The door opened and a sad looking little man wandered in. I gaped at him, scarcely believing my eyes. It was Henry Littlejohns.

"For the love of mike!" I exclaimed, struggling upright. "What brings you here."

"Good evening, Mr. Harmas," he said, in his sad voice. He looked around for somewhere to park his bowler hat, laid it down on the chest of drawers, came farther into the room. "I'm indeed sorry to find you in this unhappy state, sir," he went on, visibly shocked at my appearance. "I trust you are making a good recovery?"

"Never mind all that stuff," I said, impatiently. "I'm fine. Sit down. Make yourself at home. I thought you were in Lakeham."

"So I was, sir," he said, drawing up a chair and sitting down. He pulled up his trousers so they shouldn't bag at the knees, fidgeted with his feet. "At least, I was until this afternoon."

I saw he wasn't at ease, offered my carton of cigarettes.

"No, thank you, sir," he said, shaking his head. "I don't smoke." He regarded me with his sad eyes, chewed the end of his moustache.

"Something to report?" I asked, wondering what was coming.

"Not exactly, sir," he said, drumming on his knees. "I don't suppose you've heard from Mr. Merryweather yet?"

"I've heard nothing from Merryweather," I said, puzzled.

"Anything wrong?"

Littlejohns stroked his greying hair, looked self-conscious. "The fact of the matter is, sir, Mr. Merryweather has withdrawn from your case."

"The hell he has," I said, sitting bolt-upright, and wishing I hadn't.

"What's the idea?"

"You see, sir, Mr. Merryweather at no time thought the investigation within our usual terms of reference," Littlejohns explained. "The a" er - pecuniary aspect of the case interested hima" tempted him, you might say, but he now has been threatened - well, he thinks there'll be no useful purpose served in continuing the investigation."

I pricked up my ears. "Threatened?"

Littlejohns nodded gravely. "Apparently two men visited him yesterday morning. They were rough characters, and they made it clear that if he did not immediately stop working for you, they would settle his hash, I believe was the phrase used."

I lit a cigarette, scowled. It seemed Bradley was working overtime.

"You mean Merryweather allowed these two guys to throw a scare into him?"

"They were exceptionally rough characters," Littlejohns said hurriedly, as if anxious to excuse Merryweather's lack of courage. "They smashed his desk, said they had beaten you up and would beat Merryweather up too. He isn't exactly young, and he has a wife to consider. I can't say I blame him for withdrawing, and I hope, sir, you'll take the same view."

He looked so solemn that I burst out laughing.

"That's okay," I said, lay back on my pillow and grinned at him. "I bet they scared the daylight out of the poor old geyser. I don't blame him in the least. They nearly, but not quite, scared the daylight out of me." I looked at him, suddenly puzzled. "But why did you come here to tell me all this? What's it to do with you?"

Littlejohns pulled at his moustache. "I'm very sorry to be taken off this case, sir," he said. "Very sorry. You see, sir, I liked the excitement. You may not believe it, but I've always wanted to be a detective ever since I was a nipper. I've been disappointed with the work up to now. Mr. Merryweather doesn't get much business. The cases that do come our way are the usual divorce cases. Not, as you will appreciate, very congenial work: very dull, if I may say so. I dislike spying on married couples. But I have to do the work. I'm not getting any younger; jobs are difficult to come by. I thought I'd explain my position, sir. I hope you'll forgive me taking up your time. What I was going to suggest . . ." He paused, looked embarrassed. "If you'll excuse the liberty, what I was going to suggest was that I should continue with the case. I'd be very happy to take reduced fees, and Mr. Merryweather has nothing for me at the moment. He pays me only when I'm working for him. So I thought I'd offer my services, not that you'd want to continue the arrangement, but I thought there'd be no harm in mentioning it."

I gaped at him. "But, look, if they're threatening Merryweather, that'll also include you."

"I don't believe in being intimidated by threats," he said quietly. "I assure you I wouldn't be put off by that kind of thing. I'm at your service if you still require me."

I grinned at him, suddenly liking him immensely. "Sure, you go ahead. The same terms suit you?"

He gaped, stuttered. "Oh, but surely, Mr. Harmas, they were rather excessive. I would be prepared . . ."

"No, you'll have what Merryweather got, so dry up," I said firmly.

"Don't make any mistake: you'll earn the money. There are a number of things to do with this case that I haven't told your boss. I'm going to tell you, and you can then decide if you still want the job."

"Thank you, sir," Littlejohns said, his face lighting up. "There is one thing I must report first. I've seen the young lady with the red hair. She came out of the cottage late last night. The black-and-yellow Bentley called for her. I saw her distinctly. She got into the car which drove away along the London road; I was unfortunately too late to follow it."

"Okay," I said. "Perhaps she's decided to come to London. Well, keep an eye on the cottage for a little while. Now, listen to what I have to say."

I told him the whole story without pulling my punches down to Madge Kennitt's murder and the attack on myself. I told him about Jacobi, Selma, his wife, about Bradley and Julius Cole going to the club.

"That's about the lot," I said. "These guys are a tough bunch. You'll have to watch your step."

He scarcely seemed to hear me.

"I'm glad you've taken me into your confidence, sir," he said, getting to his feet. "I think I'll have something for you in a day or so. I would rather not discuss it now, but something you said just now has given me the clue I've been looking for. "I'll get in touch with you very soon."

"Hey!" I called as he picked up his hat and made for the door.

