No Business of Mine

In the street I paused for a moment to look at the house. A light burned in Julius Cole’s flat: the rest of the house was in darkness. I wondered about Madge Kennitt, decided she didn’t fit in the picture; anyway, not for the time being, began to walk in the direction of Cromwell Road, fifty yards or so ahead of me.

The street was lit by only three lamps, one at the top, the other at the bottom and the third halfway between the other two. It was dark, and there were deep shadows, otherwise I shouldn’t have been so easily surprised.

I heard a patter of feet behind me, felt a sudden premonition of danger, ducked, jumped aside.

Something very hard hit my shoulder, brought me to my knees. I flung up my arm, staggered upright and again jumped back. I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure of a man holding what seemed to me to be a tyre lever above his head. He slashed wildly at me. I heard the lever whistle past my face, stepped in close, and belted the guy in the ribs with everything I had. He dropped the tyre lever, reeled back, his breath coming out of him like a punctured balloon.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” I demanded, crowding him.

I could see him now. He was a little runt, young, slim, underfed. I couldn’t see much of his face except that he was pasty. His clothes were shoddy, and his hat like a sponge full of grease.

Before I could collar him, he darted out of my reach and went down the street like a streak of lightning.

I stood looking after him, listening to his light footfalls. My shoulder ached and I was a little scared.

“For crying out loud,” I muttered to myself, looked uneasily up and down the street, ran hurriedly towards the lights of Cromwell Road.

Chapter Three

I had been in my room only five minutes when the inquiry desk called to say Inspector Corridan was asking for me.

“Tell him to come up, please,” I said, pressed the bell for the floor waiter.

Corridan and the floor waiter arrived together.

Corridan was a big, beefy fellow, thirty-five, dark with small blue eyes that had a nasty habit of appearing to look right through you.

Even to his friends he was somewhat dour, seldom smiled, never laughed.

He shook hands warmly enough, looked round the room approvingly.

“They make you comfortable here I must say,” he remarked, shot a quick glance at the waiter, went on, “I hope you are going to buy me a drink?”

“Sure, and I thought we might have dinner up here,” I said. “Nothing’s too good for the London police.”

The floor waiter produced a menu and we chose cold consommé, chicken vol au vent, ice-cream. I ordered two double whiskies and a carafe of Algerian wine.

“You newspaper men know how to live,” Corridan sighed, sinking into the only armchair. “Often thought it might’ve been better for me to have gone in for something less exacting and more profitable than police work.”

I grunted. “You should grumble,” I said, sitting on the bed. “I bet you are up to your ears in graft, with half the criminals in London paying you hush-money.”

His mouth tightened. “Your sense of humour is as warped as your morals,” he returned, and I could see he wasn’t amused.

“Okay, let’s skip our morals,” I said, grinning. “I’m damned glad you could come.”

“Was this Netta Scott a friend of yours?” he asked, wandering to the window. He went on before I could reply. “I see the Thames enough from the Yard, but from this angle and in this light it’s really attractive, don’t you think?”

“Never mind about the Thames,” I said shortly. “You’re not being wined and dined because I want to hear about the sights of London.”

He gave me a sharp look. “You sound worried. Anything wrong?”

I nodded. “There could be...” I began when the floor waiter returned with our drinks.

When he had gone, I went on, “About Netta Scott. She was a friend of mine. I met her in ’42, and we kicked around together for a couple of years. It was a shock to learn she’d committed suicide.”

He drank some whisky, cocked his head approvingly. “Good whisky this,” he said. “But obviously you don’t want to talk about whisky. I’ve read the doctor’s report. The girl wasn’t risking a mistake. She took a stiff dose of laudanum before she gassed herself. But it’s a straightforward case... obviously suicide. The Kensington Division handled it. They had a call at seven o’clock yesterday morning from a man named Julius Cole who lives in the same house. They found the girl with her head in the gas oven and the kitchen full of gas. The windows had been sealed with adhesive tape, but riot the door which fitted well. She had been dead about six hours. At a rough guess she killed herself around one o’clock in the morning. There were no marks of violence on the body, and no evidence that it wasn’t anything but suicide. She was taken to the local mortuary, having been officially identified by this Cole chap who claimed to know her well by sight. We are now trying to get in touch with her relatives without any success at the moment.”