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 risque 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