"What about Julius Cole? Has he arrived at Lakeham?"

"He arrived three nights ago, and is staying with Mrs. Brambee," Littlejohns said, opening the door. "I'll have something for you in a day or so."

He didn't wait for me to tell him again to be careful.

chapter sixteen.

Two days later, still considerably bruised and battered, but with all my old vigour back and a sharp edge to my temper, I returned to the Savoy.

Crystal was there to welcome me. The room was cluttered up with a mass of flowers and smelt like a florist's. There was a bottle of champagne in a bucket, and it only needed a brass band and the Lord Mayor to complete the homecoming atmosphere.

"Darling!" Crystal exclaimed, throwing her arms around my neck and doing her best to strangle me. "Welcome home!"

"Who's paying for the champagne?" I demanded, removing her arms.

"You are, precious," she said brightly. "Let's open it and drink your health. My poor little tonsils are withering for a drink."

"Not at seven pounds a bottle we won't," I said firmly. "That goes back to where it came from. I suppose I'm paying for all these flowers too?"

"I knew you wouldn't mind," Crystal returned slipping her arm through mine and pressing her face against my shoulder. "I'll take them home if you don't like them, but you'll have to pay for them as I'm a little short right now. They do make the room look lovely, don't they?"

"Sure, but what are they going to do to my bank balance? This is as bad as being married. Now, suppose you sit down and let me look through my mail. I've been out of circulation for the past four days. I shall have some catching up to do."

"Oh, there's plenty of time for that," she said. "Aren't you glad to see me? You haven't even kissed me yet."

I kissed her. "There, now sit down and keep quiet for a moment."

"I do love you, Steve, in spite of your poor battered face," she went on, sitting down. "But I do wish you were a more romantic type."

"It's nice of you to call it a face," I said, glancing into the mirror, grimacing. "Sorry about being the wrong type. You'd better get in touch with Frank Sinatra if that's the way you feel."

She lifted her shoulders in a hopeless shrug. "At least I haven't any competition," she said. "That's the only_ advantage a girl gets in going around with a fish like you."

"One of these days, when I have the time, I'll prove to you I have blood and not warm water in my veins," I returned, smiling at her. I picked up my mail, sorted through it. I read the letter from Merryweather, full of apologies, but withdrawing from the case with pathetic determination. There was a note from Corridan, congratulating me on my recovery, hoping I would soon be going home, and again advising me, now that I was lucky to be still alive, not to interfere with what was obviously not my business. I tossed the letter into the wastepaper basket. The rest of my mail was from America and needed immediate attention.

I shooed Crystal out, promising to meet her that evening, sat down and worked solidly until lunch time.

After lunch, before settling down to the fourth of my articles on Past-War Britain, I turned Jack Bradley up in the telephone book, found he had a flat in Hay's Mews. I noted the address, closed the book with a vicious bang. Sometime during the night, I proposed to call on Mr. Bradley, and he was going to remember my visit.

In the evening I met Crystal and we had supper together at the Vanity Fair.

She was looking enchanting in an ice-blue evening gown which she said had been a reward for a strictly one-sided wrestling match with one of the club's patrons. I tactfully didn't ask her who had won.

"That horrible policeman friend of yours was in the club this afternoon," she said after we had worked through an excellent veal escalope.

"You mean Corridan?" I asked, interested.

She nodded. "He spent half an hour with Bradley, and on his way out, he passed me and said I was to be sure to tell you I had seen him because you like to know what was going on, and to say that curiosity killed the cat."

I laughed. "The guy's getting to be quite a kidder. Now, I wonder what he wanted with Bradley? Have you ever seen him in the club before?"

She shook her head. "Oh, no. Policemen never come to the club as a rule. Bradley was furious as he showed Corridan the door. Corridan must have said something frightfully rude because Bradley never shows his feelings."

"One of these days I too am going to say something frightfully rude to Mr. Bradley," I said grimly.

She put her hand on mine. "You won't do anything silly, precious, will you?"

"I never do anything silly except make love to you."

She glared at me. "You don't call that making love, do you?"

"I don't know what else you call it. I was under the impression that we were on intimate terms."

"One of these days I'll forget I'm a lady," she said darkly, "then you'll know what being on intimate terms really means. It'll be an experience you won't forget in a hurry."

"Hastily changing the subject," I said, patting her hand, "have you heard anything from Selma Jacobi?"

She sighed. "Here it comes," she said, shaking her head. "More questions. I don't know why I bother to waste the best hours of my life in your company. I haven't heard anything from Selma. I don't suppose I ever shall. I expect she's started an entirely new life. Sometimes I think it'd be a good idea if I did the same thing."

"Never mind about your life for a moment," I returned. "Let's concentrate on Selma. Has she any friends? I mean, close friends who might know where I could find her?"

"You're not going to chase her, are you?" Crystal demanded, her eyebrows shooting up. "She simply isn't your type. She'd bore you in five minutes. You can't do better than stick to me. After all I'm your first and only love."

"This is strictly business, honey," I said patiently. "I'm trying to solve a murder case. If I could talk to Selma I think I could get somewhere. Do you know any of her friends?"

"I love that line about being strictly business. It's the hammiest 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 Blue Club, and then I walked around to Shepherd Market, only a few minutes from the Vanity Fair.

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 baldheaded 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 Blue Club, and I'd be glad if he could spare me a moment."

The baldheaded 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. Halfway 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 boyfriend. 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 armchairs 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 underbelly 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.