No Business of Mine

Chapter Nine

I paid off the taxi outside Mrs. Crockett’s residence, looked up at the building. There was a light showing in both the first floor and second floor flats; the top flat was in darkness.

I had intended to try if I could find out something more about Julius Cole, but when I saw the lighted windows of the first floor flat, I changed my mind and decided to call on Madge Kennitt instead. I wondered if the police had questioned her. If they had and learned nothing, then I was wasting my time. I could always go upstairs to see Julius Cole if Madge Kennitt had nothing to tell me, I consoled myself.

I mounted the steps, opened the front door and entered the hall. On the first landing, Madge Kennitt’s door faced me. As I reached for the knocker I heard a faint sound from upstairs, looked up quickly. I was in time to see Julius Cole duck out of sight. I smiled to myself. That guy missed nothing. I rat-tatted on the door, waited.

There was a long pause, then I head heavy thudding footsteps and the door jerked open.

A short, fat woman stood squarely in the doorway. She was around forty-five, and had a lot of face and chin. Her straw-coloured hair, brittle by constant bleaching was set in a ruthless permanent. Her moist eyes were as sympathetic as marbles at the bottom of a pond, and her complexion was raddled with rouge and powder which failed to hide the purple bloom of a whisky soak.

“Good evening,” I said. “Miss Kennitt?”

She peered at me, belched gently. A puff of whisky-ladened breath fanned my face. I reminded myself to duck the next time she did that.

“Who is it?” she asked. “Come in. I can’t see you out there.”

She stepped back into the hard light of the sitting-room. I followed her. It was quite a room. The main piece of furniture was a reed chaise-longue by the window. It had a curved back and enough cushions to stuff an elephant. One side of the room was given up to dozens of empty bottles of whisky. Just to look at them gave me a thirst. Then there was a rickety table, a straight-backed chair and a well-worn imitation Turkey carpet on the floor. A bucket stood by the chaise-longue, three-quarters filled with cigarette butts. The smell of stale whisky, nicotine and cheap scent was overpowering.

By the empty fireplace a big black cat lay full-length. It was the biggest cat I’ve ever seen. Its long hair was silky: it looked in a lot better shape than Madge Kennitt.

I put my hat on the table, tried to breathe through my mouth, put on a friendly expression.

Madge Kennitt was looking at me in that puzzled way people have when they’ve seen a face before but can’t place it. Then suddenly her eyelids narrowed, and a. sly smirk settled on her thick lips.

“I know you,” she said. “I’ve seen you in and out there. It must be nearly two years since last you came. You’re that Scott girl’s friend, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I wanted to talk to you about her.”

“Oh, did you?” She padded over to the chaise-longue, settled herself down on it like an elephant about to roll in the dust. “Now I wonder what you want to talk to me about her for.” Her fat, doughy-looking hand dipped down on the offside of the chaise-longue and hoisted up a bottle of Scotch.

“I have a bad heart,” she explained, eyeing the bottle greedily. “This stuff’s the only thing that keeps me alive.” She carefully unscrewed the metal cap, hoisted up a dirty tumbler and poured three inches of whisky into it. She held up the bottle, inspected it against the light, grimaced. “I can’t offer you any,” she went on. “I’m running low. Besides I don’t believe young men should drink for pleasure.” She belched again, but I was well out of range. “It’s a disgrace invalids like me have so much worry and trouble getting the stuff. Doctors ought to supply it to deserving cases.” She looked at me out of the corners of her eyes. “And don’t think I like it. I loathe the muck. I can hardly get it down, but it’s the only thing that keeps me alive — I’ve tried everything else.” She lowered two inches of the raw spirit down her thick throat, closed her eyes, sighed. For someone who hated the stuff, she took it remarkably well.

I sat on the straight-backed chair, wondered if I’d ever get used to the smell in the room, took out a cigarette.

“Have a smoke?” I asked, waving the carton at her.

She shook her head. “Only smoke my own brand,” she said, hoisting up a vast box of Woodbines from behind the chaise-longue, selected one, lowered the box out of sight.

We lit up.

“Miss Kennitt,” I said, staring at my cigarette and wondering how much to tell her. “Netta Scott was a friend of mine. Her death came as a great shock to me. I wonder if you know anything about it. I’m trying to find out why she did it.”

The fat woman settled herself more comfortably, thumped her floppy bosom, belched gently.

“You were lovers, weren’t you?” she asked, a sly smirk crossing her purple face.

“Does that matter?” I asked.

“It does to me,” she said, sipped the whisky: “two young people making love reminds me of my own youth.”

I couldn’t imagine her ever being young or in love.

