No Business Of Mine

by James Hadley Chase

blast. I’ll never be able to buy adhesive tape again without thinking of

  her.” The words were a vibrationless hum, intimate and secret-

  sounding. The perpetual smile bothered me too.

  “I see,” I said, turning away.

  Well, that was that. I felt suddenly deflated, a little sick, infinitely

  sad.

  I thought: If you had only waited twenty-four hours, Netta, we’d

  have faced whatever it was together, and we’d have licked it.

  “Thank you,” I said at the door.

  “Don’t thank me, baby,” he said, heaving himself out of the chair

  and following me on to the landing. “It’s nice to know I’ve rendered a

  little service, although a sad one. I can see you’re suffering from

  shock, but you’ll get over it. Plenty of hard work is the best healer.

  Doesn’t Byron say, The busy have no time for tears? Perhaps you don’t

  admire Byron. Some people don’t.”

  I stared at him, not seeing him, not listening to him. From out of

  the past, I heard Netta’s voice saying: “So the fool killed himself. He

  hadn’t the guts to take what was coming to him. Well, whatever I do,

  I’d be ready to pay for it. I wouldn’t take that way out-ever.”

  She had said that one night when we had read of a millionaire

  who had bulled when he should have beared and had blown out his

  brains. I remembered how Netta had looked when she had said that,

  and I felt a little cold breath of wind against my cheek.

  There was something wrong here. I knew Netta would never have

  killed herself.

  I pulled my hat farther down on my nose, felt in my pocket for a

  cigarette, offered the carton.

  “Why did she do it?” I asked.

  “I’m Julius Cole,” the pixy said, drawing out a cigarette from the

  carton between a grubby forefinger and thumb. “Are you a friend of

  hers?”

  I nodded. “I knew her a couple of years ago,” I said, lighting his

  cigarette and then mine.

  He smiled. “She would be interested in an American,” he said as if

  to himself. “And, of course, with her figure and looks an American

  would be interested in her.” He looked up, his eyes sleepy. “It would

  be interesting to know the exact number of girls in this country who

  were ravished by American service men during their stay here,

  wouldn’t it? I make a point of collecting such statistics.” He lifted his

  broad, limp shoulders. “Probably a waste of time,” he added, wagging

  his head.

  “How did it happen?” I said sharply.

  “You mean, why did she do it?” he gently corrected me. Again he

  lifted his shoulders. The silk of his dressing-gown rustled. “It’s a

  mystery, baby. No note . . . five pounds in her bag . . . food in the

  refrigerator . . . no love letters . . . no one knows.” He raised his

  eyebrows, smiled. “Perhaps she was with child. “

  I couldn’t continue this conversation. Talking about Netta with

  him was like reading something written on a lavatory wall.

  “Well, thanks,” I said, and walked down the stairs.

  “Don’t mention it, baby,” he said. “So sad for you: so

  disappointing.” He went back into his room and closed the door.

  Chapter II

  MRS. CROCKETT was a thin little woman with bright, suspicious

  eyes and a thin, disapproving mouth.

  I could see she didn’t recognize me. She seemed to think I was a

  newspaper man after a story, and she peered at me from around the

  half-open door, ready to slam it in my face.

  “What do you want?” she demanded in a reedy, querulous voice.

  “I ‘ave enough to do without answering a lot of silly questions, so be

  off with you.”

  “Don’t you remember me, Mrs. Crockett?” I asked. “I’m Steve

  Harmas, one of Miss Scott’s friends.”

  “One of ‘er friends, are you?” she said. “Fancy men, that’s wot I

  call ‘em.” She peered at me, then nodded her head. Her eyes showed

  her disapproval. “Yes, I seemed to ‘ave seen you before. Well, you’ve

  ‘eard what’s ‘appened to ‘er, ‘aven’t you?”

  I nodded. “Yes. I wanted to talk to you about her. Did she leave

  any debts? I’ll settle anything she owed.”

  The disapproving look was replaced by one of greed and

  calculating shrewdness.

  “She owed me a month’s rent,” she said promptly. “Never

  expected to get that either. Still, if you’re paying ‘er debts, may as

  well ‘ave it. You’d better come in.”

  I followed her along a dark passage that smelt of cats and boiled

  cabbage, into a dark, dingy room crammed with bamboo furniture.

  “So she owed money?” I asked, watching the woman.

  “Well, no,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “She always

  paid up: I’ll say that for her, but she only ‘ad the flat on the strict

  understanding it’d be a month’s notice or a month’s rent.”

  “I see,” I said. “Have you any idea why she did what she did?”

