Why Pick On ME? (2 page)

“Not a hope. He’d probably turn you in.”

“I didn’t know it was jade. I didn’t know you could get white jade. I thought it was yellow.”

“You’re thinking of amber,” Corridon said patiently.

“Am I?” Milly looked vague. “Oh, well, I suppose I am. I don’t know how you know all these things. As soon as I saw it I knew you could tell me what it was.”

“If you went to the British Museum sometimes,” Corridon said with his jeering smile, “you’d know about things too.”

“Oh, I’d die of boredom.” She picked up her umbrella. “Catch me in the British Museum. Well, I’d better get along. Thanks for Susie’s present. I’ll get her a Mickey Mouse.”

“Good idea.” Corridon stubbed out his cigarette. “And don’t forget to get rid of that ring. Give it to the first copper you see and tell him you picked it up.”

Milly giggled.

“I believe I will: just to see his face when I give it to him. So long, Martin.”

“So long.”

Later in the evening, Corridon left the Amethyst Club much to Zani’s surprised relief without asking for a loan. The idea never entered Corridon’s head. He walked to his garage flat in Grosvenor Mews.

On his way, he saw Milly standing at the corner of Piccadilly and Albermarle Street. She was talking to a slightly-built man in a dark overcoat and hat. Corridon glanced at her as he passed, but she didn’t see him. She took the man’s arm, and together they walked up Albermarle Street towards her second-floor flat.

Corridon hadn’t given her companion more than a quick, indifferent glance. He was at that moment occupied with his plans for the future. Usually he was extremely observant, and had he been concentrating, he would have been able to retain in his memory a detailed picture of the man. As it was, his mind wrestling with his own problems, the man was no more to him than a featureless, shadowy figure.

II

For a year now Corridon had lived in a three-room flat over a garage behind St. George’s Hospital. A woman came in every day to keep it clean, and Corridon had his meals out. He scarcely ever used the small, shabbily-furnished sitting-room. It was damp and dark and noisy.

The bedroom, also damp and dark, overlooked a high wall that shut out the light and ran with water when it rained. But Corridon didn’t care. He had no wish to make it a home. He had few clothes, no possessions worth bothering about, and could leave the flat at a moment’s notice, never to return.

As a place to sleep in, it served its purpose, and it had several advantages. It was near the West End. It had bars to every window, and a solid front door. The rooms over the other garages were used by commercial firms who moved out at six o’clock each night, and left Corridon the sole survivor of the long, silent mews.

He woke at eight o’clock the following morning, frowned up at the ceiling as his mind immediately took up the problem of raising sufficient capital to leave England.

He was still examining ideas, discarding most of them, as he finished shaving and began to dress. Two hundred pounds! Six months ago it would have been easy. It seemed an impossibility now.

As he fastened his tie, there came a heavy rap on the front door knocker. He went down the steep stairs that led directly to the only entrance to the flat and opened the door, expecting to find the postman. Instead, he found himself looking into the beaming face of Detective-Inspector Rawlins, C.I.D.

“Good morning,” Rawlins said. “Just the fella I want to see.”

Rawlins was a big, red-faced man in his late forties. He always managed to look as if he had just come from a fortnight’s holiday at the seaside, and even after working non-stop for sixty hours he appeared to be exuding energy, good health, and a rather overpowering jolliness. Corridon knew him to be a courageous, hard-working, conscientious policeman, scrupulously fair, but tricky. A man who cloaked a swift working mind with the beaming smile of a country parson.

“Oh, it’s you,” Corridon said, scowling. “What do you want?”

“Had breakfast yet?” Rawlins asked. “I’ll have a cup of tea with you if you’re just going to start.”

“Come in then,” Corridon said. “It won’t be tea; it’ll be coffee, and if you don’t like it, stay out.”

Rawlins followed him up the steep stairs and entered the dark flute sitting-room. While Corridon added another cup and saucer and a plate to the already laid table, Rawlins moved about the room, whistling softly under his breath, his eyes missing nothing.

“Can’t understand why you live in a hole like this,” he said. “Why don’t you get yourself something more comfortable?”

“It suits me,” Corridon returned, pouring the coffee. “I’m not one of your home-loving types. How’s the wife?”

