No Business of Mine

Chapter Eleven

As I was crossing the Savoy lobby to take the elevator to my room, I ran into Fred Ullman, crime reporter to the Morning Mail. We had met when I was in London during the war, and he had been helpful in advising me on angles for my articles on London crime.

He seemed as pleased to see me as I was to see him.

“We’ve just time for a drink,” he said, after we had got through back-slapping and explaining what we were doing in the Savoy at this time of night. “I don’t want to be too late as I have a heavy day before me, so don’t start one of your drinking contests.”

I said I wouldn’t, led him into the residents’ lounge, ordered whiskies, sat down.

Ullman hadn’t changed much since last we met. He was a tall, lanky individual, and his most distinctive feature was the bags under his eyes. He was known as the Fred Allen of Fleet Street.

After we had chatted about the past, checked up on the activities of mutual friends, I asked him casually if the name Jacobi meant anything to him.

I saw surprise on his face, and his eyebrows went up.

“What makes you ask?” he inquired. “A couple of months ago that name was in every English newspaper. Have you just got on to it?”

I said I had. “I heard some guy talking, and he mentioned the name. I wondered if I was missing anything.”

“I shouldn’t say you’re missing much,” he said. “The affair is as dead as a dodo now.”

“Well, tell me,” I said. “Even if it’s past news, I should know what’s been going on.”

“All right,” he returned, sinking back in his armchair. “The business began when a rich theatrical magnate, Hervey Allenby, decided to do what a number of rich people were doing: buy diamonds and other precious stones against invasion or inflation or both. He bought heavily: rings, bracelets, necklaces, loose stones; stuff that could be easily carried, and of good value. He amassed a collection worth fifty thousand pounds. As he wanted to be able to put his hands on the stuff quickly, he kept the lot in his country house. The purchase of these gems was kept secret, but after four years-three months ago-the news leaked out somehow or other, and before you could say ‘mild-and-bitter,’ the collection was pinched.”

“Quite a nice haul,” I said. The name, Hervey Allenby, made me prick up my ears. “Where was this country house?”

“Lakeham, Sussex, just outside Horsham,” Ullman returned. “I went down there to cover the robbery. The village is small, but attractive, and Allenby’s house is just a half a mile beyond it. The robbery was a real slick job. The house was crammed with burglar alarms and police dogs, and the safe was a real snorter. The thief must have been an expert. The police remarked that there was only one man who could have pulled the job: a fellow called George Jacobi.”

“Jacobi was known to the police then?”

“Oh, yes. He was one of the smartest thieves in the game, and had served several long sentences for jewel robberies. You remember Corridan? He was in charge of the robbery. We ribbed him in the Press. None of the boys like Corridan. He’s too damn cocky, and we thought this was our chance to give him a roasting. He suspected Jacobi from the start, but Jacobi had such a cast-iron alibi that Corridan hadn’t a hope of nailing him.”

“What was his alibi?”

“He said he was in an all-night poker game at the Blue Club on the night of the robbery. The waiters and the cloakroom attendant swore they had seen him arrive. Jack Bradley and a couple of other men swore Jacobi played with them the whole night. Mind you, none of these fellows were what you could call reliable witnesses, but there were so many of them, the police knew they wouldn’t be able to make their case stand up in court, so they dropped Jacobi and hunted elsewhere.”

“Without success?”

“Not a thing. It was Jacobi all right. Corridan said he wasn’t worrying. Sooner or later the thieves would try to dispose of the loot and he had a detailed description of every piece that was missing. As soon as the stuff came on to the market, he was going to pounce.”

I grunted. “Yeah, I can hear him saying that. Did he pounce?”

Ullman grinned. “No. The stuff hasn’t come on to the market yet. There’s still time, of course; unless it’s been smuggled out of the country. One of these days the case may open up again, and then it’ll be front page news. I think the trouble was that Corridan’s a shade too confident and the thieves a shade too smart.”

“What happened to Jacobi?”

“He was murdered. A month after the robbery he was found in a back street, shot through the heart. No one heard a shot, and the police think he was killed in a house and dumped from a car. They haven’t a clue to the killer, and I doubt if they ever will find him. The affair wouldn’t have caused much excitement only they found, concealed in the heel of Jacobi’s shoe, one of Allenby’s rings. They tackled Bradley again, but couldn’t shift him. There the matter rests, and that’s as far as they’ve got.”

