No Business of Mine

Chapter Four

The next morning, I awoke with a start. The telephone was ringing, and sitting up in bed, I grabbed the receiver, stifling a yawn as I did so. I peered at my bedside clock and saw it was ten minutes past eight, grunted, “Who is it?”

“Inspector Corridan asking for you,” the porter said.

“All right, send him up,” I returned, snatched up my dressing-gown and rushed into the bathroom for a hasty shower.

I had slept badly, and was still feeling a little piqued at the abrupt way Corridan had returned me to the Savoy. He had said, “Sorry, Harmas, but this is police business now. Can’t take you along with me,” and that was that. Of course, he was rattled, and I realized that he had something to get rattled about, but I thought he had a nerve to ditch me after I’d given him so much data to work on; but Corridan was like that. When he started on a job, he worked alone.

I was just coming out of the bathroom when I heard a rap on my door. I opened it; Corridan entered. He looked tired, was unshaven.

“Have you only just got up?” he snapped, tossing his hat on a chair. “I haven’t even been to bed.”

“You don’t expect me to sob over that item of news, do you?” I returned. “After the way you dropped me last night?”

He looked more surly than ever, sat down. “Get me some coffee, there’s a good fellow, and don’t grouse,” he said, “I’ve had a hell of a night.”

I picked up the telephone, called the floor waiter, ordered coffee.

“You have only yourself to blame,” I said. “If you’d have kept me with you, I’d have halved your work.”

“I’m seeing the Chief in half an hour’s time, and I thought I’d look in on my way to tell you the news,” Corridan said. “First the gun. It belonged to a fellow named Peter Utterly, a lieutenant in the U.S. Army. He’s been repatriated, but we persuaded the authorities on the other side to get a statement from him. Apparently he knew Netta Scott, gave her the Luger as a souvenir. You’ll remember I told you that was the probable explanation of the gun.”

“You’ve been quick,” I said, a little disappointed that the explanation should be so commonplace.

“Oh, we work fast when necessary,” Corridan said, looked dour.

“So much for the gun. We traced the ambulance. It was found on Hampstead Heath, but the body is still missing. We have a description of the driver, but it could fit any young fellow. Where the body’s got to defeats me, and why it was stolen defeats me still more.”

“There must be an explanation,” I said, waving to the waiter who had just entered to put the coffee on the table. “Unless it was a practical joke.”

Corridan shrugged. “We’ll get to the bottom of it,” he said, glanced at his watch. “Let’s have that coffee. I have to be off in a moment.”

While I was pouring the coffee, he went on, “I’ve had the bonds checked. They are forgeries. That’s always something to worry about. Can you suggest why this girl should be hiding forged bonds in her flat?”

“Not unless someone gave them to her, and she thought they were genuine,” I said, handing him the cup of coffee. “Of course, I’ve been out of touch with Netta for a long time now. She may have got into bad company, but I doubt it.”

He sipped the coffee, grunted. “I think that’s likely,” he said. “The diamond ring you found has a history. It’s part of a considerable amount of jewellery stolen a few weeks ago. The owner of the jewellery, Hervey Allenby, identified the ring late last night. Our people have been waiting for the stuff to come into the market. This ring is the first sign of it. How do you think she got hold of it?”

I shook my head, perplexed. “Maybe someone gave it to her,” I said.

“Then why should she hide it at the bottom of a jar of cold cream?” Corridan returned, finishing his coffee. “Odd place to keep a ring unless you have a guilty conscience, isn’t it?”

I said it was.

“Well, it’ll sort itself out,” Corridan went on. “I still don’t think we have any grounds to suppose the girl was murdered, Harmas. After all that’s the thing that was worrying you. You can leave this other business to me.”

“So you’re going to play copper, are you?” I said. “Well, I think someone knocked her off. If you’ll take the trouble to use that hat rack you call a head, I’ll explain in two minutes why it wasn’t suicide.”

He eyed me coldly, moved to the door.

“I’m afraid I can’t spare the time, Harmas,” he said. “I have a lot to do, and newspaper men’s theories scarcely interest me. Sorry, but I suggest you leave this to those competent to handle it.”

