all my old vigour back and a sharp edge to my temper, I returned to
the Savoy.
Crystal was there to welcome me. The room was cluttered up
with a mass of flowers and smelt like a florist’s. There was a bottle of
champagne in a bucket, and it only needed a brass band and the Lord
Mayor to complete the home-coming atmosphere.
“Darling!” Crystal exclaimed, throwing her arms around my neck
and doing her best to strangle me. “Welcome home!”
“Who’s paying for the champagne?” I demanded, removing her
arms.
“You are, precious,” she said brightly. “Let’s open it and drink your
health. My poor little tonsils are withering for a drink.”
“Not at seven pounds a bottle we won’t,” I said firmly. “That goes
back to where it came from. I suppose I’m paying for all these flowers
too?”
“I knew you wouldn’t mind,” Crystal returned slipping her arm
through mine and pressing her face against my shoulder. “I’ll take
them home if you don’t like them, but you’ll have to pay for them as
I’m a little short right now. They do make the room look lovely, don’t
they?”
“Sure, but what are they going to do to my bank balance? This is
as bad as being married. Now, suppose you sit down and let me look
through my mail. I’ve been out of circulation for the past four days. I
shall have some catching up to do.”
“Oh, there’s plenty of time for that,” she said. “Aren’t you glad to
see me? You haven’t even kissed me yet.”
I kissed her. “There, now sit down and keep quiet for a moment.”
“I do love you, Steve, in spite of your poor battered face,” she
went on, sitting down. “But I do wish you were a more romantic
type.”
“It’s nice of you to call it a face,” I said, glancing into the mirror,
grimacing. “Sorry about being the wrong type. You’d better get in
touch with Frank Sinatra if that’s the way you feel.”
She lifted her shoulders in a hopeless shrug. “At least I haven’t
any competition,” she said. “That’s the only_ advantage a girl gets in
going around with a fish like you.”
“One of these days, when I have the time, I’l prove to you I have
blood and not warm water in my veins,” I returned, smiling at her. I
picked up my mail, sorted through it. I read the letter from
Merryweather, full of apologies, but withdrawing from the case with
pathetic determination. There was a note from Corridan,
congratulating me on my recovery, hoping I would soon be going
home, and again advising me, now that I was lucky to be still alive, not
to interfere with what was obviously not my business. I tossed the
letter into the wastepaper-basket. The rest of my mail was from
America and needed immediate attention.
I shooed Crystal out, promising to meet her that evening, sat
down and worked solidly until lunch time.
After lunch, before settling down to the fourth of my articles on
Past-War Britain, I turned Jack Bradley up in the telephone book,
found he had a flat in Hay’s Mews. I noted the address, closed the
book with a vicious bang. Sometime during the night, I proposed to
call on Mr. Bradley, and he was going to remember my visit.
In the evening I met Crystal and we had supper together at the
Vanity Fair.
She was looking enchanting in an ice-blue evening gown which
she said had been a reward for a strictly one-sided wrestling match
with one of the club’s patrons. I tactfully didn’t ask her who had won.
“That horrible policeman friend of yours was in the club this
afternoon,” she said after we had worked through an excel ent veal
escalope.
“You mean Corridan?” I asked, interested.
She nodded. “He spent half an hour with Bradley, and on his way
out, he passed me and said I was to be sure to tell you I had seen him
because you like to know what was going on, and to say that curiosity
killed the cat.”
I laughed. “The guy’s getting to be quite a kidder. Now, I wonder
what he wanted with Bradley? Have you ever seen him in the club
before?”
She shook her head. “Oh, no. Policemen never come to the club
as a rule. Bradley was furious as he showed Corridan the door.
Corridan must have said something frightful y rude because Bradley
never shows his feelings.”
“One of these days I too am going to say something frightfully
rude to Mr. Bradley,” I said grimly.
She put her hand on mine. “You won’t do anything silly, precious,
will you?”
“I never do anything silly except make love to you.”
She glared at me. “You don’t call that making love, do you?”
“I don’t know what else you call it. I was under the impression
that we were on intimate terms.”
“One of these days I’ll forget I’m a lady,” she said darkly, “then
you’ll know what being on intimate terms really means. It’l be an
experience you won’t forget in a hurry.”
“Hastily changing the subject,” I said, patting her hand, “have you
heard anything from Selma Jacobi?”
She sighed. “Here it comes,” she said, shaking her head. “More
questions. I don’t know why I bother to waste the best hours of my
life in your company. I haven’t heard anything from Selma. I don’t
suppose I ever shall. I expect she’s started an entirely new life.
Sometimes I think it’d be a good idea if I did the same thing.”
“Never mind about your life for a moment,” I returned. “Let’s
concentrate on Selma. Has she any friends? I mean, close friends who
might know where I could find her?”
