No Business of Mine

“Along those lines,” I said, walked with her to the door.

As we reached the head of the stairs, I saw a big woman coming up. She wore a black evening dress and a heavy gold collar surrounded her thick neck. Her black hair was scraped back and her broad, rather sullen face was a mask of make-up. I drew back to allow her to pass. She came on, gave Crystal a cold hard stare, didn’t notice me, went on.

I stared after her, a tingling sensation running down my spine.

The woman was Mrs. Brambee.

Chapter Eight

“Do you know what it means when a girl is said to be ruined?” Crystal asked, sitting on the bed and surveying my room with approval.

I put my hat in the cupboard, sat down in the armchair. “I have a vague idea,” I said, smiling at her. “But it’s a little technical to go into at this stage of our association. What makes you ask?”

She fluffed up her blonde curls. “My father says that if a girl allows a man to take her into his bedroom, she’s as good as ruined.”

I nodded gravely. “There are times when your father talks sense,” I said, “but it doesn’t count with me. You’re not the ruining type.”

“I thought there was a catch in it,” she said, sighing. “Nothing ever happens to me. Confidentially, my greatest ambition is to be chased up a dark alley by a man with glaring eyes. I’ve hung around dark alleys until I’m sick and tired of them, but no man with or even without glaring eyes ever shows up.”

“Remember Bruce and the spider and keep trying,” I said. “Something’s bound to happen sooner or later.”

She nodded, sighed. “Oh, well, I’ve waited so long now, I can wait some more. May I see those stockings or do I have to wait for those too?”

“You can not only see them, but you can have them,” I said, fetched them from my wardrobe. “Catch.” I tossed them into her lap.

While she was drooling over the stockings I rang for the floor waiter, and then lit a cigarette.

My visit to the Blue Club hadn’t been a waste of time. Meeting Mrs. Brambee had been a stroke of luck, especially as she hadn’t seen me. Crystal had told me that she had seen Mrs. Brambee in the club regularly every Thursday night. She appeared to have business with Jack Bradley, and after, she had dinner and went away. No one knew who she was; she always dined alone, and always left the club immediately after finishing her meal.

This information intrigued me. When I first saw Mrs. Brambee she was so obviously the village charwoman that meeting her dressed up in her finery had come as a complete surprise. I decided to pass this information on to Littlejohns. It might help him to find out what kind of game Mrs. Brambee was playing.

Then the visit to the club’s garage had also been fruitful. The first car I had seen in the vast cellar, running under the club, had been the battered Standard Fourteen that had followed me on my run to Lakeham.

Slowly, bits of the jig-saw puzzle were fitting themselves together.

For some reason Jack Bradley was interested in my moves. I was pretty sure that the youth who had followed me was acting on Bradley’s instructions. I thought Crystal could enlighten me, and turned from the window to ask her. I found her in the act of changing her stockings.

“Don’t look now,” she said with a giggle, rolling the nylons up her shapely legs. “I’m in what is known as an intimate situation.”

“Hey! Get that limb out of sight,” I said, as I heard a gentle tap on the door, and the handle turn.

The floor waiter drifted in as Crystal hurriedly adjusted her dress. His eyes flickered for a second, then he looked at me, coldly inquiring.

“A double whisky and a large gin and lime,” I said, trying to look as if Crystal was my sister.

He inclined his head, drifted out again. His back was stiff with disapproval.

“I guess I’ll be the guy who’ll be ruined,” I sighed, sitting in the armchair again. “Will you hurry and get that leg show over before he returns?”

“Don’t you like it?” Crystal asked, hurt. “I thought you’d go all pop-eyed and coy.” She put on her shoes, regarded her legs with unconcealed delight. “They are lovely, aren’t they?” she exclaimed. “I can’t thank you enough.” She rushed over to me, sat on my lap and twined her arms around my neck. “You’re a good, kind pet and I adore you,” she went on, nibbled the lobe of my ear with her sharp little teeth.

I pushed her off, got up and plumped her in the chair.

“Stay still and behave,” I said. “I want to talk to you.”

“Talk away. I’ll listen,” she said, hugging her knees and peering at me over the top of them with her big, dizzy blue eyes.

“Have you ever seen in the club a young guy, slight, dark, sallow complexion, wears a grey greasy looking hat, clean shaven, about twenty, who drives that Standard I pointed out to you?” I asked.

“Oh, you mean Frankie,” Crystal said at once. “He’s a horrible boy. None of the girls like him.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said, called, “Come in,” as the waiter tapped, and received the drinks with as much nonchalance as I could muster. When he had gone, I went on, “What does he do?”