No Business of Mine

Chapter Ten

For a full minute I stood staring at Madge Kennitt too shocked to move, then I stepped into the room, stood over her.

Her sightless eyes glared up at me, the blood dripped steadily on to the floor. I turned away, weak at the knees.

Because I didn’t know what to do, I wandered around the room, looking aimlessly for the weapon that had killed her. I couldn’t find it. I stepped to the chaise-longue, peered over the offside.

Three empty whisky bottles and the carton of Woodbines met my eyes. The dust on the floor-boards that side was thick; written in the dust within reach of Madge’s hand which flopped lifelessly on the floor was a word. I moved closer, peered at it. It was badly written, and it seemed to me that Madge might have written it either when she was dying or just before the killer had struck. It took me a few seconds to decipher the scrawl. She had written on the floor in the dust the name: Jacobi. It meant nothing to me, but I stored it away in my mind for future reference.

I suddenly remembered Corridan. If he was still hanging about outside and decided to come in to see what I was doing, I’d be in a hell of a spot. I made a dive for the door, ran down the stairs, opened the front door. I looked up and down the street, but could see no one. Across the street was a telephone box, and I hurried over, dialled Whitehall 1212, asked for Corridan.

While I waited, I glanced idly along the street. The headlights of a car appeared out of what seemed an alley, down the street on the opposite side to where I was telephoning. A moment later a car came swiftly towards me, went on towards the West End. As it passed under a street light, I recognized it. It was the battered Standard Fourteen and Frankie was at the wheel.

Before I could think anything of this, someone came on the line to say Corridan was out on patrol with a police car. I asked for them to get into immediate touch with him and to tell him to come at once to Mrs. Crockett.

“Tell him it’s a murder,” I said, hung up.

I didn’t fancy waiting for Corridan in Madge’s room, so I returned to the house, sat on the doorstep. While I waited, I did a little thinking.

I was at last getting somewhere. I’d have probably solved the whole business if Madge hadn’t dropped her bottle of whisky; but I wasn’t discouraged. I had found out that a girl had been in the flat with Netta, and I was positive that it was she who had died and not Netta. It seemed pretty obvious that she had been murdered, and I wondered with a feeling of sick apprehension, if Netta had taken a hand in the murder. Could the man who had returned with Netta and the other girl be Jacobi, whoever he might be? Had he been listening to Madge and me talking, and had killed Madge before she could give me the information she had promised? Was that what Madge had tried to convey when she had scrawled the name in the dust? What was Frankie doing on the scene of the murder? How much was I going to tell Corridan? If he suspected me before, he had every reason for suspecting me still more now. I should have to handle him with care.

Corridan arrived in a fast police car in less than ten minutes. He jumped out of the car, ran up the steps before I could get to my feet.

“What’s this, Harmas?” he snapped, his cold eyes searching my face. “What’s happened?”

“Madge Kennitt’s been murdered,” I said briefly.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

“I came to see her,” I returned, told him briefly what had happened. “You saw me leave, Corridan,” I went on. “I spotted you as I was driving away. Why were you tailing me?”

“It’s just as well that I was, isn’t it?” he returned curtly. “I’m beginning to wonder about you, Harmas. You’re not making things easy for yourself, are you?”

“You don’t think I had anything to do with her death?”

“You could have killed her, couldn’t you?” he returned, shortly. “Every time someone dies connected with this case, you appear on the scene. I don’t like it. I’ve told you before to keep out of this, and I’m telling you again for the last time. This is no business of yours. Now, will you please understand that once and for all?”

“Hadn’t you better take a look at Madge?” I said.

He snapped his fingers impatiently, went past me into the house. Two plainclothes men followed him. I brought up the rear.

“Stay in the hall, please,” he said to me, entered Madge’s flat.

That settled it, I decided. Corridan could stew in his own juice. From now on, I was going to work on the case and keep all my findings to myself. Then I’d surprise the lug when I’d solved it.

I sat on the stairs, lit a cigarette, waited.

I heard the three men moving about the room, and after a while one of the plainclothes men came out, went across the street to telephone.

When he returned, he glanced at me and I said, “How much longer do I have to wait here? I want to go to bed.”

“The Inspector will want to talk to you,” he returned, went into the room again.

I lit another cigarette, continued to wait.

The stairs creaked, and I glanced around. Julius Cole was coming down stealthily, holding the skirt of his yellow-and-black dressing-gown in one hand, the other hand on the banister rail.

Looking at the dressing-gown I thought of the yellow-and-black Bentley, wondered if there was any connection.

“Hello, baby,” he whispered, his eyes on Madge Kennitt’s door.

“What’s going on?”

“I’d have thought you’d have been on the scene before now,” I said, scowling at him. “You’d better beat it. You’re in the way, Fatso.”

He came on, plumped himself down beside me, smiled his secret smile. I smelt perfume, drew away from him.

“Has something happened to the old hag?” he asked, rubbing his big, white hands together. “Has she lost something? Is it the police?”

“Someone cut her throat,” I said brutally. “Odd you didn’t see him arrive, or did you?”

“Cut her throat?” he squeaked, his face going slack. “You mean she’s dead?”

I nodded. “Yeah,” I said, staring at him. “She knew too much.”

He was on his feet now, his mouth working, his eyes full of terror.

