against the light, grimaced. “I can’t offer you any,” she went on. “I’m
running low. Besides I don’t believe young men should drink for
pleasure.” She belched again, but I was well out of range. “It’s a
disgrace invalids like me have so much worry and trouble getting the
stuff. Doctors ought to supply it to deserving cases.” She looked at me
out of the corners of her eyes. “And don’t think I like it. I loathe the
muck. I can hardly get it down, but it’s the only thing that keeps me
alive—I’ve tried everything else.” She lowered two inches of the raw
spirit down her thick throat, closed her eyes, sighed. For someone
who hated the stuff, she took it remarkably well.
I sat on the straight-backed chair, wondered if I’d ever get used to
the smell in the room, took out a cigarette.
“Have a smoke?” I asked, waving the carton at her.
She shook her head. “Only smoke my own brand,” she said,
hoisting up a vast box of
selected one, lowered the box out of sight.
We lit up.
“Miss Kennitt,” I said, staring at my cigarette and wondering how
much to tel her. “Netta Scott was a friend of mine. Her death came as
a great shock to me. I wonder if you know anything about it. I’m trying
to find out why she did it.”
The fat woman settled herself more comfortably, thumped her
floppy bosom, belched gently.
“You were lovers, weren’t you?” she asked, a sly smirk crossing
her purple face.
“Does that matter?” I asked.
“It does to me,” she said, sipped the whisky: “two young people
making love reminds me of my own youth.”
I couldn’t imagine her ever being young or in love.
“Netta wasn’t the loving type,” I said, after a moment’s hesitation
as to how to steer her away from this topic.
“She was a sexy little bitch,” Madge Kennitt said, winking at the
ceiling. “You can’t tell me anything I don’t know.”
I flicked ash on to the carpet, wished I hadn’t ever met the hag.
“All right,” I said, shrugging. “What does it matter? She’s dead.
Names can’t hurt her.”
“I wasn’t good enough for her,” the woman muttered, drained her
glass, hoisted up the bottle again. “I thought she’d come to a sticky
end. I suppose she was pregnant?”
“You know as much about it as I do,” I said.
“Perhaps I know more,” she returned, looking sly. “You’ve only
just got back, haven’t you? You don’t know what’s been going on here
during the past two years. Mr. Cole and I know most things.”
“Yeah, he doesn’t miss much,” I said, hoping to draw her. She
shook her bleached head, poured more whisky into the tumbler.
“He’s a filthy rat,” she said, closing her eyes. “Peeping and prying
all day long. I bet he knows you’re with me now.”
I nodded. “Sure. He saw me come in here.”
“It won’t do him any good. One of these days I’m going to tell him
what I think of him. I’ll enjoy that.”
“Did the police ask you anything about Netta?” I asked casual y.
She smiled. “Oh, yes, they asked questions. I didn’t tell them
anything. I don’t believe in helping the police. I don’t like them. They
came in here, sniffing and prying; I could see they thought I was a
drunken old woman. They don’t believe I have a bad heart. One of the
detectives, a cold, smug-looking brute, smirked at me. I don’t like men
smirking at me, so I didn’t tell him anything.” She poured more whisky
down her throat, grunted. “You’re an American, aren’t you?”
I said I was.
“I thought so. I like Americans. Mr. Churchill likes Americans. I like
Mr. Churchill. What he likes, I seem to like, too. I’ve noticed it over
and over again.” She waved her tumbler excitedly, slopped whisky on
her chest. “What do you do for a living?”
“Oh, I write,” I said. “I’m a newspaper man.”
She nodded. “I was sure of it. I’m good at guessing professions.
When I first saw you, coming in with that little slut, I said to myself
you were a writer. Did she know how to make love? Some of these
modern chits—especially the pretty ones rely on their looks. They
don’t know or care how to please a man. I knew. Men liked me. They
were always coming back.”
“Do you think Netta committed suicide?” I asked abruptly, rather
sick of her.
She lay still, staring up at the ceiling. “They said she did,” she
returned cautiously. “That’s a funny question to ask, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think she did,” I said, lighting another cigarette. “That’s
why I thought I’d talk to you.”
She emptied her glass, put it on the floor beside her. It toppled
over, rol ed under the chaise-longue. I thought she was beginning to
get a little tight.
“I don’t know anything about it,” she said, smiled to herself.
“Pity,” I said. “I thought you might. Maybe I’d better talk to Mr.
Cole.”
She frowned. “He won’t tel you anything. He knows too much.
Why did he tell the police Netta came home alone? I heard him. Why
did he lie about that?”
I tried not to show too much interest. “Didn’t she come home
alone? “
“Course she didn’t. Cole knows that as wel as I do.” She groped
for her bottle, hoisted it up, examined it. I could see it was a quarter
full. “This damn stuff evaporates,” she said in disgust. “A full bottle
not an hour ago, and now look at it. How the hell can I go on hunting
for the stuff if it goes like this?”
“Who else was with her?” I asked.
She didn’t seem to hear, but leaned over and tried to find the
tumbler.
“I’ll get it,” I said, bent down, hooked out the tumbler, handed it
to her. Her reeking breath fanned my cheek.
I had a glimpse of an indescribable heap of rubbish pushed under
the chaise-longue: dirty garments, shoes, cigarette cartons, crockery,
