“I think Miss Scott’s alive,” he said. “The fact that her clothes are
missing, the body stolen to prevent identification and that you think
you saw her yesterday seems proof enough to me. If she is alive, then
we shall have to discover who the dead woman was in Miss Scott’s
flat. We shall also have to find out whether Miss Scott had anything to
do with her death; whether it was murder or suicide, whether there
was anyone else implicated. It seems to me that if Miss Scott arranged
for the dead woman to be mistaken for her, she must have an urgent
reason for going into hiding. That’s another thing we must discover.
The fact that she didn’t take the money nor the diamond ring,
although she had time to pack her clothes, would point to a third
party being present whom she did not trust and from whom she was
anxious to conceal the fact that she had such valuables in the flat. We
must find out who that third party was.”
“You worked all that out in a few minutes,” I said, regarding him
thoughtfully. “I worked it out too, only I took a little longer, but
Corredan hasn’t got around to it yet. Now why? Why should Carridan
still insist that Netta committed suicide?”
Littlejohns allowed himself a bleak smile. “I have had some
experience of Inspector Corridan,” he said. “He is a most misleading
man. I suggest from my knowledge of his methods that he has arrived
at this conclusion but he is not letting you know that he has done so.
It may be, sir, that he considers you’re implicated in this case, and is
allowing you to think he has hold of the wrong end of the stick in the
hope you will be over-confident and commit yourself. The Inspector is
a deep thinker, and I wouldn’t underestimate his abilities for a
moment.”
I gaped at him. “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said. “That idea never
occurred to me.”
For a moment Littlejohns relaxed sufficiently to look almost
human. “The Inspector, in spite of what Mr. Merryweather says, is a
brilliant investigator. He has caught more criminals by pretending to
know nothing when he has known the ful facts than any other of the
Yard’s personnel. I should be most careful what you say or do as far as
he’s concerned.”
“Okay, I’ll remember that,” I said. “Now the next step is to dig and
keep digging until we find something important to work on. I’m sure
you’re right about Netta. She’s alive and she’s arranged with Cole to
identify this dead woman as herself. That explains why the body was
kidnapped. They are keeping the body away from me. Will you go
down to Lakeham right away and keep an eye on Mrs. Brambee’s
cottage? Look out for Netta. I think she’s hiding there. I’ll do what I
can up here and in a couple of days or so we’ll get together and see
how far we’ve got.”
Littlejohns said he’d go to Lakeham immediately, left with a much
more sprightly step than when he had come.
The rest of the day I worked at my first article on Post-War Britain
for the United News Agency. I had already obtained a considerable
amount of material for the article so I was able to settle in my room
and make my first rough draft. I became so absorbed in my work that
the problem of Netta and her sister ceased to nag me. By six-thirty I
had completed the draft, and decided to leave it until the next day
before polishing and checking my facts.
I rang for the floor waiter, lit a cigarette and sat before the open
window looking down on the Embankment. Now that I had put the lid
on my typewriter, Netta took over my thoughts. I wondered what
Corridan was doing. The more I thought about Littlejohns’s theory the
more sure I was that Corridan knew that Netta hadn’t committed
suicide, and that I might be hooked up in the case in some way.
The floor waiter, who was fast beginning to learn my habits,
arrived at this moment with a double whisky, water and ice bucket. I
added a little water and ice to a lot of whisky, stretched out more
comfortably in the arm-chair. Now what, I asked myself, was I going to
do to help solve the puzzle of the missing body? As far as I could see
there were three things I could do that might lead to something: first,
I could find out all I could about Julius Cole. If the girl who had died in
Netta’s flat was not Netta, then Julius Cole was in this business up to
his neck. It would obviously pay to keep an eye on him. Then there
was Madge Kennitt, the occupier of the first-floor flat. She might have
seen something. I had to find out if anyone had called the night the
girl died. I had a hunch that Netta wasn’t involved in this business, but
had, in some way, been implicated against her will. If that was so a
third person had been in the flat on that night. Madge Kennitt might
have seen him or her. Final y, I could visit the
out if Netta had any special friends among the hostesses, and if she
did, and if I could locate her, to find out from her anything about
Netta that might give me a lead.
By the time I had finished my whisky, I had decided to visit the
downstairs for an early supper in the almost deserted grill-room.
I arrived at the
for the main crowd, but late enough to find the cocktail bar full.
The Blue Club was a three-storey building half-way up Bruton
Mews behind Bruton Place. It was a shabby, faded-looking place, and
you could pass it without knowing it was there. But inside you
stepped from a cobbled dreary Mews, into a miniature palace of
rather overpowering luxury.
The cocktail bar was on the same floor as the dance room. I
wandered in, glanced around, failed to see a vacant seat so I crossed
to the bar, propped myself up.
Sam, the barman, recognized me, gave me a broad welcoming
smile.
“Hi, Sam,” I said. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Harmas,” he said, polishing a glass and setting it
before me. “Nice to see you again. You al right?”
“Pretty good,” I said, “and how’s your girl friend?”
Sam had always confided to me about the ups and down of his
love-life, and I knew he expected me to inquire what the latest
position was.
