No Business Of Mine

by James Hadley Chase

  around together just to see how strong we were. It turned out he

  wasn’t strong at all.”

  Frankie’s lips twitched. He said three words; one of them

  obscene. His voice was not loud, but it was bitter.

  Bradley took a step forward, snapped, “Get the hell out of here,”

  to Frankie, who went.

  I lit my cigarette, hooked a chair towards me with my foot, sat

  down.

  “You’d better watch that boy,” I said. “He’s in need of a mother’s

  care.”

  “Never mind him,” Bradley said, frost in his eyes. “It’s you I want

  to talk about.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I like talking about myself. Where shall we

  begin? Would you like to hear how I snitched the scripture prize when

  I was a little lad?”

  Bradley leaned forward. “Frankie may not be tough,” he said, “but

  I am. You’d better not forget it.”

  “That’s scared me right through to my jaegers,” I said. “May I go in

  a corner and cry?”

  “I’ve warned you,” Bradley said, sitting at his desk. “You’re getting

  too inquisitive, my friend. I sent for you because I thought a little chat

  off the record might clear the air, I advise you not to pass this on to

  your friend Corridan. It wouldn’t be healthy.”

  “You needn’t worry about Corridan,” I said. “He and I aren’t pals

  any more. What’s biting you?”

  He took a cigar from a silver box on his desk, pierced it, lit it,

  threw the match away, puffed it once or twice before he spoke again.

  He took his time. He didn’t rattle me. I was in no hurry myself.

  I don’t like American newspaper men who are inquisitive,” he

  said. “They annoy me.”

  “Are you suggesting I should relay that item of news to the U.S.

  Press Association?” I kidded him. “I doubt if they’d lose much sleep,

  but, of course, they might. You never know.”

  “You’re sticking your nose into something that has nothing to do

  with you,” Bradley went on smoothly. “I suggest you stop it.”

  “No harm in making suggestions,” I returned lightly. “What exactly

  do you mean by that sinister ‘something’?”

  “We needn’t go into that,” Bradley said, a cold, angry gleam in his

  eyes. “You know what I mean. I’m serious about this. I’d advise you to

  return to your own country. There’s a plane leaving to-morrow. It

  wouldn’t be a bad idea if you were on it.”

  I shook my head. “I have a lot of work to do in this country,” I said.

  “I’m sorry I can’t oblige you. Is that all you wanted to see me about?”

  He studied his cigar for a moment, said, “I’m warning you,

  Harmas. If you don’t keep your nose out of this, you’re going to be

  taught a sharp lesson. I know what you newspaper men are like. You

  get keen on a story and you need a lot of persuasion to give it up. I

  have all the necessary persuasion but I’m not anxious to use it. I

  thought if I gave you the hint, you’d be a smart fellow and mind your

  own business in the future.”

  I stubbed out my cigarette in the copper ash-tray on his desk,

  stood up.

  “Look, Bradley,” I said, leaning across the desk, “I’ve listened to

  your hot air because I wanted to hear how far you’d go. You and

  hundreds of other fat, sleek rats who’ve made money out of this war,

  sold stinking bad liquor to the Service men, and gorged yourselves

  with black market food are a gross a nickel in my country. I’ve

  knocked around and met real tough eggs, not jerks like you who

  merely smell strong. I’ve been threatened before, and the guys

  who’ve shaken their fists at me have ended up in a nice cool cell or

  are now fertilizing the soil. I’m not scared of you, or of your panty-

  waisted Frankie. I’m coming after you, and I’m keeping after you until

  I’ve had the satisfaction of knowing the hangman’s taken your weight

  and height and selected a nice strong rope for you. Show me how

  tough you are, and I’ll show you how tough I am. Keep Frankie out of

  my hair. He’s too young for this kind of shindig. But if he does try

  anything with me, I’ll paper a wall with him, and I’ll paper another

  wall with you.”

  Bradley let me say my piece to the end. There was a faint flush on

  his heavy face and his fingers drummed on the desk, otherwise he

  was calm enough.

  “All right, Harmas,” he said, shrugging, “if that’s the way you feel.

  Don’t forget I’ve warned you.

  I grinned at him. “I won’t forget,” I said, “but you’ll find me a little

  harder proposition to take on than Madge Kennitt.”

  His face tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he

  said. “I’ve never heard of Madge Kennitt. You can get out and stay

  out. This club’s closed to you from now on. And take my tip — mind

  your own business, otherwise you’ll be a sick PUP.”

  “Phooey!” I said, and left him.

  Chapter XIII

  ON my way back from the Ministry of Reconstruction and

  Planning where I had been obtaining material for my third article, I

  ran into Corridan.

  I spotted him hurrying along the crowded pavement, a dour,

  forbidding look in his eyes, his mouth set in a grim line.

  “Hello, sour puss,” I said, falling into step beside him. “You look as

  cheerful as the National Debt.”

  He scowled round, continued on his way.

  “I never met such a chap,” he said, stretching his long legs as if

  anxious to shake me off. “You’re like a vulture. When anything

  happens or goes wrong, you’re sure to appear on the scene.”

