No Business of Mine

Chapter Thirteen

On my way back from the Ministry of Reconstruction and Planning where I had been obtaining material for my third article, I ran into Corridan.

I spotted him hurrying along the crowded pavement, a dour, forbidding look in his eyes, his mouth set in a grim line.

“Hello, sour puss,” I said, falling into step beside him. “You look as cheerful as the National Debt.”

He scowled round, continued on his way.

“I never met such a chap,” he said, stretching his long legs as if anxious to shake me off. “You’re like a vulture. When anything happens or goes wrong, you’re sure to appear on the scene.”

My legs were as long as his, and I kept pace with him easily enough.

“What’s wrong this time?” I asked brightly. “Anyone been humped off?”

“Nobody’s been bumped off,” he returned coldly. “If you must know that damned Julius Cole has skipped. He climbed out of his bedroom window and hooked it last night while I was trying to get in.”

“I don t blame him,” I returned. “Not after what happened to Madge Kennitt. I suppose he thought the same thing might happen to him. Any idea where he’s got to?”

“No, but we shall find him. I want him for questioning, and a general alarm has gone out all over the country to bring him in. It won’t take long, but it’s a shocking waste of public money.”

“Don’t bother your head about that,” I said. “There are plenty of other things to worry about. The great thing is to find him alive.”

“I wish you’d stop dramatizing this business,” Corridan snapped. “You make it sound a damn sight worse than it is.”

“I wonder,” I shrugged. “By the way, how are you getting along with the Jacobi case?”

He mis-stepped, glanced at me sharply. “What do you know about that?” he demanded, slowing his pace.

“Oh, I’ve been following your remarkable rise to fame and fortune,” I returned lightly. “A couple of months ago your face and name were spread over every newspaper in connection with Jacobi. Have you found the missing loot yet?”

He shook his head. “Plenty of time for it to appear,” he returned curtly. “What makes you bring up Jacobi?”

“Oh, I’ve been consulting my Ouija board again. I thought it was a little odd that part of Jacobi’s loot should be hidden in Netta’s jar of cold cream. I wondered too, why you didn’t tell me that the ring was connected with such a sensational case.”

Corridan smiled grimly. “I don’t tell you everything. You appear capable of finding out most things for yourself.”

I nodded. “That’s so. You’d be surprised how much I do find out.”

“Such as what?”

“I don’t tell you everything either. One of these days I’ll take you into my confidence and we’ll have a good cry together.”

He made an impatient gesture, looked around for a taxi.

“Have you wondered if the Jacobi affair has anything to do with Netta Scott and Madge Kennitt’s murder?” I asked as the taxi, in answer to Corridan’s hail, drew up.

“I’m always wondering about everything connected with all my cases,” he returned dryly, climbed into the taxi. “I’ll be seeing you, Harmas. You can leave all this safely in my hands. You may not think so, but they are extremely capable.”

“Let’s keep that as something between you and me,” I said. “Some people wouldn’t believe it.”

I watched him drive away, grinned, and continued on to the Savoy. So Julius Cole had gone to ground. I wouldn’t be surprised, I thought, if I heard he had been found in a ditch with his toes in the air.

I entered the Savoy, asked if there were any messages, collected one from Crystal who suggested we should drink some more gin together that night, gave a telephone number and asked me to call her.

When I reached my room, I put through a call.

She answered immediately.

“Hello, this is your U.S. romance speaking to you from the Savoy Hotel,” I said. “I received your note and think your suggestion an excellent one. Where do we meet and when?”

“Come and pick me up at my place,” she said, gave me an address in Hertford Street.

“I thought you said you lived with your father-the guy who stuffs birds.”

“Oh, I’m nearly as big a kidder as you are,” she giggled, hung up.

I arrived at her flat a few minutes after seven. It was over an antique furniture shop, and after climbing red-carpeted stairs.

I came on a small landing which served as a kitchen.

Crystal popped her corn-coloured head out of a door close by, blew me a kiss.

“Go in there,” she said, pointing a bare arm at another door. “I’ll join you in two twos.”

“Too long to wait,” I said promptly. “I’m coming in here.”

She hurriedly closed the door, said through the panels that she had on only her vest, and she didn’t receive gentlemen dressed like that.

“Who told you I was a gentleman?” I demanded, pounding on the door. “It’s those sort of mistakes that gets a girl into trouble.”

She had turned the key, but I could hear her giggling.

“Go into the sitting-room and behave,” she commanded.

“Okay,” I said, went into the room, flopped down on the big settee. I thought the room was nice. It was comfortable, bright, full of flowers. The kind of room a man and a maid could get awfully matey in.

By my elbow was a table on which stood a bottle of whisky, a bottle of gin, a bottle of dry Vermouth, a soda syphon and a cocktail shaker.

I mixed two martinis, lit a cigarette, waited patiently.

Crystal came in after a while, wearing a scarlet house-coat, white mules and an expectant expression on her face.

“Here I am,” she said, sitting beside me. She patted my hand, smiled.

I thought she looked a cute trick, gave her a martini, raised my own.

“May the bends in your figure never straighten,” I said, drank half the martini, found it good. “So that stuff about your father was just a gag?”

