No Business of Mine

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.”

She pulled away from me, her eyes glassy with terror, ran her fingers through her thick red hair.

“You don’t understand,” she said, her husky voice off-key, cracked. “I killed him! Do you hear, Steve? I killed him!”

I went cold, tried to say something, but succeeded in making only a croaking noise.

She suddenly jumped to her feet, ran to the door. Before she reached it, I caught hold of her. She struggled to get away, but I held her. We stared at each other: both of us scared now.

“You killed him?” I said. “For God’s sake, Netta!”

She collapsed against me. I smelt lilac in her hair.

“They’ll get me now, Steve,” she said, moaned against my chest. “I’ve kept out of their way until now, but they’ll get me for this.”

I felt cold sweat on my face. I wanted to run, get the hell out of here, leave her. This was murder; this wasn’t something I could fool around with and pass over to Corridan if I made a mess of it. This was murder. I gripped her arms, tried to think. Maybe the moments of happiness this kid had given me two years ago helped to bridge the horror I felt. Maybe that thought stopped me from running out on her.

“Take it easy,” I said, holding her close. “What we need is a drink. Have you any Scotch in the place?”

She shuddered, clung more tightly. “It’s in there,” she said. I knew where she meant. I pushed her gently away, sat her on the bed.

“Hang on,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

“No!” she exclaimed, her voice shooting up. “You mustn’t leave me. Steve! You mustn’t leave me.” She caught hold of my wrist, her nails bit into my flesh.

“It’s all right,” I said, trying to stop my teeth chattering. “I’ll be right back. Take it easy, can’t you?”

“No! You won’t come back. You’re going to run out on me. You’re going to leave me in this mess. You’re not to, Steve! You’re not to!” She began to cry again, then suddenly she put her hands to her face and screamed wildly.

The sound went through my head like white-hot wires. I was stiff with fright. I snatched her hands away, smacked her face hard, knocking her backwards across the bed.

I stood over her. “Shut up, you little fool,” I said, trembling, sweating. “Do you want someone to come here with that in there?”

She stopped screaming, looked up at me, her eyes empty; one side of her face red where I had hit her.

“I’m coming back,” I went on. “Stay still and don’t make a sound.”

I crossed the passage, went into the sitting-room. He was still there, small, defenceless, pathetic. I looked down at him, feeling bad. I looked at his worn suit, at his shabby boots, at his thick ribbed socks that hung in wrinkles. I looked at the terror in his eyes, the twisted mouth. I reached down, patted his arm.

Clutched tightly between his finger and thumb was a scrap of paper. I bent closer, gently pulled it from between his fingers. It was a glossy scrap of paper-a piece torn from a photograph. I stared at it, puzzled.

A bluebottle walked across one of his fixed eyes, then buzzed around his blood. I shivered, put the scrap of paper in my vest pocket, went to the cupboard by the fireplace and found a full bottle of Scotch. I carried it and two glasses into the bedroom, shut the door.

Netta was lying face down across the bed. Her skirt had nicked up and I could see an inch or so of bare thigh. Bare thighs mean nothing to a guy in a moment like this. Her thigh meant less than nothing to me.

I poured a. big shot of whisky into both glasses, noted my hand was no steadier than an aspen leaf. I drank the liquor; it went down like water, hit my stomach; a moment later, I felt alive again.

I leaned over Netta, pulled her up.

“Come on,” I said, “get this down into you.”

I had to feed it to her. Her hand made mine look like a rock. She got it down, gagged, then stopped crying. I gave her my handkerchief, gave myself another shot of Liquor, put the bottle down.

“Have a cigarette,” I said, pushing one between her trembling lips, took one myself, lit both.

I sat on the bed, at her side.

“You have to talk, and talk fast,” I said. “I’ll help you if I can. I don’t know what game you’ve been playing or why, but if you’ll give it me straight, I’ll do what I can for you. Now, shoot.”

She dragged down smoke, pressed back the mass of red hair that was hiding her face. She looked pretty bad. Dark shadows circled her eyes; her nose seemed pinched. She had lost a lot of weight since last I saw her. Worse still, she had a blank, crazy expression in her eyes that scared me. I didn’t like that expression. The rest of her looks were bad, but nothing rest and sunshine couldn’t put right. But the blank expression was something else: I had seen it in the faces of the French girls after days of air strafing or after we’d rescued them from some Hun. It was that kind of expression.

“I killed him,” she said quietly. The whisky had pulled her together as I meant it to do. “I heard a sound, crept in there. It was dark. I saw something move and hit out.” She shuddered, hid her face. “Then I put on the light. I... I thought it was Peter French.”

I was listening, sitting forward, cigarette between my lips, listening with both ears.

“It won’t do, Netta,” I said, putting my hand on her knee.

“We’ll start from the beginning. Never mind about the little guy. Forget him for the moment. Start right from the beginning.”

