activity going on in and out the front door.
Corridan had been extremely curt and official when he had
recovered from his surprise at seeing me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he had demanded. Then he,
too, smelt the gas. “This is no place for you. It’s no good glaring at me.
This is police business, and newspaper men are not wanted.”
I began to argue with him, but he brushed past me, saying to one
of the policemen, “Escort Mr. Harmas off the premises, please, and
see he keeps out.”
I felt inclined to clock the policeman on his beaky nose, but I knew
it wouldn’t get me anywhere so I returned to the car, sat in it, lit a
cigarette and watched.
Corridan and the other policeman succeeded in breaking down
the front door. They entered the cottage, while the second policeman
remained at the gate to scowl at me. I scowled right back.
After a few moments, I saw Corridan opening the windows, then
move out of sight. The sickly smell of gas drifted across the lawn. I
waited a quarter of an hour before anything else happened. Then a
car drove up and a tal dismal-looking guy carrying a black bag got out,
had a word with the policeman at the gate, and together they went
inside.
I didn’t have to be clairvoyant to guess the guy was the village
croaker.
After ten minutes, the dismal guy came out. I was waiting for him
near his car, and he gave me a sharp, unfriendly look as he opened his
car door.
“Pardon me, doc,” I said, “I’m a newspaper man. Can you tell me
what’s going on in there?”
“You must ask Inspector Corridan,” he snapped back, got into his
car, drove away.
The policeman at the gate grinned behind his hand.
After a while the other policeman came out of the cottage,
whispered something to his colleague, hurried off down the lane.
“I suppose he’s gone to buy Corridan a toffee apple,” I said to the
policeman at the gate. “But don’t tell me. Just let it mystify me.”
The policeman grinned sympathetical y. I could see he was the
gossiping type and was bursting to talk to someone.
“E’s off to get Mrs. Brambee wot looks after this ‘ere cottage,” he
said, after a quick look around to make sure he wasn’t overheard.
“Someone dead in there?” I asked, jerking my thumb to the
cottage.
He nodded. “A young lady,” he returned, moving closer to the
Buick. “Pretty little thing. Suicide, of course. Put ‘er ‘ead in the gas
oven. Been dead three or four days I should say.
“Never mind what you say,” I returned. “What did the doc say.”
The policeman grinned a little sheepishly. “That’s wot ‘e did say as
a matter of fact.”
I grunted. “Is it Anne Scott?”
“I dunno. The doc couldn’t identify ‘er. That’s why Bert’s gone for
this ‘ere Mrs. Brambee.”
“What’s comrade Corridan doing in there?” I asked.
“Sniffing around,” the policeman returned, shrugging. From the
expression on his face I guessed Corridan wasn’t his favourite person.
“I bet ‘e’s trying to make out there’s more to this than meets the eye.
The Yard men always do. It ‘elps their promotion.”
I thought this was a little unfair, but didn’t say so, turned around
to watch two figures coming down the lane. One of them was Bert,
the policeman, the other was a tall, bulky woman in a pink sack-like
dress.
“Here they come,” I said, nodding in their direction.
The woman was walking quickly. She had a long stride, and the
policeman seemed pressed to keep up with her. As they drew nearer,
I could see her face. She was dark, sun-tanned, about forty, with a
mass of black greasy hair, rolled up in an untidy bun at the back of her
head. Straggling locks of hair fell over her face, and she kept brushing
them back with a hand as big as a man’s.
She ran up the flagged path. Her eyes were wild, her mouth was
working. She looked as if she were suffering from acute grief and
shock.
Bert winked at the other policeman as he followed the woman
into the cottage.
I lit another cigarette, settled down in the car, waited a little
anxiously.
A sudden animal-like cry drifted through the open windows, and
was followed by the sound of wild hysterical sobbing.
“It must be Anne Scott,” I said, troubled.
“Looks like it,” the policeman returned, staring in the direction of
the cottage.
After a long while the sobbing died down. We waited almost half
an hour before the woman appeared again. She walked slowly, her
face hidden by a dirty handkerchief, her shoulders sagging.
The policeman opened the gate for her, helped her through by
taking her elbow. It was meant sympathetical y, but she immediately
shook him off.
“Take your bloody hands off me,” she said in a muffled voice,
went on down the lane.
“A proper lady,” the policeman said, chewing his chin-strap and
going red.
“Maybe she’s been reading Macbeth,” I suggested, but that didn’t
seem to console him.
It was how almost an hour and a half since I had seen Corridan. I
was hungry. It was past one-thirty; but I decided to wait, hopeful I
might see something more or get a chance of telling Corridan what I
thought of him.
Ten minutes later he came to the door and waved to me. I was
out of the car, past the policeman in split seconds.
“All right,” he said curtly as I dashed up to him. “I suppose you
want to look around. But for God’s sake don’t tell anyone I’ve let you
in.”
