James Chase - No Business Of Mine

country. One of these days the case may open up again, and then it’ll

be front page news. I think the trouble was that Corridan’s a shade

too confident and the thieves a shade too smart.”

“What happened to Jacobi?”

“He was murdered. A month after the robbery he was found in a

back street, shot through the heart. No one heard a shot, and the

police think he was killed in a house and dumped from a car. They

haven’t a clue to the killer, and I doubt if they ever will find him. The

affair wouldn’t have caused much excitement only they found,

concealed in the heel of Jacobi’s shoe, one of Allenby’s rings. They

tackled Bradley again, but couldn’t shift him. There the matter rests,

and that’s as far as they’ve got.”

“No clues at all?” I asked, lighting a cigarette and offering him the

carton.

He took a cigarette, lit up. “There was one important clue,

although it didn’t get them anywhere. The bul et that killed Jacobi had

a peculiar rifling. The police reckoned it would be easy to identify the

gun if they could only lay hands on it. The ballistic experts said the

bullet had been fired from a German Luger pistol, and for sometime

they suspected one of the American troops of having a hand in the

murder.”

I immediately thought of the Luger I had found in Netta’s flat. It

could have been given to her by an American service man. Could that

have been the weapon that had killed Jacobi? “They never found the

gun?” I asked.

“No. I bet they never will, either. My guess is there were two men

concerned in the robbery. Probably Jacobi did the actual job, and the

other man lurked in the background, directing the operation. Most

likely he was responsible for getting rid of the loot. I think the two fell

out over the split and the second man killed Jacobi, and is sitting on

the loot until it’s safe to put on the market. Corridan favours this idea,

too.” Ullman finished his drink, glanced at his watch. “Well, I’d better

be moving on,” he said. “It’s long past my bed-time.” He got to his

feet. “Although I haven’t much use for Corridan as a man, I must say

he’s damned efficient, and I shouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t get

the stuff in the end. He’s a surly customer, but he does deliver the

goods. The trouble with him is he hates newspaper men. He thinks

publicity gives the criminal too much knowledge of what is going on.

His idea is to say nothing, to keep the criminal guessing, not even to

report the crime, and in the end, the criminal will betray himself

because he’ll be over-anxious to know what the police are doing. It

may be a good idea, but it doesn’t suit the Press. I wish he wouldn’t

trample on my finer feelings. I could like the bloke if he had better

manners.”

I grinned. “Yeah,” I said, “so could I. I’d like to steal a march on

him one of these days. He’s due for a shake-up, and I may be able to

give it to him.”

“Well, let me have a front seat when it happens,” Ullman said,

shook hands and went off to join the queue for taxis.

I returned to my room, undressed, put on a dressing-gown, sat in

my arm-chair.

By the merest fluke I had got hold of what seemed to be the key

to the puzzle.

Corridan, of course, had no idea that the Jacobi robbery had

anything to do with the death of the girl in Netta’s flat, Anne’s suicide

or the murder of Madge Kennitt. If he had seen the name Jacobi

scrawled in the dust in Madge’s room, he would have been on to the

clue before me. But now I was holding the key to the problem, and he

was still floundering about trying to find out what connection Madge’s

murder had with the other two odd happenings.

Thinking it over, it now seemed certain that Netta, in some way or

other, was involved in the Allenby robbery. The fact that a ring from

the Allenby collection had been hidden in her jar of cold cream was

suspicious, but coupled with the fact that her sister had a cottage

close to the scene of the robbery and that Jack Bradley was watching

me like a hawk seemed to tie her to the robbery without any doubt.

What of the Luger I had found hidden in her dress? Had Corridan

checked it thoroughly? Had he discovered that it was the Luger which

had killed Jacobi and was holding out on me? Or hadn’t the Luger

anything to do with the case? That was something I had to find out,

and find out fast.

Where did the five thousand pounds worth of forged bonds come

into the picture? Had Frankie been after the Luger and the bonds

when he had attacked me? If he had been after the Luger and it was

the gun that had killed Jacobi mightn’t that mean that Jack Bradley

owned the gun and he had killed Jacobi?

I lit a cigarette, wandered about my room. I was sure I was getting

close to the solution of this business, but I still needed a little more

information.

Should I tell Corridan what I had discovered? That was something

that bothered me. With my facts he might clear up the whole business

in a few days, whereas I might fool around for weeks and never get

anywhere. I knew I should call him at once and tel him about finding

Jacobi’s name written in the dust. That was the one vital clue that’d

open up the case for him. I even crossed the room to the telephone,

but I didn’t make the call.

After the way he had treated me, I wanted to get even with him.

The sweetest way I could do this was to crack the case, walk into his

office and tel him how it was done.

I hesitated, then decided to give myself seven more days, and if I

hadn’t arrived at the solution by then, I’d turn the facts over to him

and give him best.

Having made this decision, I got into bed, turned out the light, and

lay awake for at least three minutes wrestling with my conscience.

Chapter XII

SOON after eleven o’clock the following morning, I called on J. B.

Merryweather. I found him sitting at his desk, totally unemployed,

although he did make a feeble effort to look immersed in his thoughts

when he saw me come in.

“Hello,” I said, drawing up a chair and sitting down. “Any news

from Littlejohn?”

“Well, yes,” he said, straightening his tie and sitting more upright;

“I heard from him this morning. He’s a good chap; gets on the job

right away.”

“That’s what he gets paid for, isn’t it?” I asked, produced my

carton of cigarettes. I rolled one across his desk. He snapped it up, lit

it. “What has he to report?”

There is one thing,” Merryweather said, rubbing his long red nose.

“Rather curious, rather interesting, I feel. I hope you’ll think so too. It

seems this woman, Mrs. Brambee, was the sister of George Jacobi,

the jewel thief, who was so mysteriously murdered a month or so ago.

You may have heard of the affair. Would that interest you?” He

looked at me hopeful y.

I didn’t let him see I was more than interested. “It might,” I said

cautiously. “Anyway any information at this stage of the case may be

useful. Anything else?”

“Littlejohns spent the night watching the cottage. After midnight

a car arrived and a man spent two hours with Mrs. Brambee.”

Merryweather picked up a sheet of paper, consulted it. “The car was a

yellow-and-black Bentley. The man was tall, well-built, powerful, but

Littlejohns was unable to see his face. It was a dark night,” he added,