She clenched her fists, not looking up.

“I can’t go through all that. I can’t.”

“You’ve got to. Come on, Netta. If I’m to help you, I must know how bad it is. Right from the beginning.”

“No!” She sprang to her feet, upsetting the glass she had balanced on the divan. “Let me go! I can’t stay here with him in there. You’ve got to get me away.”

I grabbed her wrists, shook her, dragged her down beside me on the bed.

“Shut up!” I said fiercely. “You’re not moving out of here until you’ve talked. Do you know what you’re asking me to do? You’re asking me to stick my neck in a noose.”

She gasped, tried to break away, but I held her close.

“I won’t do that for anyone, Netta. Not unless I’m sure whoever it is is worth it and deserves it. That goes for you, so if you want my help, sit still and talk, and talk fast.”

She went limp against me, her breath coming in shuddering gasps.

“Listen, Netta,” I went on, “that little guy was working for me. Maybe you didn’t mean to kill him, but you killed him just the same, and nothing either of us can do can bring him back to life again. I liked him, and I feel bad about it. He had a lot of guts. If it’d been anyone else but you I’d be calling the police right now. But I haven’t forgotten what you did for me in the past. I owe you plenty, but I’m not helping you until you talk. Now relax and tell me. Tell me everything from the beginning.”

She beat her hands together. “But what do you want to know?” she gasped. “Can’t you see, Steve, the longer we stay here the worse it’ll be? They’ll find us... find me.”

“Who was the girl in your flat... the one who died?” I asked, deciding questions were more direct, would get me quicker results.

She shuddered. “Anne... my sister.”

“Who was the guy with her?”

She looked up. “How did you know...?”

I took hold of her chin between finger and thumb, looked into her eves. She didn’t flinch.

“Quit stalling,” I said. “Answer my questions. Who was the guy with her.”

“Peter French.”

“What was he to her?”

“Her lover.”

“And to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“He killed her, didn’t he?”

Her face went paler, her teeth chewed her lower lip, but she said it, “Yes.”

I drew back, wiped my face with the back of my hand.

“Why?”

“She found out he killed George Jacobi.”

“How?”

She shook her head. “She never had the chance to tell me.”

“French and you were seen around together. How did that come about?”

“He was trying to find Anne. He thought if he kept near me I’d lead him to her.”

“Where was she?”

“Hiding. She found out he and Jacobi were behind the Allenby robbery, and then later that French had killed Jacobi. She was scared, so she hid.”

“And French found her?”

She nodded. “He found her in a night club. She was drunk. Anne was always getting drunk. French knew that, and he was afraid she’d talk. He brought her to me.”

“Why?”

She twisted her hands in her lap. “He wanted to talk to her, to find out how much she knew. The night club was close and there wasn’t much time.”

“When did they arrive?”

“About one. I was asleep. I let them in. I could see Anne was terrified, although she was very drunk. She managed to whisper to me that French was going to kill her, and I wasn’t to let her out of my sight.” Netta hid her face. “I can hear her voice now.”

I poured out another shot of whisky, fed it down her throat.

“Keep going,” I said. “Then what happened?”

“I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to get dressed, but Anne wouldn’t let me leave her alone with French, and he wouldn’t let her go into my room. I stalled for time, and brought out drinks. He spiked our drinks. I went out like a light. I hadn’t a chance to warn Anne. It worked so quickly. I heard Anne scream, and then I knew nothing more.”

“Then he murdered her?” I asked quietly.

She nodded dully, struggled with her tears. “I’m so frightened. He’ll do the same to me!”

“Take it easy. What happened then? Come on, Netta, I want the whole story. What happened then?”

“I have a confused recollection of getting into my clothes, being half carried down the stairs. Ju Cole was on the landing. French spoke to him, but I was too doped to hear what was said. French pushed me out of the house. The night air pulled me together, and I started to struggle.” She closed her eyes. “He hit me, and the next thing I remember was being in his car. I struggled up, and he hit me again. I came to later in a room. There was a woman watching me: Mrs. Brambee. French came in after a while. He warned me he’d kill me if I didn’t stay there and do what I was told.”

“Ever hear of Mrs. Brambee before?”

She nodded. “Anne had a cottage at Lakeham. French bought it for her. He used to go down weekends or whenever he had the time. Mrs. Brambee looked after the place.”

“Why did they keep you a prisoner?” I asked, giving her another cigarette.

“French wanted the police to think I and not Anne died in my flat.”

“But why, for God’s sake?”

“He knew they couldn’t trace him through me, but he and Anne had been around a lot together, and he was scared they’d connect him with her death. There was something going on at the cottage he didn’t want the police to find out, and he thought the police would find the cottage if they began to make inquiries about Anne.”

“What was going on at the cottage?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did you find this out?”

