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 col ected
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, Cordian 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 to-night. 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.
In the street I paused for a moment to look at the house. A light
burned in Julius Cole’s flat: the rest of the house was in darkness. I
wondered about Madge Kennitt, decided she didn’t fit in the picture;
anyway, not for the time being, began to walk in the direction of
Cromwell Road, fifty yards or so ahead of me.
The street was lit by only three lamps, one at the top, the other at
the bottom and the third half-way between the other two. It was
dark, and there were deep shadows, otherwise I shouldn’t have been
so easily surprised.
I heard a patter of feet behind me, felt a sudden premonition of
danger, ducked, jumped aside.
Something very hard hit my shoulder, brought me to my knees. I
flung up my arm, staggered upright and again jumped back. I caught a
glimpse of a shadowy figure of a man holding what seemed to me to
be a tyre lever above his head. He slashed wildly at me. I heard the
lever whistle past my face, stepped in close, and belted the guy in the
ribs with everything I had. He dropped the tyre lever, reeled back, his
breath coming out of him like a punctured balloon.
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” I demanded,
crowding him.
I could see him now. He was a little runt, young, slim, underfed. I
couldn’t see much of his face except that he was pasty. His clothes
were shoddy, and his hat like a sponge full of grease.
Before I could collar him, he darted out of my reach and went
down the street like a streak of lightning.
I stood looking after him, listening to his light footfalls. My
shoulder ached and I was a little scared.
“For crying out loud,” I muttered to myself, looked uneasily up
and down the street, ran hurriedly towards the lights of Cromwell
Road.
Chapter III
I HAD been in my room only five minutes when the inquiry desk
called to say Inspector Corridan was asking for me.
“Tell him to come up, please,” I said, pressed the bell for the floor
waiter.
Corridan and the floor waiter arrived together.
Corridan was a big, beefy fellow, thirty-five, dark with small blue
eyes that had a nasty habit of appearing to look right through you.
Even to his friends he was somewhat dour, seldom smiled, never
laughed.
He shook hands warmly enough, looked round the room
approvingly.
“They make you comfortable here I must say,” he remarked, shot
a quick glance at the waiter, went on, “I hope you are going to buy me
a drink?”
“Sure, and I thought we might have dinner up here,” I said.
“Nothing’s too good for the London police.”
The floor waiter produced a menu and we chose cold consommé,
chicken vol au vent, ice-cream. I ordered two double whiskies and a
carafe of Algerian wine.
“You newspaper men know how to live,” Corridan sighed, sinking
into the only arm-chair. “Often thought it might’ve been better for me
to have gone in for something less exacting and more profitable than
police work.”
I grunted. “You should grumble,” I said, sitting on the bed. “I bet
you are up to your ears in graft, with half the criminals in London
paying you hush-money.”
His mouth tightened. “Your sense of humour is as warped as
your
morals,” he returned, and I could see he wasn’t amused.
“Okay, let’s skip our morals,” I said, grinning. “I’m damned glad
you could come.”
“Was this Netta Scott a friend of yours?” he asked, wandering to
the window. He went on before I could reply. “I see the Thames
enough from the Yard, but from this angle and in this light it’s really
attractive, don’t you think?”
“Never mind about the Thames,” I said shortly. “You’re not being
wined and dined because I want to hear about the sights of London.”
He gave me a sharp look. “You sound worried. Anything wrong?”
I nodded. “There could be . . .” I began when the floor waiter
returned with our drinks.
When he had gone, I went on, “About Netta Scott. She was a
friend of mine. I met her in ‘42, and we kicked around together for a
couple of years. It was a shock to learn she’d committed suicide.”
He drank some whisky, cocked his head approvingly. “Good
whisky this,” he said. “But obviously you don’t want to talk about
whisky. I’ve read the doctor’s report. The girl wasn’t risking a mistake.
She took a stiff dose of laudanum before she gassed herself. But it’s a
straightforward case . . . obviously suicide. The Kensington Division
handled it. They had a cal at seven o’clock yesterday morning from a
man named Julius Cole who lives in the same house. They found the
girl with her head in the gas oven and the kitchen full of gas. The
windows had been sealed with adhesive tape, but riot the door which
fitted well. She had been dead about six hours. At a rough guess she
killed herself around one o’clock in the morning. There were no marks
of violence on the body, and no evidence that it wasn’t anything but
suicide. She was taken to the local mortuary, having been officially
identified by this Cole chap who claimed to know her well by sight.
We are now trying to get in touch with her relatives without any
success at the moment.”
I finished my whisky, felt better for it.
“No question of foul play?” I asked.
His eyes probed me. “No. Why should there be?”
“Your people are quite happy about that?”
“They’re never happy about anything, but they’re quite satisfied
that there’s no question of foul play. Suicide happens every day. It
may interest you to know an individual’s occupation tends to
influence the likelihood of suicide,” Corridan went on, closing his eyes
and settling farther into his chair. “Occupations involving strain,
responsibility or very late hours provide the greatest numbers of
suicides. Chemists, doctors, solicitors, publicans, night club workers,
butchers and soldiers are to be found high up in the list of
occupations, whilst gardeners, fishermen, clergymen, school teachers
and civil servants are at the foot of the list.”
I groaned. “I guess I stuck my neck out that time,” I said. “Okay,
okay, don’t let’s have any more of that. Then I take it because night
club workers rank high on the list of likely suicides, Netta killed
herself, is that it?”
