No Business Of Mine

by James Hadley Chase

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

  Chapter XVII

  AT sometime, 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 girl friend?”

  “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.

  The room was empty except for its rich furnishings. A smell of lilac

  hung in the air. So it had been Netta, I thought, again felt spooked.

  There was a door at the far end of the room. I ran over, tried to open

  it, found it locked. I drew back, kicked at the lock, the door burst

  open. I looked out into the night from the head of an outside wooden

  stairway. As I stood there, I heard a car start up, drive away.

  I turned, found Bradley sneaking up on me, a poker in his hand. I

  ducked the wild swing, caught his wrist, wrenched the poker out of his

  hand, I looked at him. His face was white and his eyes glared.

  “I remember you once said you were tougher than Frankie,” I

  said. “Here’s your opportunity to show me.”

  I tossed the poker across the room. It knocked over a lamp

  standard which in its turn knocked over a small table on which stood

  bottles and glasses. The crash made a nice noise to my ears.

  “You’ll be sorry for this,” Bradley snarled, backing away.

  “So you’re not so tough,” I grinned at him. “You’re the guy who

  tells other mugs to do your dirty work. Okay, Bradley, you’re on the

  spot now. You’d better exert some of that fat and try to get out of it.”

  I grabbed hold of him by his dressing gown, shook him, threw him

  after the poker. He weighed about sixteen stone, but the bulk of it

  was fat.

  I walked over to where he lay, sat on the arm of a chair, smiled at

  him. He didn’t attempt to get up, glared up at me with eyes a snake’d

  be proud to own.

  “Remember me, Bradley?” I said. “The guy who doesn’t mind his

  own business? I thought maybe you mightn’t recognize me after what

  your thugs did to me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snarled. “Get out of

  here before I call the police.”

  “You warned me you’d teach me a lesson, didn’t you?” I went on,

  taking out a cigarette, lighting it. “Well, the lesson didn’t stick. But my

  lesson will. I’m going to ruin that fat puss of yours, but before I start

  on you, you’re going to answer some questions. Who was that girl you

  were talking to just now?”

  “Nobody you know,” he said, sitting up slowly. “If you don’t get

  out, Harmas, I’ll fix you. My God, I’ll fix you!”

  I kicked him in his fat chest, sending him over backwards.

  “I told you that rats like you are a nickel a gross, didn’t I?” I said,

  flicking ash it him. “You don’t know what it is to be tough. Fix me?” I

  laughed. “You won’t fix anyone by the time I’m through with you.”

  He lay holding on to his chest, his face purple with fury and pain,

  but he stayed right where he was.

  “Come on, who’s the dame? Talk or I’ll sock you, and keep on

  socking you.”

  “It was Selma Jacobi,” he snarled. “Now get out!”

  I shook my head. “Oh, no, it wasn’t,” I said, kicking him gently. “It

  was Netta, wasn’t it?”

  His face went flabby. The purple drained away leaving his skin like

  tallow.

  “You’re mad!” he gasped, struggling up. “Netta’s dead.”

  “You’ve given yourself away,” I said, taking off my coat and rolling

  up my sleeves. Get up, Bradley. You can try to do what your three

  hired thugs tried to do.”

  He lay as still as a corpse, looked at me with fear in his eyes.

  “Leave me alone,” he said. “You can’t touch me, Harmas. I’m an old

  man. I have a weak heart.”

  I laughed. “You mean you’re going to have a weak heart,” I said,

  drew back my foot and booted him in his fat ribs. “Get up, you heel.”

  I had to kick him to his feet, then I hauled off and hit him in the

  eye, sent him reeling across the room. He clawed at a bookcase as he

  staggered back, trying to regain his bal
ance. The bookcase swayed,

  crashed to the floor, spilling books. I picked up the heaviest, flung it at

  him. It caught him on the chest, and he went over, upsetting a chair.

  Standing off, I pelted him with books until he took cover behind a

  settee. I went in after him, met his bull-like charge as he rushed at me,

  swept his feeble right lead out of the way, socked him in the other

  eye, steadied him as he reeled back, hit him in the mouth. My

  knuckles scraped along his teeth. I felt them give. He staggered away,

  spitting blood, his lips ballooning up, his eyes closing.

