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
nothing.
“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