He nodded. “Something like that. Anyway, it helps us to make up
our minds. If she were a school teacher, for instance, we might look at
the business more closely. See what I mean?”
“And you think a girl like Netta would choose a gas oven? You
don’t think she’d jump out of a window or use poison?”
“Women hesitate to make a mess of themselves even in death,”
Corridan returned, lifting his shoulders. “Especially girls as pretty as
Netta. Jumping out of windows can be very messy . . . I’ve seen some.
Owing to a little thing called the Dangerous Drugs Act suicides by
poison are on the decrease. I believe over six hundred women
committed suicide by coal- gas last year. I’ll get you the exact figures if
you’re interested.”
“That’s good enough for me,” I said. “And why do you think she
killed herself?”
Corridan finished his whisky, put the glass on the table, shrugged.
“It’s interesting to consider the reasons which impel individual
conduct,” he said, crossing his legs and sinking lower in his chair. “A
knowledge of the causes of suicide is also of help in determining the
question of accident, suicide or murder. The four main reasons why
people commit suicide are, in order of their importance, mental
conditions, drink, financial worries and love. There are other causes,
of course, but these are the four important ones. As far as we know
the girl didn’t owe money, she didn’t drink to excess, and she
appeared mental y normal from what Cole and the landlady tel us.
Therefore it’s reasonable to suppose she had an unhappy love affair.”
“The way you coppers get everything down to a rule of thumb kills
me,” I said, as the waiter wheeled in a table ladened with good things
to eat. “Come on, let’s get at it.”
“Another of those excellent whiskies mightn’t be a bad idea,”
Corridan said, getting to his feet and pulling up a straight- backed
chair to the table.
“Make it two,” I said to the waiter, “and then leave us to look
after ourselves.”
We sat down and began on the cold consommé.
“What makes you think she wasn’t murdered?” I asked casually.
He shook his head. “What a chap you are,” he said. “I’ve just told
you. . .” He glanced up sharply, frowned. “But perhaps you know more
about this than I do. Perhaps I’d better hear what you have to say
before I commit myself too deeply.” His lips curled slightly at the
corners which was his idea of a smile. “Do you think she was
murdered?”
“I’m willing to bet five hundred pounds that she was,” I said.
His eyebrows shot up. “And you have five hundred pounds?”
“I have. Like to take me on?”
He shook his head. “I never bet with Yanks; they’re far too smart.”
He pushed his plate away, dabbed his thin lips with his napkin. “Hmm,
now I wonder what makes you so sure?”
“I’ve been to her flat and had a look around,” I said. “I found some
interesting items which I’ll show you in a moment. First tell me, did
any of your men take anything from the flat?”
“No. Is there anything missing?”
“A number of pairs of silk stockings, most of her clothes, and a
diamond bracelet and scarf-pin.”
“Valuable?”
“The bracelet cost two hundred pounds three years ago. It’ll be
worth double that now. I don’t know about the pin.”
“How do you know they’re missing? Couldn’t she have sold t
hem?”
I hadn’t thought of that, and said so. “All the same I don’t think
she did. She was fond of those pieces and nothing would persuade her
to get rid of her stockings. No, I don’t believe she did sell the stuff.”
Corridan eyed me. “Now you’re being obstinate,” he said quietly.
“I should say it was most likely. She may have been pressed for money
at one time.”
The waiter interrupted us with the whiskies. We paused before
we started on the vol au vent, finished the whiskies while we talked.
“But she wasn’t the type to kill herself,” I said. “I remember once
she said she’d never take that way out of trouble. If you’d have heard
her you’d know she wasn’t the type.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Two years. Oh, I know you’ll say people change, but I’m still sure
she wasn’t the type.”
“What else?” The blue eyes probed, the thin mouth came near to
a smile again. “Ignoring the jewel ery, the stockings and her type,
what else have you got?”
“I haven’t started yet,” I said, “but it’ll keep until we’ve fed. You
don’t know anything about the girl?”
“She hasn’t a record if that’s what you mean,” he returned,
contentedly chewing his food. “She worked at the Blue Club as a
dance hostess and she’s been fined once or twice for car offences,
otherwise we don’t know anything about her.”
“And the Blue Club? I hear it’s taken a dive since I knew it.”
“Most of these clubs that catered for Americans have
deteriorated since the Americans have gone home. The Blue Club is on
our suspect list, but Bradley is a little too smart for us at the moment.
We believe the place is a gambling den, and there’s drinking out of
hours. I’m sure the food is Black Market, but we’ve never been able to
get any of our men in there, and a raid has always flopped. The Chief
thinks one of our men tips Bradley off when a raid is going to be
made. Anyway, he’s always one jump ahead of us, although he can’t
last much longer.”
By now we had finished the meal, and Corridan went back to the
arm-chair. I ordered brandy and cigars, saw he was settled
comfortably.
“Well, now perhaps I can convince you,” I said, produced the
Luger and handed it to him.
He sat for a long moment staring at it, his face expressionless,
then he glanced up, his eves cold.
“Where did this conic from?” he asked.
I told him.
He examined the Luger thoughtfully, shook his head, relaxed
again.
“If you knew the number of women who have these damn things
you wouldn’t think so much of it,” he said. “Nearly every American
soldier brought one back from Germany, and gave it to his girl friend.
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