No Business of Mine

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.”

I finished my whisky, felt better for it.

“No question of foul play?” I asked.

His eyes probed me. “No. Why should there be?”

“Your people are quite happy about that?”

“They’re never happy about anything, but they’re quite satisfied that there’s no question of foul play. Suicide happens every day. It may interest you to know an individual’s occupation tends to influence the likelihood of suicide,” Corridan went on, closing his eyes and settling farther into his chair. “Occupations involving strain, responsibility or very late hours provide the greatest numbers of suicides. Chemists, doctors, solicitors, publicans, night club workers, butchers and soldiers are to be found high up in the list of occupations, whilst gardeners, fishermen, clergymen, school teachers and civil servants are at the foot of the list.”

I groaned. “I guess I stuck my neck out that time,” I said. “Okay, okay, don’t let’s have any more of that. Then I take it because night club workers rank high on the list of likely suicides, Netta killed herself, is that it?”

He nodded. “Something like that. Anyway, it helps us to make up our minds. If she were a school teacher, for instance, we might look at the business more closely. See what I mean?”

“And you think a girl like Netta would choose a gas oven? You don’t think she’d jump out of a window or use poison?”

“Women hesitate to make a mess of themselves even in death,” Corridan returned, lifting his shoulders. “Especially girls as pretty as Netta. Jumping out of windows can be very messy... I’ve seen some. Owing to a little thing called the Dangerous Drugs Act suicides by poison are on the decrease. I believe over six hundred women committed suicide by coal-gas last year. I’ll get you the exact figures if you’re interested.”

“That’s good enough for me,” I said. “And why do you think she killed herself?”

Corridan finished his whisky, put the glass on the table, shrugged. “It’s interesting to consider the reasons which impel individual conduct,” he said, crossing his legs and sinking lower in his chair. “A knowledge of the causes of suicide is also of help in determining the question of accident, suicide or murder. The four main reasons why people commit suicide are, in order of their importance, mental conditions, drink, financial worries and love. There are other causes, of course, but these are the four important ones. As far as we know the girl didn’t owe money, she didn’t drink to excess, and she appeared mentally normal from what Cole and the landlady tell us. Therefore it’s reasonable to suppose she had an unhappy love affair.”

“The way you coppers get everything down to a rule of thumb kills me,” I said, as the waiter wheeled in a table ladened with good things to eat. “Come on, let’s get at it.”

“Another of those excellent whiskies mightn’t be a bad idea,” Corridan said, getting to his feet and pulling up a straight-backed chair to the table.

“Make it two,” I said to the waiter, “and then leave us to look after ourselves.”

We sat down and began on the cold consommé.

“What makes you think she wasn’t murdered?” I asked casually.

He shook his head. “What a chap you are,” he said. “I’ve just told you...” He glanced up sharply, frowned. “But perhaps you know more about this than I do. Perhaps I’d better hear what you have to say before I commit myself too deeply.” His lips curled slightly at the corners which was his idea of a smile. “Do you think she was murdered?”

“I’m willing to bet five hundred pounds that she was,” I said.

His eyebrows shot up. “And you have five hundred pounds?”

“I have. Like to take me on?”

He shook his head. “I never bet with Yanks; they’re far too smart.” He pushed his plate away, dabbed his thin lips with his napkin. “Hmm, now I wonder what makes you so sure?”

“I’ve been to her flat and had a look around,” I said. “I found some interesting items which I’ll show you in a moment. First tell me, did any of your men take anything from the flat?”

“No. Is there anything missing?”

“A number of pairs of silk stockings, most of her clothes, and a diamond bracelet and scarf-pin.”

“Valuable?”

“The bracelet cost two hundred pounds three years ago. It’ll be worth double that now. I don’t know about the pin.”

“How do you know they’re missing? Couldn’t she have sold t hem?”

I hadn’t thought of that, and said so. “All the same I don’t think she did. She was fond of those pieces and nothing would persuade her to get rid of her stockings. No, I don’t believe she did sell the stuff.”