  Mrs. Crockett stared at me, looked away. “ ‘ow should I know?”

  she asked, anger in her voice. “I didn’t interfere with ‘er. I knew

  nothing about ‘er.” Her thin lips set in a hard line. “She was no good. I

  should never ‘ave ‘ad ‘er ‘ere. Bringing disgrace to my ‘ouse like this.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “The night before last. Mr. Cole smelt gas and ‘e called me. When

  I couldn’t get no answer I guessed what she ‘ad done — the little

  fool!” The hard eyes glittered. “Fair upset me it did. Mr. Cole sent for

  the police.”

  “Did you see her?”

  Mrs. Crockett started back “Who? Me? Think I want to ave ‘er

  ‘aunting my dreams?-Not likely. Mr. Cole identified ‘ er for the police.

  Ever so considerate ‘e is. Besides, ‘e knew ‘er as well, if not better

  than wot I did . . . always popping in and out of ‘is room whenever ‘e

  ‘ears anything.”

  “All right,” I said, taking out my wallet. “Have you a key to her

  flat.”

  “Suppose I ‘ave?” she said suspiciously. “What’s it to you?”

  “I’d like to borrow it,” I returned, counting pound notes on to the

  table. Her eyes fol owed every movement. “Shall we say twenty-five

  pounds? Ten pounds for the key?”

  “What’s the idea?” She was breathing quickly, her eyes

  overbright.

  “Only that I’d like to look around her room. I suppose it’s as it was

  . . . nothing’s been touched?”

  “Oh, no, the police told me to leave it alone. They’re trying to

  trace her relatives. Fat chance of finding anyone who’d own ‘er, I say.

  I can’t imagine what’ll ‘appen to ‘er things. Anyway, I want ‘em out. I

  want to let the flat.”

  “Has she any relatives?”

  “No one knows anything about ‘er,” Mrs. Crockett said with a

  sniff. “Maybe the police’ll find out something, and it won’t be any

  good, you mark my words.”

  “May I have the key, please?” I said, pushing the little heap of

  money towards her.

  She shook her head doubtful y. “The police wouldn’t like it,” she

  said, l
ooked away.

  “I’m offering you ten pounds to sooth your conscience,” I

  reminded her. “Take it or leave it.”

  She opened the drawer of the dresser, took out a key, laid it on

  the table.

  “It’s people with too much money what gets honest folk into

  trouble,” she said.

  “I’ll put that in my autograph book,” I said, a little sick of her,

  picked up the key, pushed the notes farther in her direction.

  She snatched up the money, rammed it into her apron pocket.

  “Don’t keep that key too long,” she said, “and don’t you take

  anything from the flat.”

  I nodded, went out.

  I walked up the stairs, paused on the first floor to read the name

  on the ‘card screwed to the panel of the door: Madge Kennitt. I

  remembered that Julius Cole had said: “the fat bitch in the lower flat,

  gloating.” I nodded to myself, walked on up to Netta’s flat. I fitted the

  key in the door, turned the handle, pushed gently. The door swung

  open. I entered Netta’s sitting-room. As I turned to close the door, I

  saw Julius Cole watching me from the half-open door of his flat. He

  raised his eyebrows, waggled his head. I pretended I hadn’t seen him,

  closed Netta’s door, shot the bolt.

  There was a faint, persistent smell of gas in the flat although the

  windows were open. I looked around the room, feeling sad and a little

  spooked.

  The room hadn’t changed much since last I was in it. Some of the

  furniture had been shifted around, but there were no new pieces. The

  pictures were the same: all rather risqué prints taken from American

  and French magazines.

  I had once asked Netta why she had such pictures on her walls.

  “The boys like them,” she had explained. “They take their minds off

  me. People who bore me are shocked by them and don’t come again,

  so they have their uses, you see.”

  On the mantelpiece was her col ection of china animals. She had

  about thirty of them. I had given her several. I went over to see if

  mine were still there. They were. I picked up a charming reproduction

  of Disney’s Bambi, turned it over. I remembered how pleased Netta

  had been with it. She said it was the best of her col ection. I think it

  was.

  I put the ornament down, wandered around the room my hands

  in my pockets. I was only beginning to realize that Netta was dead,

  that I wouldn’t see her again.

  I didn’t think I would feel bad about it, but I did. Her death

  worried me too. I couldn’t believe that she had committed suicide.

  She just wasn’t the type to quit. Before the war I had been a crime

  reporter. I’d visited hundreds of rooms in which suicides had met their

  end. There had been an atmosphere in those rooms which this room

  lacked. I don’t know quite what it was, but somehow I couldn’t

  believe a suicide had happened here.

