James Chase - No Business Of Mine

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.

Sonic of them had been worn, some of them were still in their

transparent envelopes. I grunted, put them back, turned off the light. I

opened the door, listened. The silence and stillness made me feel

spooked. I heard nothing, except my own breathing and the steady

beat of my pulse.

I stepped into a narrow, short passage, saw the head of the stairs

at one end and a door at the other. I crept to the door, put my ear

against the panel, listened. There was no sound. I turned the handle,

pushed open the door, looked into the inky darkness. Again I listened,

uneasy, a little scared. My hand groped along the wall, found the

electric light switch, hesitated, then snapped it down.

For a second or so I stood looking around the large well-furnished

room, then the hair on the back of my neck bristled; I caught my

breath sharply.

Lying on the floor, his smal hands flat on the blue-and-fawn

carpet, his legs screwed up, his eyes sightless, his mouth below the

straggling moustache twisted in horror, was Henry Littlejohns.

I stepped forward, saw the broken skin on the side of his head,

and the blood that had run down his neck and had spread like an

obscene halo around his head. Near him was a heavy steel poker, its

knobbed handle stained red.