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
around to Shepherd Market, only a few minutes from the
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
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
bottle for the damn stuff, so it can’t be too bad.”
I said I’d sample the brandy, but preferred a cigarette to a cigar.
While he was pouring the brandy into an inhaler, I studied him.
I remembered Crystal’s description of the man in the yellow-and-
black Bentley. It fitted French well enough. He was more likely to be
the owner of a car like that than Julius Cole. I couldn’t imagine Netta
going around with Cole, but I could see her being fascinated by this
guy.
“Nice little place you have here,” I said, accepting the inhaler.
“Comes as a surprise after the garage.”
He smiled, nodded. “I believe in comfort, Mr. Harmas,” he
returned. “I work long hours, spend most of my life in this room.
What’s the point in not having nice surroundings?”
I agreed with him, wondered if I should make a direct approach or
get around to it more cautiously.
“Your bruises are a little too obvious to ignore,” he went on,
regarding me with friendly curiosity. “If a fellow has a black eye, I
don’t pass remarks. Probably his girl friend has lost her temper with
him; but when a fellow has two black eyes and the rest of his face
resembles a rainbow, I feel it’d be unsympathetic not to offer
condolences.”
I laughed, “That’s swell of you,” I said, “and you’re not the only
one as you can imagine. A good newspaper man, Mr. French, has to
be inquisitive. He can’t afford to mind his own business. Three