  I went over to the light oak writing-desk, opened it, glanced

  inside. It was empty except for a bottle of ink and a couple of pencils. I

  looked at the pigeon-holes, remembered them as they had been

  when Netta and I had been going around together, crammed with

  letters, bills, papers. Now there was nothing.

  I glanced over at the fireplace expecting to see ashes of burned

  paper. But the fireplace was empty. I thought this odd, pushed my hat

  to the back of my head, frowned down at the desk. Yes, odd.

  A faint scratching at the front door made me start. I listened. The

  scratching continued.

  “Let me in, baby,” Julius Cole whispered through the panels. “I

  want to see, too.”

  I grimaced, tip-toed across the room, into the kitchen. The small-

  gas oven door was ajar. There was an orange-coloured cushion lying

  in the far corner of the room. I supposed she had used it when she put

  her head in the oven. I didn’t like thinking about it, so I went from the

  kitchen into her bedroom.

  It was a small, bright room. The big double divan took up most of

  the space. There was a fitted wardrobe near the bed, a small dressing-

  table by the window. The room was decorated in green and daffodil

  yellow. There were no pictures, no ornaments.

  I closed the door, stood looking down at the bed. It had memories

  for me, and it was several minutes before I walked to the dressing-

  table and looked at the amazing assortment of bottles, beauty

  creams, grease-paints that were scattered on the powder-covered

  glass top. I pulled open the drawers. They were full of the usual junk a

  girl collects: handkerchiefs, silk scarves, leather belts, gloves, cheap

  jewelery. I stirred with my forefinger the necklaces, bangles, rings in

  the cardboard box. It was all junk, and then I remembered the

  diamond bracelet and the diamond scarf-pin of which she had been so

  proud. I had given her the bracelet; some guy-she never told me who-

  had given her the pin. I looked through the drawers, but I couldn’t see

  them. I wondered where they had got to, if the police had taken them

  for safe custody.

  Then I went to the wardrobe, opened it. A subtle smell of lilac

  drifted out of the wardrobe when I opened the door: her favourite

  perfume. I was struck by the emptiness in the wardrobe. There were

  only two evening dresses, a coat and skirt and a frock. At one time the

  cupboard was crammed with clothes.

  There was a flame-coloured dress which I remembered. It was the

  dress she wore the night we first decided to sleep together. The kind

  of dress a sentimental guy like me wouldn’t forget. I reached for it,

  took it off the hanger, and as I pulled it out I realized that something

  heavy was hung up inside the dress.

  My fingers traced around the shape of the thing: it was a gun. I

  opened the dress, found a Luger pistol hanging by its trigger guard

  from a small hook sewn inside the dress.

  I sat on the bed, holding the dress in one hand and the Luger in

  the other. I was startled. It was the last thing I should have expected

  to find in Netta’s flat.

  There were two obvious things to notice about the gun. It had a

  deep scratch along its barrel, and on the butt was a scar as if

  something had been filed off the metal; probably the name of the

  owner. I sniffed at the gun, had another shock. It had been fired,

  although not recently. The smell of burned powder was faint, but

  distinct. I laid the gun on the bed, scratched my head, brooded for a

  few minutes, then got up, went back to the wardrobe again. I opened

  the two drawers in which Netta used to keep her silk stockings and

  undies. Silk stockings had been one of Netta’s passions. During the

  time I had known her I had never seen her wear anything but real silk

  hose. She had laid in a stock just before the war, and a number of

  American service men, and myself for that matter, had kept her stock

  up. I turned over the garments in the drawers, but I couldn’t find any

  silk stockings.

  I stubbed out my cigarette, frowned, wondered if Mrs. Crockett

  had been up here and had taken them, or if the police had been


  tempted. Silk stockings were almost unobtainable, and the

  temptation was easy to understand. There should have been at least a

  dozen pairs. When I last saw her-two years ago- she had thirty-six

  pairs. I know, because one night, when she had asked me to get her

  some, I had turned her drawer out and counted them to prove to her

  she didn’t need any more. Yes, she should have at least a dozen pairs,

  if not more. Where were they?

  I decided to search her flat. I had been trained during my years as

  a crime reporter to take a house to pieces so that it wouldn’t show. It

  would be a long, dull job, but somehow I felt it would pay dividends.

  I went through each room carefully and systematically. I left

  nothing to chance, even unwinding the blinds, feeling along the

  pelmets, taking up the carpets and sounding the floors.

  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