In the evening I met Crystal and we had supper together at the
Vanity Fair.
She was looking enchanting in an ice-blue evening gown which
she said had been a reward for a strictly one-sided wrestling match
with one of the club’s patrons. I tactfully didn’t ask her who had won.
“That horrible policeman friend of yours was in the club this
afternoon,” she said after we had worked through an excel ent veal
escalope.
“You mean Corridan?” I asked, interested.
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 frightful y 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’l 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 al 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 hamiest 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. Half-way 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 baldheaded
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 boy friend. 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.”
I pushed open the door, walked into a big room so luxuriously
furnished that I came to an abrupt stop. A fine Chinese carpet covered
the centre of the floor; polished boards that really were polished, set
off the surrounds. A big desk stood by the window, comfortable and
inviting arm-chairs were dotted about the room. The drapes and
colour scheme were bright and modern. It was an extraordinary
contrast to the filthy garage downstairs.
A man stood with his back to the vast brick fireplace, a cigar in his
thick fingers, a large brandy inhaler on the mantelpiece within reach.
He was around thirty-five, dark, bulky, big. He looked a foreigner, was
probably a Jew. His black hair was parted in the centre, grew back
from his narrow forehead in two hard, set waves. His black eyes were
like sloes, his complexion like the underbel y of a fish. He looked
impressive because he was so well-groomed, so poised, so obviously
well-to-do, confident in himself and his money.
He eyed me over without much enthusiasm, nodded. “Good
evening,” he said. “I didn’t get your name. It was something to do
with the Blue Club, wasn’t it?”
“I’m Steve Harmas of the New York Clarion,” I said. “Glad to know
you, Mr. French.”
His eyelids narrowed a trifle, but he shook hands, waved me to a
chair.
“Sit down. Have a cigar.” he said, “and this brandy isn’t exactly
poison.” He gave a depreciatory smirk, added, “I pay eight pounds a