No Business of Mine

There he was, eyeing me expectantly, waggling his head. He had smartened himself up. Some of the grease stains had disappeared from his coat; he had changed the grubby white tie to a less grubby yellow one. In his buttonhole was a faded sprig of lilies of the valley.

“Hello, baby,” he said. “I’m not too early, am I?”

“Come in,” I said, holding open the door.

He sauntered in, looked around the room.

“You know, I like it,” he said. “The more I see it, the better it looks.” He eyed me hopefully. “Have you the money, baby?”

“Sure. It’s right there in that desk.”

He wasn’t able to control his excitement, although he made an effort to do so. His face brightened, his eyes gleamed, he giggled.

“Five hundred pounds!” he exclaimed, rubbing his big, grubby hands together. “I can scarcely believe it.”

“Sit down, Fatso,” I said, closing the door. “You haven’t got it yet, so don’t get steamed up.”

His smile slipped, but he jerked it up with an effort, eyed me cautiously.

“But you’ve made up your mind, baby?” he asked. “You’re going to be sensible?”

“How do I know that after you’ve got the money you won’t come back for more?” I asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Please don’t talk like that,” he said, giving me an arch look. “I assure you I don’t do business that way. I like to think I’m an honest blackmailer. It may sound absurd to you, but I have my principles. I make a fair price, and I stick to it.”

“I wouldn’t trust you farther than I could throw you,” I said. “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”

He hesitated, then lowered his great flabby body into the armchair.

“I wish you wouldn’t be so suspicious, baby,” he complained, pouting. “My terms are straightforward. You give me five hundred pounds, I keep quiet; you leave the country. That’s simple enough, isn’t it? I can’t do you any harm if you’re not here, can I?”

“I haven’t gone yet.” I said, “There’s nothing to stop you from double-crossing me while I’m waiting to leave, is there?”

“But I wouldn’t do that,” he protested. “It’s not in my nature to do mean things.”

“Remind me to cry over that lovely sentiment sometime,” I said. “Suppose Corridan makes things hot for you? How do I know you won’t tell him it wasn’t Netta but her sister who died?”

“Don’t be silly, baby,” he said. “If I told Corridan that, I’d get into trouble, wouldn’t I?”

“It was her sister who died, wasn’t it?”

He blinked. “Of course.”

“How do you know? Have you ever seen her sister?”

“Of course,” he repeated, picked his nose, stared at me thoughtfully.

“Why did you say it was Netta?”

“I don’t think we have to go into that, baby,” he said, shifting uneasily. “I had my reasons.”

“How much is Peter French paying you to keep quiet?” I shot at him.

For a moment he looked startled, then he recovered himself, giggled.

“There’s not much you miss,” he said. “I can’t tell you that. It’d be a breach of confidence.”

“All right,” I said, shrugging. “Let’s get down to business. You’re demanding five hundred pounds from me or you’ll give Corridan false evidence that will incriminate me with two murders. That is the position, isn’t it?”

“That’s the idea,” he said, smirking. “I’m afraid I couldn’t put that in writing. But between you and me that’s the general idea, baby.”

I nodded, satisfied.

“You can have your money,” I said, “and God help you, Fatso, if you try to double-cross me. I’ll come after you, and I’ll pound you to a jelly.”

“You have my word,” he said with a pathetic attempt at dignity. “That should be enough. You’re an American, of course, so you can’t be expected to appreciate that an Englishman’s word is his bond.”

“Get off your high horse, you fat louse,” I snapped, sick of him.

He waggled his head. “Don’t you think we’ve wasted enough time already? Where’s the money?”

I went to the desk, opened it, took out the packet of pound notes I had meant to give Netta. I tossed them into his lap.

“There you are,” I said, watched him.

He stared down at the money, his eyes popping out of his head. He touched them, patted them.

“Take them and get out,” I said.

“Do you mind if I count them, baby?” he asked, a catch in his voice. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, but it’s more businesslike. Besides, you might have given me too much.” He giggled explosively.

“Go ahead, but be quick about it. I can’t stand the sight of you much longer.”

There was a long pause while he counted the notes. He was trembling with excitement, and completely absorbed in the sound the notes made as they rustled in his fingers.

Finally he straightened, nodded. There was a gleam of incredulous triumph in his eyes. “Well, baby,” he said, “I didn’t think you’d be so easy. I thought I was going to have a lot of trouble with yon.” he stuffed the notes into his hip pocket, smiled his secret smile. He wasn’t pleasant to look at.

I laughed at him.

“Get out, you fat louse.”

He looked down at the faded sprig of lilies in his buttonhole. He took it out, laid it on the table.

“Something to remember me by, baby,” he said, giggled. That was too much for me.