time I had known her I had never seen her wear anything but real silk
hose. She had laid in a stock just before the war, and a number of
American service men, and myself for that matter, had kept her stock
up. I turned over the garments in the drawers, but I couldn’t find any
silk stockings.
I stubbed out my cigarette, frowned, wondered if Mrs. Crockett
had been up here and had taken them, or if the police had been
tempted. Silk stockings were almost unobtainable, and the
temptation was easy to understand. There should have been at least a
dozen pairs. When I last saw her-two years ago- she had thirty-six
pairs. I know, because one night, when she had asked me to get her
some, I had turned her drawer out and counted them to prove to her
she didn’t need any more. Yes, she should have at least a dozen pairs,
if not more. Where were they?
I decided to search her flat. I had been trained during my years as
a crime reporter to take a house to pieces so that it wouldn’t show. It
would be a long, dull job, but somehow I felt it would pay dividends.
I went through each room carefully and systematically. I left
nothing to chance, even unwinding the blinds, feeling along the
pelmets, taking up the carpets and sounding the floors.
In the bedroom by the fireplace I found a small recess in the floor,
under a loose board. It was obvious that something had been kept
there, but it was no longer there. In the bathroom, wrapped around
the toilet roll I found eight five-pound notes. In the sitting-room
between a picture of one of Varga’s lovelies and the back of the frame
were eight more five-pound notes. At the bottom of a jar of cold
cream I found a diamond ring. It looked a good diamond, and the
setting was platinum. I hadn’t seen it before. It was an odd hiding
place, but then so were the hiding places of the five-pound notes.
I went into the kitchen, and after a painstaking search found at
the bottom of the flour bin, buried under the flour, a foolscap
envelope. I drew it out, dusted off the flour and read the address on
the envelope, written in Netta’s big, untidy hand:
Miss Anne Scott,
Beverley,
Could this be a sister? I wondered, feeling the bulky envelope
between my fingers. It seemed full of papers, and was heavy.
The whole business seemed to me odd. I was uneasy, suspicious. I
didn’t know what to make of it all.
I satisfied myself that there was nothing of further interest in the
kitchen, went back to the sitting-room.
I laid out on the table all the things I had found. There was the
Luger pistol, the diamond ring, the sixteen five-pound notes, and the
letter addressed to Anne Scott.
Why should a girl commit suicide when she possessed eighty
pounds and a diamond ring? I asked myself. What other trouble apart
from money could have made Netta do away with herself? I couldn’t
imagine anything bad enough. In fact, I was now as sure as I could be
that she hadn’t committed suicide. Murder? Well, if it wasn’t suicide,
it had to be murder. It couldn’t have been an accident. Accidents
didn’t happen quite like that.
I lit another cigarette, brooded. I’d have to discuss this with the
police. I remembered Inspector Corridan of the Yard. He and I had
been friendly when last I was in London. He had taken me around to
the various haunts of petty criminals, and the material I had col ected
with his help had made a good article for the
Corridan was just the man to consult and I immediately reached
for the telephone.
After a delay, Cordian came on the line.
I reminded him who I was, and he remembered me.
“Glad to hear from you again, Harmas,” he said. “You’re lucky to
have caught me. I was just going home.”
“Are you in a hurry?” I asked, glancing at my wrist watch.
It was nearly nine o’clock.
“Well, I want to get home. Is it anything urgent?”
“Interesting rather than urgent,” I said. “I want your advice, and
perhaps help. It’s to do with a girl named Netta Scott who committed
suicide the night before last.”
“Who did you say?” he asked sharply.
“The girl’s name is Netta Scott. She used to be an old friend of
mine. Frankly, Corridan, I’m not satisfied that she did kill herself.”
There was a pause, then he said, “Well, I have nothing special to
do to-night. What do you suggest?”
“Suppose you meet me in half an hour at the Savoy?” I said. “If
you’d make inquiries about the girl, it might simplify things. Any
details may be useful.” I gave him Netta’s address, and he promised to
have the information, and hung up. That was one of the things I liked
about Corridan. He was never surprised at anything, never asked a lot
of unnecessary questions, and was always willing to be helpful no
matter how busy he was or how late the hour.
I put the gun, envelope, ring and money in my various pockets.
Satisfied I hadn’t missed anything, I turned off the light, opened the
front door, stepped on to the landing.
Julius Cole had brought a chair into his little hall and was sitting
there smoking, with the front door open, waiting for me.
“Why didn’t you let me in, baby?” he asked, smiling his secret
smile. “You had no right to be in there yourself.”
“Go bowl a hoop,” I said, went on down the stairs.
“Don’t run away, baby,” he said, sliding off his chair and coming to
the head of the stairs. “What’s it like in there?” He sniggered. “Did she
have pretty things? I suppose you’ve been through all her clothes. I
wish I’d been there.”
I kept on, without looking back.
Mrs. Crockett answered my rap on her door.
“You’ve been up there long enough,” she snapped, taking the key
I handed to her. “You ‘aven’t taken anything, ‘ave you? Most
particular the police were about leaving everything as it was.”
I shook my head. “It’s all right,” I said. “Has anyone been in there
since she died . . . I mean anyone except the police? Mr. Cole for
