No Business Of Mine

by James Hadley Chase

  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.”