No Business of Mine

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.