“She’s fine.” Rawlins sipped the coffee and grunted. “I expect she’s wondering where I’ve got to. Not much of a life being a copper’s wife. Still, she’s used to it by now.”

“Fine excuse for you to spend a night on the tiles,” Corridon returned, lighting a cigarette and flopping on the settee. He stirred his coffee while he eyed Rawlins thoughtfully. Rawlins hadn’t come here to pay a social call. Corridon knew that. He was curious to know why he had come at this hour.

“I’m past the age for a night on the tiles,” Rawlins said, a little regretfully. “Where were you last night, old man?”

Corridon flicked ash on the carpet, and rubbed it gently with the toe of his reverse calf shoe.

“One of these days, Rawlins, you’ll try to be subtle, and I’ll probably faint with the shock. What’s happened?”

Rawlins beamed at him.

“You should never jump to conclusions, old boy. That’s a failing of yours. I like you, Corridon. Of course, you’re a shade over-smart, not as honest as you might be, a bit of a crook, and so on, but taken by and large…”

“All right, all right,” Corridon said curtly. “I’m not in the mood for your jovial lumberings. What’s biting you?”

Rawlins looked faintly embarrassed. Corridon, who knew him well, wasn’t impressed. He knew Rawlins’ expressions, and what they meant.

“Weren’t you talking to Milly Lawes last night?” he asked, and his quick, sharp little eyes swept over Corridon’s face.

Oh Lord! Corridon thought. I suppose she’s been pinched over that ring: the silly little mare!

“Why, yes. I bought her a drink. What of it?”

“Take her home?”

“Are you trying to be funny?” Corridon demanded, his red, fleshy face hardening. “Do you think I’m the type to take a girl like Milly home as you call it?”

“Now, don’t get excited,” Rawlins said. “You could take her home even if you didn’t stay, couldn’t you?”

“Well, I didn’t,” Corridon said curtly. “Why are you suddenly interested in Milly?”

Rawlins sipped at the coffee, his red face suddenly serious.

“You’re friendly with her, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Is she in trouble?”

Rawlins shook his head.

“Not now.”

There was a long pause while Corridon stared at him.

“What does that mean?”

“She’s dead, old man.”

Corridon put down the cup and saucer and stood up. He felt a little chill run up his spine.

“Dead? What happened?”

Rawlins grimaced.

“She was murdered last night. Around eleven-thirty.”

“I see.” Corridon began to move slowly around the room, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets. He was shocked. Milly had been part of his background. He knew he would miss her.

“We haven’t a lot to work on,” Rawlins went on. “One never has in these cases. I was wondering if you knew anything about it. Did she say she was meeting anyone?”

“She left the Amethyst Club at eleven,” Corridon told him. “I left ten minutes later. I saw her talking to a man at the corner of Piccadilly and Albermarle Street. They went together towards her flat.”

“That would be – what? Eleven-twenty?”

Corridon nodded.

“Don’t ask me to describe him. I wasn’t paying any attention. Damn it! I wish I had now. All I can tell you is he was slight, and wore a dark hat and coat; a slouch hat, not a Homburg.”

“Pity,” Rawlins said, and rubbed his jaw reflectively. “You’re usually good at spotting people, aren’t you? Well, it can’t be helped.”

Corridon stubbed out his cigarette, and lit another. He stood staring out of the window, frowning. His mind shifted away from Milly to Milly’s daughter. He’d have to do something about the child. He knew Milly hadn’t saved a bean. That made his urgent need for money even more pressing.

“Pretty messy death,” Rawlins said quietly. “Probably a maniac. These girls ask for trouble.”

Corridon glanced round.

“What happened?”

“Cut her throat and ripped her,” Rawlins said. “The fella must have gone off his head. Well, we’ll have to watch the other girls, I suppose. These motiveless sex crimes are the devil.”

“Sure it was motiveless?”

“It conforms to pattern. This isn’t the first time a tart’s been killed by a sadist,” Rawlins said, and snorted. “And it won’t be the last time.” He looked up sharply. “Do you know anything about a motive?”

“Anything stolen?” Corridon asked. “Was her handbag there?”

“Yes. As far as I know there’s nothing missing. What are you getting at?”

“Maybe nothing,” Corridon said. “Last night, she showed me a jade ring she had picked up inter room. She said one of her visitors must have dropped it. She wanted to know if it was valuable.

