"Take it easy," I said, holding her close. "What we need is a drink. Have you any Scotch in the place?"

She shuddered, clung more tightly. "It's in there," she said. I knew where she meant. I pushed her gently away, sat her on the bed.

"Hang on," I said. "I'll be right back."

"No!" she exclaimed, her voice shooting up. "You mustn't leave me. Steve! You mustn't leave me." She caught hold of my wrist, her nails bit into my flesh.

"It's all right," I said, trying to stop my teeth chattering. "I'll be right back. Take it easy, can't you?"

"No! You won't come back. You're going to run out on me. You're going to leave me in this mess. You're not to, Steve ! You're not to!"

She began to cry again, then suddenly she put her hands to her face and screamed wildly.

The sound went through my head like white-hot wires. I was stiff with fright. I snatched her hands away, smacked her face hard, knocking her backwards across the bed.

I stood over her. "Shut up, you little fool," I said, trembling, sweating. "Do you want someone to come here with that in there?"

She stopped screaming, looked up at me, her eyes empty; one side of her face red where I had hit her.

"I'm coming back," I went on. "Stay still and don't make a sound."

I crossed the passage, went into the sitting room. He was still there, small, defenceless, pathetic. I looked down at him, feeling bad.

I looked at his worn suit, at his shabby boots, at his thick ribbed socks that hung in wrinkles. I looked at the terror in his eyes, the twisted mouth. I reached down, patted his arm.

Clutched tightly between his finger and thumb was a scrap of paper. I bent closer, gently pulled it from between his fingers. It was a glossy scrap of paper-a piece torn from a photograph. I stared at it, puzzled.

A bluebottle walked across one of his fixed eyes, then buzzed around his blood. I shivered, put the scrap of paper in my vest pocket, went to the cupboard by the fireplace and found a full bottle of Scotch. I carried it and two glasses into the bedroom, shut the door.

Netta was lying face down across the bed. Her skirt had nicked up and I could see an inch or so of bare thigh. Bare thighs mean nothing to a guy in a moment like this. Her thigh meant less than nothing to me.

I poured a. big shot of whisky into both glasses, noted my hand was no steadier than an aspen leaf. I drank the liquor; it went down like water, hit my stomach; a moment later, I felt alive again.

I leaned over Netta, pulled her up.

"Come on," I said, "get this down into you."

I had to feed it to her. Her hand made mine look like a rock. She got it down, gagged, then stopped crying. I gave her my handkerchief, gave myself another shot of Liquor, put the bottle down.

"Have a cigarette," I said, pushing one between her trembling lips, took one myself, lit both.

I sat on the bed, at her side.

You have to talk, and talk fast," I said. "I'll help you if I can. I don't know what game you've been playing or why, but if you'll give it me straight, I'll do what I can for you. Now, shoot."

She dragged down smoke, pressed back the mass of red hair that was hiding her face. She looked pretty bad. Dark shadows circled her eyes; her nose seemed pinched. She had lost a lot of weight since last I saw her. Worse still, she had a blank, crazy expression in her eyes that scared me. I didn't like that expression. The rest of her looks were bad, but nothing rest and sunshine couldn't put right. But the blank expression was something else: I had seen it in the faces of the French girls after days of air strafing or after we'd rescued them from some Hun. It was that kind of expression.

"I killed him," she said quietly. The whisky had pulled her together as I meant it to do. "I heard a sound, crept in there. It was dark. I saw something move and hit out." She shuddered, hid her face. "Then I put on the light. Ia"I thought it was Peter French."

I was listening, sitting forward, cigarette between my lips, listening with both ears.

"It won't do, Netta," I said, putting my hand on her knee. aWe'll start from the beginning. Never mind about the little guy. Forget him for the moment. Start right from the beginning."

She clenched her fists, not looking up.

"I can't go through all that. I can't."

"You've got to. Come on, Netta. If I'm to help you, I must know how bad it is. Right from the beginning."

"No!" She sprang to her feet, upsetting the glass she had balanced on the divan. "Let me go! I can't stay here with him in there. You've got to get me away."

I grabbed her wrists, shook her, dragged her down beside me on the bed.

"Shut up!" I said fiercely. "You're not moving out of here until you've talked. Do you know what you're asking me to do? You're asking me to stick my neck in a noose."

She gasped, tried to break away, but I held her close.

"I won't do that for anyone, Netta. Not unless I'm sure whoever it is is worth it and deserves it. That goes for you, so if you want my help, sit still and talk, and talk fast."

She went limp against me, her breath coming in shuddering gasps.

"Listen, Netta," I went on, "that little guy was working for me. Maybe you didn't mean to kill him, but you killed him just the same, and nothing either of us can do can bring him back to life again. I liked him, and I feel bad about it. He had a lot of guts. If it'd been anyone else but you I'd be calling the police right now. But I haven't forgotten what you did for me in the past. I owe you plenty, but I'm not helping you until you talk. Now relax and tell me. Tell me everything from the beginning."

She beat her hands together. "But what do you want to know?" she gasped. "Can't you see, Steve, the longer we stay here the worse it'll be? They'll find us . . . find me."

"Who was the girl in your flat . . . the one who died?" I asked, deciding questions were more direct, would get me quicker results.

She shuddered. "Anne . . . my sister."

"Who was the guy with her?"