“You’ll be next,” I said, kidding him. “You know too much, too.” I wanted to loosen him up, and then I was going to move in and take him to pieces, but I guess I punched him too hard. He bolted up the stairs before I could grab him. I heard him rush into his room, slam the door and shoot the bolt.

I hadn’t expected quite such a reaction, but on consideration, I realized that he also had seen the man and girl return with Netta. He, too, stood a likely chance of getting his throat cut; and he knew it.

I got to my feet, undecided whether to follow him or not, when Corridan came out of the room. His face was grim.

“Now, let’s hear some more from you,” he said, planting himself before me. “How long have you known this woman?”

I frowned at him. “Why, I’ve only just met her. I told you I thought she might have seen something the night Netta was supposed to have died. I came here, talked with her, and she admitted she did know something. Then she upset her bottle of Scotch, wouldn’t talk until I’d got her another. I got another from Sam at the Blue Club, but when I got back I found her dead. Someone had stopped her talking for good.”

“It’s lucky for you I saw you come out when you did,” Corridan said coldly. “Even then, it still doesn’t mean you couldn’t have killed her.”

“For God’s sake, Corridan!” I exploded.

“You’ve brought it on yourself,” he returned. “You are definitely on my suspect list.”

“That’s fine,” I said bitterly. “After all the meals I’ve bought for you, too.”

“Tell me exactly what she said,” he ordered, watching me with uncomfortable intentness.

I couldn’t avoid telling him the truth, although it irritated me to do so. It was his job to find out that Netta had come back with two other people, not to receive it as a gift from me.

He listened in silence, seemed very thoughtful by the time I had finished.

“There goes your suicide theory,” I said, eyeing him. “I told you all along Netta didn’t kill herself.”

“I know,” he said, looking up sharply. “If she didn’t kill herself, then you might have a reason for stopping Madge Kennitt from talking. Thought of that?”

I just gaped at him.

“On the other hand it still could be suicide,” he went on. “These two visitors could have left her after doing whatever they had come to do, and then she committed suicide. It depends on what time they left.”

“Well, Julius Cole can tell you. He saw them too.”

“I’ll have a word with him,” Corridan said grimly. “Will you walk to the corner with me?” I asked, remembering Frankie. “I want to check something.”

He opened the front door without a word, and together we walked to the entrance of the alley from which the Standard had come. I struck a match, peered at a small pool of motor oil on the cobbles. It would seem from that that the Standard had been parked there for some time.

“Look at this,” I said. “When I was trying to get you on the phone, I spotted a Standard car come out of this mews. There’s some oil here that leaked from it. I should say it’d been standing there some time. I happen to know the car belongs to Jack Bradley. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Except you seem to know more about this case than I thought,” Corridan returned. “How do you know the car belongs to Bradley?”

“I consulted my Ouija board,” I returned.

“You’re not in the position to be funny,” he snapped sharply. “How did you know?”

“Frankie was driving. I knew he was Bradley’s stooge.”

Corridan grunted. “You know a hell of a lot, don’t you?”

“Do you know anything about Frankie?” I asked.

“We’ve been hoping to get our hands on him for some time, but he’s a slippery customer, as well as a vicious one. He’s on our suspect list for several robberies, but Bradley always turns up with a cast-iron alibi for him.”

“Think he’d run to murder?”

Corridan shrugged. “He’d run to anything if it paid well enough.”

As we retraced our steps to the house, I asked him if he had found any clues in Madge’s flat.

“None,” he said.

“You mean you haven’t found one single clue?” I asked, startled, thinking of the name Jacobi written in the dust. “No,” he repeated.

I had an idea, darted away from him, bolted into Madge’s flat.

The two plain-clothes dicks were together at the far end of the room, looking for finger-prints. I came in so quickly they weren’t aware of me until I had reached the chaise-longue. I peered over the far side. The dust had been swept clean. The scrawled name, Jacobi, had vanished. I immediately thought of Julius Cole. Had he got in here while I was waiting for Corridan?

But I hadn’t much time for thought as Corridan came into the room, his face dark with anger. I moved away from the chaise-longue, looked around the room.

“What the hell are you playing at?” he demanded. “You’ve no business in here. I’m getting tired of your behaviour, Harmas. It’s got to stop. Why are you in here?”

I decided I wouldn’t tell him about the name in the dust. Anyway, not until I had investigated the clue myself. I tried to look ashamed of myself, didn’t succeed very well.

“There was a cat here,” I said vaguely. “I wondered if it was still in the room.”

“What the blazes has a cat to do with it?” he demanded, glaring at me.

I lifted my shoulders. “Maybe the killer took it away,” I said. “That’s a clue, isn’t it?”

“He didn’t take the cat away,” Corridan snarled. “It’s locked up in the other room. Any more bright ideas?”

“Well, I’m only trying to help,” I said. “How about you and me calling on Julius Cole?”

“I’m calling on, him,” Corridan said. “You’re getting the hell out of here. Now see here, Harmas, I’m warning you for the last time. Keep out of this. You’re lucky you’re not charged with murder. I’m going to check your story and if it doesn’t click, I’m going to arrest you. You’re a damn nuisance. Now get out.”

“If you listen carefully,” I said, as I edged to the door, “you’ll hear my knees knocking.”