“There must be times when Mrs. Corridan is very proud of you,” I said sarcastically. “This is one of them, I should think.”

“I’m single,” he said. “Sorry to disappoint you. I must be getting along.” He paused at the door. “I’m afraid there can be no question of you coming with me to see this Anne Scott. This is official business now. We can’t have Yankee newspaper men barging in on our preserves.”

I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “If that’s the way you feel, think no more about it.”

“I won’t,” he said, with a sour smile, quietly left the room.

For a moment or so I was too mad to think clearly, then I calmed down, had to grin. If Corridan thought he could keep me out of this business he was crazy.

I bundled into my clothes, grabbed the telephone and asked Inquiries how I could hire a car. They said they’d have one ready for me in twenty minutes after I’d explained I could get petrol on my Press card. I smoked two cigarettes, did a little thinking, then went downstairs.

They had found me a Buick. I was too scared to ask them how much it would cost, took the hall porter aside and inquired my way to Lakeham. He said that it was a few miles from Horsham, and suggested I should leave London via Putney Bridge and the Kingston By-pass. The rest of the run, he told me, would be simple as Horsham was well signposted.

In spite of its rather obvious age, the Buick ran well, and I reached the Fulham Road in less than a quarter of an hour and without having to ask the way. At this time of the morning, the traffic was coming into London, and I had practically a clear road ahead of me.

As I passed the Stamford Bridge football ground, one of the landmarks described by the hall porter, I noticed in the driving mirror a battered Standard car which I was fairly certain I’d seen behind me at Knightsbridge. I thought nothing of it until I reached Putney Bridge when I spotted it again. Being still a little jittery from the attack of last night, I began to wonder if I was being tailed.

I tried to catch sight of the driver, but the car was equipped with a blue anti-dazzle windscreen, and I could only make out the silhouette of a man’s head.

I drove up Putney High Street, stopped at the traffic lights as they turned red. The Standard parked behind me.

I decided I would have to make certain that this man in the battered Standard was following me. If he was, I’d have to shake him. I wondered if Corridan had set one of his cops on to tailing me, decided it wasn’t likely.

I was glad I had the Buick because it was obviously more powerful than the Standard which looked to me to be only a fourteen horsepower job against my thirty-one. As soon as the traffic lights changed to yellow, I shoved down the accelerator pedal, made a racing get-away. I roared up the hill leading from Putney, changed into top, missing second, and belted forward with the speedometer swinging dangerously near eighty miles an hour.

I saw people staring after me, but as no policeman hove into sight, I couldn’t care less. I let the Buick have all the petrol it could take until I reached the top of the hill. Then I eased off the throttle, looked rather contentedly into the mirror, had the shock of my life. The Standard was about twenty feet from my tail.

I was still uncertain that I was being tailed. It might be that the guy had decided to show me I wasn’t the only one with a fast car. I now had a healthy respect for the battered Standard, whose shabby body obviously concealed a first-class engine, tuned for speed.

I kept on; so did the Standard. When I reached the beginning of the By-pass, and he was still a hundred yards or so behind me, I decided to be foxy.

I flapped my hand out of the window, pulled up by the side of the road, watched the Standard shoot past me. As it went by I spotted the driver. He looked a youth. He was dark, a greasy slouch hat was pulled down low, but I saw enough of his face to recognize him. He was the runt who’d tried to make a batter out of my brains the previous night.

Now feeling certain he had been tailing me, I watched the Standard go on, and I reached for a cigarette. I guessed he would be pretty mad by now, wondering what he could do. He couldn’t very well stop — couldn’t he? I had to grin. A couple of hundred yards farther up the road, he pulled up.

That settled it. I was being tailed, and I took out a pencil from my pocket and scribbled the licence number of the car on the back of an envelope.

Now I had to shake him. I didn’t hesitate. I owed him something for giving me a scare last night. I started the Buick, drove up to the Standard, braked sharply and was out of the car before the runt knew what was happening.

“Hello, pal,” I said, smiling at him. “A little bird tells me you’re following me. I don’t like it.” While I was speaking I took my penknife out, opened the blade. “Sorry to give you a little work, sonny,” I went on, “but it’ll do you a world of good.”