“A jade ring?” Rawlins was staring at Corridon, his eyes intent. “What kind of ring?”

It was Corridon’s turn to stare at Rawlins.

“It was a copy of an archer’s thumb ring in white jade. At least I think it was a copy. If it wasn’t, then it would be pretty valuable. Those things were made around 200 B.C.”

“Were they?” Rawlins stood up. “Well, well, and she showed this ring to you?”

“That’s right. What’s the matter with you? You look as if you’ve swallowed a hot potato.”

“Do I?” Rawlins stubbed out his cigarette. “Like to come over to Milly’s flat and help me look for this ring?”

“If you want me to. What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing. Come on, let’s get moving. It won’t take us five minutes. I have a police car outside.”

As they walked down the stairs, Rawlins said, “Life’s full of the damnedest coincidences, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” Corridon said. “But why particularly now?”

“Just thoughts,” Rawlins said darkly.

They climbed into the police car, and as they were whisked through the park, Rawlins went on, “Was she going to sell the ring?”

“If she could have found a buyer I think she would have sold it. I told her to give it to a copper. After I had drummed it into her head it was too easily traced to monkey with, she said she’d give it to the first policeman she met. Maybe she did.”

“I hope so,” Rawlins said.

There was scarcely any traffic along Piccadilly at that hour, and it only took them a few minutes to reach Milly’s flat in Albermarle Street.

“They’ve taken her away by now,” Rawlins said as he climbed the stairs, breathing heavily, “but the room isn’t very pretty.”

“I can stand it if you can,” Corridon said sarcastically.

“I suppose you can. I was forgetting you’re used to horrors.”

A constable saluted smartly as they reached the top floor.

“Yates still here?” Rawlins asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Come on in,” Rawlins went on to Corridon. “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

“Not to her flat,” Corridon returned, following the Inspector’s broad back into a little hall.

Rawlins turned a door handle and pushed open the door. He walked into a big, airy bedroom where Detective-Sergeant John Yates with two other plain clothes detectives were using insufflators, distributing graphite on the bathroom door and the window-sills.

At the far end of the room stood the bed. Corridon came into the room, his hands in his trouser pockets, his face set and hard. The bed, the wall at the head of the bed, and the carpet were splashed and saturated with blood. That end of the room looked like an abattoir. Immediately above the head of the bed were a set of bloody handprints.

“Hers,” Rawlins said grimly. “He cut her throat first so she couldn’t scream.”

“Save the details. I don’t want to hear them,” Corridon said harshly.

Rawlins went over to a chest of drawers. On the top of it stood Milly’s handbag. He opened it and emptied its contents on to the floor.

He and Corridon bent over the pathetic symbols of Milly’s abruptly ended life. There was a powder compact, a cigarette-case, a wallet containing six five-pound notes, a grimy handkerchief and a number of visiting cards held together by an elastic band.

Rawlins poked about inside the bag and then dropped it.

“It’s not there. Here, Yates.”

Yates, a short, broad-shouldered man with iron-grey hair and searching blue eyes came over. He eyed Corridon without interest, and then concentrated on Rawlins.

“Seen a ring made of white stone around?” Rawlins asked. “Probably white jade.”

“No. We’ve been over the place, but we’ve seen nothing like that.”

“Go over it again. It’s important,” Rawlins said. “Make a job of it. I don’t think you’ll find it. I’ll be surprised if you do.” As Yates moved away to start the search, Rawlins opened the bathroom door and beckoned Corridon to follow him.

The bathroom was small, and there was scarcely room for the two men to move. Rawlins closed the door, edged his way to the toilet, lowered the flap and sat on it.

“Squat on the bath. I want to talk to you.”

“Why not talk outside?” Corridon said, sitting on the edge of the bath, “Or are you being mysterious again?”

“That’s right,” Rawlins beamed. “This is something I don’t want to broadcast. Seen Colonel Ritchie lately?”

Corridon made no attempt to conceal his surprise. He stared at Rawlins blankly.

“Why bring him up?”

“Play along with me,” Rawlins pleaded. “You know I like my fun. Just answer the questions. You’ll be put in the picture before long.”

Corridon took out a packet of Players, offered it. While he lit Rawlins’ cigarette, and then his own, he said, “No, I haven’t seen him. I haven’t seen him since I quit in 1945.”