No Business of Mine

By the time I had finished my whisky, I had decided to visit the Blue Club. I took my shower, changed into a dark suit and wandered downstairs for an early supper in the almost deserted grill-room.

I arrived at the Blue Club a few minutes to nine o’clock, too early for the main crowd, but late enough to find the cocktail bar full.

The Blue Club was a three-storey building halfway up Bruton Mews behind Bruton Place. It was a shabby, faded-looking place, and you could pass it without knowing it was there. But inside you stepped from a cobbled dreary Mews, into a miniature palace of rather overpowering luxury.

The cocktail bar was on the same floor as the dance room. I wandered in, glanced around, failed to see a vacant seat so I crossed to the bar, propped myself up.

Sam, the barman, recognized me, gave me a broad welcoming smile.

“Hi, Sam,” I said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Mr. Harmas,” he said, polishing a glass and setting it before me. “Nice to see you again. You all right?”

“Pretty good,” I said, “and how’s your girlfriend?”

Sam had always confided to me about the ups and down of his love-life, and I knew he expected me to inquire what the latest position was.

“I get discouraged sometimes, Mr. Harmas,” he said, shaking his head. “That girl of mine has a split mind. One part of it says yes, the other no. As they both operate at once, I’m kept on my toes wondering whether to retreat or advance. It’s getting bad for my nerves. What will you drink, sir?”

“Oh, a Scotch,” I said, glanced around the room.

I could see the crowd wasn’t the kind that’d interest me. The girls were tough, showily dressed and on the make. The men were smooth, looked as if they’d escaped military service, and had too much doubtfully earned money to spend.

“Things have changed a lot, haven’t they, Sam?” I said, as I paid twice as much for my drink as I pay elsewhere.

“They have, sir,” he agreed, “and a great pity, too. I miss the old crowd. This bunch’s just trash. They give me a pain to waste liquor on them.”

“Yeah,” I said, lighting a cigarette. “I miss the old faces, too.”

We chatted for a few minutes about the past, and I told him what I was doing here, then I said, “Sad about Netta. You read about it, I guess?”

Sam’s face clouded. “I read about it. It beats me why she did it. She seemed happy enough, and she was doing fine here. She had Bradley eating out of her hand. Any idea why she did it?”

I shook my head. “I’ve only just arrived, Sam, I reminded him. I saw the thing in the newspapers, but I was hoping you could tell me what was behind it. Poor kid. I’ll miss her. What are the other bims like here?”

Sam pulled a face. “They’ll take the hide off your back if they thought they could make it into a pair of gloves,” he said gloomily. “They have a one-track mind — if you can call what they’ve got minds. I’d lay off ’em if I were you, except Crystal. You should meet Crystal. She’s quite an experience. I’ll fix it if you’re looking for a little female society.”

“She’s new here, isn’t she?” I asked, not recalling the name. He grinned. “New and fresh,” he said. “Came about a year ago. Can I fix you another drink?”

“Go ahead,” I said, pushing my glass towards him, “and buy one for yourself. She wasn’t a friend of Netta’s, was she?”

“Well, I don’t know about being friends, but they sort of got on together. The other dames didn’t appeal to Netta. She was always fighting with them, but Crystal... well, I don’t think anyone would fight with Crystal. She’s a real dizzy blonde.”

“She sounds what I’ve been looking for. Dizzy blondes are up my alley. Is she a looker?”

Sam kissed his fingers, wagged his head. “She’s got a topography like a scenic railway, and every time she comes into the bar the ice cubes go on the boil.”

I laughed. “Well, if she’s free and would like a big guy with hair on his chest for company, shoo her along.”

“She’ll like you,” Sam said. “She’s crazy about big muscular men; she tells me her mother was frightened by a wrestler. I’ll get her.”

I had finished my drink by the time he returned. He nodded, winked.

“Two minutes,” he said, began to mix a flock of martinis.

She arrived a good ten minutes later. I spotted her before she spotted me. There was something about her that amused me. Maybe it was her big cornflower blue eyes or her snub nose. I don’t know, but you had only to take one look at her and you were pretty sure she was the girl who originated the phrase “a dumb blonde.” She was all Sam had said. Her figure made me blink: it made the male section in the room blink too.

Sam waved, and she came over, looked at me, and her eyelids fluttered.

“Oh!” she said. Then: “Oh, Boy!”

“Crystal, this is Mr. Steve Harmas,” Sam said, winking at me. “He cuts the hairs on his chest with a lawn-mower.”

She put her hand into mine, squeezed it.

“There was a tea leaf in the bottom of my cup that looked just like you,” she confided. “I knew I was going to have fun tonight.” She looked anxiously at Sam. “Have any of the girls seen him yet?”