“Not really. I have a father and he does stuff things, but I’ve given up living with him. I just couldn’t stand it, and he couldn’t stand me. I always tell my boy friends I live with him; it saves a lot of trouble when they want to see me home.”

“How come I’m invited to your nest?” I asked, smiling. She fluttered her eyelids at me. “Well, if you must know, I have designs on you.”

“My mother says no nice girls have designs on men.”

“But who says I’m nice?” she returned, put down her glass, twined her arms around my neck.

We became intimate for the next five minutes, then I levered off her arm, pushed her away.

“Remember the News of the World,” I said.

“I’ve got beyond the News of the World. Let’s have some real ruinous fun.” She put her head on my shoulder, draped my arm around her.

“In a little while,” I promised, “but don’t let’s rush it. I meant to tell you: I saw Bradley this morning. For some reason or other he’s taken a dislike to me. He won’t let me into the Club anymore.”

She sat up, her eyes indignant. “Why?”

I pulled her down, pushed her head back on my shoulder. “He thinks I’m too inquisitive,” I said. “I don’t care, so why should you?”

“I don’t know if I want to go to the club again, if he’s going to treat you like that,” she said crossly. “Only I don’t know what else I could do. You wouldn’t think of keeping me, would you? I’ve always wanted to be a kept woman.”

“I don’t believe in keeping women. I think they should keep me.”

“Oh, you’re kidding again,” she said, thumped my knee. “But seriously, wouldn’t you like to keep me?”

“I’d hate it,” I said gravely. “It’s as much as I can do to keep myself.”

She sighed. “Well, all right. I never seem to have any luck. I don’t think I’ll go to the club tonight. I have a chicken in the refrigerator. Let’s have that and spend the evening together.”

“That sounds swell.”

She got up. “You sit there and look decorative. I’ll fix supper.”

That suited me. I was good at looking decorative. I filled my glass, lit a cigarette, relaxed. It was nice to watch her moving about the room. I decided suddenly that it mightn’t be a bad idea to keep her at that.

“Tell me, sugar,” I said, “have you been keeping your eyes and ears open at the club?”

“Oh, yes. The trouble is I don’t know what to listen for. I’ll tell you something though.” She paused in laying the table, turned to look at me. “I was at the club this afternoon and an odd sort of man came in asking for Bradley. He reminded me a little of the man I saw with Netta — the one I was telling you about with the Bentley.”

“Go on,” I said, interested.

“I don’t know if it was the same man, but he was the same build, and there was something familiar about him that rang a bell. He was big and fat and fair. I thought he looked a bit of a pansy.”

“Had he a habit of wagging his head? Did you notice that? And was his hair cut very short?”

She nodded. “Do you know him?”

“It sounds like my old pal Julius Cole,” I said. “What happened?”

“Well, Bradley came out of his office, glared at him, said, ‘What the hell do you want?’ This man said, ‘I’ve got to see you, Jack, it’s important’. Bradley looked sort of put out, then he took Cole into his office. I didn’t hear what happened, of course.”

I stubbed out my cigarette, lit another. “Think carefully. Did anything happen at all after that?”

“I saw Frankie go into Bradley’s office, and later he came out and went to the garage. He spoke to Sam and said something about going down to the country right away. I could see he was wild with rage, but I can’t remember anything else happening.”

“You’ve remembered enough,” I said, crossed over to the telephone, turned up Merryweather in the book. I found his private address, put through a call.

He answered himself.

“This is Harmas here,” I said. “Can you get in touch with Littlejohns at once and warn him to look out for a man who’s on his way to Lakeham?”

Merryweather said he could. There was surprise in his voice. He asked for a description, and I gave him an accurate picture of Julius Cole. “He’ll probably arrive in a Standard Fourteen,” I said, gave the licence number. “Tell Littlejohns not to lose sight of him, even if it means taking his eyes off Mrs. Brambee. Cole is important. I guess he’ll be staying with Mrs. Brambee anyway. Will you get on to that right away?”

Merryweather promised to call Littlejohns immediately, hung up.

Crystal was listening to all this, her eyes wide with interest.

“You know I get a thrill out of hearing your voice when you get businesslike,” she said. “It’s like being in a movie with Humphrey Bogart.”

“You remember what Bogart did to Bacall?” I asked, advancing and making faces at her.

“I seem to remember it wasn’t very polite,” she said, backing hurriedly away.

I grabbed her, did what Bogart had done to Bacall, asked her how she liked it.

“I’d forgotten,” she sighed, holding me close. “Much more, please.”

I had a sudden idea. “Tell me, honey, did you ever meet a guy named Jacobi at the club?”

She shook her head. “You mean the one who was murdered? Oh, no, I didn’t know him, but I knew his wife, Selma. She used to be one of the girls at the club before she married him. She was a sweet kid and crazy about George. I haven’t seen her since he was killed. I don’t know where she’s living. I wanted to see her because I knew she’d be terribly cut-up at losing George, although he wasn’t a great loss as far as I could see.”

“Selma Jacobi,” I said thoughtfully, “maybe she fits in this puzzle, too.”

Crystal tightened her grip around my neck. “Could we forget all this just for a little while?” she pleaded. “I don’t believe you care for me one little bit. All you’re interested in is your horrid old puzzles.”

“Not all the time,” I said.

“Could we have a little fun this very moment?” she asked, pressed her lips on mine.

We had fun.