must have been an expert. The police remarked that there was only
one man who could have pulled the job: a fellow called George
Jacobi.”
“Jacobi was known to the police then?”
“Oh, yes. He was one of the smartest thieves in the game, and
had served several long sentences for jewel robberies. You remember
Corridan? He was in charge of the robbery. We ribbed him in the
Press. None of the boys like Corridan. He’s too damn cocky, and we
thought this was our chance to give him a roasting. He suspected
Jacobi from the start, but Jacobi had such a cast-iron alibi that
Corridan hadn’t a hope of nailing him.”
“What was his alibi?”
“He said he was in an all-night poker game at the Blue Club on the
night of the robbery. The waiters and the cloakroom attendant swore
they had seen him arrive. Jack Bradley and a couple of other men
swore Jacobi played with them the whole night. Mind you, none of
these fellows were what you could call reliable witnesses, but there
were so many of them, the police knew they wouldn’t be able to
make their case stand up in court, so they dropped Jacobi and hunted
elsewhere.”
“Without success?”
“Not a thing. It was Jacobi all right. Corridan said he wasn’t
worrying. Sooner or later the thieves would try to dispose of the loot
and he had a detailed description of every piece that was missing. As
soon as the stuff came on to the market, he was going to pounce.”
I grunted. “Yeah, I can hear him saying that. Did he pounce?”
Ullman grinned. “No. The stuff hasn’t come on to the market yet.
There’s still time, of course; unless it’s been smuggled out of the
country. One of these days the case may open up again, and then it’ll
be front page news. I think the trouble was that Corridan’s a shade
too confident and the thieves a shade too smart.”
“What happened to Jacobi?”
“He was murdered. A month after the robbery he was found in a
back street, shot through the heart. No one heard a shot, and the
police think he was killed in a house and dumped from a car. They
haven’t a clue to the killer, and I doubt if they ever will find him. The
affair wouldn’t have caused much excitement only they found,
concealed in the heel of Jacobi’s shoe, one of Allenby’s rings. They
tackled Bradley again, but couldn’t shift him. There the matter rests,
and that’s as far as they’ve got.”
“No clues at all?” I asked, lighting a cigarette and offering him the
carton.
He took a cigarette, lit up. “There was one important clue,
although it didn’t get them anywhere. The bul et that killed Jacobi had
a peculiar rifling. The police reckoned it would be easy to identify the
gun if they could only lay hands on it. The ballistic experts said the
bullet had been fired from a German Luger pistol, and for sometime
they suspected one of the American troops of having a hand in the
murder.”
I immediately thought of the Luger I had found in Netta’s flat. It
could have been given to her by an American service man. Could that
have been the weapon that had killed Jacobi? “They never found the
gun?” I asked.
“No. I bet they never will, either. My guess is there were two men
concerned in the robbery. Probably Jacobi did the actual job, and the
other man lurked in the background, directing the operation. Most
likely he was responsible for getting rid of the loot. I think the two fell
out over the split and the second man killed Jacobi, and is sitting on
the loot until it’s safe to put on the market. Corridan favours this idea,
too.” Ullman finished his drink, glanced at his watch. “Well, I’d better
be moving on,” he said. “It’s long past my bed-time.” He got to his
feet. “Although I haven’t much use for Corridan as a man, I must say
he’s damned efficient, and I shouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t get
the stuff in the end. He’s a surly customer, but he does deliver the
goods. The trouble with him is he hates newspaper men. He thinks
publicity gives the criminal too much knowledge of what is going on.
His idea is to say nothing, to keep the criminal guessing, not even to
report the crime, and in the end, the criminal will betray himself
because he’ll be over-anxious to know what the police are doing. It
may be a good idea, but it doesn’t suit the Press. I wish he wouldn’t
trample on my finer feelings. I could like the bloke if he had better
manners.”
I grinned. “Yeah,” I said, “so could I. I’d like to steal a march on
him one of these days. He’s due for a shake-up, and I may be able to
give it to him.”
“Well, let me have a front seat when it happens,” Ullman said,
shook hands and went off to join the queue for taxis.
I returned to my room, undressed, put on a dressing-gown, sat in
my arm-chair.
By the merest fluke I had got hold of what seemed to be the key
to the puzzle.
Corridan, of course, had no idea that the Jacobi robbery had
anything to do with the death of the girl in Netta’s flat, Anne’s suicide
or the murder of Madge Kennitt. If he had seen the name Jacobi
scrawled in the dust in Madge’s room, he would have been on to the
clue before me. But now I was holding the key to the problem, and he
was still floundering about trying to find out what connection Madge’s
murder had with the other two odd happenings.
