No Business of Mine

“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.

Chapter Seven

Henry Littlejohns looked as out of place in the Savoy as a snowman in the middle of August. He sat on the edge of a chair, his bowler hat resting on his knees, a sad expression on his face.

I told him about Netta, took him through every detail of the story, concluded with the burning of Anne’s body.

Throughout the recital, he sat motionless. The sad expression remained on his face, but I could tell by the intent look in his eyes that he wasn’t missing a thing.

“A very interesting story,” he said when I had finished. “It calls for a most searching investigation.”

I said I thought he was right, and what did he think of the set-up now that I had given him the facts?

He sat chewing his moustache for a moment or so, then looked up.