No Business of Mine

Chapter Six

I was glancing through the newspaper, morning coffee on the table by my bed, when a small item of news caught my eye. I sat up, nearly upsetting the tray.

ran the headline. The few lines below the headline stated that at twelve o’clock the previous night a fire had broken out in the Horsham mortuary, and the efforts of the local fire brigade were unavailing. The building had been completely destroyed, and three policemen, who were on the premises, narrowly escaped with their lives.

I threw the paper down, grabbed the telephone and put a call through to Corridan. I was told that he was out of town.

I jumped out of bed, wandered into the bathroom, took a cold shower. I shaved, came back to the bedroom, began to dress. All the time I was thinking.

Someone behind the scenes was controlling this set-up, like a puppet-master pulling the strings. Whoever it was had to be stopped. If Corridan wasn’t smart enough to stop him, then I was going to have a try. Up to now, I’d tagged along in the rear as an interested spectator. I was now going to take a more active part in this business.

I decided first to give Corridan one more chance. I asked the switchboard girl to connect me with the Horsham police. After the inevitable delay I was put through.

“Is Inspector Corridan with you, please?” I asked.

“Hold on, sir,” a voice invited me.

Corridan came on the line. “Yes?” he snapped. “What is it?” He sounded like a lion who’d seen someone swipe his dinner.

“Hello,” I said. “This is your conscience calling you from the Savoy Hotel. What have you got on your mind this morning?”

“For God’s sake don’t bother me now, Harmas,” Corridan returned. “I’m busy.”

“When aren’t you?” I said. “That’s a sweet little item in the newspaper this morning. What does Anne Scott look like now? Done to a turn or burnt to a crisp?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said savagely. “It was nothing like that at all. These fools here store their petrol in the mortuary of all places, and a faulty electric wire set it off. We’ve satisfied ourselves that there’s no evidence of arson, although it is a most extraordinary coincidence. The body was practically burnt to a cinder. Fortunately, of course, it has been officially identified, so there’ll be no trouble at the inquest. Now you’ve heard the details, for goodness’ sake get off the line and let me get on with my work.”

“Don’t rush away,” I said quickly. “I’m not satisfied about this business, Corridan. Coincidence be damned for a tale. Look, I think...”

“So long, Harmas,” he broke in. “Someone’s waiting to speak to me,” and he hung up.

I slammed down the receiver, selected four of the worst words in my cursing vocabulary, said them, felt better. That settled it, I thought. I was going to get into this business with both feet and the hell with Corridan.

I went downstairs, buttonholed the hall porter.

“Brother,” I said to him, “can you tell me where I can hire a reliable private detective?”

For a moment a look of faint astonishment showed in his eyes, then he became once more the perfect servant.

“Certainly, sir,” he said, going to his desk. “I have an address here. J. B. Merryweather, Thames House, Millbank. Mr. Merryweather was, at one time, a Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard.”

“Swell,” I said, parted with two half-crowns, asked him to call me a taxi.

I found J. B. Merryweather’s office on the top floor of a vast concrete and steel building overlooking an uninspired portion of the Thames.

Merryweather was short and fat; his face the colour of a mulberry, and covered with a network of fine blue veins. His small eyes were watery, and the whites tinged with yellow. His long nose gave him a hawk-like appearance, which, I should imagine, was good for trade. I wasn’t particularly impressed by him, but from what I had seen of private investigators in my country, the less impressive they were the better results they obtained.

Merryweather eyed me over as I entered his tiny, somewhat dusty office, offered a limp hand, waved me to a straight-backed chair. He folded himself down in his swivelled chair which creaked alarmingly under his weight, sunk his knobbly chin deep into a rather soiled stiff collar. His eyes drooped as he gave what he probably imagined to be a fair imitation of a booze-ridden Sherlock Holmes.

“I should like your name,” he said, taking a pad and pencil from his desk drawer, “for my records, and the address, if you please.”

I told him who I was, said I was staying at the Savoy Hotel. He nodded, wrote the information on the pad, said the Savoy was a nice place to live in.

I agreed, waited.

“It’s your wife, I suppose?” he asked in a deep, weary voice which seemed to start from his feet.

“I’m not married,” I said, taking out a carton of cigarettes, lighting one. He leaned forward hopefully, so I pushed the carton across the desk. He eased out a cigarette, struck a match on his desk, lit up.

“Difficult things to get these days,” he sighed. “I’m out of them this morning. Nuisance.”

I said it was, ran my fingers through my hair, wondered what he’d say when he knew what I’d come about. I had a feeling he might have a stroke.

“Blackmail, perhaps?” he asked, blowing a cloud of smoke down his vein-covered nose.

“Something rather more complicated than that,” I said, trying to make myself comfortable in the chair. “Suppose I begin at the beginning?”

He made a slight grimace as if he wasn’t anxious to hear a long story, muttered something about being pretty busy this morning.

I looked around the shabby office, decided he could never be busy, but was suffering from an inferiority complex, said I’d been recommended to him by the hall porter of the Savoy Hotel.

He brightened immediately. “Damn good chap that,” he said, rubbing his hands. “Many a time we’ve worked together in the old days.”

