No Business of Mine

Chapter Five

I sat fuming in the Buick outside the cottage, and watched the activity going on in and out the front door.

Corridan had been extremely curt and official when he had recovered from his surprise at seeing me.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he had demanded. Then he, too, smelt the gas. “This is no place for you. It’s no good glaring at me. This is police business, and newspaper men are not wanted.”

I began to argue with him, but he brushed past me, saying to one of the policemen, “Escort Mr. Harmas off the premises, please, and see he keeps out.”

I felt inclined to clock the policeman on his beaky nose, but I knew it wouldn’t get me anywhere so I returned to the car, sat in it, lit a cigarette and watched.

Corridan and the other policeman succeeded in breaking down the front door. They entered the cottage, while the second policeman remained at the gate to scowl at me. I scowled right back.

After a few moments, I saw Corridan opening the windows, then move out of sight. The sickly smell of gas drifted across the lawn. I waited a quarter of an hour before anything else happened. Then a car drove up and a tall dismal-looking guy carrying a black bag got out, had a word with the policeman at the gate, and together they went inside.

I didn’t have to be clairvoyant to guess the guy was the village croaker.

After ten minutes, the dismal guy came out. I was waiting for him near his car, and he gave me a sharp, unfriendly look as he opened his car door.

“Pardon me, doc,” I said, “I’m a newspaper man. Can you tell me what’s going on in there?”

“You must ask Inspector Corridan,” he snapped back, got into his car, drove away.

The policeman at the gate grinned behind his hand.

After a while the other policeman came out of the cottage, whispered something to his colleague, hurried off down the lane.

“I suppose he’s gone to buy Corridan a toffee apple,” I said to the policeman at the gate. “But don’t tell me. Just let it mystify me.”

The policeman grinned sympathetically. I could see he was the gossiping type and was bursting to talk to someone.

“E’s off to get Mrs. Brambee wot looks after this ’ere cottage,” he said, after a quick look around to make sure he wasn’t overheard.

“Someone dead in there?” I asked, jerking my thumb to the cottage.

He nodded. “A young lady,” he returned, moving closer to the Buick. “Pretty little thing. Suicide, of course. Put ’er ’ead in the gas oven. Been dead three or four days I should say.”

“Never mind what you say,” I returned. “What did the doc say.”

The policeman grinned a little sheepishly. “That’s wot ’e did say as a matter of fact.”

I grunted. “Is it Anne Scott?”

“I dunno. The doc couldn’t identify ’er. That’s why Bert’s gone for this ’ere Mrs. Brambee.”

“What’s comrade Corridan doing in there?” I asked.

“Sniffing around,” the policeman returned, shrugging. From the expression on his face I guessed Corridan wasn’t his favourite person. “I bet ’e’s trying to make out there’s more to this than meets the eye. The Yard men always do. It ’elps their promotion.”

I thought this was a little unfair, but didn’t say so, turned around to watch two figures coming down the lane. One of them was Bert, the policeman, the other was a tall, bulky woman in a pink sack-like dress.

“Here they come,” I said, nodding in their direction.

The woman was walking quickly. She had a long stride, and the policeman seemed pressed to keep up with her. As they drew nearer, I could see her face. She was dark, sun-tanned, about forty, with a mass of black greasy hair, rolled up in an untidy bun at the back of her head. Straggling locks of hair fell over her face, and she kept brushing them back with a hand as big as a man’s.

She ran up the flagged path. Her eyes were wild, her mouth was working. She looked as if she were suffering from acute grief and shock.

Bert winked at the other policeman as he followed the woman into the cottage.

I lit another cigarette, settled down in the car, waited a little anxiously.

A sudden animal-like cry drifted through the open windows, and was followed by the sound of wild hysterical sobbing.

“It must be Anne Scott,” I said, troubled.

“Looks like it,” the policeman returned, staring in the direction of the cottage.

After a long while the sobbing died down. We waited almost half an hour before the woman appeared again. She walked slowly, her face hidden by a dirty handkerchief, her shoulders sagging.

The policeman opened the gate for her, helped her through by taking her elbow. It was meant sympathetically, but she immediately shook him off.

“Take your bloody hands off me,” she said in a muffled voice, went on down the lane.

“A proper lady,” the policeman said, chewing his chin-strap and going red.

