checking it.”
“Okay,” I said, shrugging. “I wanted to see how thorough you’ve
been. How about Netta’s verdict?”
He shrugged. “The body will have to be found first. We’re looking
for it.”
“I see the Press haven’t got the story.”
Corridan scowled. “And they’re not having it,” he said grimly. “As
it is the Chief is raising blue murder. The less publicity at this stage the
better. We can rely on you to say nothing I hope?”
I grinned. “Sure,” I said, “I’ll keep your guilty secret. Nothing more
to tell me?”
He shook his head. “Not just yet,” he returned, “but I’ll keep you
in the picture.” He moved to the door. “Come down and have a
drink?”
“I’m coming down, but I can’t stop for a drink. I have something
important to do.”
“It’s nearly eleven o’clock,” Corridan said, raising his eyebrows.
“Come on, and don’t be unsociable.”
“Sorry, my work is too urgent,” I said, walking with him to the
elevator.
“By the way,” he said casually, as we waited for the elevator to
come from the ground floor. “You and Netta were lovers at one time,
weren’t you?”
I remembered what Littlejohns had said, grinned to myself.
“Not really,” I returned. “Just a boy and a girl romance.”
He nodded, stepped into the elevator and we rode down in
silence.
“Do change your mind,” he said when we reached the lobby.
“Sorry,” I said, shaking hands. “But I’ve got to get along. So long.
Have a drink on me.”
He nodded. “So long, Harmas,” he said, turned back. “Oh, there’s
just one little thing, you’ll keep out of this business, won’t you? I think
I mentioned it before. It’s not easy for my men to follow up leads if
they’ve already been disturbed by enthusiastic newspaper men. That
kind of thing’s all right in your country, but not here. You might bear
that in mind.”
We exchanged somewhat dirty looks.
“Whoever heard of a newspaper man being enthusiastic?” I said,
and hurried off for a chat with Julius Cole.
Chapter IX
I PAID off the taxi outside Mrs. Crockett’s residence, looked up at
the building. There was a light showing in both the first floor and
second floor flats; the top flat was in darkness.
I had intended to try if I could find out something more about
Julius Cole, but when I saw the lighted windows of the first floor flat, I
changed my mind and decided to cal on Madge Kennitt instead. I
wondered if the police had questioned her. If they had and learned
nothing, then I was wasting my time. I could always go upstairs to see
Julius Cole if Madge Kennitt had nothing to tell me, I consoled myself.
I mounted the steps, opened the front door and entered the hall.
On the first landing, Madge Kennitt’s door faced me. As I reached for
the knocker I heard a faint sound from upstairs, looked up quickly. I
was in time to see Julius Cole duck out of sight. I smiled to myself.
That guy missed nothing. I rat-tatted on the door, waited.
There was a long pause, then I head heavy thudding footsteps and
the door jerked open.
A short, fat woman stood squarely in the doorway. She was
around forty-five, and had a lot of face and chin. Her straw-coloured
hair, brittle by constant bleaching was set in a ruthless permanent.
Her moist eyes were as sympathetic as marbles at the bottom of a
pond, and her complexion was raddled with rouge and powder which
failed to hide the purple bloom of a whisky soak.
“Good evening,” I said. “Miss Kennitt?”
She peered at me, belched gently. A puff of whisky-ladened
breath fanned my face. I reminded myself to duck the next time she
did that.
“Who is it?” she asked. “Come in. I can’t see you out there.”
She stepped back into the hard light of the sitting-room. I
followed her. It was quite a room. The main piece of furniture was a
reed chaise-longue by the window. It had a curved back and enough
cushions to stuff an elephant. One side of the room was given up to
dozens of empty bottles of whisky. Just to look at them gave me a
thirst. Then there was a rickety table, a straight-backed chair and a
well-worn imitation Turkey carpet on the floor. A bucket stood by the
chaise-longue, three-quarters filled with cigarette butts. The smell of
stale whisky, nicotine and cheap scent was overpowering.
By the empty fireplace a big black cat lay full-length. It was the
biggest cat I’ve ever seen. Its long hair was silky: it looked in a lot
better shape than Madge Kennitt.
I put my hat on the table, tried to breathe through my mouth, put
on a friendly expression.
Madge Kennitt was looking at me in that puzzled way people have
when they’ve seen a face before but can’t place it. Then suddenly her
eyelids narrowed, and a. sly smirk settled on her thick lips.
“I know you,” she said. “I’ve seen you in and out there. It must be
nearly two years since last you came. You’re that Scott girl’s friend,
aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I wanted to talk to you about her.”
“Oh, did you?” She padded over to the chaise-longue, settled
herself down on it like an elephant about to roll in the dust. “Now I
wonder what you want to talk to me about her for.” Her fat, doughy-
looking hand dipped down on the off-side of the chaise-longue and
hoisted up a bottle of Scotch.
“I have a bad heart,” she explained, eyeing the bottle greedily.
“This stuff’s the only thing that keeps me alive.” She carefully
unscrewed the metal cap, hoisted up a dirty tumbler and poured
three inches of whisky into it. She held up the bottle, inspected it
