windows. The place was in darkness.

I tried the door, for it, as I expected, locked. I stepped back again, surveyed the upper windows. There was a stack-pipe running close to one of them. I tested it, decided it was strong enough to take my weight, glanced back down the alley, saw no one.

I started to climb, wished I had on a less expensive suit, managed to hoist myself on to the sloping roof above the printer’s shop. From there it was easy to reach the window. I looked into the darkness, listened. The traffic hummed in Russell Square, someone in the distance shouted “Taxi!” No sound carne from Selma Jacobi’s flat.

I took out my pocket knife, levered back the window-catch, pushed up the window. One more glance behind me, then I stepped down into darkness.

I found myself in a bedroom. Immediately my skin began to tingle. There was a distinct smell of lilac in the room. I drew the blind, then the curtains. I groped for my cigarette lighter, thumbed the flint. The feeble flame showed me the electric light switch. I crossed the room, turned on the light.

The room was small, but comfortably furnished. There was a divan bed in one corner, turned down, inviting. Across the foot of the bed was a blue silk nightdress; on the floor by the nightdress was a pair of blue mules.

To the right of the window there was a dressing-table, crammed with powder boxes, lip stick, lotions; everything a girl needs to keep herself well-groomed. A chest of drawers stood near the door, a wardrobe on the other side of the window.

I pulled open one of the drawers, glanced inside. There was a jumble of silk underwear and silk stockings. I pulled the stockings out. Sonic of them had been worn, some of them were still in their transparent envelopes. I grunted, put them back, turned off the light. I opened the door, listened. The silence and stillness made me feel spooked. I heard nothing, except my own breathing and the steady beat of my pulse.

I stepped into a narrow, short passage, saw the head of the stairs at one end and a door at the other. I crept to the door, put my ear against the panel, listened. There was no sound. I turned the handle, pushed open the door, looked into the inky darkness. Again I listened, uneasy, a little scared. My hand groped along the wall, found the electric light switch, hesitated, then snapped it down.

For a second or so I stood looking around the large well-furnished room, then the hair on the back of my neck bristled; I caught my breath sharply.

Lying on the floor, his small hands flat on the blue-and-fawn carpet, his legs screwed up, his eyes sightless, his mouth below the straggling moustache twisted in horror, was Henry Littlejohns.

I stepped forward, saw the broken skin on the side of his head, and the blood that had run down his neck and had spread like an obscene halo around his head. Near him was a heavy steel poker, its knobbed handle stained red.

I avoided the blood, bent, touched his hand. It was warm, limp. I raised his arm, let it fall. It thudded back on the carpet. He hadn’t been dead long.

I was so shocked, so surprised that for several minutes I could only stare clown at him, feeling nothing, my mind a blank.

Then I stiffened, my heart gave a lurch and began to pound so violently I could scarcely breathe.

At the far end of the room was a door which was now slowly opening. It inched open, stopped, inched open again.

“Who is it?” I said in a voice I didn’t recognize as my own. The door jerked open. I took an involuntary step back. Netta stood there.

We looked at each other over Littlejohn’s dead body.

Then she said, “Oh, Steve, Steve, Steve, thank God you’ve found me at last.”

I still stood there like a dummy, and she ran over to me, caught hold of my arm.

“It’s Netta, Steve,” she sobbed, flung herself in my arms.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off Littlejohn, but I held her, said nothing.

“Take me away, Steve,” she sobbed. “Please take me away.”

I pulled myself together, slipped my arm around her, led her into the bedroom. We sat on the divan bed, and I let her cry. There was nothing I could do to stop her.

After a while I said, “Netta, this won’t get us anywhere. Come on, snap out of it. I’ll help you if I can.”