No Business of Mine

Chapter Twelve

Soon after eleven o’clock the following morning, I called on J. B. Merryweather. I found him sitting at his desk, totally unemployed, although he did make a feeble effort to look immersed in his thoughts when he saw me come in.

“Hello,” I said, drawing up a chair and sitting down. “Any news from Littlejohn?”

“Well, yes,” he said, straightening his tie and sitting more upright; “I heard from him this morning. He’s a good chap; gets on the job right away.”

“That’s what he gets paid for, isn’t it?” I asked, produced my carton of cigarettes. I rolled one across his desk. He snapped it up, lit it. “What has he to report?”

“There is one thing,” Merryweather said, rubbing his long red nose. “Rather curious, rather interesting, I feel. I hope you’ll think so too. It seems this woman, Mrs. Brambee, was the sister of George Jacobi, the jewel thief, who was so mysteriously murdered a month or so ago. You may have heard of the affair. Would that interest you?” He looked at me hopefully.

I didn’t let him see I was more than interested. “It might,” I said cautiously. “Anyway any information at this stage of the case may be useful. Anything else?”

“Littlejohns spent the night watching the cottage. After midnight a car arrived and a man spent two hours with Mrs. Brambee.” Merryweather picked up a sheet of paper, consulted it. “The car was a yellow-and-black Bentley. The man was tall, well-built, powerful, but Littlejohns was unable to see his face. It was a dark night,” he added, apologetically.

I nodded. “Did he get the registration number of the car?”

“Certainly, but I’ve had the number checked and there’s no record of it. It would seem it’s a false number plate that is being used.”

“Well, that’s not bad for a beginning,” I said, pleased. “It won’t be wasting time or money for Littlejohns to stay down there.” I went on to tell Merryweather about seeing Mrs. Brambee at the Blue Club. “You’d better pass that information to Littlejohns. It may help him. And tell him to get after the driver of the Bentley. I want him traced. No sign of a girl staying at the cottage?”

“No. Littlejohns proposes to visit the place in a day or so on some pretext or other. He has seen quite a lot of Mrs. Brambee in the village, and he proposes to let her get used to the sight of him before he calls. He knows his job all right, I can assure you of that.”

I got up. “Okay,” I said, “keep in touch. If anything breaks call me.”

Merryweather promised he would, and I went to the elevator, rode down to the ground-level.

Well, that explained who Mrs. Brambee was, and to some extent why she was connected with the Blue Club. The pieces of the jig-saw puzzle continued to fall into place quicker than I had thought possible. The past twenty-four hours had certainly been revealing ones.

I stood on the edge of the kerb, looked up and down for a taxi. A car swept around the corner, drove up to me fast, stopped with a squeal of brakes. For a moment I was startled: it was the battered Standard Fourteen.

Frankie sat at the wheel. A cigarette drooped from his lips, his greasy hat rested on his thin nose. He looked at me out of the corners of his eyes, a cold, vicious expression in them I didn’t much like.

“Bradley wants you,” he said in a nasal voice. “Get in the back and make it snappy.”

I recovered from my surprise. “You’ve been seeing too many gangster movies, sonny,” I said. “Tell Bradley if he wants to see me, he can call at the Savoy some evening, I’ll try to be out.”

“Get in the back,” Frankie repeated softly, “and don’t talk so much. You’ll do yourself a piece of good if you come without a fuss.”

I considered the proposition with some interest and not a little thought. It might be worthwhile hearing what Bradley had to say. I hadn’t anything to do at the moment, and I was curious to meet Bradley again.

“Okay, I’ll come,” I said, opening the car door. “What’s he want to see me about?”

Frankie engaged his clutch, shot the Standard away from the kerb so fast I was flung against the back seat. I sorted myself out, promised to smack his ears down should the opportunity arise, repeated my question.

“You’ll find out,” Frankie said, drawing on his cigarette.