He just sat glowering at me, his lips drawn off his yellow teeth. He looked like an infuriated ferret.

I bent down, stuck my penknife into one of his tyres. The air hissed out; the tyre went flat.

“These tyres aren’t what they were, are they, son?” I asked, folding the blade down, putting the knife in my pocket. “I’ll leave you to change the wheel. I have an appointment right now.”

He called me a word which in normal times would have annoyed me, but I felt he had some justification.

“If you’d like to collect a tyre lever, we’ll have another little joust,” I said amiably.

He repeated the word, so I left him.

He was still sitting there as I drove past, and he was still sitting there when I reached the bend in the road some six hundred yards farther on. I guessed he was a sore pup all right.

I reached Horsham in half an hour and I was sure now that I wasn’t being followed. The traffic was negligible, and for miles I drove with nothing behind me.

From Horsham I took the Worthing road, branched off after a few miles and approached Lakeham. The country was magnificent, and the day hot and sunny. I enjoyed the last few miles, thinking I should have explored that part of England before instead of spending so many days and nights in stuffy, dirty London.

A signpost told me I was within three-quarters of a mile of Lakeham, and I slowed down, driving along the narrow lane until I reached a few cottages, a pub and a post office. I guessed I’d arrived.

I pulled up outside the pub, went in.

It was a quaint box-like place, almost like a doll’s house. The woman who served me a double whisky seemed ready to talk, especially when she heard my accent.

We chatted about the surrounding country and this and that, then I asked her if she knew where a cottage called Beverley hung out.

“Oh, you mean Miss Scott?” she said, and there was an immediate look of disapproval in her eyes. “Her place’s about a mile farther on. You take the first on your left and the cottage lies off the road. It has a thatched roof and a yellow gate. You can’t miss it.”

“That’s swell,” I said. “I know a friend of hers. Maybe I’ll look her up. Do you know her? I was wondering what she was like. Think I’d be welcome?”

“From what I hear, men are always welcomed there,” she said, with a sniff. “I’ve never seen ’er. No one in the village sees ’er. She only comes down for the weekends.”

“Maybe she has someone to look after the cottage?” I suggested, wondering if I had made the journey for nothing.

“Mrs. Brambee does for ’er,” the woman told me. “She ain’t much ’erself.”

I paid for my drink, thanked the woman, returned to the Buick.

It took me only a few minutes to find Beverley. I saw it through the trees as I drove up the narrow lane. It stood in a charming garden, a two-storied, thatch-roofed, rough-cast building, as attractive as any you could wish to see.

I parked the Buick outside, pushed open the gate and walked up the path. The sun beat down on me, and the smell of pinks, roses and wallflowers hung in the still air. I wouldn’t have minded living there myself.

I went up to the oak nail-studded front door, rapped with the shiny brass knocker, feeling a curious uneasy excitement as I waited. I was uneasy because I didn’t know if Netta’s sister had heard about Netta, and I wasn’t sure how I should break the news. I was excited because I wondered if Anne was like her sister, and how we would get on together.

But after a few moments, I realized, with a sharp feeling of disappointment, that there was no one in, or at least, no one was going to answer my knock. I stood back, glanced up at the windows of the upper floor, then peered into the first window within reach on the ground floor. I could see the room stretching the length of the house, and the big garden through the windows at the back. The place was well furnished and comfortable. I moved around the house, until I reached the back. There was no one about, and I stood for a moment, hat in hand, looking across the well-kept lawn and at the flower-beds, a mass of brilliant colours.

I passed the back door, hesitated, tried the handle, but the door was locked. I moved on until I reached another window, paused as I noticed the curtains had been drawn.

I stared at the curtained window, and for no reason at all I suddenly felt spooked. I took a step forward, tried to see into the room, by peering through a chink in the curtain. I could see it was the kitchen, but my view was so limited I could only make out a dresser from which hung willow pattern cups and plates in rows along the ordered shelves.

Then I smelt coal-gas.

Feet crunched on the gravel. I swung around. Corridan and two uniformed policemen came striding towards me. Corridan’s face was dour, his eyes showed irritation and anger.

“You better bust in quick,” I said, before he could speak. “I smell gas.”