James Chase - No Business Of Mine

mulberry, and covered with a network of fine blue veins. His small

eyes were watery, and the whites tinged with yellow. His long nose

gave him a hawk-like appearance, which, I should imagine, was good

for trade. I wasn’t particularly impressed by him, but from what I had

seen of private investigators in my country, the less impressive they

were the better results they obtained.

Merryweather eyed me over as I entered his tiny, somewhat

dusty office, offered a limp hand, waved me to a straight-backed

chair. He folded himself down in his swivelled chair which creaked

alarmingly under his weight, sunk his knobbly chin deep into a rather

soiled stiff collar. His eyes drooped as he gave what he probably

imagined to be a fair imitation of a booze-ridden Sherlock Holmes.

“I should like your name,” he said, taking a pad and pencil from

his desk drawer, “for my records, and the address, if you please.”

I told him who I was, said I was staying at the Savoy Hotel. He

nodded, wrote the information on the pad, said the Savoy was a nice

place to live in.

I agreed, waited.

“It’s your wife, I suppose?” he asked in a deep, weary voice which

seemed to start from his feet.

“I’m not married,” I said, taking out a carton of cigarettes, lighting

one. He leaned forward hopefully, so I pushed the carton across the

desk. He eased out a cigarette, struck a match on his desk, lit up.

“Difficult things to get these days,” he sighed. “I’m out of them

this morning. Nuisance.”

I said it was, ran my fingers through my hair, wondered what he’d

say when he knew what I’d come about. I had a feeling he might have

a stroke.

“Blackmail, perhaps?” he asked, blowing a cloud of smoke down

his vein-covered nose.

“Something rather more complicated than that,” I said, trying to

make myself comfortable in the chair. “Suppose I begin at the

beginning?”

He made a slight grimace as if he wasn’t anxious to hear a long

story, muttered something about being pretty busy this morning.

I looked around the shabby office, decided he could never be

busy, but was suffering from an inferiority complex, said I’d been

recommended to him by the hall porter of the Savoy Hotel.

He brightened immediately. “Damn good chap that,” he said,

rubbing his hands. “Many a time we’ve worked together in the old

days.”

“Well, maybe I’d better get on with it,” I said, a little bored with

him. I told him about Netta, how we had met, the kind of things we

did, and how I had arrived at her flat to find she had committed

suicide.

He sank lower in his chair, a bewildered, rather dismayed

expression on his face as I talked.

I told him how the body had been stolen from the mortuary, and

he flinched. I went on to tell him about Anne, how I had gone to her

cottage and what happened there.

“The police moved her body to the Horsham mortuary last night,”

I concluded, beginning to enjoy myself. I presented him with my Piece

de resistance , the clipping from the morning’s newspaper.

He had to find his spectacles before he could read it, and when he

had, I could see he wished he hadn’t; also wished I hadn’t come to

worry him.

“The body was burned to a cinder, so I’m told,” I went on. “Now

you know the set-up, what do you think?”

“My dear sir,” he said, waving his hands vaguely, “this isn’t in my

line at all. Divorce, blackmail, breach of promise, yes. This kind of

novelette drama no.”

I nodded understandingly. “I thought you might feel that way

about it,” I said. “It’s a pity. Never mind, I’ll probably find someone

else to do the work.” As I was speaking I took out my wallet, glanced

inside as if looking for something. I gave him plenty of time to see the

five hundred one-pound notes I was still carrying. Whatever else was

wrong with him, his eyesight, as far as spotting money was concerned,

was excellent.

He levered himself up in his chair, adjusted his tie.

“What do you suggest I might do to help you?” he ventured

cautiously.

I put the wallet away. To him, it was like a black cloud passing

before the face of the sun.

“I wanted someone to investigate at Lakeham,” I said. “I want to

get everything I can on this woman, Mrs. Brambee, and I want a

background picture of Anne Scott.”

He brightened visibly. “Well, that’s something we might be able to

do,” he said, and looked hopeful y at the carton of cigarettes on his

desk. “I wonder if you’d mind . . .”

“Go ahead,” I said.

He took another cigarette, became quite genial.

“Yes, I think we could help you do that,” he went on, drawing

down a lungful of smoke. “I have an excellent man, very discreet. I

could put him on the job.” His eyes closed for a moment, then

snapped open. “It isn’t our usual line of investigation, you know. It

might-hum — cost a little more.”

“I’ll pay well for results,” I returned. “What are your terms?”

“Well, now let me see. Shall we say ten pounds a week and three

pounds a day expenses?” He looked hopeful y at me, looked away.

“For that I’d expect to hire Sherlock Holmes himself,” I said, and

meant it.

Mr. Merryweather tittered, put his hand over his mouth, looked

embarrassed.

“It’s an expensive age we live in,” he sighed, shaking his head.

I was glad I hadn’t told him about the attempted attack on me, or

about the guy following me in the Standard car. He would probably

have added danger money to the bill.

“Well, all right,” I said, shrugging. “Only I want results.” I counted

thirty-one pounds on to his desk. “That’ll hold you for one week. Get

me everything you can on Anne Scott, have someone watch Mrs.

Brambee’s cottage. I want to know who goes in and who comes out,

what she does and why she does it.”

“It’s a police job really,” he said, whisking the money into a

drawer and turning the key. “Who’s in charge of the case?”

“Inspector Corridan,” I told him.

His face darkened. “Oh, that fellow,” he said, scowling. “One of

the bright boys. Wouldn’t have lasted a day in my time. I know him-a

Chief’s pet.” He seemed to withdraw into himself, brooding and

bitter. “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised if we find out a lot more than he

does. I believe in old-fashioned methods. Police work is ninety per

cent patience and ten per cent luck. These new scientific methods

make a man lazy.”

I grunted, stood up. “Well, I guess I’ll be hearing from you.

Remember: no results, no more money.”

He nodded, smiled awkwardly. “Quite so, Mr. Harmas. I like

dealing with business men. One knows where one is so to speak.”

The door opened at this moment, and a little guy slid into the

room. He was shabby, middle-aged, pathetically sad-looking. His

straggling moustache was stained with nicotine, his watery eyes

peered at me like a startled rabbit’s.

“Ah, you’ve come at the opportune moment,” Mr. Merry-

weather said, rubbing his hands. He turned to me. “This is Henry

Littlejohns, who will personally work on your case.” He made it sound

as if this odd little man was Philo Vance, Nick Charles and Perry

Mason all rolled into one. “This is Mr. Harmas who has just given us a

most interesting case.”

There was no enthusiastic light in Mr. Littlejohn’s faded eyes. I