“Maybe she’s been reading Macbeth,” I suggested, but that didn’t seem to console him.

It was how almost an hour and a half since I had seen Corridan. I was hungry. It was past one-thirty; but I decided to wait, hopeful I might see something more or get a chance of telling Corridan what I thought of him.

Ten minutes later he came to the door and waved to me. I was out of the car, past the policeman in split seconds.

“All right,” he said curtly as I dashed up to him. “I suppose you want to look around. But for God’s sake don’t tell anyone I’ve let you in.”

I decided that after all I hadn’t wasted my money feeding this lug.

“Thanks,” I said. “I won’t tell a soul.”

There was still a strong smell of gas in the cottage, which grew stronger as we entered the kitchen.

“It’s Anne Scott all right,” Corridan said gloomily, pointing to a huddled figure lying on the floor.

I stood over her, felt inadequate, could think of nothing to say.

She wore a pink dressing-gown and white pyjamas, her feet were bare, her hands clenched tightly into fists. Her head lay hidden in the gas oven. By moving around, carefully stepping over her legs, I could see into the oven. She was a blonde, about twenty-five; even in death she was attractive, although I could see no resemblance to Netta in the serene rather lovely face.

I stepped back, looked at Corridan. “Sure she’s Anne Scott?” I asked.

He made an impatient movement. “Of course,” he said. “The woman identified her. You’re not trying to make out there’s a mystery in this, are you?”

“Odd they should both commit suicide, isn’t it?” I said, feeling in my bones that something was very wrong.

He jerked his head, walked into the sitting-room.

“Read that,” he said, handed me a sheet of note-paper. “It was found by her side.”

I took the note, read:

I handed it back. “After fifty years in the police force, I feel justified in saying that’s a plant,” I said.

He took the paper. “Don’t try to be funny,” he said coldly.

I grinned. “Who do you suppose it was addressed to?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Mrs. Brambee tells me a lot of men used to come down here. There was one fellow-Peter-who Anne used to talk a lot about. Maybe it was for him.”

“Would that be Peter Utterly?” I asked. “The guy who gave Netta the gun?”

Corridan rubbed his chin. “Doubtful,” he said. “Utterly went back to the States a month or so ago.”

“Yeah, I’d forgotten that,” I said, wandering over to the writing-desk that stood in the window recess. “Well, I suppose you’ll look for this guy?” I opened the lid of the desk, glanced inside. There were no papers, no letters. All the pigeon-holes had been carefully cleared. “She tidied up before she threw in her hand,” I pointed out. “Any letters or papers anywhere?”

He shook his head.

“No means of checking if the handwriting of the note is really Anne’s?”

“My dear fellow...” he began a little tartly.

“Skip it,” I said. “I’ve a suspicious nature. Find anything interesting?”

“Nothing,” he returned, eyed me narrowly. “I’ve searched the place thoroughly; there’s nothing to connect her with forged bonds, diamond rings or anything like that. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“I’ll get over it,” I said, grinning. “Just give me time. Find any silk stockings in the place?”

“I didn’t look for silk stockings,” he snapped back. “I’ve more important things to do.”

“Let’s look,” I said. “I have a thing about silk stockings. Where’s the bedroom?”

“Now look here, Harmas, this has gone far enough. I’ve let you in...”

“For your rupture’s sake, if not for me, calm down,” I said, patting him on his arm. “What’s the harm in looking? Netta had silk stockings and they vanished. Anne may have had silk stockings and they may still be here. Let’s look.”

He gave me an exasperated glare, turned to the door. “Wait here,” he said, began to mount the stairs.

I kept on his heels. “You may need me. Always a good thing to have a witness.”

He led the way into a small but luxuriously furnished bedroom, went immediately to a chest of drawers and began to paw over a mass of silk undies, sweaters and scarves.

“You handle that stuff like a married man,” I said, opened the wardrobe, peered in. There were only two frocks and a two-piece costume hanging up. “She didn’t have many clothes, poor kid,” I went on. “Maybe she couldn’t get coupons, or do you think she was a nudist?”

He scowled at me. “There’re no stockings here,” he said.

“No stockings of any kind at all?”

“No.”