“Netta wasn’t the loving type,” I said, after a moment’s hesitation as to how to steer her away from this topic.

“She was a sexy little bitch,” Madge Kennitt said, winking at the ceiling. “You can’t tell me anything I don’t know.”

I flicked ash on to the carpet, wished I hadn’t ever met the hag.

“All right,” I said, shrugging. “What does it matter? She’s dead. Names can’t hurt her.”

“I wasn’t good enough for her,” the woman muttered, drained her glass, hoisted up the bottle again. “I thought she’d come to a sticky end. I suppose she was pregnant?”

“You know as much about it as I do,” I said.

“Perhaps I know more,” she returned, looking sly. “You’ve only just got back, haven’t you? You don’t know what’s been going on here during the past two years. Mr. Cole and I know most things.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t miss much,” I said, hoping to draw her. She shook her bleached head, poured more whisky into the tumbler.

“He’s a filthy rat,” she said, closing her eyes. “Peeping and prying all day long. I bet he knows you’re with me now.”

I nodded. “Sure. He saw me come in here.”

“It won’t do him any good. One of these days I’m going to tell him what I think of him. I’ll enjoy that.”

“Did the police ask you anything about Netta?” I asked casually.

She smiled. “Oh, yes, they asked questions. I didn’t tell them anything. I don’t believe in helping the police. I don’t like them. They came in here, sniffing and prying; I could see they thought I was a drunken old woman. They don’t believe I have a bad heart. One of the detectives, a cold, smug-looking brute, smirked at me. I don’t like men smirking at me, so I didn’t tell him anything.” She poured more whisky down her throat, grunted. “You’re an American, aren’t you?”

I said I was.

“I thought so. I like Americans. Mr. Churchill likes Americans. I like Mr. Churchill. What he likes, I seem to like, too. I’ve noticed it over and over again.” She waved her tumbler excitedly, slopped whisky on her chest. “What do you do for a living?”

“Oh, I write,” I said. “I’m a newspaper man.”

She nodded. “I was sure of it. I’m good at guessing professions. When I first saw you, coming in with that little slut, I said to myself you were a writer. Did she know how to make love? Some of these modern chits — especially the pretty ones rely on their looks. They don’t know or care how to please a man. I knew. Men liked me. They were always coming back.”

“Do you think Netta committed suicide?” I asked abruptly, rather sick of her.

She lay still, staring up at the ceiling. “They said she did,” she returned cautiously. “That’s a funny question to ask, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think she did,” I said, lighting another cigarette. “That’s why I thought I’d talk to you.”

She emptied her glass, put it on the floor beside her. It toppled over, rolled under the chaise-longue. I thought she was beginning to get a little tight.

“I don’t know anything about it,” she said, smiled to herself.

“Pity,” I said. “I thought you might. Maybe I’d better talk to Mr. Cole.”

She frowned. “He won’t tell you anything. He knows too much. Why did he tell the police Netta came home alone? I heard him. Why did he lie about that?”

I tried not to show too much interest. “Didn’t she come home alone?”

“Course she didn’t. Cole knows that as well as I do.” She groped for her bottle, hoisted it up, examined it. I could see it was a quarter full. “This damn stuff evaporates,” she said in disgust. “A full bottle not an hour ago, and now look at it. How the hell can I go on hunting for the stuff if it goes like this?”

“Who else was with her?” I asked.

She didn’t seem to hear, but leaned over and tried to find the tumbler.

“I’ll get it,” I said, bent down, hooked out the tumbler, handed it to her. Her reeking breath fanned my cheek.

I had a glimpse of an indescribable heap of rubbish pushed under the chaise-longue: dirty garments, shoes, cigarette cartons, crockery, old newspapers.

She grabbed the tumbler, clutched it to her.

“Who else was with Netta?” I repeated, kneeling at her side, looking at her intently. “Was it another girl?”

Her face showed surprise.

“How do you know?” she asked, lifting her head so she could see me. “You weren’t there, were you?”

“So it was another girl,” I said, a sudden tingling running down my spine.

She nodded, added, “And a man.”

Now I was getting somewhere.

“Who were they?”

A look of cunning came into the glassy eyes.

“Why should I tell you? Ask Cole if you’re so interested. He saw them. He sees everything.”

I returned to my chair, sat down.

“I’m asking you. Listen, I don’t think it was suicide. I think it was murder.”

She had unscrewed the cap of the whisky and was pouring the spirit into the tumbler. The bottle and tumbler dropped out of her hands, rolled on to the carpet. She gave a thin scream, her face turned grey.

“Murder?” she gasped. “Murder!”

