“Come inside, baby,” he said, smirking. “I’ll tell you about it.”
Before I could refuse, he had sauntered into a large room which
stank of stale scent and was full of old, dusty furniture.
He dropped into a big easy chair. As his great body dented the
cushions a fine cloud of dust arose.
“Excuse the hovel,” he said, looking around the room with an
expression of disgust on his face. “Mrs. Crockett’s a slut. She never
cleans the place and I can’t be expected to do it, can I, baby? Life’s too
short to waste time cleaning when one has my abilities.”
“Never mind the Oscar Wilde act,” I said impatiently. “Are you
telling me Netta Scott’s dead?”
He nodded, smiled up at me. “Sad, isn’t it? Such a delightful girl;
beautiful, lovely little body; so ful of vigour — now, just meal for the
worms.” He sighed. “Death is a great level er, isn’t it?”
“How did it happen?” I asked, wanting to take him by his fat
throat and shake the daylights out of him.
“By her own hand,” he said mournfully. “Shocking business. Police
rushing up and down stairs . . . the ambulance . . . doctors . . . Mrs.
Crockett screaming . . . that fat bitch in the lower flat gloating . . . a
crowd in the street, hoping to see the remains quite, quite ghastly.
Then the smell of gas — couldn’t get it out of the house all day.
Shocking business, baby, really most, most shocking.”
“You mean she gassed herself?” I asked, going cold.
“That’s right, the poor lamb. The room was sealed with adhesive
tape . . . roll upon roll of adhesive tape, and the gas oven going full
blast. I’ll never be able to buy adhesive tape again without thinking of
her.” The words were a vibrationless hum, intimate and secret-
sounding. The perpetual smile bothered me too.
“I see,” I said, turning away.
Well, that was that. I felt suddenly deflated, a little sick, infinitely
sad.
I thought: If you had only waited twenty-four hours, Netta, we’d
have faced whatever it was together, and we’d have licked it.
“Thank you,” I said at the door.
“Don’t thank me, baby,” he said, heaving himself out of the chair
and following me on to the landing. “It’s nice to know I’ve rendered a
little service, although a sad one. I can see you’re suffering from
shock, but you’ll get over it. Plenty of hard work is the best healer.
Doesn’t Byron say, The busy have no time for tears? Perhaps you don’t
admire Byron. Some people don’t.”
I stared at him, not seeing him, not listening to him. From out of
the past, I heard Netta’s voice saying: “So the fool killed himself. He
hadn’t the guts to take what was coming to him. Well, whatever I do,
I’d be ready to pay for it. I wouldn’t take that way out-ever.”
She had said that one night when we had read of a millionaire
who had bulled when he should have beared and had blown out his
brains. I remembered how Netta had looked when she had said that,
and I felt a little cold breath of wind against my cheek.
There was something wrong here. I knew Netta would never have
killed herself.
I pulled my hat farther down on my nose, felt in my pocket for a
cigarette, offered the carton.
“Why did she do it?” I asked.
“I’m Julius Cole,” the pixy said, drawing out a cigarette from the
carton between a grubby forefinger and thumb. “Are you a friend of
hers?”
I nodded. “I knew her a couple of years ago,” I said, lighting his
cigarette and then mine.
He smiled. “She would be interested in an American,” he said as if
to himself. “And, of course, with her figure and looks an American
would be interested in her.” He looked up, his eyes sleepy. “It would
be interesting to know the exact number of girls in this country who
were ravished by American service men during their stay here,
wouldn’t it? I make a point of collecting such statistics.” He lifted his
broad, limp shoulders. “Probably a waste of time,” he added, wagging
his head.
“How did it happen?” I said sharply.
“You mean, why did she do it?” he gently corrected me. Again he
lifted his shoulders. The silk of his dressing-gown rustled. “It’s a
mystery, baby. No note . . . five pounds in her bag . . . food in the
refrigerator . . . no love letters . . . no one knows.” He raised his
eyebrows, smiled. “Perhaps she was with child. “
I couldn’t continue this conversation. Talking about Netta with
him was like reading something written on a lavatory wall.
“Well, thanks,” I said, and walked down the stairs.
“Don’t mention it, baby,” he said. “So sad for you: so
disappointing.” He went back into his room and closed the door.
Chapter II
MRS. CROCKETT was a thin little woman with bright, suspicious
eyes and a thin, disapproving mouth.
I could see she didn’t recognize me. She seemed to think I was a
newspaper man after a story, and she peered at me from around the
half-open door, ready to slam it in my face.
“What do you want?” she demanded in a reedy, querulous voice.
“I ‘ave enough to do without answering a lot of silly questions, so be
off with you.”
“Don’t you remember me, Mrs. Crockett?” I asked. “I’m Steve
Harmas, one of Miss Scott’s friends.”
“One of ‘er friends, are you?” she said. “Fancy men, that’s wot I
call ‘em.” She peered at me, then nodded her head. Her eyes showed
her disapproval. “Yes, I seemed to ‘ave seen you before. Well, you’ve
‘eard what’s ‘appened to ‘er, ‘aven’t you?”
I nodded. “Yes. I wanted to talk to you about her. Did she leave
any debts? I’ll settle anything she owed.”
The disapproving look was replaced by one of greed and
calculating shrewdness.
“She owed me a month’s rent,” she said promptly. “Never
expected to get that either. Still, if you’re paying ‘er debts, may as
well ‘ave it. You’d better come in.”
I followed her along a dark passage that smelt of cats and boiled
cabbage, into a dark, dingy room crammed with bamboo furniture.
“So she owed money?” I asked, watching the woman.
“Well, no,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “She always
paid up: I’ll say that for her, but she only ‘ad the flat on the strict
understanding it’d be a month’s notice or a month’s rent.”
“I see,” I said. “Have you any idea why she did what she did?”
Mrs. Crockett stared at me, looked away. “ ‘ow should I know?”
she asked, anger in her voice. “I didn’t interfere with ‘er. I knew
nothing about ‘er.” Her thin lips set in a hard line. “She was no good. I
should never ‘ave ‘ad ‘er ‘ere. Bringing disgrace to my ‘ouse like this.”
“When did it happen?”
“The night before last. Mr. Cole smelt gas and ‘e called me. When
I couldn’t get no answer I guessed what she ‘ad done — the little
fool!” The hard eyes glittered. “Fair upset me it did. Mr. Cole sent for
the police.”
“Did you see her?”
Mrs. Crockett started back “Who? Me? Think I want to ave ‘er
‘aunting my dreams?-Not likely. Mr. Cole identified ‘ er for the police.