After ten minutes, the dismal guy came out. I was waiting for him
near his car, and he gave me a sharp, unfriendly look as he opened his
car door.
“Pardon me, doc,” I said, “I’m a newspaper man. Can you tell me
what’s going on in there?”
“You must ask Inspector Corridan,” he snapped back, got into his
car, drove away.
The policeman at the gate grinned behind his hand.
After a while the other policeman came out of the cottage,
whispered something to his colleague, hurried off down the lane.
“I suppose he’s gone to buy Corridan a toffee apple,” I said to the
policeman at the gate. “But don’t tell me. Just let it mystify me.”
The policeman grinned sympathetical y. I could see he was the
gossiping type and was bursting to talk to someone.
“E’s off to get Mrs. Brambee wot looks after this ‘ere cottage,” he
said, after a quick look around to make sure he wasn’t overheard.
“Someone dead in there?” I asked, jerking my thumb to the
cottage.
He nodded. “A young lady,” he returned, moving closer to the
Buick. “Pretty little thing. Suicide, of course. Put ‘er ‘ead in the gas
oven. Been dead three or four days I should say.
“Never mind what you say,” I returned. “What did the doc say.”
The policeman grinned a little sheepishly. “That’s wot ‘e did say as
a matter of fact.”
I grunted. “Is it Anne Scott?”
“I dunno. The doc couldn’t identify ‘er. That’s why Bert’s gone for
this ‘ere Mrs. Brambee.”
“What’s comrade Corridan doing in there?” I asked.
“Sniffing around,” the policeman returned, shrugging. From the
expression on his face I guessed Corridan wasn’t his favourite person.
“I bet ‘e’s trying to make out there’s more to this than meets the eye.
The Yard men always do. It ‘elps their promotion.”
I thought this was a little unfair, but didn’t say so, turned around
to watch two figures coming down the lane. One of them was Bert,
the policeman, the other was a tall, bulky woman in a pink sack-like
dress.
“Here they come,” I said, nodding in their direction.
The woman was walking quickly. She had a long stride, and the
policeman seemed pressed to keep up with her. As they drew nearer,
I could see her face. She was dark, sun-tanned, about forty, with a
mass of black greasy hair, rolled up in an untidy bun at the back of her
head. Straggling locks of hair fell over her face, and she kept brushing
them back with a hand as big as a man’s.
She ran up the flagged path. Her eyes were wild, her mouth was
working. She looked as if she were suffering from acute grief and
shock.
Bert winked at the other policeman as he followed the woman
into the cottage.
I lit another cigarette, settled down in the car, waited a little
anxiously.
A sudden animal-like cry drifted through the open windows, and
was followed by the sound of wild hysterical sobbing.
“It must be Anne Scott,” I said, troubled.
“Looks like it,” the policeman returned, staring in the direction of
the cottage.
After a long while the sobbing died down. We waited almost half
an hour before the woman appeared again. She walked slowly, her
face hidden by a dirty handkerchief, her shoulders sagging.
The policeman opened the gate for her, helped her through by
taking her elbow. It was meant sympathetical y, but she immediately
shook him off.
“Take your bloody hands off me,” she said in a muffled voice,
went on down the lane.
“A proper lady,” the policeman said, chewing his chin-strap and
going red.
“Maybe she’s been reading Macbeth,” I suggested, but that didn’t
seem to console him.
It was how almost an hour and a half since I had seen Corridan. I
was hungry. It was past one-thirty; but I decided to wait, hopeful I
might see something more or get a chance of telling Corridan what I
thought of him.
Ten minutes later he came to the door and waved to me. I was
out of the car, past the policeman in split seconds.
“All right,” he said curtly as I dashed up to him. “I suppose you
want to look around. But for God’s sake don’t tell anyone I’ve let you
in.”
I decided that after al I hadn’t wasted my money feeding this lug.
“Thanks,” I said. “I won’t tell a soul.”
There was still a strong smel of gas in the cottage, which grew
stronger as we entered the kitchen.
“It’s Anne Scott all right,” Corridan said gloomily, pointing to a
huddled figure lying on the floor.
I stood over her, felt inadequate, could think of nothing to say.
She wore a pink dressing-gown and white pyjamas, her feet were
bare, her hands clenched tightly into fists. Her head lay hidden in the
gas oven. By moving around, carefully stepping over her legs, I could
see into the oven. She was a blonde, about twenty-five; even in death
she was attractive, although I could see no resemblance to Netta in
the serene rather lovely face.
I stepped back, looked at Corridan. “Sure she’s Anne Scott?” I
asked.
He made an impatient movement. “Of course,” he said. “The
woman identified her. You’re not trying to make out there’s a mystery
in this, are you?”
“Odd they should both commit suicide, isn’t it?” I said, feeling in
my bones that something was very wrong.
He jerked his head, walked into the sitting-room.
“Read that,” he said, handed me a sheet of note-paper. “It was
found by her side.”
I took the note, read:
Without Netta life means nothing to me. Please forgive me. ANNE.
I handed it back. “After fifty years in the police force, I feel
justified in saying that’s a plant,” I said.
He took the paper. “Don’t try to be funny,” he said coldly.
I grinned. “Who do you suppose it was addressed to?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Mrs. Brambee tells me a lot of
men used to come down here. There was one fellow-Peter-who Anne
used to talk a lot about. Maybe it was for him.”
“Would that be Peter Utterly?” I asked. “The guy who gave Netta
the gun?”
Corridan rubbed his chin. “Doubtful,” he said. “Utterly went back
to the States a month or so ago.”
“Yeah, I’d forgotten that,” I said, wandering over to the writing-
desk that stood in the window recess. “Well, I suppose you’ll look for
this guy?” I opened the lid of the desk, glanced inside. There were no
papers, no letters. All the pigeon-holes had been carefully cleared.
“She tidied up before she threw in her hand,” I pointed out. “Any
letters or papers anywhere?”
He shook his head.
“No means of checking if the handwriting of the note is really
Anne’s?”
“My dear fellow . . .” he began a little tartly.
“Skip it,” I said. “I’ve a suspicious nature. Find anything
interesting?”
“Nothing,” he returned, eyed me narrowly. “I’ve searched the
place thoroughly; there’s nothing to connect her with forged bonds,
diamond rings or anything like that. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I’ll get over it,” I said, grinning. “Just give me time. Find any silk