No Business of Mine

I pushed open the door, walked into a big room so luxuriously furnished that I came to an abrupt stop. A fine Chinese carpet covered the centre of the floor; polished boards that really were polished, set off the surrounds. A big desk stood by the window, comfortable and inviting armchairs were dotted about the room. The drapes and colour scheme were bright and modern. It was an extraordinary contrast to the filthy garage downstairs.

A man stood with his back to the vast brick fireplace, a cigar in his thick fingers, a large brandy inhaler on the mantelpiece within reach.

He was around thirty-five, dark, bulky, big. He looked a foreigner, was probably a Jew. His black hair was parted in the centre, grew back from his narrow forehead in two hard, set waves. His black eyes were like sloes, his complexion like the underbelly of a fish. He looked impressive because he was so well-groomed, so poised, so obviously well-to-do, confident in himself and his money.

He eyed me over without much enthusiasm, nodded. “Good evening,” he said. “I didn’t get your name. It was something to do with the Blue Club, wasn’t it?”

“I’m Steve Harmas of the New York Clarion,” I said. “Glad to know you, Mr. French.”

His eyelids narrowed a trifle, but he shook hands, waved me to a chair.

“Sit down. Have a cigar.” he said, “and this brandy isn’t exactly poison.” He gave a depreciatory smirk, added, “I pay eight pounds a bottle for the damn stuff, so it can’t be too bad.”

I said I’d sample the brandy, but preferred a cigarette to a cigar. While he was pouring the brandy into an inhaler, I studied him.

I remembered Crystal’s description of the man in the yellow-and-black Bentley. It fitted French well enough. He was more likely to be the owner of a car like that than Julius Cole. I couldn’t imagine Netta going around with Cole, but I could see her being fascinated by this guy.

“Nice little place you have here,” I said, accepting the inhaler. “Comes as a surprise after the garage.”

He smiled, nodded. “I believe in comfort, Mr. Harmas,” he returned. “I work long hours, spend most of my life in this room. What’s the point in not having nice surroundings?”

I agreed with him, wondered if I should make a direct approach or get around to it more cautiously.

“Your bruises are a little too obvious to ignore,” he went on, regarding me with friendly curiosity. “If a fellow has a black eye, I don’t pass remarks. Probably his girlfriend has lost her temper with him; but when a fellow has two black eyes and the rest of his face resembles a rainbow, I feel it’d be unsympathetic not to offer condolences.”

I laughed, “That’s swell of you,” I said, “and you’re not the only one as you can imagine. A good newspaper man, Mr. French, has to be inquisitive. He can’t afford to mind his own business. Three powerfully built gentlemen didn’t like my methods. They pooled their muscles and attempted to alter the shape of my face, with some success, as you can see.”

He raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips. “I do see,” he said. “I must say I should be distinctly annoyed if anyone did that to me.”

I nodded. “Oh, I’m annoyed all right, but I didn’t come here to talk about my face. I came because I thought you might be able to help me.”

He nodded, looked a little wary, waited.

“I believe you know Selma Jacobi,” I said, deciding to give it to him straight.

He put the inhaler on the mantelpiece, frowned. “Nothing doing, my friend,” he said shortly. “Sorry, but I’m not talking to a newspaper man about Mrs. Jacobi. If that’s all you’ve come about then I’ll say good night.”

“I’m not talking to you as a newspaper man,” I said. “My paper wouldn’t be interested in Mrs. Jacobi. I’m talking to you as a friend of Netta Scott’s.”

He stared at his cigar thoughtfully, moved away from the fireplace to the window.

“You knew Netta Scott?” he said. “So did I.”

I didn’t say anything, wondered if I should ask him if he owned the Bentley, decided I wouldn’t.

“But what has Netta Scott to do with Mrs. Jacobi?” he went on, after a pause.

“I don’t know,” I said, stretching out my legs. “But I have a hunch there is a connection. I think Netta knew George Jacobi. I want to be sure. Maybe Selma could tell me.”

“Why do you want to know that?” he asked, still looking out of the window.

“Maybe it’d explain why she committed suicide,” I said. “You know about that?”

“Yes,” he said, hunched his massive shoulders as if the subject wasn’t to his taste. “Why should you be interested in Netta’s suicide?”

“I don’t believe in letting sleeping dogs lie,” I said. “I’ve told you I’m inquisitive. Netta wasn’t the type to commit suicide. I’m wondering if there’s more behind it than I think.”

He glanced over his shoulder, started to say something, stopped.

There was a long pause, then he said. “I haven’t seen Mrs. Jacobi for two or three months, not since she married.”

“Know where she lives?”

“She isn’t there anymore,” he returned. “The place is shut up.”

“Where is it?”

He faced me. “What does it matter where it is? She isn’t there, I tell you.”