wrong with him, his eyesight, as far as spotting money was concerned,
was excellent.
He levered himself up in his chair, adjusted his tie.
“What do you suggest I might do to help you?” he ventured
cautiously.
I put the wallet away. To him, it was like a black cloud passing
before the face of the sun.
“I wanted someone to investigate at Lakeham,” I said. “I want to
get everything I can on this woman, Mrs. Brambee, and I want a
background picture of Anne Scott.”
He brightened visibly. “Well, that’s something we might be able to
do,” he said, and looked hopeful y at the carton of cigarettes on his
desk. “I wonder if you’d mind . . .”
“Go ahead,” I said.
He took another cigarette, became quite genial.
“Yes, I think we could help you do that,” he went on, drawing
down a lungful of smoke. “I have an excellent man, very discreet. I
could put him on the job.” His eyes closed for a moment, then
snapped open. “It isn’t our usual line of investigation, you know. It
might-hum — cost a little more.”
“I’ll pay well for results,” I returned. “What are your terms?”
“Well, now let me see. Shall we say ten pounds a week and three
pounds a day expenses?” He looked hopeful y at me, looked away.
“For that I’d expect to hire Sherlock Holmes himself,” I said, and
meant it.
Mr. Merryweather tittered, put his hand over his mouth, looked
embarrassed.
“It’s an expensive age we live in,” he sighed, shaking his head.
I was glad I hadn’t told him about the attempted attack on me, or
about the guy following me in the Standard car. He would probably
have added danger money to the bill.
“Well, all right,” I said, shrugging. “Only I want results.” I counted
thirty-one pounds on to his desk. “That’ll hold you for one week. Get
me everything you can on Anne Scott, have someone watch Mrs.
Brambee’s cottage. I want to know who goes in and who comes out,
what she does and why she does it.”
“It’s a police job really,” he said, whisking the money into a
drawer and turning the key. “Who’s in charge of the case?”
“Inspector Corridan,” I told him.
His face darkened. “Oh, that fellow,” he said, scowling. “One of
the bright boys. Wouldn’t have lasted a day in my time. I know him-a
Chief’s pet.” He seemed to withdraw into himself, brooding and
bitter. “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised if we find out a lot more than he
does. I believe in old-fashioned methods. Police work is ninety per
cent patience and ten per cent luck. These new scientific methods
make a man lazy.”
I grunted, stood up. “Well, I guess I’ll be hearing from you.
Remember: no results, no more money.”
He nodded, smiled awkwardly. “Quite so, Mr. Harmas. I like
dealing with business men. One knows where one is so to speak.”
The door opened at this moment, and a little guy slid into the
room. He was shabby, middle-aged, pathetically sad-looking. His
straggling moustache was stained with nicotine, his watery eyes
peered at me like a startled rabbit’s.
“Ah, you’ve come at the opportune moment,” Mr. Merry-
weather said, rubbing his hands. He turned to me. “This is Henry
Littlejohns, who will personally work on your case.” He made it sound
as if this odd little man was Philo Vance, Nick Charles and Perry
Mason all rolled into one. “This is Mr. Harmas who has just given us a
most interesting case.”
There was no enthusiastic light in Mr. Littlejohn’s faded eyes. I
guessed he had visions of hanging around more draughty passages,
looking through more sordid keyholes, standing outside more houses
in the rain. He muttered something through his moustache, stood
staring down at his boots.
“I’d like to talk to Mr. Littlejohns,” I said to Merryweather. “Can I
take him along with me?”
“Of course,” Mr. Merryweather said, beaming, “By all means take
him along with you.”
“We’ll go back to my hotel,” I said to Littlejohns. “I’d like you to
have details of this case.”
He nodded, muttered again under his breath, opened the door for
me.
We walked to the elevator, rode down to the ground-level in
silence.
I waved to a taxi, ushered Mr. Littlejohns in and as I was about to
follow, something — intuition, instinct, something- made me turn
quickly and look behind me.
The young runt who had tried to dent my skull and who had
followed me in the Standard was standing in a doorway watching me.
For a second our eyes met, then he spat on the pavement, sauntered
off in the opposite direction.
Chapter VII
HENRY LITTLEJOHNS looked as out of place in the Savoy as a
snowman in the middle of August. He sat on the edge of a chair, his
bowler hat resting on his knees, a sad expression on his face.
I told him about Netta, took him through every detail of the story,
concluded with the burning of Anne’s body.
Throughout the recital, he sat motionless. The sad expression
remained on his face, but I could tel by the intent look in his eyes that
he wasn’t missing a thing.
“A very interesting story,” he said when I had finished. “It calls for
a most searching investigation.”
I said I thought he was right, and what did he think of the set-up
now that I had given him the facts?
He sat chewing his moustache for a moment or so, then looked
up.
