“Jacobi’s loot, eh?” I said.
He flinched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. She said
they were her rings. I don’t know anything about Jacobi.”
“Yes, you do, you rat,” I said. “You haven’t much longer to live
outside a cell. You’d better talk fast. Where did she get these from?”
“I didn’t ask her,” he blubbered. “She offered me the stuff for
three hundred. I could see they were worth more so I bought them.”
“I’m going to hand these over to Corridan,” I said, slipping the
rings into my pocket. “You know what that’ll mean.”
“They’re mine,” he snarled, shaking his fist at me. “I’ll have you up
for stealing.”
“Be your age,” I said. “You know as wel as I do that they’re part of
Jacobi’s loot. Where can I get hold of Netta?”
“I don’t know,” he returned, holding a blood-stained handkerchief
to his nose. “She didn’t say where she was going. You came in at the
wrong moment, blast you!”
I thought maybe that was the truth.
“Get up,” I said.
He hesitated, but as I threatened him with my foot, he climbed to
his feet, stood before me.
“Okay, Bradley,” I said, “we’re quits. The next time you think of
teaching someone a lesson be more careful who you chose for a
subject.”
I looked him over, decided my face was now handsome compared
with his, hauled off, hit him on the point of his fat chin, watched his
flop. Then I unrolled my sleeves, put on my coat, walked to the door
and scrammed.
Chapter XVIII
I PAID off the taxi at the corner of Hampden Street, walked down
the narrow cul-de-sac. Three of the big buildings were blitzed, mere
shells of charred brick and wood. The last building was a small
printer’s shop; the windows were boarded up, and the shop had a
forlorn, neglected appearance. A door on the far side of the shop was
numbered 311.
I stood back, looked up at the curtained windows. The place was
in darkness.
I tried the door, for it, as I expected, locked. I stepped back again,
surveyed the upper windows. There was a stack- pipe running close to
one of them. I tested it, decided it was strong enough to take my
weight, glanced back down the alley, saw no one.
I started to climb, wished I had on a less expensive suit, managed
to hoist myself on to the sloping roof above the printer’s shop. From
there it was easy to reach the window. I looked into the darkness,
listened. The traffic hummed in Russell Square, someone in the
distance shouted “Taxi!” No sound carne from Selma Jacobi’s flat.
I took out my pocket knife, levered back the window-catch,
pushed up the window. One more glance behind me, then I stepped
down into darkness.
I found myself in a bedroom. Immediately my skin began to tingle.
There was a distinct smell of lilac in the room. I drew the blind, then
the curtains. I groped for my cigarette lighter, thumbed the flint. The
feeble flame showed me the electric light switch. I crossed the room,
turned on the light.
The room was small, but comfortably furnished. There was a
divan bed in one corner, turned down, inviting. Across the foot of the
bed was a blue silk nightdress; on the floor by the nightdress was a
pair of blue mules.
To the right of the window there was a dressing-table, crammed
with powder boxes, lip stick, lotions; everything a girl needs to keep
herself well-groomed. A chest of drawers stood near the door, a
wardrobe on the other side of the window.
I pulled open one of the drawers, glanced inside. There was a
jumble of silk underwear and silk stockings. I pulled the stockings out.
Sonic of them had been worn, some of them were still in their
transparent envelopes. I grunted, put them back, turned off the light. I
opened the door, listened. The silence and stillness made me feel
spooked. I heard nothing, except my own breathing and the steady
beat of my pulse.
I stepped into a narrow, short passage, saw the head of the stairs
at one end and a door at the other. I crept to the door, put my ear
against the panel, listened. There was no sound. I turned the handle,
pushed open the door, looked into the inky darkness. Again I listened,
uneasy, a little scared. My hand groped along the wall, found the
electric light switch, hesitated, then snapped it down.
For a second or so I stood looking around the large well-furnished
room, then the hair on the back of my neck bristled; I caught my
breath sharply.
Lying on the floor, his smal hands flat on the blue-and-fawn
carpet, his legs screwed up, his eyes sightless, his mouth below the
straggling moustache twisted in horror, was Henry Littlejohns.
I stepped forward, saw the broken skin on the side of his head,
and the blood that had run down his neck and had spread like an
obscene halo around his head. Near him was a heavy steel poker, its
knobbed handle stained red.
I avoided the blood, bent, touched his hand. It was warm, limp. I
raised his arm, let it fall. It thudded back on the carpet. He hadn’t
been dead long.
I was so shocked, so surprised that for several minutes I could
only stare clown at him, feeling nothing, my mind a blank.
Then I stiffened, my heart gave a lurch and began to pound so
violently I could scarcely breathe.
At the far end of the room was a door which was now slowly
opening. It inched open, stopped, inched open again.
“Who is it?” I said in a voice I didn’t recognize as my own. The
door jerked open. I took an involuntary step back. Netta stood there.
We looked at each other over Littlejohn’s dead body.
Then she said, “Oh, Steve, Steve, Steve, thank God you’ve found
