No Business of Mine

“Frankie was driving. I knew he was Bradley’s stooge.”

Corridan grunted. “You know a hell of a lot, don’t you?”

“Do you know anything about Frankie?” I asked.

“We’ve been hoping to get our hands on him for some time, but he’s a slippery customer, as well as a vicious one. He’s on our suspect list for several robberies, but Bradley always turns up with a cast-iron alibi for him.”

“Think he’d run to murder?”

Corridan shrugged. “He’d run to anything if it paid well enough.”

As we retraced our steps to the house, I asked him if he had found any clues in Madge’s flat.

“None,” he said.

“You mean you haven’t found one single clue?” I asked, startled, thinking of the name Jacobi written in the dust. “No,” he repeated.

I had an idea, darted away from him, bolted into Madge’s flat.

The two plain-clothes dicks were together at the far end of the room, looking for finger-prints. I came in so quickly they weren’t aware of me until I had reached the chaise-longue. I peered over the far side. The dust had been swept clean. The scrawled name, Jacobi, had vanished. I immediately thought of Julius Cole. Had he got in here while I was waiting for Corridan?

But I hadn’t much time for thought as Corridan came into the room, his face dark with anger. I moved away from the chaise-longue, looked around the room.

“What the hell are you playing at?” he demanded. “You’ve no business in here. I’m getting tired of your behaviour, Harmas. It’s got to stop. Why are you in here?”

I decided I wouldn’t tell him about the name in the dust. Anyway, not until I had investigated the clue myself. I tried to look ashamed of myself, didn’t succeed very well.

“There was a cat here,” I said vaguely. “I wondered if it was still in the room.”

“What the blazes has a cat to do with it?” he demanded, glaring at me.

I lifted my shoulders. “Maybe the killer took it away,” I said. “That’s a clue, isn’t it?”

“He didn’t take the cat away,” Corridan snarled. “It’s locked up in the other room. Any more bright ideas?”

“Well, I’m only trying to help,” I said. “How about you and me calling on Julius Cole?”

“I’m calling on, him,” Corridan said. “You’re getting the hell out of here. Now see here, Harmas, I’m warning you for the last time. Keep out of this. You’re lucky you’re not charged with murder. I’m going to check your story and if it doesn’t click, I’m going to arrest you. You’re a damn nuisance. Now get out.”

“If you listen carefully,” I said, as I edged to the door, “you’ll hear my knees knocking.”

Chapter Eleven

As I was crossing the Savoy lobby to take the elevator to my room, I ran into Fred Ullman, crime reporter to the Morning Mail. We had met when I was in London during the war, and he had been helpful in advising me on angles for my articles on London crime.

He seemed as pleased to see me as I was to see him.

“We’ve just time for a drink,” he said, after we had got through back-slapping and explaining what we were doing in the Savoy at this time of night. “I don’t want to be too late as I have a heavy day before me, so don’t start one of your drinking contests.”

I said I wouldn’t, led him into the residents’ lounge, ordered whiskies, sat down.

Ullman hadn’t changed much since last we met. He was a tall, lanky individual, and his most distinctive feature was the bags under his eyes. He was known as the Fred Allen of Fleet Street.

After we had chatted about the past, checked up on the activities of mutual friends, I asked him casually if the name Jacobi meant anything to him.

I saw surprise on his face, and his eyebrows went up.

“What makes you ask?” he inquired. “A couple of months ago that name was in every English newspaper. Have you just got on to it?”

I said I had. “I heard some guy talking, and he mentioned the name. I wondered if I was missing anything.”

“I shouldn’t say you’re missing much,” he said. “The affair is as dead as a dodo now.”

“Well, tell me,” I said. “Even if it’s past news, I should know what’s been going on.”

“All right,” he returned, sinking back in his armchair. “The business began when a rich theatrical magnate, Hervey Allenby, decided to do what a number of rich people were doing: buy diamonds and other precious stones against invasion or inflation or both. He bought heavily: rings, bracelets, necklaces, loose stones; stuff that could be easily carried, and of good value. He amassed a collection worth fifty thousand pounds. As he wanted to be able to put his hands on the stuff quickly, he kept the lot in his country house. The purchase of these gems was kept secret, but after four years-three months ago-the news leaked out somehow or other, and before you could say ‘mild-and-bitter,’ the collection was pinched.”

“Quite a nice haul,” I said. The name, Hervey Allenby, made me prick up my ears. “Where was this country house?”