She looked up. "How did you know . . . ?"

I took hold of her chin between finger and thumb, looked into her eves. She didn't flinch.

"Quit stalling," I said. "Answer my questions. Who was the guy with her."

"Peter French."

"What was he to her?"

"Her lover."

"And to you?"

"Nothing."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

"He killed her, didn't he?"

Her face went paler, her teeth chewed her lower lip, but she said it, "Yes."

I drew back, wiped my face with the back of my hand.

"Why?"

"She found out he killed George Jacobi."

"How?"

She shook her head. "She never had the chance to tell me."

"French and you were seen around together. How did that come about?"

"He was trying to find Anne. He thought if he kept near me I'd lead him to her."

"Where was she?"

"Hiding. She found out he and Jacobi were behind the Allenby robbery, and then later that French had killed Jacobi. She was scared, so she hid."

"And French found her?"

She nodded. "He found her in a night club. She was drunk. Anne was always getting drunk. French knew that, and he was afraid she'd talk. He brought her to me."

aWhy?a She twisted her hands in her lap. "He wanted to talk to her, to find out how much she knew. The night club was close and there wasn't much time."

"When did they arrive?"

"About one. I was asleep. I let them in. I could see Anne was terrified, although she was very drunk. She managed to whisper to me that French was going to kill her, and I wasn't to let her out of my sight." Netta hid her face. "I can hear her voice now."

I poured out another shot of whisky, fed it down her throat.

"Keep going," I said. "Then what happened?"

"I didn't know what to do. I wanted to get dressed, but Anne wouldn't let me leave her alone with French, and he wouldn't let her go into my room. I stalled for time, and brought out drinks. He spiked our drinks. I went out like a light. I hadn't a chance to warn Anne. It worked so quickly. I heard Anne scream, and then I knew nothing more."

"Then he murdered her?" I asked quietly.

She nodded dully, struggled with her tears. "I'm so frightened. He'll do the same to me!"

"Take it easy. What happened then? Come on, Netta, I want the whole story. What happened then?"

"I have a confused recollection of getting into my clothes, being half carried down the stairs. Ju Cole was on the landing. French spoke to him, but I was too doped to hear what was said. French pushed me out of the house. The night air pulled me together, and I started to struggle." She closed her eyes. "He hit me, and the next thing I remember was being in his car. I struggled up, and he hit me again. I came to later in a room. There was a woman watching me: Mrs. Brambee. French came in after a while. He warned me he'd kill me if I didn't stay there and do what I was told."

"Ever hear of Mrs. Brambee before?"

She nodded. "Anne had a cottage at Lakeham. French bought it for her. He used to go down weekends or whenever he had the time. Mrs. Brambee looked after the place."

"Why did they keep you a prisoner?" I asked, giving her another cigarette.

"French wanted the police to think I and not Anne died in my flat."

"But why, for God's sake?"

"He knew they couldn't trace him through me, but he and Anne had been around a lot together, and he was scared they'd connect him with her death. There was something going on at the cottage he didn't want the police to find out, and he thought the police would find the cottage if they began to make inquiries about Anne."

"What was going on at the cottage?"

"I don't know."

"How did you find this out?"

"Mrs. Brambee told me. She was scared of French and liked Anne."

"When I turned up, he realized his scheme wouldn't work, is that it?"

"Yes. But Cole telephoned him, told him you had been up and that you would most likely want to see thea"the body. French got into a panic, and with a couple of his men took Anne from the mortuary. They rushed her down to the cottage, fixed it to look as if Anne had committed suicide there instead of at my flat."

"Well, I'll be double damned," I exclaimed. "You mean to tell me the girl who died in your flat and the girl found in the cottage were one and the same?"

"It was Anne."

"But one of them was a redhead and the other a blonde."

Netta shuddered. "French stopped at nothing. My hair's not really red. I had a bottle of henna dye and he dyed Anne's hair while she was drugged. Then when he brought her to the cottage he used a peroxide wash, brought her hair back to its natural colour."

I grimaced. This guy was certainly a cold-blooded rat if ever there was one.

"Well, go on, what happened then?"

"I was in the way. The police were looking for my body. French planned to kill me and plant my body where the police could find it. Ju Cole wouldn't let him. Ju and I had always got on together. As long as Ju was with me, I was safe. He told me French had planted one of Allenby's rings in my flat and the police were looking for me. I got scared. I thought the police were after me, and I knew French was waiting his chance to kill me. I made Ju help me escape. I got away, came to London. There was only one place I could think of to hide in . . . here. Selma and I were friends. I used to come here in the old days, before she married Jacobi. I knew Selma had gone to America with Peter, after George had been killed. Peter smuggled her over."

"Peter? Peter who?"

She frowned, passed her hand across her eyes. "I was forgetting you didn't know him. Peter Utterly. He was an American, over here in the Army. He was nice, and when Selina was in trouble, he offered to take her back to his home and to look after her."

"Was he the guy who gave you the Luger pistol?"

"Luger pistol?" she repeated blankly, then nodded. "I'd forgotten that. I promised to keep it for him, but when he went we both forgot I had it. How do you know about it?"

"Corridan has it," I said. "We both thought it was the gun that had killed Jacobi."

She went white. "But they know now it isn't?"

"Sure, they know," I said, patting her knee. "I'm nearly through. Why did you go to Bradley?"