had vanished. I immediately thought of Julius Cole. Had he got in here
while I was waiting for Corridan?
But I hadn’t much time for thought as Corridan came into the
room, his face dark with anger. I moved away from the chaise- longue,
looked around the room.
“What the hell are you playing at?” he demanded. “You’ve no
business in here. I’m getting tired of your behaviour, Harmas. It’s got
to stop. Why are you in here?”
I decided I wouldn’t tell him about the name in the dust. Anyway,
not until I had investigated the clue myself. I tried to look ashamed of
myself, didn’t succeed very well.
“There was a cat here,” I said vaguely. “I wondered if it was still in
the room.”
“What the blazes has a cat to do with it?” he demanded, glaring at
me.
I lifted my shoulders. “Maybe the killer took it away,” I said.
“That’s a clue, isn’t it?”
“He didn’t take the cat away,” Corridan snarled. “It’s locked up in
the other room. Any more bright ideas?”
“Well, I’m only trying to help,” I said. “How about you and me
calling on Julius Cole?”
“I’m calling on, him,” Corridan said. “You’re getting the hell out of
here. Now see here, Harmas, I’m warning you for the last time. Keep
out of this. You’re lucky you’re not charged with murder. I’m going to
check your story and if it doesn’t click, I’m going to arrest you. You’re
a damn nuisance. Now get out.”
“If you listen carefully,” I said, as I edged to the door, “you’l hear
my knees knocking.”
Chapter XI
As I was crossing the Savoy lobby to take the elevator to my room,
I ran into Fred Ullman, crime reporter to the
met when I was in London during the war, and he had been helpful in
advising me on angles for my articles on London crime.
He seemed as pleased to see me as I was to see him.
“We’ve just time for a drink,” he said, after we had got through
back-slapping and explaining what we were doing in the Savoy at this
time of night. “I don’t want to be too late as I have a heavy day before
me, so don’t start one of your drinking contests.”
I said I wouldn’t, led him into the residents’ lounge, ordered
whiskies, sat down.
Ullman hadn’t changed much since last we met. He was a tall,
lanky individual, and his most distinctive feature was the bags under
his eyes. He was known as the Fred Allen of Fleet Street.
After we had chatted about the past, checked up on the activities
of mutual friends, I asked him casually if the name Jacobi meant
anything to him.
I saw surprise on his face, and his eyebrows went up.
“What makes you ask?” he inquired. “A couple of months ago that
name was in every English newspaper. Have you just got on to it? “
I said I had. “I heard some guy talking, and he mentioned the
name. I wondered if I was missing anything.”
“I shouldn’t say you’re missing much,” he said. “The affair is as
dead as a dodo now.”
“Well, tel me,” I said. “Even if it’s past news, I should know what’s
been going on.”
“All right,” he returned, sinking back in his arm-chair. “The
business began when a rich theatrical magnate, Hervey Allenby,
decided to do what a number of rich people were doing: buy
diamonds and other precious stones against invasion or inflation or
both. He bought heavily: rings, bracelets, necklaces, loose stones;
stuff that could be easily carried, and of good value. He amassed a
collection worth fifty thousand pounds. As he wanted to be able to
put his hands on the stuff quickly, he kept the lot in his country house.
The purchase of these gems was kept secret, but after four years-
three months ago-the news leaked out somehow or other, and before
you could say ‘mild-and-bitter,’ the collection was pinched.”
“Quite a nice haul,” I said. The name, Hervey Allenby, made me
prick up my ears. “Where was this country house?”
“Lakeham, Sussex, just outside Horsham,” Ullman returned. “I
went down there to cover the robbery. The village is small, but
attractive, and Allenby’s house is just a half a mile beyond it. The
robbery was a real slick job. The house was crammed with burglar
alarms and police dogs, and the safe was a real snorter. The thief
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