“You’re not going to chase her, are you?” Crystal demanded, her
eyebrows shooting up. “She simply isn’t your type. She’d bore you in
five minutes. You can’t do better than stick to me. After al I’m your
first and only love.”
“This is strictly business, honey,” I said patiently. “I’m trying to
solve a murder case. If I could talk to Selma I think I could get
somewhere. Do you know any of her friends?”
“I love that line about being strictly business. It’s the hamiest of
them all. But I suppose you’ll go on and on until you wear me down so
I’d better tell you. There is one fellow who was awfully keen on her at
one time, and before George Jacobi turned up they were always going
around together. His name was Peter French.”
I rubbed my chin, stared at her. Peter . . . could he be the Peter
Mrs. Brambee had mentioned.
“Do you know where he hangs out?” I asked.
“He runs a garage in Shepherd Market,” Crystal told me, went on
to give me the address. “He’s often told me if I want any petrol I could
get it from him. That’s the sort of man he is- he knows I haven’t a car.”
“You’re quite helpful in your dizzy way,” I said. “Remind me to
reward you when we’re alone.”
After dinner I put Crystal in a taxi as she had decided reluctantly
that she had better show up at the
Blue Club, and then I walked
around to Shepherd Market, only a few minutes from the Vanity Fair.
French’s garage was in one of the back alleys of the Market. It was
merely a large concrete wilderness, equipped with a bench and a pit,
and didn’t look the kind of place that made money.
I wandered up. Two men in soiled dungarees, lounging at the
open doors, regarded me without interest. One of them, a short fat
guy, bald as an egg, took a cigarette butt from behind his ear, lit it,
dragged down smoke. The other, younger, his face and hands
smeared with oil, eyed the butt vacantly, rubbed his shoulders against
the wall.
“Mr. French around?” I asked the bald-headed guy.
He eyed me over. “Who shall I say?” he asked. “I don’t know if ‘e’s
in or out.”
I grinned. “Tell him I’ve been recommended by the Blue Club, and
I’d be glad if he could spare me a moment.”
The bald-headed guy wandered into the garage, disappeared up
some stairs at the back.
“You keep open late,” I said to the young fellow.
He grunted. “We ain’t as late as this usually, but we’re waiting for
a job to come in.”
After a few minutes, the fat guy came back.
“Upstairs, first door on the right,” he said.
I thanked him, skirted a pool of oil, walked across the vast
expanse of dirty concrete. Half-way across, I paused. In the far corner
of the garage stood a magnificent yellow-and-black Bentley. I
hesitated, made a move towards it, glanced up to find the baldheaded
guy watching me.
“Some car,” I said.
He continued to stare at me, said nothing.
I memorised the number plate, wondered if it was the same car
that Littlejohns had seen at Lakeham, and that Crystal had said
belonged to Netta’s mysterious boy friend. I thought it was too much
of a coincidence not to be, walked up the stairs, repeating the number
in my mind. I rapped on the first door on my right, heard a man’s
voice call, “Come in.”
I pushed open the door, walked into a big room so luxuriously
furnished that I came to an abrupt stop. A fine Chinese carpet covered
the centre of the floor; polished boards that really were polished, set
off the surrounds. A big desk stood by the window, comfortable and
inviting arm-chairs were dotted about the room. The drapes and
colour scheme were bright and modern. It was an extraordinary
contrast to the filthy garage downstairs.
A man stood with his back to the vast brick fireplace, a cigar in his
thick fingers, a large brandy inhaler on the mantelpiece within reach.
He was around thirty-five, dark, bulky, big. He looked a foreigner, was
probably a Jew. His black hair was parted in the centre, grew back
from his narrow forehead in two hard, set waves. His black eyes were
like sloes, his complexion like the underbel y of a fish. He looked
impressive because he was so well-groomed, so poised, so obviously
well-to-do, confident in himself and his money.
He eyed me over without much enthusiasm, nodded. “Good
evening,” he said. “I didn’t get your name. It was something to do
with the Blue Club, wasn’t it?”
“I’m Steve Harmas of the New York Clarion,” I said. “Glad to know
you, Mr. French.”
His eyelids narrowed a trifle, but he shook hands, waved me to a
chair.
“Sit down. Have a cigar.” he said, “and this brandy isn’t exactly
poison.” He gave a depreciatory smirk, added, “I pay eight pounds a
bottle for the damn stuff, so it can’t be too bad.”
I said I’d sample the brandy, but preferred a cigarette to a cigar.
While he was pouring the brandy into an inhaler, I studied him.
I remembered Crystal’s description of the man in the yellow-and-
black Bentley. It fitted French well enough. He was more likely to be
the owner of a car like that than Julius Cole. I couldn’t imagine Netta
going around with Cole, but I could see her being fascinated by this
guy.
