instance?”
She shook her head. “No one, but you, and I’m sure I didn’t ought
to ‘ave . . .”
“There were some silk stockings . . . they don’t seem to be there,”
I interrupted. “Do you know anything about them?”
“What should I want with silk stockings?” she snapped. “Course I
don’t!”
I thanked her, made noncommittal noises, walked up the narrow
stairs to the front door.
In the street I paused for a moment to look at the house. A light
burned in Julius Cole’s flat: the rest of the house was in darkness. I
wondered about Madge Kennitt, decided she didn’t fit in the picture;
anyway, not for the time being, began to walk in the direction of
Cromwell Road, fifty yards or so ahead of me.
The street was lit by only three lamps, one at the top, the other at
the bottom and the third half-way between the other two. It was
dark, and there were deep shadows, otherwise I shouldn’t have been
so easily surprised.
I heard a patter of feet behind me, felt a sudden premonition of
danger, ducked, jumped aside.
Something very hard hit my shoulder, brought me to my knees. I
flung up my arm, staggered upright and again jumped back. I caught a
glimpse of a shadowy figure of a man holding what seemed to me to
be a tyre lever above his head. He slashed wildly at me. I heard the
lever whistle past my face, stepped in close, and belted the guy in the
ribs with everything I had. He dropped the tyre lever, reeled back, his
breath coming out of him like a punctured balloon.
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” I demanded,
crowding him.
I could see him now. He was a little runt, young, slim, underfed. I
couldn’t see much of his face except that he was pasty. His clothes
were shoddy, and his hat like a sponge full of grease.
Before I could collar him, he darted out of my reach and went
down the street like a streak of lightning.
I stood looking after him, listening to his light footfalls. My
shoulder ached and I was a little scared.
“For crying out loud,” I muttered to myself, looked uneasily up
and down the street, ran hurriedly towards the lights of Cromwell
Road.
Chapter III
I HAD been in my room only five minutes when the inquiry desk
called to say Inspector Corridan was asking for me.
“Tell him to come up, please,” I said, pressed the bell for the floor
waiter.
Corridan and the floor waiter arrived together.
Corridan was a big, beefy fellow, thirty-five, dark with small blue
eyes that had a nasty habit of appearing to look right through you.
Even to his friends he was somewhat dour, seldom smiled, never
laughed.
He shook hands warmly enough, looked round the room
approvingly.
“They make you comfortable here I must say,” he remarked, shot
a quick glance at the waiter, went on, “I hope you are going to buy me
a drink?”
“Sure, and I thought we might have dinner up here,” I said.
“Nothing’s too good for the London police.”
The floor waiter produced a menu and we chose cold
chicken
carafe of Algerian wine.
“You newspaper men know how to live,” Corridan sighed, sinking
into the only arm-chair. “Often thought it might’ve been better for me
to have gone in for something less exacting and more profitable than
police work.”
I grunted. “You should grumble,” I said, sitting on the bed. “I bet
you are up to your ears in graft, with half the criminals in London
paying you hush-money.”
His mouth tightened. “Your sense of humour is as warped as your
morals,” he returned, and I could see he wasn’t amused.
“Okay, let’s skip our morals,” I said, grinning. “I’m damned glad
you could come.”
“Was this Netta Scott a friend of yours?” he asked, wandering to
the window. He went on before I could reply. “I see the Thames
enough from the Yard, but from this angle and in this light it’s really
attractive, don’t you think?”
“Never mind about the Thames,” I said shortly. “You’re not being
wined and dined because I want to hear about the sights of London.”
He gave me a sharp look. “You sound worried. Anything wrong?”
I nodded. “There could be . . .” I began when the floor waiter
returned with our drinks.
When he had gone, I went on, “About Netta Scott. She was a
friend of mine. I met her in ‘42, and we kicked around together for a
couple of years. It was a shock to learn she’d committed suicide.”
He drank some whisky, cocked his head approvingly. “Good
whisky this,” he said. “But obviously you don’t want to talk about
whisky. I’ve read the doctor’s report. The girl wasn’t risking a mistake.
She took a stiff dose of laudanum before she gassed herself. But it’s a
straightforward case . . . obviously suicide. The Kensington Division
handled it. They had a cal at seven o’clock yesterday morning from a
man named Julius Cole who lives in the same house. They found the
girl with her head in the gas oven and the kitchen full of gas. The
windows had been sealed with adhesive tape, but riot the door which
fitted well. She had been dead about six hours. At a rough guess she
killed herself around one o’clock in the morning. There were no marks
of violence on the body, and no evidence that it wasn’t anything but
suicide. She was taken to the local mortuary, having been officially
identified by this Cole chap who claimed to know her well by sight.
We are now trying to get in touch with her relatives without any