I decided he imagined himself to be a real tough egg, admired his skill as a driver. He kept thirty miles an hour going all through the heavy traffic, weaving his way in between cars, missing fenders by split inches.

“Now did you like the way I shook you off the other day?” I asked pleasantly. “You weren’t so smart then, were you?”

He took his cigarette from his mouth, spat out of the window, said nothing.

“And the next time you try to bounce a tyre lever on my head, I’ll wrap it around your skinny neck and tie a knot in it,” I went on less pleasantly.

“The next time I come after you, you skunk,” he returned, “I’ll make a better job of it.” He sounded as if he meant it.

That held me until we reached Bruton Mews, then I said, “Well, thanks for the ride, sonny. It’s a pity they didn’t teach you anything better than to drive a car at your approved school.”

He looked me over, sneered. “They taught me plenty,” he said, moving towards the club. “Come on. I ain’t got all day to fool around with a peep like you.”

I reached out, caught him by the scruff of his neck. He twisted, wrenched away, swung at me. There was nothing slow about his movements. His fist caught me flush on the chin. I back stepped fast enough to keep from falling, but I took plenty of the punch. It was meant to be a sockeroo, but late nights, physical wear and tear and underfeeding don’t put iron into bones. It worried me no more than a smack with a paper bag.

I sank my fist into the side of his neck just to show him what a real punch felt like. He toppled over sideways, went down on hands and knees, coughed, shook his head.

“Tough guy,” I sneered.

He shot at me like a plane from a catapult, reaching for my knees in a diving tackle. I side-stepped and reached for his neck, took it into chancery. He tried to get his hands where he could hurt, but I’d been through that stuff at school. I twisted him around and heaved him a little higher, then I took hold of my right wrist with my left hand and turned my right hip-bone into him.

I had my right forearm against his windpipe and all the strength of both my arms in it. He scratched at the cobbles with his feet, went blue in the face.

I eased off; slapped his mug three or four times, back and forth, put the heel of my hand on his nose and pressed. Then I let him go.

He sat down on the cobbles, blood running from his nose, his face the colour of raw meat, his breath whistling through his mouth. It must have been the toughest two minutes he’d ever experienced. Tears came into his eyes. He put his sleeve to his face, sniffled: just a soft, yellow kid who thought he was tough.

I reached out, grabbed his collar, heaved him to his feet.

“Come on, Dillinger,” I said, “let’s see Bradley, and don’t give me any more of that gangster spiel; you can’t live up to it.”

He walked ahead, staggering a little, holding a dirty handkerchief to his nose. He didn’t look back, but I could see by the set of his shoulders he was crazy with rage and hate. I decided I’d keep an eye on this lad in the future. He might try sticking a knife in my ribs the next time we met.

He rapped on a door at the end of the passage, opened it, went in.

I followed him, found myself in a big luxuriously furnished room. There was a built-in upholstered corner seat by the window, a black-and-chromium safe in the wall. There were some filing cabinets, a small bar, and the usual broad, heavy executive desk with the usual high-padded leather chair behind it.

Looking out of the window was a man in a dark lounge suit. He had grey hair and plenty of it. He turned. He was going on for fifty and his face was handsome in a dark heavy way. His eyes were slate grey, unfriendly.

I remembered him now. It was Jack Bradley. I had only seen him twice before and that was two years ago. I decided he had aged a lot since last I saw him.

“Hello, Harmas,” he said, then caught sight of Frankie. His face set. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarled at Frankie. “You’re bleeding over my goddamned carpet.”

“My fault,” I said, taking out my cigarettes, selecting one. “Your boy made me nervous. I thought he was a tough egg. We fooled around together just to see how strong we were. It turned out he wasn’t strong at all.”

Frankie’s lips twitched. He said three words; one of them obscene. His voice was not loud, but it was bitter.

Bradley took a step forward, snapped, “Get the hell out of here,” to Frankie, who went.