Thinking it over, it now seemed certain that Netta, in some way or
other, was involved in the Allenby robbery. The fact that a ring from
the Allenby collection had been hidden in her jar of cold cream was
suspicious, but coupled with the fact that her sister had a cottage
close to the scene of the robbery and that Jack Bradley was watching
me like a hawk seemed to tie her to the robbery without any doubt.
What of the Luger I had found hidden in her dress? Had Corridan
checked it thoroughly? Had he discovered that it was the Luger which
had killed Jacobi and was holding out on me? Or hadn’t the Luger
anything to do with the case? That was something I had to find out,
and find out fast.
Where did the five thousand pounds worth of forged bonds come
into the picture? Had Frankie been after the Luger and the bonds
when he had attacked me? If he had been after the Luger and it was
the gun that had killed Jacobi mightn’t that mean that Jack Bradley
owned the gun and he had killed Jacobi?
I lit a cigarette, wandered about my room. I was sure I was getting
close to the solution of this business, but I still needed a little more
information.
Should I tell Corridan what I had discovered? That was something
that bothered me. With my facts he might clear up the whole business
in a few days, whereas I might fool around for weeks and never get
anywhere. I knew I should call him at once and tel him about finding
Jacobi’s name written in the dust. That was the one vital clue that’d
open up the case for him. I even
crossed the room to the telephone,
but I didn’t make the call.
After the way he had treated me, I wanted to get even with him.
The sweetest way I could do this was to crack the case, walk into his
office and tel him how it was done.
I hesitated, then decided to give myself seven more days, and if I
hadn’t arrived at the solution by then, I’d turn the facts over to him
and give him best.
Having made this decision, I got into bed, turned out the light, and
lay awake for at least three minutes wrestling with my conscience.
Chapter XII
SOON after eleven o’clock the following morning, I called on J. B.
Merryweather. I found him sitting at his desk, totally unemployed,
although he did make a feeble effort to look immersed in his thoughts
when he saw me come in.
“Hello,” I said, drawing up a chair and sitting down. “Any news
from Littlejohn?”
“Well, yes,” he said, straightening his tie and sitting more upright;
“I heard from him this morning. He’s a good chap; gets on the job
right away.”
“That’s what he gets paid for, isn’t it?” I asked, produced my
carton of cigarettes. I rolled one across his desk. He snapped it up, lit
it. “What has he to report?”
There is one thing,” Merryweather said, rubbing his long red nose.
“Rather curious, rather interesting, I feel. I hope you’ll think so too. It
seems this woman, Mrs. Brambee, was the sister of George Jacobi,
the jewel thief, who was so mysteriously murdered a month or so ago.
You may have heard of the affair. Would that interest you?” He
looked at me hopeful y.
I didn’t let him see I was more than interested. “It might,” I said
cautiously. “Anyway any information at this stage of the case may be
useful. Anything else?”
“Littlejohns spent the night watching the cottage. After midnight
a car arrived and a man spent two hours with Mrs. Brambee.”
Merryweather picked up a sheet of paper, consulted it. “The car was a
yellow-and-black Bentley. The man was tall, well-built, powerful, but
Littlejohns was unable to see his face. It was a dark night,” he added,
apologetically.
I nodded. “Did he get the registration number of the car?”
“Certainly, but I’ve had the number checked and there’s no record
of it. It would seem it’s a false number plate that is being used.”
“Well, that’s not bad for a beginning,” I said, pleased. “It won’t be
wasting time or money for Littlejohns to stay down there.” I went on
to tell Merryweather about seeing Mrs. Brambee at the Blue Club.
“You’d better pass that information to Littlejohns. It may help him.
And tell him to get after the driver of the Bentley. I want him traced.
No sign of a girl staying at the cottage?”
“No. Littlejohns proposes to visit the place in a day or so on some
pretext or other. He has seen quite a lot of Mrs. Brambee in the
village, and he proposes to let her get used to the sight of him before
he calls. He knows his job al right, I can assure you of that.”
I got up. “Okay,” I said, “keep in touch. If anything breaks call me.”
Merryweather promised he would, and I went to the elevator,
rode down to the ground-level.
Well, that explained who Mrs. Brambee was, and to some extent
why she was connected with the Blue Club. The pieces of the jig-saw
puzzle continued to fall into place quicker than I had thought possible.
The past twenty-four hours had certainly been revealing ones.
I stood on the edge of the kerb, looked up and down for a taxi. A
car swept around the corner, drove up to me fast, stopped with a
squeal of brakes. For a moment I was startled: it was the battered
Standard Fourteen.
Frankie sat at the wheel. A cigarette drooped from his lips, his
greasy hat rested on his thin nose. He looked at me out of the corners
of his eyes, a cold, vicious expression in them I didn’t much like.
