chapter eleven.

As I was crossing the Savoy lobby to take the elevator to my room, I ran into Fred Ullman, crime reporter to the Morning Mail. We had 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, tell 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 armchair. "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 soon as the stuff came on to the market, he was going to pounce."

I grunted. "Yeah, I can hear him saying that. Did he pounce?"

Ullman grinned. "No. The stuff hasn't come on to the market yet. There's still time, of course; unless it's been smuggled out of the country. One of these days the case may open up again, and then it'll be front page news. I think the trouble was that Corridan's a shade too confident and the thieves a shade too smart."

"What happened to Jacobi?"

"He was murdered. A month after the robbery he was found in a back street, shot through the heart. No one heard a shot, and the police think he was killed in a house and dumped from a car. They haven't a clue to the killer, and I doubt if they ever will find him. The affair wouldn't have caused much excitement only they found, concealed in the heel of Jacobi's shoe, one of Allenby's rings. They tackled Bradley again, but couldn't shift him. There the matter rests, and that's as far as they've got."

"No clues at all?" I asked, lighting a cigarette and offering him the carton.

He took a cigarette, lit up. "There was one important clue, although it didn't get them anywhere. The bullet that killed Jacobi had a peculiar rifling. The police reckoned it would be easy to identify the gun if they could only lay hands on it. The ballistic experts said the bullet had been fired from a German Luger pistol, and for some time they suspected one of the American troops of having a hand in the murder."

I immediately thought of the Luger I had found in Netta's flat. It could have been given to her by an American service man. Could that have been the weapon that had killed Jacobi? "They never found the gun?" I asked.

"No. I bet they never will, either. My guess is there were two men concerned in the robbery. Probably Jacobi did the actual job, and the other man lurked in the background, directing the operation. Most likely he was responsible for getting rid of the loot. I think the two fell out over the split and the second man killed Jacobi, and is sitting on the loot until it's safe to put on the market. Corridan favours this idea, too." Ullman finished his drink, glanced at his watch. "Well, I'd better be moving on," he said. "It's long past my bed-time." He got to his feet. "Although I haven't much use for Corridan as a man, I must say he's damned efficient, and I shouldn't be surprised if he doesn't get the stuff in the end. He's a surly customer, but he does deliver the goods. The trouble with him is he hates newspaper men. He thinks publicity gives the criminal too much knowledge of what is going on. His idea is to say nothing, to keep the criminal guessing, not even to report the crime, and in the end, the criminal will betray himself because he'll be over-anxious to know what the police are doing. It may be a good idea, but it doesn't suit the Press. I wish he wouldn't trample on my finer feelings. I could like the bloke if he had better manners."

I grinned. "Yeah," I said, "so could I. I'd like to steal a march on him one of these days. He's due for a shake-up, and I may be able to give it to him."

"Well, let me have a front seat when it happens," Ullman said, shook hands and went off to join the queue for taxis.

I returned to my room, undressed, put on a dressing-gown, sat in my armchair.

By the merest fluke I had got hold of what seemed to be the key to the puzzle.

Corridan, of course, had no idea that the Jacobi robbery had anything to do with the death of the girl in Netta's flat, Anne's suicide or the murder of Madge Kennitt. If he had seen the name Jacobi scrawled in the dust in Madge's room, he would have been on to the clue before me. But now I was holding the key to the problem, and he was still floundering about trying to find out what connection Madge's murder had with the other two odd happenings.

Thinking it over, it now seemed certain that Netta, in some way or other, was involved in the Allenby robbery. The fact that a ring from the Allenby collection had been hidden in her jar of cold cream was suspicious, but coupled with the fact that her sister had a cottage close to the scene of the robbery and that Jack Bradley was watching me like a hawk seemed to tie her to the robbery without any doubt.

What of the Luger I had found hidden in her dress? Had Corridan checked it thoroughly? Had he discovered that it was the Luger which had killed Jacobi and was holding out on me? Or hadn't the Luger anything to do with the case? That was something I had to find out, and find out fast.

Where did the five thousand pounds worth of forged bonds come into the picture? Had Frankie been after the Luger and the bonds when he had attacked me? If he had been after the Luger and it was the gun that had killed Jacobi mightn't that mean that Jack Bradley owned the gun and he had killed Jacobi?

I lit a cigarette, wandered about my room. I was sure I was getting close to the solution of this business, but I still needed a little more information.

Should I tell Corridan what I had discovered? That was something that bothered me. With my facts he might clear up the whole business in a few days, whereas I might fool around for weeks and never get anywhere. I knew I should call him at once and tell him about finding Jacobi's name written in the dust. That was the one vital clue that'd open up the case for him. I even crossed the room to the telephone, but I didn't make the call.

After the way he had treated me, I wanted to get even with him.

The sweetest way I could do this was to crack the case, walk into his office and tell him how it was done.

I hesitated, then decided to give myself seven more days, and if I hadn't arrived at the solution by then, I'd turn the facts over to him and give him best.

Having made this decision, I got into bed, turned out the light, and lay awake for at least three minutes wrestling with my conscience.

chapter twelve.

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?"

aThere 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 hopefully.

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 all 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. "Tell 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 worthwhile 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 smack with a paper bag.

I sank my fist into the side of his neck just to show him what a real punch felt like. He toppled over sideways, went down on hands and knees, coughed, shook his head.

"Tough guy," I sneered.

He shot at me like a plane from a catapult, reaching for my knees in a diving tackle. I side-stepped and reached for his neck, took it into chancery. He tried to get his hands where he could hurt, but I'd been through that stuff at school. I twisted him around and heaved him a little higher, then I took hold of my right wrist with my left hand and turned my right hip-bone into him.

I had my right forearm against his windpipe and all the strength of both my arms in it. He scratched at the cobbles with his feet, went blue in the face.

I eased off; slapped his mug three or four times, back and forth, put the heel of my hand on his nose and pressed. Then I let him go.

He sat down on the cobbles, blood running from his nose, his face the colour of raw meat, his breath whistling through his mouth. It must have been the toughest two minutes he'd ever experienced.

Tears came into his eyes. He put his sleeve to his face, sniffled: just a soft, yellow kid who thought he was tough.

I reached out, grabbed his collar, heaved him to his feet.

"Come on, Dillinger," I said, "let's see Bradley, and don't give me any more of that gangster spiel; you can't live up to it."

He walked ahead, staggering a little, holding a dirty handkerchief to his nose. He didn't look back, but I could see by the set of his shoulders he was crazy with rage and hate. I decided I'd keep an eye on this lad in the future. He might try sticking a knife in my ribs the next time we met.

He rapped on a door at the end of the passage, opened it, went in.

I followed him, found myself in a big luxuriously furnished room.

There was a built-in upholstered corner seat by the window, a black-and-chromium safe in the wall. There were some filing cabinets, a small bar, and the usual broad, heavy executive desk with the usual high-padded leather chair behind it.

Looking out of the window was a man in a dark lounge suit. He had grey hair and plenty of it. He turned. He was going on for fifty and his face was handsome in a dark heavy way. His eyes were slate grey, unfriendly.

I remembered him now. It was Jack Bradley. I had only seen him twice before and that was two years ago. I decided he had aged a lot since last I saw him.