No Business of Mine

In the bedroom by the fireplace I found a small recess in the floor, under a loose board. It was obvious that something had been kept there, but it was no longer there. In the bathroom, wrapped around the toilet roll I found eight five-pound notes. In the sitting-room between a picture of one of Varga’s lovelies and the back of the frame were eight more five-pound notes. At the bottom of a jar of cold cream I found a diamond ring. It looked a good diamond, and the setting was platinum. I hadn’t seen it before. It was an odd hiding place, but then so were the hiding places of the five-pound notes.

I went into the kitchen, and after a painstaking search found at the bottom of the flour bin, buried under the flour, a foolscap envelope. I drew it out, dusted off the flour and read the address on the envelope, written in Netta’s big, untidy hand:

Miss Anne Scott,

Beverley.

Could this be a sister? I wondered, feeling the bulky envelope between my fingers. It seemed full of papers, and was heavy.

The whole business seemed to me odd. I was uneasy, suspicious. I didn’t know what to make of it all.

I satisfied myself that there was nothing of further interest in the kitchen, went back to the sitting-room.

I laid out on the table all the things I had found. There was the Luger pistol, the diamond ring, the sixteen five-pound notes, and the letter addressed to Anne Scott.

Why should a girl commit suicide when she possessed eighty pounds and a diamond ring? I asked myself. What other trouble apart from money could have made Netta do away with herself? I couldn’t imagine anything bad enough. In fact, I was now as sure as I could be that she hadn’t committed suicide. Murder? Well, if it wasn’t suicide, it had to be murder. It couldn’t have been an accident. Accidents didn’t happen quite like that.

I lit another cigarette, brooded. I’d have to discuss this with the police. I remembered Inspector Corridan of the Yard. He and I had been friendly when last I was in London. He had taken me around to the various haunts of petty criminals, and the material I had collected with his help had made a good article for the Saturday Evening Post.

Corridan was just the man to consult and I immediately reached for the telephone.

After a delay, Corridan came on the line.

I reminded him who I was, and he remembered me.

“Glad to hear from you again, Harmas,” he said. “You’re lucky to have caught me. I was just going home.”

“Are you in a hurry?” I asked, glancing at my wrist watch.

It was nearly nine o’clock.

“Well, I want to get home. Is it anything urgent?”

“Interesting rather than urgent,” I said. “I want your advice, and perhaps help. It’s to do with a girl named Netta Scott who committed suicide the night before last.”

“Who did you say?” he asked sharply.

“The girl’s name is Netta Scott. She used to be an old friend of mine. Frankly, Corridan, I’m not satisfied that she did kill herself.”

There was a pause, then he said, “Well, I have nothing special to do tonight. What do you suggest?”

“Suppose you meet me in half an hour at the Savoy?” I said. “If you’d make inquiries about the girl, it might simplify things. Any details may be useful.” I gave him Netta’s address, and he promised to have the information, and hung up. That was one of the things I liked about Corridan. He was never surprised at anything, never asked a lot of unnecessary questions, and was always willing to be helpful no matter how busy he was or how late the hour.

I put the gun, envelope, ring and money in my various pockets. Satisfied I hadn’t missed anything, I turned off the light, opened the front door, stepped on to the landing.

Julius Cole had brought a chair into his little hall and was sitting there smoking, with the front door open, waiting for me.

“Why didn’t you let me in, baby?” he asked, smiling his secret smile. “You had no right to be in there yourself.”

“Go bowl a hoop,” I said, went on down the stairs.

“Don’t run away, baby,” he said, sliding off his chair and coming to the head of the stairs. “What’s it like in there?” He sniggered. “Did she have pretty things? I suppose you’ve been through all her clothes. I wish I’d been there.”

I kept on, without looking back.

Mrs. Crockett answered my rap on her door.

“You’ve been up there long enough,” she snapped, taking the key I handed to her. “You ’aven’t taken anything, ’ave you? Most particular the police were about leaving everything as it was.”

I shook my head. “It’s all right,” I said. “Has anyone been in there since she died... I mean anyone except the police? Mr. Cole for instance?”

She shook her head. “No one, but you, and I’m sure I didn’t ought to ’ave...”

“There were some silk stockings... they don’t seem to be there,” I interrupted. “Do you know anything about them?”

“What should I want with silk stockings?” she snapped. “Course I don’t!”

I thanked her, made noncommittal noises, walked up the narrow stairs to the front door.