  He made a wild dive for the telephone. I let him get his paw on it,

  then made a flying tackle, grabbed him around the knees, brought

  him down.

  He caught me a glancing blow as we broke, but it had no more

  iron in it than could be expected from a fat, middle-aged rat who fed

  on whisky for breakfast.

  I tore the telephone wire out by its roots, hit him with the

  receiver until it shattered in my hand.

  I stood off, looked around the room to see if there was anything

  standing. There wasn’t, so I grabbed an oil painting of a fat dame in

  her birthday suit off the wall, broke it over Bradley’s head as he came

  up for air.

  I grabbed the lamp standard, hit him with that.

  He lay flat on his back, gasping and wheezing, his face a lot less

  pretty than mine.

  I waited hopefully for him to get up, but he didn’t. As I was trying

  to make up my mind whether to call it a day or stand on his face,

  Frankie came in. He looked murderous. In his right hand he had a

  carving knife, and he handled it as if he meant to use it.

  He didn’t rush at me, but came slowly, the knife held in front of

  his skinny body, his lips off his teeth, his eyes glittering.

  “Hello, Marmaduke,” I said, “didn’t your ma tell you it was

  dangerous to play with knives? You might cut yourself.”

  He crept towards me, snarling.

  I decided it wouldn’t be healthy to let him get too close. My hand

  groped behind me for a book, selected one, shot it at him. It hit him

  on the shoulder, but it didn’t stop him. He kept coming, so I gave

  ground. I suddenly realized that if I didn’t watch my step he’d murder

  me.

  We moved around the room, each stepping over the ruins, careful

  not to trip, never taking our eyes off each other. I guessed he was

  manoeuvring me close to Bradley, and that Bradley would try to grab

  my legs. If that happened, Frankie would have plenty of opportunity

  to ventilate my hide.

  I stopped giving ground, crouched.

  This move startled Frankie for a moment: he stopped too. I moved

  a step forward. He made a feeble poke at me with the knife,

  undecided whether to go back or rush me. I rushed him while he was

  making up his mind.

  I felt the knife slit my shirt-sleeve, scratch my biceps, but by then I

  had hold of his wrist. He clawed my face as I bent his arm back. It hurt,

  and I lost my temper for a moment. I snatched him up by the slack of

  his pants, threw him at Bradley as Bradley was slowly levering himself

  to his feet.

  While they were sorting themselves out, I tossed the knife

  downstairs.

  Both Bradley and Frankie were on their feet when I faced around.

  Bradley seemed to have found a little courage now Frankie had joined

  him.

  “Kill the swine,” he mumbled to Frankie, pushed him forward.

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Frankie was pint-sized and without his

  knife he wouldn’t have scared a midget. He had plenty of guts though,

  and rushed at me, fingers like claws. My fight wasn’t with Frankie; it

  was with Bradley. I stood off, waited for him, clipped him as kindly as I

  could on his jaw. I caught him, lowered him to the floor, put a cushion

  under his head, shook mine at Bradley.

  “You shouldn’t let a kid like that fight your battles,” I said,

  advancing on him. “Now, let’s see if you can answer a few questions.

  That was Netta here, wasn’t it?”

  He grabbed a chair, threw it at me. I got out of the way, caught it

  by its legs, smashed it across his back. I knelt on him, slapped his fat

  face four or five times, took hold of his ears and banged his head on

  the carpet.

  “Open up, you rat,” I said, continuing to hammer his head on the

  carpet. I wished the floor was concrete, but I put a lot of steam into it

  and it seemed to hurt his ears, which was something. “That was

  Netta, wasn’t it?”

  “Stop it!” he bellowed. “Yes, it was, damn you!”

  “Netta hack from the dead, eh?” I said, letting go of his ears, but

  cuffing him to keep him soft. “What did she want?”

  “Money,” he snarled.

  “Did you give her any?”

  “Three hundred pounds.”

  “What did she want it for?”