Corridan eyed me. “Now you’re being obstinate,” he said quietly. “I should say it was most likely. She may have been pressed for money at one time.”

The waiter interrupted us with the whiskies. We paused before we started on the vol au vent, finished the whiskies while we talked.

“But she wasn’t the type to kill herself,” I said. “I remember once she said she’d never take that way out of trouble. If you’d have heard her you’d know she wasn’t the type.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Two years. Oh, I know you’ll say people change, but I’m still sure she wasn’t the type.”

“What else?” The blue eyes probed, the thin mouth came near to a smile again. “Ignoring the jewellery, the stockings and her type, what else have you got?”

“I haven’t started yet,” I said, “but it’ll keep until we’ve fed. You don’t know anything about the girl?”

“She hasn’t a record if that’s what you mean,” he returned, contentedly chewing his food. “She worked at the Blue Club as a dance hostess and she’s been fined once or twice for car offences, otherwise we don’t know anything about her.”

“And the Blue Club? I hear it’s taken a dive since I knew it.”

“Most of these clubs that catered for Americans have deteriorated since the Americans have gone home. The Blue Club is on our suspect list, but Bradley is a little too smart for us at the moment. We believe the place is a gambling den, and there’s drinking out of hours. I’m sure the food is Black Market, but we’ve never been able to get any of our men in there, and a raid has always flopped. The Chief thinks one of our men tips Bradley off when a raid is going to be made. Anyway, he’s always one jump ahead of us, although he can’t last much longer.”

By now we had finished the meal, and Corridan went back to the armchair. I ordered brandy and cigars, saw he was settled comfortably.

“Well, now perhaps I can convince you,” I said, produced the Luger and handed it to him.

He sat for a long moment staring at it, his face expressionless, then he glanced up, his eves cold.

“Where did this come from?” he asked.

I told him.

He examined the Luger thoughtfully, shook his head, relaxed again.

“If you knew the number of women who have these damn things you wouldn’t think so much of it,” he said. “Nearly every American soldier brought one back from Germany, and gave it to his girlfriend. What makes you so heat up about it?”

“I’m not heat up about it,” I said, “but it’s odd she should have kept it hidden in a dress like that, isn’t it?” I suddenly wondered if I was making a fool of myself.

“Well, you can get into trouble having one of these things she might have hidden it with that in mind,” Corridan returned, stretching out his long legs and sniffing at his brandy. “Nothing more concrete?”

I told him about the sixteen five-pound notes, and handed them and the letter to Anne Scott over to him. I also gave him the diamond ring.

“You certainly searched the place pretty thoroughly,” he said, cocking an eye at me. “I don’t know if you had any right in there... had you?”

“Maybe not,” I returned, chewing my cigar, “but this business worries me, Corridan. I feel there’s something wrong somewhere.” I went on to tell him about the man who had attacked me.

He showed some interest at last.

“Did you see him?”

“It was damned dark, and I was startled. All right,” I went on when he half smiled. “I was scared pink. So would you’ve been if it had happened to you. The guy sprang out at me with what looked like a tyre lever, and he had a damned good shot at bashing my brains in. I couldn’t see much of him, but he seemed young, slight, and could run like hell. I think I’d know him again if I saw him.”

“What do you think he was after?”

“The gun perhaps,” I said, “that’s why I suggest you have it checked. You see there’s a scratch on the barrel and it looks as if at one time a name was engraved on the butt. I believe the gun might tell us something.”

“You’ve been reading too many detective stories,” he grunted. “Still, there’s no harm checking the gun.” He sniffed at it. “Been fired, I’d say a month or so ago. Smells of lilac, too.”

“Her favourite perfume,” I told him. “Well, that’s my story. I hoped you’d be more impressed, but I should have known better. The trouble with you is you’ve no imagination.”

He stroked his long fleshy nose. “Maybe I haven’t, but I’ve a lot of horse sense, and I still think she committed suicide.” He picked up the envelope, tapped it on his finger-nails. “Shall we see what’s in here?”

“Can we?”

