Names can’t hurt her.”
“I wasn’t good enough for her,” the woman muttered, drained her
glass, hoisted up the bottle again. “I thought she’d come to a sticky
end. I suppose she was pregnant?”
“You know as much about it as I do,” I said.
“Perhaps I know more,” she returned, looking sly. “You’ve only
just got back, haven’t you? You don’t know what’s been going on here
during the past two years. Mr. Cole and I know most things.”
“Yeah, he doesn’t miss much,” I said, hoping to draw her. She
shook her bleached head, poured more whisky into the tumbler.
“He’s a filthy rat,” she said, closing her eyes. “Peeping and prying
all day long. I bet he knows you’re with me now.”
I nodded. “Sure. He saw me come in here.”
“It won’t do him any good. One of these days I’m going to tell him
what I think of him. I’ll enjoy that.”
“Did the police ask you anything about Netta?” I asked casual y.
She smiled. “Oh, yes, they asked questions. I didn’t tell them
anything. I don’t believe in helping the police. I don’t like them. They
came in here, sniffing and prying; I could see they thought I was a
drunken old woman. They don’t believe I have a bad heart. One of the
detectives, a cold, smug-looking brute, smirked at me. I don’t like men
smirking at me, so I didn’t tell him anything.” She poured more whisky
down her throat, grunted. “You’re an American, aren’t you?”
I said I was.
“I thought so. I like Americans. Mr. Churchill likes Americans. I like
Mr. Churchill. What he likes, I seem to like, too. I’ve noticed it over
and over again.” She waved her tumbler excitedly, slopped whisky on
her chest. “What do you do for a living?”
“Oh, I write,” I said. “I’m a newspaper man.”
She nodded. “I was sure of it. I’m good at guessing professions.
When I first saw you, coming in with that little slut, I said to myself
you were a writer. Did she know how to make love? Some of these
modern chits—especially the pretty ones rely on their looks. They
don’t know or care how to please a man. I knew. Men liked me. They
were always coming back.”
“Do you think Netta committed suicide?” I asked abruptly, rather
sick of her.
She lay still, staring up at the ceiling. “They said she did,” she
returned cautiously. “That’s a funny question to ask, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think she did,” I said, lighting another cigarette. “That’s
why I thought I’d talk to you.”
She emptied her glass, put it on the floor beside her. It toppled
over, rol ed under the chaise-longue. I thought she was beginning to
get a little tight.
“I don’t know anything about it,” she said, smiled to herself.
“Pity,” I said. “I thought you might. Maybe I’d better talk to Mr.
Cole.”
She frowned. “He won’t tel you anything. He knows too much.
Why did he tell the police Netta came home alone? I heard him. Why
did he lie about that?”
I tried not to show too much interest. “Didn’t she come home
alone? “
“Course she didn’t. Cole knows that as wel as I do.” She groped
for her bottle, hoisted it up, examined it. I could see it was a quarter
full. “This damn stuff evaporates,” she said in disgust. “A full bottle
not an hour ago, and now look at it. How the hell can I go on hunting
for the stuff if it goes like this?”
“Who else was with her?” I asked.
She didn’t seem to hear, but leaned over and tried to find the
tumbler.
“I’ll get it,” I said, bent down, hooked out the tumbler, handed it
to her. Her reeking breath fanned my cheek.
I had a glimpse of an indescribable heap of rubbish pushed under
the chaise-longue: dirty garments, shoes, cigarette cartons, crockery,
old newspapers.
She grabbed the tumbler, clutched it to her.
“Who else was with Netta?” I repeated, kneeling at her side,
looking at her intently. “Was it another girl?”
Her face showed surprise.
“How do you know?” she asked, lifting her head so she could see
me. “You weren’t there, were you?”
“So it was another girl,” I said, a sudden tingling running down my
spine.
She nodded, added, “And a man.”
Now I was getting somewhere.
“Who were they?”
A look of cunning came into the glassy eyes.
“Why should I tell you? Ask Cole if you’re so interested. He saw
them. He sees everything.”
I returned to my chair, sat down.
“I’m asking you. Listen, I don’t think it was suicide. I think it was
murder.”
She had unscrewed the cap of the whisky and was pouring the
spirit into the tumbler. The bottle and tumbler dropped out of her
hands, rolled on to the carpet. She gave a thin scream, her face turned
grey.
“Murder?” she gasped. “Murder!”
I made a dive for the bottle, but I was too late. The whisky poured
out on to the carpet.
I stood over her. “Yes,” I said. “Murder.”
“I won’t be frightened,” she exclaimed, struggling to sit up. “It’s
bad for my heart. Here, give me that whisky. I want a drink.”
“Then you’d better open another bottle,” I said, watching her
closely. “There’s none left in this one.”
“I haven’t got another bottle,” she wailed, sinking back. “Oh, God!
What am I going to do now?”
“Aw, forget it,” I exclaimed, wanting to shake her. “Who were the
man and woman who came back with Netta? What time did they
leave? Come on, this is important. They may know something.”
She lay still for a moment, a great inert lump of flesh, then she
looked at me, her smal eyes cunning.
“How important is it to you?” she demanded. “I can tell you who
the man is, and the girl, too. I know them. I can tell you what time the
man left. I saw him. I’ll tell you if you get me a bottle of whisky.”
“I’ll get you one,” I said. “I’l bring you one to-morrow. Now, come
on! Who were they?”
“I want one to-night-now.” She clenched her fat hands into fists.
“You can get one. Americans can get anything.”
“Don’t talk like a fool,” I said, exasperated. “It’s past eleven
o’clock. Of course I can’t get whisky to-night.”
“Then I’m not telling you.”
“I could call the police,” I threatened, furious with her.
She smirked. “You wouldn’t do that,” she said, winking. “I’m on to
you. You wouldn’t want to get that little slut into trouble.”
“Now, look,” I said, controlling my temper with an effort, “don’t
be unreasonable. I’ll get you the whisky to-morrow morning. I’ll get
you two bottles, and I’ll give you right now five pounds if you’ll talk. I
can’t be fairer than that.”
She half raised herself on her elbow. Her face was now dark with
frustrated fury.
“Get that damn whisky now or get out!” she screamed at me.
I got to my feet, moved across the room, back again. Then I
remembered Sam, the barman at the Blue Club. He’d sel me a bottle
of whisky if I made it worth his while.
“Okay,” I said, turning to the door. “I’ll see what I can do. But no