  “To keep out of the way of the police.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I took hold of his ears, bashed his head on the carpet again.

  “Why?” I repeated.

  “I don’t know,” he howled. “Honest to God I don’t know.” I sat

  down hard on his chest, flicked his nose with my fore-finger. “Don’t

  tell me you gave her all that dough just because she asked you for it.

  Why did you give it to her?”

  “She sold me some rings,” he moaned.

  “Where are they?”

  “Over there.”

  I dragged him to his feet, steadied him.

  “Come on, don’t he coy,” I said. “Show me.”

  He staggered over to the smashed desk, pulled open a drawer.

  “There,” he said, collapsed on the floor.

  I picked out four diamond rings, turned them over in my hand,

  looked at him.

  “Jacobi’s loot, eh?” I said.

  He flinched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. She said

  they were her rings. I don’t know anything about Jacobi.”

  “Yes, you do, you rat,” I said. “You haven’t much longer to live

  outside a cell. You’d better talk fast. Where did she get these from?”

  “I didn’t ask her,” he blubbered. “She offered me the stuff for

  three hundred. I could see they were worth more so I bought them.”

  “I’m going to hand these over to Corridan,” I said, slipping the

  rings into my pocket. “You know what that’ll mean.”

  “They’re mine,” he snarled, shaking his fist at me. “I’ll have you up

  for stealing.”

  “Be your age,” I said. “You know as wel as I do that they’re part of

  Jacobi’s loot. Where can I get hold of Netta?”

  “I don’t know,” he returned, holding a blood-stained handkerchief

  to his nose. “She didn’t say where she was going. You came in at the

  wrong moment, blast you!”

  I thought maybe that was the truth.

  “Get up,” I said.

  He hesitated, but as I threatened him with my foot, he climbed to

  his feet, stood before me.

  “Okay, Bradley,” I said, “we’re quits. The next time you think of

  teaching someone a lesson be more careful who you chose for a

  subject.” />
  I looked him over, decided my face was now handsome compared

  with his, hauled off, hit him on the point of his fat chin, watched his

  flop. Then I unrolled my sleeves, put on my coat, walked to the door

  and scrammed.

  Chapter XVIII

  I PAID off the taxi at the corner of Hampden Street, walked down

  the narrow cul-de-sac. Three of the big buildings were blitzed, mere

  shells of charred brick and wood. The last building was a small

  printer’s shop; the windows were boarded up, and the shop had a

  forlorn, neglected appearance. A door on the far side of the shop was

  numbered 311.

  I stood back, looked up at the curtained windows. The place was

  in darkness.

  I tried the door, for it, as I expected, locked. I stepped back again,

  surveyed the upper windows. There was a stack- pipe running close to

  one of them. I tested it, decided it was strong enough to take my

  weight, glanced back down the alley, saw no one.

  I started to climb, wished I had on a less expensive suit, managed

  to hoist myself on to the sloping roof above the printer’s shop. From

  there it was easy to reach the window. I looked into the darkness,

  listened. The traffic hummed in Russell Square, someone in the

  distance shouted “Taxi!” No sound carne from Selma Jacobi’s flat.

  I took out my pocket knife, levered back the window-catch,

  pushed up the window. One more glance behind me, then I stepped

  down into darkness.

  I found myself in a bedroom. Immediately my skin began to tingle.

  There was a distinct smell of lilac in the room. I drew the blind, then

  the curtains. I groped for my cigarette lighter, thumbed the flint. The

  feeble flame showed me the electric light switch. I crossed the room,

  turned on the light.

  The room was small, but comfortably furnished. There was a

  divan bed in one corner, turned down, inviting. Across the foot of the

  bed was a blue silk nightdress; on the floor by the nightdress was a

  pair of blue mules.

  To the right of the window there was a dressing-table, crammed

  with powder boxes, lip stick, lotions; everything a girl needs to keep

  herself well-groomed. A chest of drawers stood near the door, a

  wardrobe on the other side of the window.

  I pulled open one of the drawers, glanced inside. There was a

  jumble of silk underwear and silk stockings. I pulled the stockings out.