No Business of Mine

By the merest fluke I had got hold of what seemed to be the key to the puzzle.

Corridan, of course, had no idea that the Jacobi robbery had anything to do with the death of the girl in Netta’s flat, Anne’s suicide or the murder of Madge Kennitt. If he had seen the name Jacobi scrawled in the dust in Madge’s room, he would have been on to the clue before me. But now I was holding the key to the problem, and he was still floundering about trying to find out what connection Madge’s murder had with the other two odd happenings.

Thinking it over, it now seemed certain that Netta, in some way or other, was involved in the Allenby robbery. The fact that a ring from the Allenby collection had been hidden in her jar of cold cream was suspicious, but coupled with the fact that her sister had a cottage close to the scene of the robbery and that Jack Bradley was watching me like a hawk seemed to tie her to the robbery without any doubt.

What of the Luger I had found hidden in her dress? Had Corridan checked it thoroughly? Had he discovered that it was the Luger which had killed Jacobi and was holding out on me? Or hadn’t the Luger anything to do with the case? That was something I had to find out, and find out fast.

Where did the five thousand pounds worth of forged bonds come into the picture? Had Frankie been after the Luger and the bonds when he had attacked me? If he had been after the Luger and it was the gun that had killed Jacobi mightn’t that mean that Jack Bradley owned the gun and he had killed Jacobi?

I lit a cigarette, wandered about my room. I was sure I was getting close to the solution of this business, but I still needed a little more information.

Should I tell Corridan what I had discovered? That was something that bothered me. With my facts he might clear up the whole business in a few days, whereas I might fool around for weeks and never get anywhere. I knew I should call him at once and tell him about finding Jacobi’s name written in the dust. That was the one vital clue that’d open up the case for him. I even crossed the room to the telephone, but I didn’t make the call.

After the way he had treated me, I wanted to get even with him. The sweetest way I could do this was to crack the case, walk into his office and tell him how it was done.

I hesitated, then decided to give myself seven more days, and if I hadn’t arrived at the solution by then, I’d turn the facts over to him and give him best.

Having made this decision, I got into bed, turned out the light, and lay awake for at least three minutes wrestling with my conscience.

Chapter Twelve

Soon after eleven o’clock the following morning, I called on J. B. Merryweather. I found him sitting at his desk, totally unemployed, although he did make a feeble effort to look immersed in his thoughts when he saw me come in.

“Hello,” I said, drawing up a chair and sitting down. “Any news from Littlejohn?”

“Well, yes,” he said, straightening his tie and sitting more upright; “I heard from him this morning. He’s a good chap; gets on the job right away.”

“That’s what he gets paid for, isn’t it?” I asked, produced my carton of cigarettes. I rolled one across his desk. He snapped it up, lit it. “What has he to report?”

“There is one thing,” Merryweather said, rubbing his long red nose. “Rather curious, rather interesting, I feel. I hope you’ll think so too. It seems this woman, Mrs. Brambee, was the sister of George Jacobi, the jewel thief, who was so mysteriously murdered a month or so ago. You may have heard of the affair. Would that interest you?” He looked at me hopefully.

I didn’t let him see I was more than interested. “It might,” I said cautiously. “Anyway any information at this stage of the case may be useful. Anything else?”

“Littlejohns spent the night watching the cottage. After midnight a car arrived and a man spent two hours with Mrs. Brambee.” Merryweather picked up a sheet of paper, consulted it. “The car was a yellow-and-black Bentley. The man was tall, well-built, powerful, but Littlejohns was unable to see his face. It was a dark night,” he added, apologetically.

I nodded. “Did he get the registration number of the car?”

“Certainly, but I’ve had the number checked and there’s no record of it. It would seem it’s a false number plate that is being used.”

“Well, that’s not bad for a beginning,” I said, pleased. “It won’t be wasting time or money for Littlejohns to stay down there.” I went on to tell Merryweather about seeing Mrs. Brambee at the Blue Club. “You’d better pass that information to Littlejohns. It may help him. And tell him to get after the driver of the Bentley. I want him traced. No sign of a girl staying at the cottage?”

“No. Littlejohns proposes to visit the place in a day or so on some pretext or other. He has seen quite a lot of Mrs. Brambee in the village, and he proposes to let her get used to the sight of him before he calls. He knows his job all right, I can assure you of that.”