“The police can do anything,” he said with a wink. He took out a pencil, slid it under the flap of the envelope, rolled it gently backwards and forwards. After a little persuasion the flap lifted.

“Easy once you know how,” he said, looking at me with his half-hearted smile. “You have to have the right touch, of course.”

“I’ll keep my mail out of your reach,” I said. “Well, what’s inside?”

He glanced into the envelope, whistled. With finger and thumb he hooked out what seemed a stack of over-printed paper.

“Bearer bonds,” he said.

I leaned forward. “Seems a lot of them,” I said, gaping.

His fingers flicked through them. “Five thousand pounds worth,” he said. “Now I wonder where these came from?” He glanced inside the envelope. “No note. Hmm, this is a little odd I must say.”

I laughed at him. “Now you’re starting. The whole thing’s odd to me. Well, what are you going to do about it?”

“I think I’ll take a trip to Lakeham and see Miss Scott. I’d like to know where these bonds came from. If she can’t tell me, I’ll have to check them. That may be a longish job; still, I want to know.”

“Could I come with you to Lakeham?” I asked. “I’ll play Watson to your Holmes. Besides, I’d like to meet the sister. Maybe she doesn’t know Netta’s dead. I think I should be there when the news is broken.”

“By all means come,” he said, getting to his feet. “Shall we say tomorrow morning? We can go down by car.”

“Swell. But don’t think you’re through yet,” I said. “There’s one more thing I want you to do. Where can I see Netta? I want to see her before she’s buried.”

“A bit morbid, aren’t you?” he shot at me. “What good can that do you?”

“I’m funny that way,” I said, stubbing out my cigar. “Suppose you come along too? I want you to see her if only to be in a better position to judge when the lid comes off this business, as I’m sure it will. I have a hunch we’re on to something that’s going to be big, and you’ll thank me in the long run for putting you wise.”

“I’ve never met such a chap,” Corridan muttered, went over to the telephone, called the Yard.

I stood by while he ordered a police car to pick us up outside the Savoy.

“Come along,” he said, “if it hadn’t been such a damn good dinner I’d have told you to have gone to blazes, but I suppose I’ll have to pay for my entertainment. Who knows, you may invite me again.”

“Maybe I will at that,” I said, following him along the corridor to the elevator.

It took us under a quarter of an hour to reach the mortuary, and the officer in charge, startled to have a visit from Corridan, came out to greet us.

“Netta Scott,” Corridan said abruptly. He was always short with his inferiors in rank. “You have her here. We want to see her.”

The constable, a young, red-faced country-looking fellow, shook his head. “Not now, sir,” he said. “She was here, but she was taken to the Hammersmith mortuary an hour ago.”

Corridan frowned. “Oh? On whose orders?”

“I don’t know, sir,” the constable replied, looked blank.

“You don’t know?” Corridan barked, “But surely you had an official order before you let them take the body?”

The constable changed colour. “Well, no, sir,” he said. “I’m new here. I... I didn’t know an order was necessary in this case. The driver of the ambulance said there’d been a mistake, and the remains should ’ave gone to Hammersmith. I let him take the body.”

Corridan, his face dark with fury, pushed past the constable, went into the office, slammed the door.

The constable stared after him, scratched his head. “Now I wonder what’s up,” he said, looking at me. “Do you think I did wrong, sir?”

I shrugged. “Search me,” I said, feeling uneasy. “But you’ll know before long.”

After several minutes, Corridan came out of the office, walked past the constable, jerked his head at me. At the door he paused, looked back.

“You’ll hear a lot more about this, my man, before very long,” he snapped at the constable, walked to the police car.

I got in beside him, and as we drove off, I said, “Well, do we go to Hammersmith?”

“Hammersmith didn’t send for the body,” Corridan growled. “Anyone but a fool would have known it was a plant. A couple of hours back an ambulance was reported stolen. Someone-believe it or not-has kidnapped Netta Scott’s body. It’s fantastic! Why, for God’s sake?” and he thumped the hack of the driver’s seat with his clenched fist.