“Seems to confirm my nudist theory, doesn’t it?” I said. “You might like to turn this stocking angle over in your nimble, sharp-witted mind. I’m going to do that myself, and I’m going to keep at it until I find out why neither of these girls had any stockings.”

“What the hell are you driving at?” Corridan burst out. “You have a shilling-shocker mind. Who do you think you are-Perry Mason?”

“Don’t tell me you read detective stories,” I said, surprised. “Well, what happens now?”

“I’m waiting for the ambulance,” Corridan said, following me downstairs. “The body will be taken to the Horsham mortuary, and the inquest will also be held there. I don’t expect anything will come out at the inquest. It’s pretty straightforward.” But he sounded worried.

“Do you really think she learned about Netta’s suicide and followed suit?” I asked.

“Why not?” he returned. “You’d be surprised how suicides follow in families. We have a bunch of statistics about it.”

“I was forgetting you worked by rule of thumb,” I returned. “What was the idea of keeping me out until you sniffed around?”

“Now see here, Harmas, you have no damn business here at all. You are here on sufferance,” Corridan retorted. “This is a serious business, and I can’t have rubbernecks watching me work.”

“Calling me a rubberneck is as big a lie as calling what you do work,” I said sadly. “But never mind. I’ll behave, and thanks for the break anyway.”

He looked sharply at me to see if I was kidding, decided I was, compressed his lips.

“Well, that’s all there’s to see. You’d better be moving before the ambulance arrives.”

“Yeah, I’ll be off,” I said, wandering to the front door. “You wouldn’t be interested in my theory about this second death I suppose?”

“Not in the slightest,” he said firmly.

“I thought as much. It’s a pity, because I think I could have put you on the right lines. I guess you’ll have a guard on the body this time? You don’t want it stolen like the other was, do you?”

“Oh, rubbish,” he said crossly. “Nothing like that’ll happen. But I’m taking precautions if that’s what you mean.”

“Oddly enough, that’s exactly what I do mean,” I said, smiled at him, opened the door. “Be seeing you, pal,” I went on, left him.

I winked at the policeman at the gate, got into the Buick and drove slowly down the lane. I had a lot to think about, and I didn’t quite know where to start. I thought it mightn’t be a bad idea to have a word with Mrs. Brambee. That seemed the obvious starting-point.

I knew her cottage couldn’t be far, as Bert, the policeman, had only been a few minutes fetching her. I didn’t want Corridan to know what I was up to, so I drove to the end of the lane, parked the Buick behind a thicket, and walked back. I was lucky to meet a farmhand who pointed Mrs. Brambee’s place out to me. It was small and dilapidated with a wild, overgrown garden.

I walked up the weed-covered path, rapped on the door. I had to knock three times before I heard shuffling feet. A moment later, the door jerked open and Mrs. Brambee confronted me. At close quarters she seemed half gypsy. She was very swarthy and her jet-black eyes were like little wet stones.

“What do you want?” she demanded in a harsh voice that somehow reminded me of the caw of a crow.

“I’m a newspaper man, Mrs. Brambee,” I said, raising my hat; hoped she’d appreciate good manners. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Miss Scott. You saw the body just now. Are you absolutely sure it was Miss Scott?”

Her eyes snapped. “Of course, it was Miss Scott,” she said, beginning to close the door. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anyway, I don’t intend to answer questions. You get off.”

“I could make it worth your while,” I said, jingling my loose change suggestively. “I want the inside story of this suicide, and my paper will pay generously for it.”

“You and your paper can go to hell,” she shouted violently, slammed the door, only I had my foot ready for just such a move.

“Now be nice,” I said, smiling at her through the three-inch opening between the door-post and the door. “Who is this guy Peter you were telling the Inspector about? Where can I find him?”

She jerked open the door, put her hand on my chest and shoved. I wasn’t expecting such a move, and I staggered back, lost my balance, fell full-length. Her shove was like the kick from a horse.

The door slammed and I heard the bolt shoot home.

I got slowly to my feet, dusted myself down, whistled softly. Then I glanced up at the upper windows, stiffened.

I had a fleeting glimpse of a girl looking down at me. Even as I looked up, she jerked back from the window and out of sight. I couldn’t even swear that it was a girl: it might have been a man-even an optical illusion. But unless my eyes had deceived me, Netta Scott was upstairs, and had been watching me.