No Business of Mine

She hurriedly closed the door, said through the panels that she had on only her vest, and she didn’t receive gentlemen dressed like that.

“Who told you I was a gentleman?” I demanded, pounding on the door. “It’s those sort of mistakes that gets a girl into trouble.”

She had turned the key, but I could hear her giggling.

“Go into the sitting-room and behave,” she commanded.

“Okay,” I said, went into the room, flopped down on the big settee. I thought the room was nice. It was comfortable, bright, full of flowers. The kind of room a man and a maid could get awfully matey in.

By my elbow was a table on which stood a bottle of whisky, a bottle of gin, a bottle of dry Vermouth, a soda syphon and a cocktail shaker.

I mixed two martinis, lit a cigarette, waited patiently.

Crystal came in after a while, wearing a scarlet house-coat, white mules and an expectant expression on her face.

“Here I am,” she said, sitting beside me. She patted my hand, smiled.

I thought she looked a cute trick, gave her a martini, raised my own.

“May the bends in your figure never straighten,” I said, drank half the martini, found it good. “So that stuff about your father was just a gag?”

“Not really. I have a father and he does stuff things, but I’ve given up living with him. I just couldn’t stand it, and he couldn’t stand me. I always tell my boy friends I live with him; it saves a lot of trouble when they want to see me home.”

“How come I’m invited to your nest?” I asked, smiling. She fluttered her eyelids at me. “Well, if you must know, I have designs on you.”

“My mother says no nice girls have designs on men.”

“But who says I’m nice?” she returned, put down her glass, twined her arms around my neck.

We became intimate for the next five minutes, then I levered off her arm, pushed her away.

“Remember the News of the World,” I said.

“I’ve got beyond the News of the World. Let’s have some real ruinous fun.” She put her head on my shoulder, draped my arm around her.

“In a little while,” I promised, “but don’t let’s rush it. I meant to tell you: I saw Bradley this morning. For some reason or other he’s taken a dislike to me. He won’t let me into the Club anymore.”

She sat up, her eyes indignant. “Why?”

I pulled her down, pushed her head back on my shoulder. “He thinks I’m too inquisitive,” I said. “I don’t care, so why should you?”

“I don’t know if I want to go to the club again, if he’s going to treat you like that,” she said crossly. “Only I don’t know what else I could do. You wouldn’t think of keeping me, would you? I’ve always wanted to be a kept woman.”

“I don’t believe in keeping women. I think they should keep me.”

“Oh, you’re kidding again,” she said, thumped my knee. “But seriously, wouldn’t you like to keep me?”

“I’d hate it,” I said gravely. “It’s as much as I can do to keep myself.”

She sighed. “Well, all right. I never seem to have any luck. I don’t think I’ll go to the club tonight. I have a chicken in the refrigerator. Let’s have that and spend the evening together.”

“That sounds swell.”

She got up. “You sit there and look decorative. I’ll fix supper.”

That suited me. I was good at looking decorative. I filled my glass, lit a cigarette, relaxed. It was nice to watch her moving about the room. I decided suddenly that it mightn’t be a bad idea to keep her at that.

“Tell me, sugar,” I said, “have you been keeping your eyes and ears open at the club?”

“Oh, yes. The trouble is I don’t know what to listen for. I’ll tell you something though.” She paused in laying the table, turned to look at me. “I was at the club this afternoon and an odd sort of man came in asking for Bradley. He reminded me a little of the man I saw with Netta — the one I was telling you about with the Bentley.”

“Go on,” I said, interested.

“I don’t know if it was the same man, but he was the same build, and there was something familiar about him that rang a bell. He was big and fat and fair. I thought he looked a bit of a pansy.”

“Had he a habit of wagging his head? Did you notice that? And was his hair cut very short?”

She nodded. “Do you know him?”

“It sounds like my old pal Julius Cole,” I said. “What happened?”

“Well, Bradley came out of his office, glared at him, said, ‘What the hell do you want?’ This man said, ‘I’ve got to see you, Jack, it’s important’. Bradley looked sort of put out, then he took Cole into his office. I didn’t hear what happened, of course.”

I stubbed out my cigarette, lit another. “Think carefully. Did anything happen at all after that?”

“I saw Frankie go into Bradley’s office, and later he came out and went to the garage. He spoke to Sam and said something about going down to the country right away. I could see he was wild with rage, but I can’t remember anything else happening.”

“You’ve remembered enough,” I said, crossed over to the telephone, turned up Merryweather in the book. I found his private address, put through a call.

He answered himself.