No Business of Mine

“Lakeham, Sussex, just outside Horsham,” Ullman returned. “I went down there to cover the robbery. The village is small, but attractive, and Allenby’s house is just a half a mile beyond it. The robbery was a real slick job. The house was crammed with burglar alarms and police dogs, and the safe was a real snorter. The thief must have been an expert. The police remarked that there was only one man who could have pulled the job: a fellow called George Jacobi.”

“Jacobi was known to the police then?”

“Oh, yes. He was one of the smartest thieves in the game, and had served several long sentences for jewel robberies. You remember Corridan? He was in charge of the robbery. We ribbed him in the Press. None of the boys like Corridan. He’s too damn cocky, and we thought this was our chance to give him a roasting. He suspected Jacobi from the start, but Jacobi had such a cast-iron alibi that Corridan hadn’t a hope of nailing him.”

“What was his alibi?”

“He said he was in an all-night poker game at the Blue Club on the night of the robbery. The waiters and the cloakroom attendant swore they had seen him arrive. Jack Bradley and a couple of other men swore Jacobi played with them the whole night. Mind you, none of these fellows were what you could call reliable witnesses, but there were so many of them, the police knew they wouldn’t be able to make their case stand up in court, so they dropped Jacobi and hunted elsewhere.”

“Without success?”

“Not a thing. It was Jacobi all right. Corridan said he wasn’t worrying. Sooner or later the thieves would try to dispose of the loot and he had a detailed description of every piece that was missing. As soon as the stuff came on to the market, he was going to pounce.”

I grunted. “Yeah, I can hear him saying that. Did he pounce?”

Ullman grinned. “No. The stuff hasn’t come on to the market yet. There’s still time, of course; unless it’s been smuggled out of the country. One of these days the case may open up again, and then it’ll be front page news. I think the trouble was that Corridan’s a shade too confident and the thieves a shade too smart.”

“What happened to Jacobi?”

“He was murdered. A month after the robbery he was found in a back street, shot through the heart. No one heard a shot, and the police think he was killed in a house and dumped from a car. They haven’t a clue to the killer, and I doubt if they ever will find him. The affair wouldn’t have caused much excitement only they found, concealed in the heel of Jacobi’s shoe, one of Allenby’s rings. They tackled Bradley again, but couldn’t shift him. There the matter rests, and that’s as far as they’ve got.”

“No clues at all?” I asked, lighting a cigarette and offering him the carton.

He took a cigarette, lit up. “There was one important clue, although it didn’t get them anywhere. The bullet that killed Jacobi had a peculiar rifling. The police reckoned it would be easy to identify the gun if they could only lay hands on it. The ballistic experts said the bullet had been fired from a German Luger pistol, and for some time they suspected one of the American troops of having a hand in the murder.”

I immediately thought of the Luger I had found in Netta’s flat. It could have been given to her by an American service man. Could that have been the weapon that had killed Jacobi? “They never found the gun?” I asked.

“No. I bet they never will, either. My guess is there were two men concerned in the robbery. Probably Jacobi did the actual job, and the other man lurked in the background, directing the operation. Most likely he was responsible for getting rid of the loot. I think the two fell out over the split and the second man killed Jacobi, and is sitting on the loot until it’s safe to put on the market. Corridan favours this idea, too.” Ullman finished his drink, glanced at his watch. “Well, I’d better be moving on,” he said. “It’s long past my bed-time.” He got to his feet. “Although I haven’t much use for Corridan as a man, I must say he’s damned efficient, and I shouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t get the stuff in the end. He’s a surly customer, but he does deliver the goods. The trouble with him is he hates newspaper men. He thinks publicity gives the criminal too much knowledge of what is going on. His idea is to say nothing, to keep the criminal guessing, not even to report the crime, and in the end, the criminal will betray himself because he’ll be over-anxious to know what the police are doing. It may be a good idea, but it doesn’t suit the Press. I wish he wouldn’t trample on my finer feelings. I could like the bloke if he had better manners.”

I grinned. “Yeah,” I said, “so could I. I’d like to steal a march on him one of these days. He’s due for a shake-up, and I may be able to give it to him.”

“Well, let me have a front seat when it happens,” Ullman said, shook hands and went off to join the queue for taxis.

I returned to my room, undressed, put on a dressing-gown, sat in my armchair.