powerful y built gentlemen didn’t like my methods. They pooled their
muscles and attempted to alter the shape of my face, with some
success, as you can see.”
He raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips. “I do see,” he said. “I must
say I should be distinctly annoyed if anyone did that to me.”
I nodded. “Oh, I’m annoyed al right, but I didn’t come here to talk
about my face. I came because I thought you might be able to help
me.”
He nodded, looked a little wary, waited.
“I believe you know Selma Jacobi,” I said, deciding to give it to him
straight.
He put the inhaler on the mantelpiece, frowned. “Nothing doing,
my friend,” he said shortly. “Sorry, but I’m not talking to a newspaper
man about Mrs. Jacobi. If that’s all you’ve come about then I’ll say
good night.”
“I’m not talking to you as a newspaper man,” I said. “My paper
wouldn’t be interested in Mrs. Jacobi. I’m talking to you as a friend of
Netta Scott’s.”
He stared at his cigar thoughtful y, moved away from the fireplace
to the window.
“You knew Netta Scott?” he said. “So did I.”
I didn’t say anything, wondered if I should ask him if he owned the
Bentley, decided I wouldn’t.
“But what has Netta Scott to do with Mrs. Jacobi?” he went on,
after a pause.
“I don’t know,” I said, stretching out my legs. “But I have a hunch
there is a connection. I think Netta knew George Jacobi. I want to be
sure. Maybe Selma could tell me.”
“Why do you want to know that?” he asked, still looking out of
the window.
“Maybe it’d explain why she committed suicide,” I said. “You
know about that?”
“Yes,” he said, hunched his massive shoulders as if the subject
wasn’t to his taste. “Why should you be interested in Netta’s suicide?”
“I don’t believe in letting sleeping dogs lie,” I said. “I’ve told you
I’m inquisitive. Netta wasn’t the type to commit suicide. I’m
wondering if there’s more behind it than I think.”
He glanced over his shoulder, started to say something, stopped.
There was a long pause, then he said. “I haven’t seen Mrs. Jacobi
for two or three months-not since she married.”
“Know where she lives?”
“She isn’t there any more,” he returned. “The place is shut up.”
“Where is it?”
He faced me. “What does it matter where it is? She isn’t there, I
tell you.”
“Maybe she’ll come back. Look, let me put it this way. The police
are looking for you. At least, they’re looking for a big guy who’s first
name is Peter, and who knew Netta. I’m not interested in helping the
police. But they’d welcome the chance of talking to you, and they’d be
a lot less polite than I am. I want Selma Jacobi’s address. Either you
give it to me or you’ll give it to the police. I don’t care which way it is,
only make up your mind.”
He chewed his cigar which had gone out, always a sign a guy’s got
something on his mind.
“What makes you think the police want to talk to me?” he asked,
his voice cold.
I told him about Anne Scott, and what Mrs. Brambee had said.
“I’ve never heard of Anne Scott,” he snapped. “I didn’t even know
Netta had a sister.”
“Don’t tell me; tel the judge. All I’m interested in is finding out
Selma’s address.”
“I don’t want the police nosing around here,” he said, after a
pause. “I’d take it as a favour if you kept your mouth shut. Selma lived
at 3B Hampton Street, off Russell Square. Now suppose you take
yourself off. I have things to do before I go home, and I’ve given you
quite enough of my time.”
I got to my feet. “Have you a photo of Selma?”
He studied me for a moment, shook his head. “I don’t collect
photographs of married women,” he said. “Good night.”
“Well, thanks,” I said, “you won’t be bothered by the police
through any information from me.” I turned to the door, paused.
“That’s a fine car downstairs. Is it yours?”
He eyed me. “Yes. What of it?”
“Nothing. You’re lucky to have a car like that.”
“Good night,” he repeated. “I’m beginning to understand how you
got your face damaged. I’m also beginning to feel sorry those fellows
didn’t make a better job of it.”
I grinned, said maybe I’d see him again, left him.
Chapter XVII
AT sometime, when Crystal had been prattling, she had
mentioned that Jack Bradley seldom arrived at the club before ten
o’clock for the evening’s work.
I decided, as I walked through Shepherd Market, that if I called on
him now, I might stand a good chance of finding him in.
Hay’s Mews lies off Berkeley Square; and I arrived there in a few
minutes.
Bradley’s flat was over a garage. Lights were showing through the
cream muslin curtains. I would have preferred to have climbed in
through the window, but that was not possible. I did the next best
thing: I punched the bell.
I waited a few minutes, then heard a step. The door opened. I
didn’t expect to see Frankie, but then he didn’t expect to see me.
“Hello, tough guy,” I said.
He took one look, alarm jumped into his eyes, and he opened his
mouth to yell.
I was ready for that, and belted him under the chin. I caught him
as he fell, lowered him carefully to the floor.