“No clues at all?” I asked, lighting a cigarette and offering him the carton.

He took a cigarette, lit up. “There was one important clue, although it didn’t get them anywhere. The bullet that killed Jacobi had a peculiar rifling. The police reckoned it would be easy to identify the gun if they could only lay hands on it. The ballistic experts said the bullet had been fired from a German Luger pistol, and for some time they suspected one of the American troops of having a hand in the murder.”

I immediately thought of the Luger I had found in Netta’s flat. It could have been given to her by an American service man. Could that have been the weapon that had killed Jacobi? “They never found the gun?” I asked.

“No. I bet they never will, either. My guess is there were two men concerned in the robbery. Probably Jacobi did the actual job, and the other man lurked in the background, directing the operation. Most likely he was responsible for getting rid of the loot. I think the two fell out over the split and the second man killed Jacobi, and is sitting on the loot until it’s safe to put on the market. Corridan favours this idea, too.” Ullman finished his drink, glanced at his watch. “Well, I’d better be moving on,” he said. “It’s long past my bed-time.” He got to his feet. “Although I haven’t much use for Corridan as a man, I must say he’s damned efficient, and I shouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t get the stuff in the end. He’s a surly customer, but he does deliver the goods. The trouble with him is he hates newspaper men. He thinks publicity gives the criminal too much knowledge of what is going on. His idea is to say nothing, to keep the criminal guessing, not even to report the crime, and in the end, the criminal will betray himself because he’ll be over-anxious to know what the police are doing. It may be a good idea, but it doesn’t suit the Press. I wish he wouldn’t trample on my finer feelings. I could like the bloke if he had better manners.”

I grinned. “Yeah,” I said, “so could I. I’d like to steal a march on him one of these days. He’s due for a shake-up, and I may be able to give it to him.”

“Well, let me have a front seat when it happens,” Ullman said, shook hands and went off to join the queue for taxis.

I returned to my room, undressed, put on a dressing-gown, sat in my armchair.

By the merest fluke I had got hold of what seemed to be the key to the puzzle.

Corridan, of course, had no idea that the Jacobi robbery had anything to do with the death of the girl in Netta’s flat, Anne’s suicide or the murder of Madge Kennitt. If he had seen the name Jacobi scrawled in the dust in Madge’s room, he would have been on to the clue before me. But now I was holding the key to the problem, and he was still floundering about trying to find out what connection Madge’s murder had with the other two odd happenings.

Thinking it over, it now seemed certain that Netta, in some way or other, was involved in the Allenby robbery. The fact that a ring from the Allenby collection had been hidden in her jar of cold cream was suspicious, but coupled with the fact that her sister had a cottage close to the scene of the robbery and that Jack Bradley was watching me like a hawk seemed to tie her to the robbery without any doubt.

What of the Luger I had found hidden in her dress? Had Corridan checked it thoroughly? Had he discovered that it was the Luger which had killed Jacobi and was holding out on me? Or hadn’t the Luger anything to do with the case? That was something I had to find out, and find out fast.

Where did the five thousand pounds worth of forged bonds come into the picture? Had Frankie been after the Luger and the bonds when he had attacked me? If he had been after the Luger and it was the gun that had killed Jacobi mightn’t that mean that Jack Bradley owned the gun and he had killed Jacobi?

I lit a cigarette, wandered about my room. I was sure I was getting close to the solution of this business, but I still needed a little more information.

Should I tell Corridan what I had discovered? That was something that bothered me. With my facts he might clear up the whole business in a few days, whereas I might fool around for weeks and never get anywhere. I knew I should call him at once and tell him about finding Jacobi’s name written in the dust. That was the one vital clue that’d open up the case for him. I even crossed the room to the telephone, but I didn’t make the call.

After the way he had treated me, I wanted to get even with him. The sweetest way I could do this was to crack the case, walk into his office and tell him how it was done.

I hesitated, then decided to give myself seven more days, and if I hadn’t arrived at the solution by then, I’d turn the facts over to him and give him best.

Having made this decision, I got into bed, turned out the light, and lay awake for at least three minutes wrestling with my conscience.