No Business of Mine

“Maybe she’ll come back. Look, let me put it this way. The police are looking for you. At least, they’re looking for a big guy who’s first name is Peter, and who knew Netta. I’m not interested in helping the police. But they’d welcome the chance of talking to you, and they’d be a lot less polite than I am. I want Selma Jacobi’s address. Either you give it to me or you’ll give it to the police. I don’t care which way it is, only make up your mind.”

He chewed his cigar which had gone out, always a sign a guy’s got something on his mind.

“What makes you think the police want to talk to me?” he asked, his voice cold.

I told him about Anne Scott, and what Mrs. Brambee had said.

“I’ve never heard of Anne Scott,” he snapped. “I didn’t even know Netta had a sister.”

“Don’t tell me; tell the judge. All I’m interested in is finding out Selma’s address.”

“I don’t want the police nosing around here,” he said, after a pause. “I’d take it as a favour if you kept your mouth shut. Selma lived at 3B Hampton Street, off Russell Square. Now suppose you take yourself off. I have things to do before I go home, and I’ve given you quite enough of my time.”

I got to my feet. “Have you a photo of Selma?”

He studied me for a moment, shook his head. “I don’t collect photographs of married women,” he said. “Good night.”

“Well, thanks,” I said, “you won’t be bothered by the police through any information from me.” I turned to the door, paused. “That’s a fine car downstairs. Is it yours?”

He eyed me. “Yes. What of it?”

“Nothing. You’re lucky to have a car like that.”

“Good night,” he repeated. “I’m beginning to understand how you got your face damaged. I’m also beginning to feel sorry those fellows didn’t make a better job of it.”

I grinned, said maybe I’d see him again, left him.

Chapter Seventeen

At some time, when Crystal had been prattling, she had mentioned that Jack Bradley seldom arrived at the club before ten o’clock for the evening’s work.

I decided, as I walked through Shepherd Market, that if I called on him now, I might stand a good chance of finding him in.

Hay’s Mews lies off Berkeley Square; and I arrived there in a few minutes.

Bradley’s flat was over a garage. Lights were showing through the cream muslin curtains. I would have preferred to have climbed in through the window, but that was not possible. I did the next best thing: I punched the bell.

I waited a few minutes, then heard a step. The door opened. I didn’t expect to see Frankie, but then he didn’t expect to see me.

“Hello, tough guy,” I said.

He took one look, alarm jumped into his eyes, and he opened his mouth to yell.

I was ready for that, and belted him under the chin. I caught him as he fell, lowered him carefully to the floor.

I stepped over him, closed the door, listened.

Ahead of me were stairs leading to the flat. A pedestal stood at the foot of the stairs on which was a bowl of orchids. I sneered at it. The stairs were carpeted with thick green material that gave comfortingly under the feet, muffled the sound of steps. The walls were apricot, the banister rail dark green.

A voice called, “Frankie... who is it?”

A girl’s voice, strangely familiar.

I stiffened, felt spooked. I knew the voice. I had heard it so many times before, but even at that it was hard to believe that it was Netta speaking.

I took a quick step forward, caught a glimpse of silk clad legs and the hem of a blue dress at the head of the stairs. Then I heard a startled gasp, the hem of the dress and the silk clad legs vanished. There was a scurrying of feet.

I sprang up the stairs, didn’t realize they were so steep, stumbled. I cursed, regained my balance, went on up, hands touching each step as I went, arrived at a small lobby with three doors facing me.

One of the doors jerked open: Jack Bradley appeared. He wore a green dressing-gown, stiff white collar and black evening tie. His eyes were frozen stones, his mouth twisted with fury.

As I stepped towards him, I saw the .38 automatic in his hand, paused.

“I’ll make you pay for this,” he snarled. “How dare you break in here!”

I listened, not looking at him. Somewhere a door closed. “Hello, Bradley,” I said. “Who was your girlfriend?”

“I’ll shoot if you try any tricks,” he said. “Get your hands up. I’m calling the police.”

“Oh, no, you’re not,” I said, “and you’re not going to shoot. You haven’t a gun permit, and the cops can make things awkward for a thug like you if you let guns off without a permit.” I spoke rapidly, hoped my bluff would work, edged towards him.

I saw his expression change, a look of doubt in his eyes. That was enough for me. I slapped the gun out of his hand, kicked it down the stairs. He swung at me, but I shoved him aside, entered the room from which he had come.