gown in one hand, the other hand on the banister rail.
Looking at the dressing-gown I thought of the yellow-and-black
Bentley, wondered if there was any connection.
“Hello, baby,” he whispered, his eyes on Madge Kennitt’s door.
“What’s going on?”
“I’d have thought you’d have been on the scene before now,” I
said, scowling at him. “You’d better beat it. You’re in the way, Fatso.”
He came on, plumped himself down beside me, smiled his secret
smile. I smelt perfume, drew away from him.
“Has something happened to the old hag?” he asked, rubbing his
big, white hands together. “Has she lost something? Is it the police?”
“Someone cut her throat,” I said brutally. “Odd you didn’t see him
arrive, or did you?”
“Cut her throat?” he squeaked, his face going slack. “You mean
she’s dead?”
I nodded. “Yeah,” I said, staring at him. “She knew too much.”
He was on his feet now, his mouth working, his eyes full of terror.
“You’ll be next,” I said, kidding him. “You know too much, too.” I
wanted to loosen him up, and then I was going to move in and take
him to pieces, but I guess I punched him too hard. He bolted up the
stairs before I could grab him. I heard him rush into his room, slam the
door and shoot the bolt.
I hadn’t expected quite such a reaction, but on consideration, I
realized that he also had seen the man and girl return with Netta. He,
too, stood a likely chance of getting his throat cut; and he knew it.
I got to my feet, undecided whether to follow him or not, when
Corridan came out of the room. His face was grim.
“Now, let’s hear some more from you,” he said, planting himself
before me. “How long have you known this woman?”
I frowned at him. “Why, I’ve only just met her. I told you I thought
she might have seen something the night Netta was supposed to have
died. I came here, talked with her, and she admitted she did know
something. Then she upset her bottle of Scotch, wouldn’t talk until I’d
got her another. I got another from Sam at the Blue Club, but when I
got back I found her dead. Someone had stopped her talking for
good.”
“It’s lucky for you I saw you come out when you did,” Corridan
said coldly. “Even then, it still doesn’t mean you couldn’t have killed
her.”
“For God’s sake, Corridan!” I exploded.
“You’ve brought it on yourself,” he returned. “You are definitely
on my suspect list.”
“That’s fine,” I said bitterly. “After all the meals I’ve bought for
you, too.”
“Tell me exactly what she said,” he ordered, watching me with
uncomfortable intentness.
I couldn’t avoid tel ing him the truth, although it irritated me to do
so. It was his job to find out that Netta had come back with two other
people, not to receive it as a gift from me.
He listened in silence, seemed very thoughtful by the time I had
finished.
“There goes your suicide theory,” I said, eyeing him. “I told you all
along Netta didn’t kill herself.”
“I know,” he said, looking up sharply. “If she didn’t kill herself,
then you might have a reason for stopping Madge Kennitt from
talking. Thought of that?”
I just gaped at him.
“On the other hand it still could be suicide,” he went on. “These
two visitors could have left her after doing whatever they had come
to do, and then she committed suicide. It depends on what time they
left.”
“Well, Julius Cole can tell you. He saw them too.”
“I’ll have a word with him,” Corridan said grimly. “Will you walk to
the corner with me?” I asked, remembering
Frankie. “I want to check something.”
He opened the front door without a word, and together we
walked to the entrance of the alley from which the Standard had
come. I struck a match, peered at a small pool of motor oil on the
cobbles. It would seem from that that the Standard had been parked
there for some time.
“Look at this,” I said. “When I was trying to get you on the phone,
I spotted a
that leaked from it. I should say it’d been standing there some time. I
happen to know the car belongs to Jack Bradley. Does that mean
anything to you?”
“Except you seem to know more about this case than I thought,”
Corridan returned. “How do you know the car belongs to Bradley?”
“I consulted my Ouija board,” I returned.
“You’re not in the position to be funny,” he snapped sharply.
“How did you know?”
“Frankie was driving. I knew he was Bradley’s stooge.”
Corridan grunted. “You know a hell of a lot, don’t you?”
“Do you know anything about Frankie?” I asked.
“We’ve been hoping to get our hands on him for some time, but
he’s a slippery customer, as well as a vicious one. He’s on our suspect
list for several robberies, but Bradley always turns up with a cast-iron
alibi for him.”
“Think he’d run to murder?”
Corridan shrugged. “He’d run to anything if it paid well enough.”
As we retraced our steps to the house, I asked him if he had found
any clues in Madge’s flat.
“None,” he said.
“You mean you haven’t found one single clue?” I asked, startled,
thinking of the name Jacobi written in the dust. “No,” he repeated.
I had an idea, darted away from him, bolted into Madge’s flat.
The two plain-clothes dicks were together at the far end of the
room, looking for finger-prints. I came in so quickly they weren’t
aware of me until I had reached the chaise-longue. I peered over the
far side. The dust had been swept clean. The scrawled name, Jacobi,
