“When aren’t you?” I said. “That’s a sweet little item in the
newspaper this morning. What does Anne Scott look like now? Done
to a turn or burnt to a crisp?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said savagely. “It was nothing
like that at all. These fools here store their petrol in the mortuary of
all places, and a faulty electric wire set it off. We’ve satisfied ourselves
that there’s no evidence of arson, although it is a most extraordinary
coincidence. The body was practically burnt to a cinder. Fortunately,
of course, it has been officially identified, so there’ll be no trouble at
the inquest. Now you’ve heard the details, for goodness’ sake get off
the line and let me get on with my work.”
“Don’t rush away,” I said quickly. “I’m not satisfied about this
business, Corridan. Coincidence be damned for a tale. Look, I think . ..”
“So long, Harmas,” he broke in. “Someone’s waiting to speak to
me,” and he hung up.
I slammed down the receiver, selected four of the worst words in
my cursing vocabulary, said them, felt better. That settled it, I
thought. I was going to get into this business with both feet and the
hell with Corridan.
I went downstairs, buttonholed the hal porter.
“Brother,” I said to him, “can you tell me where I can hire a
reliable private detective?”
For a moment a look of faint astonishment showed in his eyes,
then he became once more the perfect servant.
“Certainly, sir,” he said, going to his desk. “I have an address here.
J. B. Merryweather, Thames House, Millbank. Mr. Merryweather was,
at one time, a Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard.”
“Swell,” I said, parted with two half-crowns, asked him to call me
a taxi.
I found J. B. Merryweather’s office on the top floor of a vast
concrete and steel building overlooking an uninspired portion of the
Thames.
Merryweather was short and fat; his face the colour of a
mulberry, and covered with a network of fine blue veins. His small
eyes were watery, and the whites tinged with yellow. His long nose
gave him a hawk-like appearance, which, I should imagine, was good
for trade. I wasn’t particularly impressed by him, but from what I had
seen of private investigators in my country, the less impressive they
were the better results they obtained.
Merryweather eyed me over as I entered his tiny, somewhat
dusty office, offered a limp hand, waved me to a straight-backed
chair. He folded himself down in his swivelled chair which creaked
alarmingly under his weight, sunk his knobbly chin deep into a rather
soiled stiff collar. His eyes drooped as he gave what he probably
imagined to be a fair imitation of a booze-ridden Sherlock Holmes.
“I should like your name,” he said, taking a pad and pencil from
his desk drawer, “for my records, and the address, if you please.”
I told him who I was, said I was staying at the Savoy Hotel. He
nodded, wrote the information on the pad, said the Savoy was a nice
place to live in.
I agreed, waited.
“It’s your wife, I suppose?” he asked in a deep, weary voice which
seemed to start from his feet.
“I’m not married,” I said, taking out a carton of cigarettes, lighting
one. He leaned forward hopefully, so I pushed the carton across the
desk. He eased out a cigarette, struck a match on his desk, lit up.
“Difficult things to get these days,” he sighed. “I’m out of them
this morning. Nuisance.”
I said it was, ran my fingers through my hair, wondered what he’d
say when he knew what I’d come about. I had a feeling he might have
a stroke.
“Blackmail, perhaps?” he asked, blowing a cloud of smoke down
his vein-covered nose.
“Something rather more complicated than that,” I said, trying to
make myself comfortable in the chair. “Suppose I begin at the
beginning?”
He made a slight grimace as if he wasn’t anxious to hear a long
story, muttered something about being pretty busy this morning.
I looked around the shabby office, decided he could never be
busy, but was suffering from an inferiority complex, said I’d been
recommended to him by the hall porter of the Savoy Hotel.
He brightened immediately. “Damn good chap that,” he said,
rubbing his hands. “Many a time we’ve worked together in the old
days.”
“Well, maybe I’d better get on with it,” I said, a little bored with
him. I told him about Netta, how we had met, the kind of things we
did, and how I had arrived at her flat to find she had committed
suicide.
He sank lower in his chair, a bewildered, rather dismayed
expression on his face as I talked.
I told him how the body had been stolen from the mortuary, and
he flinched. I went on to tell him about Anne, how I had gone to her
cottage and what happened there.
“The police moved her body to the Horsham mortuary last night,”
I concluded, beginning to enjoy myself. I presented him with my
He had to find his spectacles before he could read it, and when he
had, I could see he wished he hadn’t; also wished I hadn’t come to
worry him.
“The body was burned to a cinder, so I’m told,” I went on. “Now
you know the set-up, what do you think?”
“My dear sir,” he said, waving his hands vaguely, “this isn’t in my
line at all. Divorce, blackmail, breach of promise, yes. This kind of
novelette drama no.”
I nodded understandingly. “I thought you might feel that way
about it,” I said. “It’s a pity. Never mind, I’ll probably find someone
else to do the work.” As I was speaking I took out my wallet, glanced
inside as if looking for something. I gave him plenty of time to see the
five hundred one-pound notes I was still carrying. Whatever else was