I lit my cigarette, hooked a chair towards me with my foot, sat down.

“You’d better watch that boy,” I said. “He’s in need of a mother’s care.”

“Never mind him,” Bradley said, frost in his eyes. “It’s you I want to talk about.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I like talking about myself. Where shall we begin? Would you like to hear how I snitched the scripture prize when I was a little lad?”

Bradley leaned forward. “Frankie may not be tough,” he said, “but I am. You’d better not forget it.”

“That’s scared me right through to my jaegers,” I said. “May I go in a corner and cry?”

“I’ve warned you,” Bradley said, sitting at his desk. “You’re getting too inquisitive, my friend. I sent for you because I thought a little chat off the record might clear the air, I advise you not to pass this on to your friend Corridan. It wouldn’t be healthy.”

“You needn’t worry about Corridan,” I said. “He and I aren’t pals anymore. What’s biting you?”

He took a cigar from a silver box on his desk, pierced it, lit it, threw the match away, puffed it once or twice before he spoke again.

He took his time. He didn’t rattle me. I was in no hurry myself.

“I don’t like American newspaper men who are inquisitive,” he said. “They annoy me.”

“Are you suggesting I should relay that item of news to the U.S. Press Association?” I kidded him. “I doubt if they’d lose much sleep, but, of course, they might. You never know.”

“You’re sticking your nose into something that has nothing to do with you,” Bradley went on smoothly. “I suggest you stop it.”

“No harm in making suggestions,” I returned lightly. “What exactly do you mean by that sinister ‘something’?”

“We needn’t go into that,” Bradley said, a cold, angry gleam in his eyes. “You know what I mean. I’m serious about this. I’d advise you to return to your own country. There’s a plane leaving tomorrow. It wouldn’t be a bad idea if you were on it.”

I shook my head. “I have a lot of work to do in this country,” I said. “I’m sorry I can’t oblige you. Is that all you wanted to see me about?”

He studied his cigar for a moment, said, “I’m warning you, Harmas. If you don’t keep your nose out of this, you’re going to be taught a sharp lesson. I know what you newspaper men are like. You get keen on a story and you need a lot of persuasion to give it up. I have all the necessary persuasion but I’m not anxious to use it. I thought if I gave you the hint, you’d be a smart fellow and mind your own business in the future.”

I stubbed out my cigarette in the copper ashtray on his desk, stood up.

“Look, Bradley,” I said, leaning across the desk, “I’ve listened to your hot air because I wanted to hear how far you’d go. You and hundreds of other fat, sleek rats who’ve made money out of this war, sold stinking bad liquor to the Service men, and gorged yourselves with black market food are a gross a nickel in my country. I’ve knocked around and met real tough eggs, not jerks like you who merely smell strong. I’ve been threatened before, and the guys who’ve shaken their fists at me have ended up in a nice cool cell or are now fertilizing the soil. I’m not scared of you, or of your panty-waisted Frankie. I’m coming after you, and I’m keeping after you until I’ve had the satisfaction of knowing the hangman’s taken your weight and height and selected a nice strong rope for you. Show me how tough you are, and I’ll show you how tough I am. Keep Frankie out of my hair. He’s too young for this kind of shindig. But if he does try anything with me, I’ll paper a wall with him, and I’ll paper another wall with you.”

Bradley let me say my piece to the end. There was a faint flush on his heavy face and his fingers drummed on the desk, otherwise he was calm enough.

“All right, Harmas,” he said, shrugging, “if that’s the way you feel. Don’t forget I’ve warned you.”

I grinned at him. “I won’t forget,” I said, “but you’ll find me a little harder proposition to take on than Madge Kennitt.”

His face tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I’ve never heard of Madge Kennitt. You can get out and stay out. This club’s closed to you from now on. And take my tip — mind your own business, otherwise you’ll be a sick PUP.”

“Phooey!” I said, and left him.