“Mrs. Brambee told me. She was scared of French and liked Anne.”

“When I turned up, he realized his scheme wouldn’t work, is that it?”

“Yes. But Cole telephoned him, told him you had been up and that you would most likely want to see the — the body. French got into a panic, and with a couple of his men took Anne from the mortuary. They rushed her down to the cottage, fixed it to look as if Anne had committed suicide there instead of at my flat.”

“Well, I’ll be double damned,” I exclaimed. “You mean to tell me the girl who died in your flat and the girl found in the cottage were one and the same?”

“It was Anne.”

“But one of them was a redhead and the other a blonde.”

Netta shuddered. “French stopped at nothing. My hair’s not really red. I had a bottle of henna dye and he dyed Anne’s hair while she was drugged. Then when he brought her to the cottage he used a peroxide wash, brought her hair back to its natural colour.”

I grimaced. This guy was certainly a cold-blooded rat if ever there was one.

“Well, go on, what happened then?”

“I was in the way. The police were looking for my body. French planned to kill me and plant my body where the police could find it. Ju Cole wouldn’t let him. Ju and I had always got on together. As long as Ju was with me, I was safe. He told me French had planted one of Allenby’s rings in my flat and the police were looking for me. I got scared. I thought the police were after me, and I knew French was waiting his chance to kill me. I made Ju help me escape. I got away, came to London. There was only one place I could think of to hide in... here. Selma and I were friends. I used to come here in the old days, before she married Jacobi. I knew Selma had gone to America with Peter, after George had been killed. Peter smuggled her over.”

“Peter? Peter who?”

She frowned, passed her hand across her eyes. “I was forgetting you didn’t know him. Peter Utterly. He was an American, over here in the Army. He was nice, and when Selina was in trouble, he offered to take her back to his home and to look after her.”

“Was he the guy who gave you the Luger pistol?”

“Luger pistol?” she repeated blankly, then nodded. “I’d forgotten that. I promised to keep it for him, but when he went we both forgot I had it. How do you know about it?”

“Corridan has it,” I said. “We both thought it was the gun that had killed Jacobi.”

She went white. “But they know now it isn’t?”

“Sure, they know,” I said, patting her knee. “I’m nearly through. Why did you go to Bradley?”

“I had to. I hadn’t any money. Bradley has always been decent to me after our first fight. I had no one to turn to. I was scared to come to you. Ju told me you were always going around with the police. I wanted to come to you, but Ju said it was too dangerous. So I went to Bradley. I told him the whole story. He was decent and gave me two hundred pounds. Then you arrived; I got in a panic and ran.”

I stroked my nose. “Go on,” I said.

“I came back here,” she went on, suddenly gripping my wrist. “I let myself in, came upstairs. I heard someone moving about in the sitting-room. I thought it was French. I swear I thought it was French.” She broke off to stare into my face. “Steve! You must believe me.”

“Go on,” I said.

“I thought he had come to kill me. I was crazy with fear. I didn’t know what I was doing. I grabbed the poker, waited in the dark. Something moved, came at me. I... I lost my head... hit out.” She hid her face in her hands. “Steve, you must help me. I’m so frightened. Say you believe me. Say you’ll help me. Please...”

I got to my feet, walked the length of the room. “How the hell can I help you?” I asked. “They’ll find him here sooner or later. They’ll find out he was working for me. They’ll find out you’ve been hiding here. The only thing we can do is to tell this story to Corridan. It’s the only way, Netta. He’ll understand. He’ll help you.”

She stood up. “No! French will kill me before the police can do anything. If he doesn’t, they won’t believe me. I know they won’t. No one would believe me except you.” She put her arms around my neck, held me close. “Steve, I’m asking you to help me. I know you can do it. You can get me out of the country the way Peter Utterly got Selma out. We can go in a day or so. Before they find him.” She looked shudderingly over her shoulder. “Peter took Selma back in one of his friends’ aircraft. Can’t you do the same for me? Can’t you get me out of this after what we’ve been together?”

“Let me think,” I said, sat on the bed, lit another cigarette. I stayed like that for several minutes. Then I said, “Okay, Netta, I’ll do it. I’ll get you out of the country and then I guess we’re quits. I owe you something, but I didn’t think the price would be as steep as this. But I’ll do it.”

She fell on her knees beside me.

“But how will you do it?” she asked, gripping my hand.

“Harry Bik will get us out. Do you remember him? I brought him to the Club the night I first saw you. He’s shipping kites back to America every week. He’ll do it. He’s that kind of a guy. We’ll smuggle you on to the airfield, and get you across to the other side somehow. We’ll do it, Netta, don’t worry. When I say I’ll do it, I’ll damn well do it.”

She began to cry again, her face against my knee.

I played with her hair, stared at the framed picture of a cutie in yellow pants above the bed. The look in her eyes called me a sucker.

Maybe I was.