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 girlfriend 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 powerfully 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 all 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 thoughtfully, 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 anymore," 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; tell 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 seventeen.

At some time, 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.

I stepped over him, closed the door, listened.

Ahead of me were stairs leading to the flat. A pedestal stood at the foot of the stairs on which was a bowl of orchids. I sneered at it.

The stairs were carpeted with thick green material that gave comfortingly under the feet, muffled the sound of steps. The walls were apricot, the banister rail dark green.

A voice called, "Frankie . . . who is it?"

A girl's voice, strangely familiar.

I stiffened, felt spooked. I knew the voice. I had heard it so many times before, but even at that it was hard to believe that it was Netta speaking.

I took a quick step forward, caught a glimpse of silk clad legs and the hem of a blue dress at the head of the stairs. Then I heard a startled gasp, the hem of the dress and the silk clad legs vanished.

There was a scurrying of feet.

I sprang up the stairs, didn't realize they were so steep, stumbled.

I cursed, regained my balance, went on up, hands touching each step as I went, arrived at a small lobby with three doors facing me.

One of the doors jerked open: Jack Bradley appeared. He wore a green dressing-gown, stiff white collar and black evening tie. His eyes were frozen stones, his mouth twisted with fury.

As I stepped towards him, I saw the .38 automatic in his hand, paused.

"I'll make you pay for this," he snarled. "How dare you break in here!"

I listened, not looking at him. Somewhere a door closed. "Hello, Bradley," I said. "Who was your girlfriend?"

"I'll shoot if you try any tricks," he said. "Get your hands up. I'm calling the police."

"Oh, no, you're not," I said, "and you're not going to shoot. You haven't a gun permit, and the cops can make things awkward for a thug like you if you let guns off without a permit." I spoke rapidly, hoped my bluff would work, edged towards him.

I saw his expression change, a look of doubt in his eyes. That was enough for me. I slapped the gun out of his hand, kicked it down the stairs. He swung at me, but I shoved him aside, entered the room from which he had come.

The room was empty except for its rich furnishings. A smell of lilac hung in the air. So it had been Netta, I thought, again felt spooked.

There was a door at the far end of the room. I ran over, tried to open it, found it locked. I drew back, kicked at the lock, the door burst open. I looked out into the night from the head of an outside wooden stairway. As I stood there, I heard a car start up, drive away.

I turned, found Bradley sneaking up on me, a poker in his hand. I ducked the wild swing, caught his wrist, wrenched the poker out of his hand, I looked at him. His face was white and his eyes glared.

"I remember you once said you were tougher than Frankie," I said. "Here's your opportunity to show me."

I tossed the poker across the room. It knocked over a lamp standard which in its turn knocked over a small table on which stood bottles and glasses. The crash made a nice noise to my ears.

"You'll be sorry for this," Bradley snarled, backing away.

"So you're not so tough," I grinned at him. "You're the guy who tells other mugs to do your dirty work. Okay, Bradley, you're on the spot now. You'd better exert some of that fat and try to get out of it."

I grabbed hold of him by his dressing gown, shook him, threw him after the poker. He weighed about sixteen stone, but the bulk of it was fat.

I walked over to where he lay, sat on the arm of a chair, smiled at him. He didn't attempt to get up, glared up at me with eyes a snake'd be proud to own.

"Remember me, Bradley?" I said. "The guy who doesn't mind his own business? I thought maybe you mightn't recognize me after what your thugs did to me."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he snarled. "Get out of here before I call the police."

"You warned me you'd teach me a lesson, didn't you?" I went on, taking out a cigarette, lighting it. "Well, the lesson didn't stick. But my lesson will. I'm going to ruin that fat puss of yours, but before I start on you, you're going to answer some questions. Who was that girl you were talking to just now?"

"Nobody you know," he said, sitting up slowly. "If you don't get out, Harmas, I'll fix you. My God, I'll fix you!"

I kicked him in his fat chest, sending him over backwards.

"I told you that rats like you are a nickel a gross, didn't I?" I said, flicking ash it him. "You don't know what it is to be tough. Fix me?" I laughed. "You won't fix anyone by the time I'm through with you."

He lay holding on to his chest, his face purple with fury and pain, but he stayed right where he was.

"Come on, who's the dame? Talk or I'll sock you, and keep on socking you."

"It was Selma Jacobi," he snarled. "Now get out!"

I shook my head. "Oh, no, it wasn't," I said, kicking him gently. "It was Netta, wasn't it?"

His face went flabby. The purple drained away leaving his skin like tallow.

"You're mad!" he gasped, struggling up. "Netta's dead."

"You've given yourself away," I said, taking off my coat and rolling up my sleeves. aGet up, Bradley. You can try to do what your three hired thugs tried to do."

He lay as still as a corpse, looked at me with fear in his eyes.