“Bradley wants you,” he said in a nasal voice. “Get in the back and
make it snappy.”
I recovered from my surprise. “You’ve been seeing too many
gangster movies, sonny,” I said. “Tel Bradley if he wants to see me, he
can call at the Savoy some evening, I’ll try to be out.”
“Get in the back,” Frankie repeated softly, “and don’t talk so
much. You’ll do yourself a piece of good if you come without a fuss.”
I considered the proposition with some interest and not a little
thought. It might be worth while hearing what Bradley had to say. I
hadn’t anything to do at the moment, and I was curious to meet
Bradley again.
“Okay, I’ll come,” I said, opening the car door. “What’s he want to
see me about?”
Frankie engaged his clutch, shot the Standard away from the kerb
so fast I was flung against the back seat. I sorted myself out, promised
to smack his ears down should the opportunity arise, repeated my
question.
“You’ll find out,” Frankie said, drawing on his cigarette.
I decided he imagined himself to be a real tough egg, admired his
skill as a driver. He kept thirty miles an hour going all through the
heavy traffic, weaving his way in between cars, missing fenders by
split inches.
“Now did you like the way I shook you off the other day?” I asked
pleasantly. “You weren’t so smart then, were you?”
He took his cigarette from his mouth, spat out of the window, said
“And the next time you try to bounce a tyre lever on my head, I’ll
wrap it around your skinny neck and tie a knot in it,” I went on less
pleasantly.
“The next time I come after you, you skunk,” he returned, “I’ll
make a better job of it.” He sounded as if he meant it.
That held me until we reached Bruton Mews, then I said, “Well,
thanks for the ride, sonny. It’s a pity they didn’t teach you anything
better than to drive a car at your approved school.”
He looked me over, sneered. “They taught me plenty,” he said,
moving towards the club. “Come on. I ain’t got all day to fool around
with a peep like you.”
I reached out, caught him by the scruff of his neck. He twisted,
wrenched away, swung at me. There was nothing slow about his
movements. His fist caught me flush on the chin. I back stepped fast
enough to keep from falling, but I took plenty of the punch. It was
meant to be a sockeroo, but late nights, physical wear and tear and
underfeeding don’t put iron into bones. It worried me no more than a
smack with a paper bag.
I sank my fist into the side of his neck just to show him what a real
punch felt like. He toppled over sideways, went down on hands and
knees, coughed, shook his head.
“Tough guy,” I sneered.
He shot at me like a plane from a catapult, reaching for my knees
in a diving tackle. I side-stepped and reached for his neck, took it into
chancery. He tried to get his hands where he could hurt, but I’d been
through that stuff at s
chool. I twisted him around and heaved him a
little higher, then I took hold of my right wrist with my left hand and
turned my right hip-bone into him.
I had my right forearm against his windpipe and all the strength of
both my arms in it. He scratched at the cobbles with his feet, went
blue in the face.
I eased off; slapped his mug three or four times, back and forth,
put the heel of my hand on his nose and pressed. Then I let him go.
He sat down on the cobbles, blood running from his nose, his face
the colour of raw meat, his breath whistling through his mouth. It
must have been the toughest two minutes he’d ever experienced.
Tears came into his eyes. He put his sleeve to his face, sniffled: just a
soft, yellow kid who thought he was tough.
I reached out, grabbed his collar, heaved him to his feet.
“Come on, Dillinger,” I said, “let’s see Bradley, and don’t give me
any more of that gangster spiel; you can’t live up to it.”
He walked ahead, staggering a little, holding a dirty handkerchief
to his nose. He didn’t look back, but I could see by the set of his
shoulders he was crazy with rage and hate. I decided I’d keep an eye
on this lad in the future. He might try sticking a knife in my ribs the
next time we met.
He rapped on a door at the end of the passage, opened it, went
in.
I followed him, found myself in a big luxuriously furnished room.
There was a built-in upholstered corner seat by the window, a black-
and-chromium safe in the wall. There were some filing cabinets, a
small bar, and the usual broad, heavy executive desk with the usual
high-padded leather chair behind it.
Looking out of the window was a man in a dark lounge suit. He
had grey hair and plenty of it. He turned. He was going on for fifty and
his face was handsome in a dark heavy way. His eyes were slate grey,
unfriendly.
I remembered him now. It was Jack Bradley. I had only seen him
twice before and that was two years ago. I decided he had aged a lot
since last I saw him.
“Hello, Harmas,” he said, then caught sight of Frankie. His face
set. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarled at Frankie.
“You’re bleeding over my goddamned carpet.”
“My fault,” I said, taking out my cigarettes, selecting one. “Your
boy made me nervous. I thought he was a tough egg. We fooled