No Business of Mine

She nodded. “He spent half an hour with Bradley, and on his way out, he passed me and said I was to be sure to tell you I had seen him because you like to know what was going on, and to say that curiosity killed the cat.”

I laughed. “The guy’s getting to be quite a kidder. Now, I wonder what he wanted with Bradley? Have you ever seen him in the club before?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. Policemen never come to the club as a rule. Bradley was furious as he showed Corridan the door. Corridan must have said something frightfully rude because Bradley never shows his feelings.”

“One of these days I too am going to say something frightfully rude to Mr. Bradley,” I said grimly.

She put her hand on mine. “You won’t do anything silly, precious, will you?”

“I never do anything silly except make love to you.”

She glared at me. “You don’t call that making love, do you?”

“I don’t know what else you call it. I was under the impression that we were on intimate terms.”

“One of these days I’ll forget I’m a lady,” she said darkly, “then you’ll know what being on intimate terms really means. It’ll be an experience you won’t forget in a hurry.”

“Hastily changing the subject,” I said, patting her hand, “have you heard anything from Selma Jacobi?”

She sighed. “Here it comes,” she said, shaking her head. “More questions. I don’t know why I bother to waste the best hours of my life in your company. I haven’t heard anything from Selma. I don’t suppose I ever shall. I expect she’s started an entirely new life. Sometimes I think it’d be a good idea if I did the same thing.”

“Never mind about your life for a moment,” I returned. “Let’s concentrate on Selma. Has she any friends? I mean, close friends who might know where I could find her?”

“You’re not going to chase her, are you?” Crystal demanded, her eyebrows shooting up. “She simply isn’t your type. She’d bore you in five minutes. You can’t do better than stick to me. After all I’m your first and only love.”

“This is strictly business, honey,” I said patiently. “I’m trying to solve a murder case. If I could talk to Selma I think I could get somewhere. Do you know any of her friends?”

“I love that line about being strictly business. It’s the hammiest of them all. But I suppose you’ll go on and on until you wear me down so I’d better tell you. There is one fellow who was awfully keen on her at one time, and before George Jacobi turned up they were always going around together. His name was Peter French.”

I rubbed my chin, stared at her. Peter... could he be the Peter Mrs. Brambee had mentioned.

“Do you know where he hangs out?” I asked.

“He runs a garage in Shepherd Market,” Crystal told me, went on to give me the address. “He’s often told me if I want any petrol I could get it from him. That’s the sort of man he is-he knows I haven’t a car.”

“You’re quite helpful in your dizzy way,” I said. “Remind me to reward you when we’re alone.”

After dinner I put Crystal in a taxi as she had decided reluctantly that she had better show up at the Blue Club, and then I walked around to Shepherd Market, only a few minutes from the Vanity Fair.

French’s garage was in one of the back alleys of the Market. It was merely a large concrete wilderness, equipped with a bench and a pit, and didn’t look the kind of place that made money.

I wandered up. Two men in soiled dungarees, lounging at the open doors, regarded me without interest. One of them, a short fat guy, bald as an egg, took a cigarette butt from behind his ear, lit it, dragged down smoke. The other, younger, his face and hands smeared with oil, eyed the butt vacantly, rubbed his shoulders against the wall.

“Mr. French around?” I asked the bald-headed guy.

He eyed me over. “Who shall I say?” he asked. “I don’t know if ’e’s in or out.”

I grinned. “Tell him I’ve been recommended by the Blue Club, and I’d be glad if he could spare me a moment.”

The bald-headed guy wandered into the garage, disappeared up some stairs at the back.

“You keep open late,” I said to the young fellow.

He grunted. “We ain’t as late as this usually, but we’re waiting for a job to come in.”

After a few minutes, the fat guy came back.

“Upstairs, first door on the right,” he said.

I thanked him, skirted a pool of oil, walked across the vast expanse of dirty concrete. Halfway across, I paused. In the far corner of the garage stood a magnificent yellow-and-black Bentley. I hesitated, made a move towards it, glanced up to find the bald-headed guy watching me.

“Some car,” I said.

He continued to stare at me, said nothing.

I memorised the number plate, wondered if it was the same car that Littlejohns had seen at Lakeham, and that Crystal had said belonged to Netta’s mysterious boyfriend. I thought it was too much of a coincidence not to be, walked up the stairs, repeating the number in my mind. I rapped on the first door on my right, heard a man’s voice call, “Come in.”