I made a dive for the bottle, but I was too late. The whisky poured out on to the carpet.

I stood over her. “Yes,” I said. “Murder.”

“I won’t be frightened,” she exclaimed, struggling to sit up. “It’s bad for my heart. Here, give me that whisky. I want a drink.”

“Then you’d better open another bottle,” I said, watching her closely. “There’s none left in this one.”

“I haven’t got another bottle,” she wailed, sinking back. “Oh, God! What am I going to do now?”

“Aw, forget it,” I exclaimed, wanting to shake her. “Who were the man and woman who came back with Netta? What time did they leave? Come on, this is important. They may know something.”

She lay still for a moment, a great inert lump of flesh, then she looked at me, her small eyes cunning.

“How important is it to you?” she demanded. “I can tell you who the man is, and the girl, too. I know them. I can tell you what time the man left. I saw him. I’ll tell you if you get me a bottle of whisky.”

“I’ll get you one,” I said. “I’ll bring you one tomorrow. Now, come on! Who were they?”

“I want one tonight — now.” She clenched her fat hands into fists. “You can get one. Americans can get anything.”

“Don’t talk like a fool,” I said, exasperated. “It’s past eleven o’clock. Of course I can’t get whisky tonight.”

“Then I’m not telling you.”

“I could call the police,” I threatened, furious with her.

She smirked. “You wouldn’t do that,” she said, winking. “I’m on to you. You wouldn’t want to get that little slut into trouble.”

“Now, look,” I said, controlling my temper with an effort, “don’t be unreasonable. I’ll get you the whisky tomorrow morning. I’ll get you two bottles, and I’ll give you right now five pounds if you’ll talk. I can’t be fairer than that.”

She half raised herself on her elbow. Her face was now dark with frustrated fury.

“Get that damn whisky now or get out!” she screamed at me.

I got to my feet, moved across the room, back again. Then I remembered Sam, the barman at the Blue Club. He’d sell me a bottle of whisky if I made it worth his while.

“Okay,” I said, turning to the door. “I’ll see what I can do. But no fooling, or I’ll drink the damn stuff myself.”

She nodded, waved me away.

“Hurry!” she said. “I’ll tell you what you want to know if you get it. Go on... hurry!”

I ran down the steps into the street, looked left and right for a taxi. There wasn’t a sign of one. I decided it would be quicker in the long run to wait, so I stood on the edge of the kerb, kept watch.

It looked as if I was now on the right track. Netta had brought a girl back with her and I was willing to stake everything I owned that it was this girl who had died in Netta’s flat. Who could the man be? Netta’s boyfriend? Someone else? Could it have been Julius Cole? And who was the girl?

I suddenly felt I was being watched. I didn’t look around immediately, but lit a cigarette, tossed the match into the gutter, then glanced over my shoulder. There seemed no one about, but for all that, I was pretty sure someone was tailing me. I thought of Frankie, wondered if he was going to have another try at beating my brains in. I stood there for ten minutes or so before a taxi returning to the West End, drew up. I told him to take me to the Blue Club, and as we drove off, I peered through the rear window. I spotted a sudden movement.

Inspector Corridan stepped out of a dark doorway, stood in the middle of the pavement, looking after me. He glanced up and down the street as if hoping to find another taxi to follow me, but he was unlucky.

I grinned to myself. So Corridan had followed me to Madge Kennitt’s place. He wouldn’t know I had visited her. He probably thought I had been to see Julius Cole. It looked as if Corridan was keeping an eye on me; did think I might be hooked up in this case.

A quarter of an hour later I arrived at the Blue Club. Ten minutes after that, I was trying to pick up another taxi back to Cromwell Road, the precious bottle of Scotch under my arm. It had cost me five pounds, but I hoped the information I was going to receive would be worth that and more.

When a taxi eventually turned up, my wrist watch showed eleven forty-five. I gave the address, sat back, relaxed.

The run to Cromwell Road seemed interminable, but in actual fact, it only took ten minutes. I paid off the taxi, noted that Madge Kennitt’s light still burned, grinned to myself. I guessed the old hag was waiting as impatiently for the whisky as I was for the information.

I pushed open the front door and stepped softly across the hall, mounted the stairs, I didn’t want Julius Cole to hear me. Madge Kennitt’s door was ajar. I paused, frowned. I remembered closing it when I left. Maybe she had opened it to let the cat out, I thought, pushed the door, glanced into the room.

Madge was lying on the chaise-longue, her mouth open, her eyes glassy. Blood welled from a great gash in her throat, poured down her floppy bosom on to the Turkey carpet.

She was as dead as a soused mackerel.