No Business of Mine

I got up. “Okay,” I said, “keep in touch. If anything breaks call me.”

Merryweather promised he would, and I went to the elevator, rode down to the ground-level.

Well, that explained who Mrs. Brambee was, and to some extent why she was connected with the Blue Club. The pieces of the jig-saw puzzle continued to fall into place quicker than I had thought possible. The past twenty-four hours had certainly been revealing ones.

I stood on the edge of the kerb, looked up and down for a taxi. A car swept around the corner, drove up to me fast, stopped with a squeal of brakes. For a moment I was startled: it was the battered Standard Fourteen.

Frankie sat at the wheel. A cigarette drooped from his lips, his greasy hat rested on his thin nose. He looked at me out of the corners of his eyes, a cold, vicious expression in them I didn’t much like.

“Bradley wants you,” he said in a nasal voice. “Get in the back and make it snappy.”

I recovered from my surprise. “You’ve been seeing too many gangster movies, sonny,” I said. “Tell Bradley if he wants to see me, he can call at the Savoy some evening, I’ll try to be out.”

“Get in the back,” Frankie repeated softly, “and don’t talk so much. You’ll do yourself a piece of good if you come without a fuss.”

I considered the proposition with some interest and not a little thought. It might be worthwhile hearing what Bradley had to say. I hadn’t anything to do at the moment, and I was curious to meet Bradley again.

“Okay, I’ll come,” I said, opening the car door. “What’s he want to see me about?”

Frankie engaged his clutch, shot the Standard away from the kerb so fast I was flung against the back seat. I sorted myself out, promised to smack his ears down should the opportunity arise, repeated my question.

“You’ll find out,” Frankie said, drawing on his cigarette.

I decided he imagined himself to be a real tough egg, admired his skill as a driver. He kept thirty miles an hour going all through the heavy traffic, weaving his way in between cars, missing fenders by split inches.

“Now did you like the way I shook you off the other day?” I asked pleasantly. “You weren’t so smart then, were you?”

He took his cigarette from his mouth, spat out of the window, said nothing.

“And the next time you try to bounce a tyre lever on my head, I’ll wrap it around your skinny neck and tie a knot in it,” I went on less pleasantly.

“The next time I come after you, you skunk,” he returned, “I’ll make a better job of it.” He sounded as if he meant it.

That held me until we reached Bruton Mews, then I said, “Well, thanks for the ride, sonny. It’s a pity they didn’t teach you anything better than to drive a car at your approved school.”

He looked me over, sneered. “They taught me plenty,” he said, moving towards the club. “Come on. I ain’t got all day to fool around with a peep like you.”

I reached out, caught him by the scruff of his neck. He twisted, wrenched away, swung at me. There was nothing slow about his movements. His fist caught me flush on the chin. I back stepped fast enough to keep from falling, but I took plenty of the punch. It was meant to be a sockeroo, but late nights, physical wear and tear and underfeeding don’t put iron into bones. It worried me no more than a smack with a paper bag.

I sank my fist into the side of his neck just to show him what a real punch felt like. He toppled over sideways, went down on hands and knees, coughed, shook his head.

“Tough guy,” I sneered.

He shot at me like a plane from a catapult, reaching for my knees in a diving tackle. I side-stepped and reached for his neck, took it into chancery. He tried to get his hands where he could hurt, but I’d been through that stuff at school. I twisted him around and heaved him a little higher, then I took hold of my right wrist with my left hand and turned my right hip-bone into him.

I had my right forearm against his windpipe and all the strength of both my arms in it. He scratched at the cobbles with his feet, went blue in the face.

I eased off; slapped his mug three or four times, back and forth, put the heel of my hand on his nose and pressed. Then I let him go.

He sat down on the cobbles, blood running from his nose, his face the colour of raw meat, his breath whistling through his mouth. It must have been the toughest two minutes he’d ever experienced. Tears came into his eyes. He put his sleeve to his face, sniffled: just a soft, yellow kid who thought he was tough.

I reached out, grabbed his collar, heaved him to his feet.

“Come on, Dillinger,” I said, “let’s see Bradley, and don’t give me any more of that gangster spiel; you can’t live up to it.”

He walked ahead, staggering a little, holding a dirty handkerchief to his nose. He didn’t look back, but I could see by the set of his shoulders he was crazy with rage and hate. I decided I’d keep an eye on this lad in the future. He might try sticking a knife in my ribs the next time we met.

He rapped on a door at the end of the passage, opened it, went in.