“Now see here, Harmas, you have no damn business here at all.
You are here on sufferance,” Corridan retorted. “This is a serious
business, and I can’t have rubbernecks watching me work.”
“Calling me a rubberneck is as big a lie as calling what you do
work,” I said sadly. “But never mind. I’ll behave, and thanks for the
break anyway.”
He looked sharply at me to see if I was kidding, decided I was,
compressed his lips.
“Well, that’s all there’s to see. You’d better be moving before the
ambulance arrived.
“Yeah, I’ll be off,” I said, wandering to the front door. “You
wouldn’t be interested in my theory about this second death I
suppose?”
“Not in the slightest,” he said firmly.
“I thought as much. It’s a pity, because I think I could have put you
on the right lines. I guess you’ll have a guard on the body this time?
You don’t want it stolen like the other was, do you?”
“Oh, rubbish,” he said crossly. “Nothing like that’ll happen. But
I’m taking precautions if that’s what you mean.”
“Oddly enough, that’s exactly what I do mean,” I said, smiled at
him, opened the door. “Be seeing you, pal,” I went on, left him.
I winked at the policeman at the gate, got into the Buick and
drove slowly down the lane. I had a lot to think about, and I didn’t
quite know where to start. I thought it mightn’t be a bad idea to have
a word with Mrs. Brambee. That seemed the obvious starting-point.
I knew her cottage couldn’t be far, as Bert, the policeman, had
only been a few minutes fetching her. I didn’t want Corridan to know
what I was up to, so I drove to the end of the lane, parked the Buick
behind a thicket, and walked back. I was lucky to meet a farmhand
who pointed Mrs. Brambee’s place out to me. It was small and
dilapidated with a wild, overgrown garden.
I walked up the weed-covered path, rapped on the door. I had to
knock three times before I heard shuffling feet. A moment later, the
door jerked open and Mrs. Brambee confronted me. At close quarters
she seemed half gypsy. She was very swarthy and her jet-black eyes
were like little wet stones.
“What do you want?” she demanded in a harsh voice that
somehow reminded me of the caw of a crow.
“I’m a newspaper man, Mrs. Brambee,” I said, raising my hat;
hoped she’d appreciate good manners. “I’d like to ask you a few
questions about Miss Scott. You saw the body just now. Are you
absolutely sure it was Miss Scott?”
Her eyes snapped. “Of course, it was Miss Scott,” she said,
beginning to close the door. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Anyway, I don’t intend to answer questions. You get off.”
“I could make it worth your while,” I said, jingling my loose change
suggestively. “I want the inside story of this suicide, and my paper will
pay generously for it.”
“You and your paper can go to hell,” she shouted violently,
slammed the door, only I had my foot ready for just such a move.
“Now be nice,” I said, smiling at her through the three-inch
opening between the door-post and the door. “Who is this guy Peter
you were telling the Inspector about? Where can I find him?”
“She jerked open the door, put her hand on my chest and shoved.
I wasn’t expecting such a move, and I staggered back, lost my balance,
fell full-length. Her shove was like the kick from a horse.
The door slammed and I heard the bolt shoot home.
I got slowly to my feet, dusted myself down, whistled softly. Then
I glanced up at the upper windows, stiffened.
I had a fleeting glimpse of a girl looking down at me. Even as I
looked up, she jerked back from the window and out of sight. I
couldn’t even swear that it was a girl: it might have been a man-even
an optical illusion. But unless my eyes had deceived me, Netta Scott
was upstairs, and had been watching me.
Chapter VI
I WAS glancing through the newspaper, morning coffee on the
table by my bed, when a small item of news caught my eye. I sat up,
nearly upsetting the tray.
MYSTERIOUS FIRE AT HORSHAM MORTUARY
ran the headline. The few lines below the headline stated that at
twelve o’clock the previous night a fire had broken out in the
Horsham mortuary, and the efforts of the local fire brigade were
unavailing. The building had been completely destroyed, and three
policemen, who were on the premises, narrowly escaped with their
lives.
I threw the paper down, grabbed the telephone and put a call
through to Corridan. I was told that he was out of town.
I jumped out of bed, wandered into the bathroom, took a cold
shower. I shaved, came back to the bedroom, began to dress. All the
time I was thinking.
Someone behind the scenes was controlling this set-up, like a
puppet-master pul ing the strings. Whoever it was had to be stopped.
If Corridan wasn’t smart enough to stop him, then I was going to have
a try. Up to now, I’d tagged along in the rear as an interested
spectator. I was now going to take a more active part in this business.
I decided first to give Corridan one more chance. I asked the
switchboard girl to connect me with the Horsham police. After the
inevitable delay I was put through.
“Is Inspector Corridan with you, please?” I asked.
“Hold on, sir,” a voice invited me.
Corridan came on the line. “Yes?” he snapped. “What is it?” He
sounded like a lion who’d seen someone swipe his dinner.
“Hello,” I said. “This is your conscience cal ing you from the Savoy
Hotel. What have you got on your mind this morning?”
“For God’s sake don’t bother me now, Harmas,” Corridan
returned. “I’m busy.”
