No Business of Mine

Chapter Sixteen

Two days later, still considerably bruised and battered, but with 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 homecoming 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’ll 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 excellent 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 frightfully 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’ll 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 all 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 hammiest 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. Halfway 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 bald-headed 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 boyfriend. 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 armchairs 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 underbelly 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 girlfriend 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 powerfully 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 all 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 thoughtfully, 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 anymore,” 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; tell 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.”

I grinned, said maybe I’d see him again, left him.