James Chase - No Business Of Mine

get around to it more cautiously.

“Your bruises are a little too obvious to ignore,” he went on,

regarding me with friendly curiosity. “If a fellow has a black eye, I

don’t pass remarks. Probably his girl friend has lost her temper with

him; but when a fellow has two black eyes and the rest of his face

resembles a rainbow, I feel it’d be unsympathetic not to offer

condolences.”

I laughed, “That’s swell of you,” I said, “and you’re not the only

one as you can imagine. A good newspaper man, Mr. French, has to

be inquisitive. He can’t afford to mind his own business. Three

powerful y built gentlemen didn’t like my methods. They pooled their

muscles and attempted to alter the shape of my face, with some

success, as you can see.”

He raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips. “I do see,” he said. “I must

say I should be distinctly annoyed if anyone did that to me.”

I nodded. “Oh, I’m annoyed al right, but I didn’t come here to talk

about my face. I came because I thought you might be able to help

me.”

He nodded, looked a little wary, waited.

“I believe you know Selma Jacobi,” I said, deciding to give it to him

straight.

He put the inhaler on the mantelpiece, frowned. “Nothing doing,

my friend,” he said shortly. “Sorry, but I’m not talking to a newspaper

man about Mrs. Jacobi. If that’s all you’ve come about then I’ll say

good night.”

“I’m not talking to you as a newspaper man,” I said. “My paper

wouldn’t be interested in Mrs. Jacobi. I’m talking to you as a friend of

Netta Scott’s.”

He stared at his cigar thoughtful y, moved away from the fireplace

to the window.

“You knew Netta Scott?” he said. “So did I.”

I didn’t say anything, wondered if I should ask him if he owned the

Bentley, decided I wouldn’t.

“But what has Netta Scott to do with Mrs. Jacobi?” he went on,

after a pause.

“I don’t know,” I said, stretching out my legs. “But I have a hunch

there is a connection. I think Netta knew George Jacobi. I want to be

sure. Maybe Selma could tell me.”

“Why do you want to know that?” he asked, still looking out of

the window.

“Maybe it’d explain why she committed suicide,” I said. “You

know about that?”

“Yes,” he said, hunched his massive shoulders as if the subject

wasn’t to his taste. “Why should you be interested in Netta’s suicide?”

“I don’t believe in letting sleeping dogs lie,” I said. “I’ve told you

I’m inquisitive. Netta wasn’t the type to commit suicide. I’m

wondering if there’s more behind it than I think.”

He glanced over his shoulder, started to say something, stopped.

There was a long pause, then he said. “I haven’t seen Mrs. Jacobi

for two or three months-not since she married.”

“Know where she lives?”

“She isn’t there any more,” he returned. “The place is shut up.”

“Where is it?”

He faced me. “What does it matter where it is? She isn’t there, I

tell you.”

“Maybe she’ll come back. Look, let me put it this way. The police

are looking for you. At least, they’re looking for a big guy who’s first

name is Peter, and who knew Netta. I’m not interested in helping the

police. But they’d welcome the chance of talking to you, and they’d be

a lot less polite than I am. I want Selma Jacobi’s address. Either you

give it to me or you’ll give it to the police. I don’t care which way it is,

only make up your mind.”

He chewed his cigar which had gone out, always a sign a guy’s got

something on his mind.

“What makes you think the police want to talk to me?” he asked,

his voice cold.

I told him about Anne Scott, and what Mrs. Brambee had said.

“I’ve never heard of Anne Scott,” he snapped. “I didn’t even know

Netta had a sister.”

“Don’t tell me; tel the judge. All I’m interested in is finding out

Selma’s address.”

“I don’t want the police nosing around here,” he said, after a

pause. “I’d take it as a favour if you kept your mouth shut. Selma lived

at 3B Hampton Street, off Russell Square. Now suppose you take

yourself off. I have things to do before I go home, and I’ve given you

quite enough of my time.”

I got to my feet. “Have you a photo of Selma?”

He studied me for a moment, shook his head. “I don’t collect

photographs of married women,” he said. “Good night.”

“Well, thanks,” I said, “you won’t be bothered by the police

through any information from me.” I turned to the door, paused.

“That’s a fine car downstairs. Is it yours?”

He eyed me. “Yes. What of it?”

“Nothing. You’re lucky to have a car like that.”

“Good night,” he repeated. “I’m beginning to understand how you

got your face damaged. I’m also beginning to feel sorry those fellows

didn’t make a better job of it.”

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,