“Well, maybe I’d better get on with it,” I said, a little bored with him. I told him about Netta, how we had met, the kind of things we did, and how I had arrived at her flat to find she had committed suicide.

He sank lower in his chair, a bewildered, rather dismayed expression on his face as I talked.

I told him how the body had been stolen from the mortuary, and he flinched. I went on to tell him about Anne, how I had gone to her cottage and what happened there.

“The police moved her body to the Horsham mortuary last night,” I concluded, beginning to enjoy myself. I presented him with my Piece de resistance, the clipping from the morning’s newspaper.

He had to find his spectacles before he could read it, and when he had, I could see he wished he hadn’t; also wished I hadn’t come to worry him.

“The body was burned to a cinder, so I’m told,” I went on. “Now you know the set-up, what do you think?”

“My dear sir,” he said, waving his hands vaguely, “this isn’t in my line at all. Divorce, blackmail, breach of promise, yes. This kind of novelette drama no.”

I nodded understandingly. “I thought you might feel that way about it,” I said. “It’s a pity. Never mind, I’ll probably find someone else to do the work.” As I was speaking I took out my wallet, glanced inside as if looking for something. I gave him plenty of time to see the five hundred one-pound notes I was still carrying. Whatever else was wrong with him, his eyesight, as far as spotting money was concerned, was excellent.

He levered himself up in his chair, adjusted his tie.

“What do you suggest I might do to help you?” he ventured cautiously.

I put the wallet away. To him, it was like a black cloud passing before the face of the sun.

“I wanted someone to investigate at Lakeham,” I said. “I want to get everything I can on this woman, Mrs. Brambee, and I want a background picture of Anne Scott.”

He brightened visibly. “Well, that’s something we might be able to do,” he said, and looked hopefully at the carton of cigarettes on his desk. “I wonder if you’d mind...”

“Go ahead,” I said.

He took another cigarette, became quite genial.

“Yes, I think we could help you do that,” he went on, drawing down a lungful of smoke. “I have an excellent man, very discreet. I could put him on the job.” His eyes closed for a moment, then snapped open. “It isn’t our usual line of investigation, you know. It might-hum — cost a little more.”

“I’ll pay well for results,” I returned. “What are your terms?”

“Well, now let me see. Shall we say ten pounds a week and three pounds a day expenses?” He looked hopefully at me, looked away.

“For that I’d expect to hire Sherlock Holmes himself,” I said, and meant it.

Mr. Merryweather tittered, put his hand over his mouth, looked embarrassed.

“It’s an expensive age we live in,” he sighed, shaking his head.

I was glad I hadn’t told him about the attempted attack on me, or about the guy following me in the Standard car. He would probably have added danger money to the bill.

“Well, all right,” I said, shrugging. “Only I want results.” I counted thirty-one pounds on to his desk. “That’ll hold you for one week. Get me everything you can on Anne Scott, have someone watch Mrs. Brambee’s cottage. I want to know who goes in and who comes out, what she does and why she does it.”

“It’s a police job really,” he said, whisking the money into a drawer and turning the key. “Who’s in charge of the case?”

“Inspector Corridan,” I told him.

His face darkened. “Oh, that fellow,” he said, scowling. “One of the bright boys. Wouldn’t have lasted a day in my time. I know him-a Chief’s pet.” He seemed to withdraw into himself, brooding and bitter. “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised if we find out a lot more than he does. I believe in old-fashioned methods. Police work is ninety per cent patience and ten per cent luck. These new scientific methods make a man lazy.”

I grunted, stood up. “Well, I guess I’ll be hearing from you. Remember: no results, no more money.”

He nodded, smiled awkwardly. “Quite so, Mr. Harmas. I like dealing with business men. One knows where one is so to speak.”

The door opened at this moment, and a little guy slid into the room. He was shabby, middle-aged, pathetically sad-looking. His straggling moustache was stained with nicotine, his watery eyes peered at me like a startled rabbit’s.

“Ah, you’ve come at the opportune moment,” Mr. Merryweather said, rubbing his hands. He turned to me. “This is Henry Littlejohns, who will personally work on your case.” He made it sound as if this odd little man was Philo Vance, Nick Charles and Perry Mason all rolled into one. “This is Mr. Harmas who has just given us a most interesting case.”

There was no enthusiastic light in Mr. Littlejohn’s faded eyes. I guessed he had visions of hanging around more draughty passages, looking through more sordid keyholes, standing outside more houses in the rain. He muttered something through his moustache, stood staring down at his boots.

“I’d like to talk to Mr. Littlejohns,” I said to Merryweather. “Can I take him along with me?”

“Of course,” Mr. Merryweather said, beaming, “By all means take him along with you.”

“We’ll go back to my hotel,” I said to Littlejohns. “I’d like you to have details of this case.”

He nodded, muttered again under his breath, opened the door for me.

We walked to the elevator, rode down to the ground-level in silence.

I waved to a taxi, ushered Mr. Littlejohns in and as I was about to follow, something — intuition, instinct, something-made me turn quickly and look behind me.

The young runt who had tried to dent my skull and who had followed me in the Standard was standing in a doorway watching me. For a second our eyes met, then he spat on the pavement, sauntered off in the opposite direction.