“Nice little place you have here,” I said, accepting the inhaler.
“Comes as a surprise after the garage.”
He smiled, nodded. “I believe in comfort, Mr. Harmas,” he
returned. “I work long hours, spend most of my life in this room.
What’s the point in not having nice surroundings?”
I agreed with him, wondered if I should make a direct approach or
get around to it more cautiously.
“Your bruises are a little too obvious to ignore,” he went on,
regarding me with friendly curiosity. “If a fellow has a black eye, I
don’t pass remarks. Probably his girl friend has lost her temper with
him; but when a fellow has two black eyes and the rest of his face
resembles a rainbow, I feel it’d be unsympathetic not to offer
condolences.”
I laughed, “That’s swell of you,” I said, “and you’re not the only
one as you can imagine. A good newspaper man, Mr. French, has to
be inquisitive. He can’t afford to mind his own business. Three
powerful y built gentlemen didn’t like my methods. They pooled their
muscles and attempted to alter the shape of my face, with some
success, as you can see.”
He raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips. “I do see,” he said. “I must
say I should be distinctly annoyed if anyone did that to me.”
I nodded. “Oh, I’m annoyed al right, but I didn’t come here to talk
about my face. I came because I thought you might be able to help
me.”
He nodded, looked a little wary, waited.
“I believe you know Selma Jacobi,” I said, deciding to give it to him
straight.
He put the inhaler on the mantelpiece, frowned. “Nothing doing,
my friend,” he said shortly. “Sorry, but I’m not talking to a newspaper
man about Mrs. Jacobi. If that’s all you’ve come about then I’ll say
good night.”
“I’m not talking to you as a newspaper man,” I said. “My paper
wouldn’t be interested in Mrs. Jacobi. I’m talking to you as a friend of
Netta Scott’s.”
He stared at his cigar thoughtful y, moved away from the fireplace
to the window.
“You knew Netta Scott?” he said. “So did I.”
I didn’t say anything, wondered if I should ask him if he owned the
Bentley, decided I wouldn’t.
“But what has Netta Scott to do with Mrs. Jacobi?” he went on,
after a pause.
“I don’t know,” I said, stretching out my legs. “But I have a hunch
there is a connection. I think Netta knew George Jacobi. I want to be
sure. Maybe Selma could tell me.”
“Why do you want to know that?” he asked, still looking out of
the window.
“Maybe it’d explain why she committed suicide,” I said. “You
know about that?”
“Yes,” he said, hunched his massive shoulders as if the subject
wasn’t to his taste. “Why should you be interested in Netta’s suicide?”
“I don’t believe in letting sleeping dogs lie,” I said. “I’ve told you
I’m inquisitive. Netta wasn’t the type
to commit suicide. I’m
wondering if there’s more behind it than I think.”
He glanced over his shoulder, started to say something, stopped.
There was a long pause, then he said. “I haven’t seen Mrs. Jacobi
for two or three months-not since she married.”
“Know where she lives?”
“She isn’t there any more,” he returned. “The place is shut up.”
“Where is it?”
He faced me. “What does it matter where it is? She isn’t there, I
tell you.”
“Maybe she’ll come back. Look, let me put it this way. The police
are looking for you. At least, they’re looking for a big guy who’s first
name is Peter, and who knew Netta. I’m not interested in helping the
police. But they’d welcome the chance of talking to you, and they’d be
a lot less polite than I am. I want Selma Jacobi’s address. Either you
give it to me or you’ll give it to the police. I don’t care which way it is,
only make up your mind.”
He chewed his cigar which had gone out, always a sign a guy’s got
something on his mind.
“What makes you think the police want to talk to me?” he asked,
his voice cold.
I told him about Anne Scott, and what Mrs. Brambee had said.
“I’ve never heard of Anne Scott,” he snapped. “I didn’t even know
Netta had a sister.”
“Don’t tell me; tel the judge. All I’m interested in is finding out
Selma’s address.”
“I don’t want the police nosing around here,” he said, after a
pause. “I’d take it as a favour if you kept your mouth shut. Selma lived
at 3B Hampton Street, off Russell Square. Now suppose you take
yourself off. I have things to do before I go home, and I’ve given you
quite enough of my time.”
I got to my feet. “Have you a photo of Selma?”
He studied me for a moment, shook his head. “I don’t collect
photographs of married women,” he said. “Good night.”
“Well, thanks,” I said, “you won’t be bothered by the police
through any information from me.” I turned to the door, paused.
“That’s a fine car downstairs. Is it yours?”
He eyed me. “Yes. What of it?”
“Nothing. You’re lucky to have a car like that.”
“Good night,” he repeated. “I’m beginning to understand how you
got your face damaged. I’m also beginning to feel sorry those fellows
didn’t make a better job of it.”
No Business Of Mine Page 15
