James Chase - No Business Of Mine

apologetically.

I nodded. “Did he get the registration number of the car?”

“Certainly, but I’ve had the number checked and there’s no record

of it. It would seem it’s a false number plate that is being used.”

“Well, that’s not bad for a beginning,” I said, pleased. “It won’t be

wasting time or money for Littlejohns to stay down there.” I went on

to tell Merryweather about seeing Mrs. Brambee at the Blue Club.

“You’d better pass that information to Littlejohns. It may help him.

And tell him to get after the driver of the Bentley. I want him traced.

No sign of a girl staying at the cottage?”

“No. Littlejohns proposes to visit the place in a day or so on some

pretext or other. He has seen quite a lot of Mrs. Brambee in the

village, and he proposes to let her get used to the sight of him before

he calls. He knows his job al right, I can assure you of that.”

I got up. “Okay,” I said, “keep in touch. If anything breaks call me.”

Merryweather promised he would, and I went to the elevator,

rode down to the ground-level.

Well, that explained who Mrs. Brambee was, and to some extent

why she was connected with the Blue Club. The pieces of the jig-saw

puzzle continued to fall into place quicker than I had thought possible.

The past twenty-four hours had certainly been revealing ones.

I stood on the edge of the kerb, looked up and down for a taxi. A

car swept around the corner, drove up to me fast, stopped with a

squeal of brakes. For a moment I was startled: it was the battered

Standard Fourteen.

Frankie sat at the wheel. A cigarette drooped from his lips, his

greasy hat rested on his thin nose. He looked at me out of the corners

of his eyes, a cold, vicious expression in them I didn’t much like.

“Bradley wants you,” he said in a nasal voice. “Get in the back and

make it snappy.”

I recovered from my surprise. “You’ve been seeing too many

gangster movies, sonny,” I said. “Tel Bradley if he wants to see me, he

can call at the Savoy some evening, I’ll try to be out.”

“Get in the back,” Frankie repeated softly, “and don’t talk so

much. You’ll do yourself a piece of good if you come without a fuss.”

I considered the proposition with some interest and not a little

thought. It might be worth while hearing what Bradley had to say. I

hadn’t anything to do at the moment, and I was curious to meet

Bradley again.

“Okay, I’ll come,” I said, opening the car door. “What’s he want to

see me about?”

Frankie engaged his clutch, shot the Standard away from the kerb

so fast I was flung against the back seat. I sorted myself out, promised

to smack his ears down should the opportunity arise, repeated my

question.

“You’ll find out,” Frankie said, drawing on his cigarette.

I decided he imagined himself to be a real tough egg, admired his

skill as a driver. He kept thirty miles an hour going all through the

heavy traffic, weaving his way in between cars, missing fenders by

split inches.

“Now did you like the way I shook you off the other day?” I asked

pleasantly. “You weren’t so smart then, were you?”

He took his cigarette from his mouth, spat out of the window, said

nothing.

“And the next time you try to bounce a tyre lever on my head, I’ll

wrap it around your skinny neck and tie a knot in it,” I went on less

pleasantly.

“The next time I come after you, you skunk,” he returned, “I’ll

make a better job of it.” He sounded as if he meant it.

That held me until we reached Bruton Mews, then I said, “Well,

thanks for the ride, sonny. It’s a pity they didn’t teach you anything

better than to drive a car at your approved school.”

He looked me over, sneered. “They taught me plenty,” he said,

moving towards the club. “Come on. I ain’t got all day to fool around

with a peep like you.”

I reached out, caught him by the scruff of his neck. He twisted,

wrenched away, swung at me. There was nothing slow about his

movements. His fist caught me flush on the chin. I back stepped fast

enough to keep from falling, but I took plenty of the punch. It was

meant to be a sockeroo, but late nights, physical wear and tear and

underfeeding don’t put iron into bones. It worried me no more than a

smack with a paper bag.

I sank my fist into the side of his neck just to show him what a real

punch felt like. He toppled over sideways, went down on hands and

knees, coughed, shook his head.

“Tough guy,” I sneered.

He shot at me like a plane from a catapult, reaching for my knees

in a diving tackle. I side-stepped and reached for his neck, took it into

chancery. He tried to get his hands where he could hurt, but I’d been

through that stuff at school. I twisted him around and heaved him a

little higher, then I took hold of my right wrist with my left hand and

turned my right hip-bone into him.

I had my right forearm against his windpipe and all the strength of

both my arms in it. He scratched at the cobbles with his feet, went

blue in the face.

I eased off; slapped his mug three or four times, back and forth,

put the heel of my hand on his nose and pressed. Then I let him go.

He sat down on the cobbles, blood running from his nose, his face

the colour of raw meat, his breath whistling through his mouth. It

must have been the toughest two minutes he’d ever experienced.

Tears came into his eyes. He put his sleeve to his face, sniffled: just a

soft, yellow kid who thought he was tough.

I reached out, grabbed his collar, heaved him to his feet.

“Come on, Dillinger,” I said, “let’s see Bradley, and don’t give me

any more of that gangster spiel; you can’t live up to it.”

He walked ahead, staggering a little, holding a dirty handkerchief

to his nose. He didn’t look back, but I could see by the set of his

shoulders he was crazy with rage and hate. I decided I’d keep an eye

on this lad in the future. He might try sticking a knife in my ribs the

next time we met.

He rapped on a door at the end of the passage, opened it, went

in.

I followed him, found myself in a big luxuriously furnished room.

There was a built-in upholstered corner seat by the window, a black-

and-chromium safe in the wall. There were some filing cabinets, a

small bar, and the usual broad, heavy executive desk with the usual

high-padded leather chair behind it.

Looking out of the window was a man in a dark lounge suit. He

had grey hair and plenty of it. He turned. He was going on for fifty and

his face was handsome in a dark heavy way. His eyes were slate grey,

unfriendly.

I remembered him now. It was Jack Bradley. I had only seen him

twice before and that was two years ago. I decided he had aged a lot

since last I saw him.

“Hello, Harmas,” he said, then caught sight of Frankie. His face

set. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarled at Frankie.

“You’re bleeding over my goddamned carpet.”

“My fault,” I said, taking out my cigarettes, selecting one. “Your

boy made me nervous. I thought he was a tough egg. We fooled

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,”