No Business of Mine

I went over to the light oak writing-desk, opened it, glanced inside. It was empty except for a bottle of ink and a couple of pencils. I looked at the pigeon-holes, remembered them as they had been when Netta and I had been going around together, crammed with letters, bills, papers. Now there was nothing.

I glanced over at the fireplace expecting to see ashes of burned paper. But the fireplace was empty. I thought this odd, pushed my hat to the back of my head, frowned down at the desk. Yes, odd.

A faint scratching at the front door made me start. I listened. The scratching continued.

“Let me in, baby,” Julius Cole whispered through the panels. “I want to see, too.”

I grimaced, tip-toed across the room, into the kitchen. The small-gas oven door was ajar. There was an orange-coloured cushion lying in the far corner of the room. I supposed she had used it when she put her head in the oven. I didn’t like thinking about it, so I went from the kitchen into her bedroom.

It was a small, bright room. The big double divan took up most of the space. There was a fitted wardrobe near the bed, a small dressing-table by the window. The room was decorated in green and daffodil yellow. There were no pictures, no ornaments.

I closed the door, stood looking down at the bed. It had memories for me, and it was several minutes before I walked to the dressing-table and looked at the amazing assortment of bottles, beauty creams, grease-paints that were scattered on the powder-covered glass top. I pulled open the drawers. They were full of the usual junk a girl collects: handkerchiefs, silk scarves, leather belts, gloves, cheap jewellery. I stirred with my forefinger the necklaces, bangles, rings in the cardboard box. It was all junk, and then I remembered the diamond bracelet and the diamond scarf-pin of which she had been so proud. I had given her the bracelet; some guy-she never told me who-had given her the pin. I looked through the drawers, but I couldn’t see them. I wondered where they had got to, if the police had taken them for safe custody.

Then I went to the wardrobe, opened it. A subtle smell of lilac drifted out of the wardrobe when I opened the door: her favourite perfume. I was struck by the emptiness in the wardrobe. There were only two evening dresses, a coat and skirt and a frock. At one time the cupboard was crammed with clothes.

There was a flame-coloured dress which I remembered. It was the dress she wore the night we first decided to sleep together. The kind of dress a sentimental guy like me wouldn’t forget. I reached for it, took it off the hanger, and as I pulled it out I realized that something heavy was hung up inside the dress.

My fingers traced around the shape of the thing: it was a gun. I opened the dress, found a Luger pistol hanging by its trigger guard from a small hook sewn inside the dress.

I sat on the bed, holding the dress in one hand and the Luger in the other. I was startled. It was the last thing I should have expected to find in Netta’s flat.

There were two obvious things to notice about the gun. It had a deep scratch along its barrel, and on the butt was a scar as if something had been filed off the metal; probably the name of the owner. I sniffed at the gun, had another shock. It had been fired, although not recently. The smell of burned powder was faint, but distinct. I laid the gun on the bed, scratched my head, brooded for a few minutes, then got up, went back to the wardrobe again. I opened the two drawers in which Netta used to keep her silk stockings and undies. Silk stockings had been one of Netta’s passions. During the time I had known her I had never seen her wear anything but real silk hose. She had laid in a stock just before the war, and a number of American service men, and myself for that matter, had kept her stock up. I turned over the garments in the drawers, but I couldn’t find any silk stockings.

I stubbed out my cigarette, frowned, wondered if Mrs. Crockett had been up here and had taken them, or if the police had been tempted. Silk stockings were almost unobtainable, and the temptation was easy to understand. There should have been at least a dozen pairs. When I last saw her-two years ago-she had thirty-six pairs. I know, because one night, when she had asked me to get her some, I had turned her drawer out and counted them to prove to her she didn’t need any more. Yes, she should have at least a dozen pairs, if not more. Where were they?

I decided to search her flat. I had been trained during my years as a crime reporter to take a house to pieces so that it wouldn’t show. It would be a long, dull job, but somehow I felt it would pay dividends.

I went through each room carefully and systematically. I left nothing to chance, even unwinding the blinds, feeling along the pelmets, taking up the carpets and sounding the floors.