  My legs were as long as his, and I kept pace with him easily

  enough.

  “What’s wrong this time?” I asked brightly. “Anyone been

  humped off?”

  “Nobody’s been bumped off,” he returned coldly. “If you must

  know that damned Julius Cole has skipped. He climbed out of his

  bedroom window and hooked it last night while I was trying to get in.”

  “I don t blame him,” I returned. “Not after what happened to

  Madge Kennitt. I suppose he thought the same thing might happen to

  him. Any idea where he’s got to?”

  “No, but we shall find him. I want him for questioning, and a

  general alarm has gone out all over the country to bring him in. It

  won’t take long, but it’s a shocking waste of public money.”

  “Don’t bother your head about that,” I said. “There are plenty of

  other things to worry about. The great thing is to find him alive.”

  “I wish you’d stop dramatizing this business,” Corridan snapped.

  “You make it sound a damn sight worse than it is.”

  “I wonder,” I shrugged. “By the way, how are you getting along

  with the Jacobi case?”

  He mis-stepped, glanced at me sharply. “What do you know about

  that?” he demanded, slowing his pace.

  “Oh, I’ve been following your remarkable rise to fame and

  fortune,” I returned lightly. “A couple of months ago your face and

  name were spread over every newspaper in connection with Jacobi.


  Have you found the missing loot yet?”

  He shook his head. “Plenty of time for it to appear,” he returned

  curtly. “What makes you bring up Jacobi?”

  “Oh, I’ve been consulting my Ouija board again. I thought it was a

  little odd that part of Jacobi’s loot should be hidden in Netta’s jar of

  cold cream. I wondered too, why you didn’t tell me that the ring was

  connected with such a sensational case.”

  Corridan smiled grimly. “I don’t tell you everything. You appear

  capable of finding out most things for yourself.”

  I nodded. “That’s so. You’d be surprised how much I do find out.”

  “Such as what?”

  “I don’t tell you everything either. One of these days I’ll take you

  into my confidence and we’ll have a good cry together.”

  He made an impatient gesture, looked around for a taxi.

  “Have you wondered if the Jacobi affair has anything to do with

  Netta Scott and Madge Kennitt’s murder?” I asked as the taxi, in

  answer to Corridan’s hail, drew up.

  “I’m always wondering about everything connected with all my

  cases,” he returned dryly, climbed into the taxi. “I’ll be seeing you,

  Harmas. You can leave all this safely in my hands. You may not think

  so, but they are extremely capable.”

  “Let’s keep that as something between you and me,” I said.

  “Some people wouldn’t believe it.”

  I watched him drive away, grinned, and continued on to the

  Savoy. So Julius Cole had gone to ground. I wouldn’t be surprised, I

  thought, if I heard he had been found in a ditch with his toes in the

  air.

  I entered the Savoy, asked if there were any messages, collected

  one from Crystal who suggested we should drink some more gin

  together that night, gave a telephone number and asked me to call

  her.

  When I reached my room, I put through a call.

  She answered immediately.

  “Hello, this is your U.S. romance speaking to you from the Savoy

  Hotel,” I said. “I received your note and think your suggestion an

  excellent one. Where do we meet and when?”

  “Come and pick me up at my place,” she said, gave me an address

  in Hertford Street.

  “I thought you said you lived with your father-the guy who stuffs

  birds.”

  “Oh, I’m nearly as big a kidder as you are,” she giggled, hung up.

  I arrived at her flat a few minutes after seven. It was over an

  antique furniture shop, and after climbing red-carpeted stairs

  I came on a small landing which served as a kitchen.

  Crystal popped her corn-coloured head out of a door close by,

  blew me a kiss.

  “Go in there,” she said, pointing a bare arm at another door. “I’ll

  join you in two twos.”

  “Too long to wait,” I said promptly. “I’m coming in here.”

  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 any more.”

  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 to-night. 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 t
he 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.

  “This is Harmas here,” I said. “Can you get in touch with

  Littlejohns at once and warn him to look out for a man who’s on his

  way to Lakeham?”

  Merryweather said he could. There was surprise in his voice. He

  asked for a description, and I gave him an accurate picture of Julius

  Cole. “He’ll probably arrive in a Standard Fourteen,” I said, gave the

  licence number. “Tell Littlejohns not to lose sight of him, even if it

  means taking his eyes off Mrs. Brambee. Cole is important. I guess

  he’ll be staying with Mrs. Brambee anyway. Will you get on to that

  right away?”

  Merryweather promised to call Littlejohns immediately, hung up.

  Crystal was listening to all this, her eyes wide with interest.

  “You know I get a thrill out of hearing your voice when you get

  business-like,” she said. “It’s like being in a movie with Humphrey

  Bogart.”

  “You remember what Bogart did to Bacall?” I asked, advancing

  and making faces at her.

  “I seem to remember it wasn’t very polite,” she said, backing

  hurriedly away.

  I grabbed her, did what Bogart had done to Bacall, asked her how