No Business of Mine

“Thank you, sir,” Littlejohns said, his face lighting up. “There is one thing I must report first. I’ve seen the young lady with the red hair. She came out of the cottage late last night. The black-and-yellow Bentley called for her. I saw her distinctly. She got into the car which drove away along the London road; I was unfortunately too late to follow it.”

“Okay,” I said. “Perhaps she’s decided to come to London. Well, keep an eye on the cottage for a little while. Now, listen to what I have to say.”

I told him the whole story without pulling my punches down to Madge Kennitt’s murder and the attack on myself. I told him about Jacobi, Selma, his wife, about Bradley and Julius Cole going to the club.

“That’s about the lot,” I said. “These guys are a tough bunch. You’ll have to watch your step.”

He scarcely seemed to hear me.

“I’m glad you’ve taken me into your confidence, sir,” he said, getting to his feet. “I think I’ll have something for you in a day or so. I would rather not discuss it now, but something you said just now has given me the clue I’ve been looking for. I’ll get in touch with you very soon.”

“Hey!” I called as he picked up his hat and made for the door. “What about Julius Cole? Has he arrived at Lakeham?”

“He arrived three nights ago, and is staying with Mrs. Brambee,” Littlejohns said, opening the door. “I’ll have something for you in a day or so.”

He didn’t wait for me to tell him again to be careful.

Chapter Sixteen

Two days later, still considerably bruised and battered, but with all my old vigour back and a sharp edge to my temper, I returned to the Savoy.

Crystal was there to welcome me. The room was cluttered up with a mass of flowers and smelt like a florist’s. There was a bottle of champagne in a bucket, and it only needed a brass band and the Lord Mayor to complete the homecoming atmosphere.

“Darling!” Crystal exclaimed, throwing her arms around my neck and doing her best to strangle me. “Welcome home!”

“Who’s paying for the champagne?” I demanded, removing her arms.

“You are, precious,” she said brightly. “Let’s open it and drink your health. My poor little tonsils are withering for a drink.”

“Not at seven pounds a bottle we won’t,” I said firmly. “That goes back to where it came from. I suppose I’m paying for all these flowers too?”

“I knew you wouldn’t mind,” Crystal returned slipping her arm through mine and pressing her face against my shoulder. “I’ll take them home if you don’t like them, but you’ll have to pay for them as I’m a little short right now. They do make the room look lovely, don’t they?”

“Sure, but what are they going to do to my bank balance? This is as bad as being married. Now, suppose you sit down and let me look through my mail. I’ve been out of circulation for the past four days. I shall have some catching up to do.”

“Oh, there’s plenty of time for that,” she said. “Aren’t you glad to see me? You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

I kissed her. “There, now sit down and keep quiet for a moment.”

“I do love you, Steve, in spite of your poor battered face,” she went on, sitting down. “But I do wish you were a more romantic type.”

“It’s nice of you to call it a face,” I said, glancing into the mirror, grimacing. “Sorry about being the wrong type. You’d better get in touch with Frank Sinatra if that’s the way you feel.”

She lifted her shoulders in a hopeless shrug. “At least I haven’t any competition,” she said. “That’s the only advantage a girl gets in going around with a fish like you.”

“One of these days, when I have the time, I’ll prove to you I have blood and not warm water in my veins,” I returned, smiling at her. I picked up my mail, sorted through it. I read the letter from Merryweather, full of apologies, but withdrawing from the case with pathetic determination. There was a note from Corridan, congratulating me on my recovery, hoping I would soon be going home, and again advising me, now that I was lucky to be still alive, not to interfere with what was obviously not my business. I tossed the letter into the wastepaper basket. The rest of my mail was from America and needed immediate attention.

I shooed Crystal out, promising to meet her that evening, sat down and worked solidly until lunch time.

After lunch, before settling down to the fourth of my articles on Past-War Britain, I turned Jack Bradley up in the telephone book, found he had a flat in Hay’s Mews. I noted the address, closed the book with a vicious bang. Sometime during the night, I proposed to call on Mr. Bradley, and he was going to remember my visit.

In the evening I met Crystal and we had supper together at the Vanity Fair.

She was looking enchanting in an ice-blue evening gown which she said had been a reward for a strictly one-sided wrestling match with one of the club’s patrons. I tactfully didn’t ask her who had won.

“That horrible policeman friend of yours was in the club this afternoon,” she said after we had worked through an excellent veal escalope.

“You mean Corridan?” I asked, interested.