I rang for the floor waiter, lit a cigarette and sat before the open window looking down on the Embankment. Now that I had put the lid on my typewriter, Netta took over my thoughts. I wondered what Corridan was doing. The more I thought about Littlejohns's theory the more sure I was that Corridan knew that Netta hadn't committed suicide, and that I might be hooked up in the case in some way.

The floor waiter, who was fast beginning to learn my habits, arrived at this moment with a double whisky, water and ice bucket. I added a little water and ice to a lot of whisky, stretched out more comfortably in the armchair. Now what, I asked myself, was I going to do to help solve the puzzle of the missing body? As far as I could see there were three things I could do that might lead to something: first, I could find out all I could about Julius Cole. If the girl who had died in Netta's flat was not Netta, then Julius Cole was in this business up to his neck. It would obviously pay to keep an eye on him. Then there was Madge Kennitt, the occupier of the first-floor flat. She might have seen something. I had to find out if anyone had called the night the girl died. I had a hunch that Netta wasn't involved in this business, but had, in some way, been implicated against her will. If that was so a third person had been in the flat on that night. Madge Kennitt might have seen him or her. Finally, I could visit the Blue Club, and try to find out if Netta had any special friends among the hostesses, and if she did, and if I could locate her, to find out from her anything about Netta that might give me a lead.

By the time I had finished my whisky, I had decided to visit the Blue Club. I took my shower, changed into a dark suit and wandered downstairs for an early supper in the almost deserted grillroom.

I arrived at the Blue Club a few minutes to nine o'clock, too early for the main crowd, but late enough to find the cocktail bar full.

The Blue Club was a three-storey building halfway up Bruton Mews behind Bruton Place. It was a shabby, faded-looking place, and you could pass it without knowing it was there. But inside you stepped from a cobbled dreary Mews, into a miniature palace of rather overpowering luxury.

The cocktail bar was on the same floor as the dance room. I wandered in, glanced around, failed to see a vacant seat so I crossed to the bar, propped myself up.

Sam, the barman, recognized me, gave me a broad welcoming smile.

"Hi, Sam," I said. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, Mr. Harmas," he said, polishing a glass and setting it before me. "Nice to see you again. You all right?"

"Pretty good," I said, "and how's your girlfriend?"

Sam had always confided to me about the ups and down of his love-life, and I knew he expected me to inquire what the latest position was.

"I get discouraged sometimes, Mr. Harmas," he said, shaking his head. "That girl of mine has a split mind. One part of it says yes, the other no. As they both operate at once, I'm kept on my toes wondering whether to retreat or advance. It's getting bad for my nerves. What will you drink, sir?"

"Oh, a Scotch," I said, glanced around the room.

I could see the crowd wasn't the kind that'd interest me. The girls were tough, showily dressed and on the make. The men were smooth, looked as if they'd escaped military service, and had too much doubtfully earned money to spend.

"Things have changed a lot, haven't they, Sam?" I said, as I paid twice as much for my drink as I pay elsewhere.

"They have, sir," he agreed, "and a great pity, too. I miss the old crowd. This bunch's just trash. They give me a pain to waste liquor on them."

"Yeah," I said, lighting a cigarette. "I miss the old faces, too."

We chatted for a few minutes about the past, and I told him what I was doing here, then I said, "Sad about Netta. You read about it, I guess?"

Sam's face clouded. "I read about it. It beats me why she did it. She seemed happy enough, and she was doing fine here. She had Bradley eating out of her hand. Any idea why she did it?"

I shook my head. "I've only just arrived, Sam, I reminded him. a I saw the thing in the newspapers, but I was hoping you could tell me what was behind it. Poor kid. I'll miss her. What are the other bims like here?"

Sam pulled a face. "They'll take the hide off your back if they thought they could make it into a pair of gloves," he said gloomily.

"They have a one-track minda"if you can call what they've got minds. I'd lay off 'em if I were you, except Crystal. You should meet Crystal. She's quite an experience. I'll fix it if you're looking for a little female society."

"She's new here, isn't she?" I asked, not recalling the name. He grinned. "New and fresh," he said. "Came about a year ago. Can I fix you another drink?"

"Go ahead," I said, pushing my glass towards him, "and buy one for yourself. She wasn't a friend of Netta's, was she?"

"Well, I don't know about being friends, but they sort of got on together. The other dames didn't appeal to Netta. She was always fighting with them, but Crystal . . . well, I don't think anyone would fight with Crystal. She's a real dizzy blonde."

"She sounds what I've been looking for. Dizzy blondes are up my alley. Is she a looker?"

Sam kissed his fingers, wagged his head. "She's got a topography like a scenic railway, and every time she comes into the bar the ice cubes go on the boil."

I laughed. "Well, if she's free and would like a big guy with hair on his chest for company, shoo her along."

"She'll like you," Sam said. "She's crazy about big muscular men; she tells me her mother was frightened by a wrestler. I'll get her."

I had finished my drink by the time he returned. He nodded, winked.

"Two minutes," he said, began to mix a flock of martinis.

She arrived a good ten minutes later. I spotted her before she spotted me. There was something about her that amused me. Maybe it was her big cornflower blue eyes or her snub nose. I don't know, but you had only to take one look at her and you were pretty sure she was the girl who originated the phrase "a dumb blonde." She was all Sam had said. Her figure made me blink: it made the male section in the room blink too.

Sam waved, and she came over, looked at me, and her eyelids fluttered.

"Oh!" she said. Then: "Oh, Boy!"

"Crystal, this is Mr. Steve Harmas," Sam said, winking at me. "He cuts the hairs on his chest with a lawnmower."

She put her hand into mine, squeezed it.

"There was a tea leaf in the bottom of my cup that looked just like you," she confided. "I knew I was going to have fun tonight." She looked anxiously at Sam. "Have any of the girls seen him yet?"

"You're the first," he returned, winking at me again.

"What a break!" she exclaimed, turning back to me. "I've been dreaming about a man like you ever since I've had those kind of dreams."

"Hey, wait a minute," I said, kidding her. "Maybe I'd better have a look at the other girls. I'm kind of selective."

"You don't have to look at them. They're only called girls to distinguish them from the male customers. They've been girls so long they think a brassiere is a place to eat. Come on, let's have fun."

"What kind of fun can we have in this joint?" I asked. "It's too crowded for my kind of fun."

Her blue eyes popped open. "Oh, I like lots of people. My father says a girl can't come to any harm so long as she stays with a crowd."

"Your father's crazy," I said, grinning. "Suppose you fell in with a crowd of sailors?"

She thought about this, frowning. "I don't think my father knows anything about sailors," she said seriously. "He stuffs birds and things."

"You mean he's a taxidermist?"

"Oh, no," she said, shaking her blonde curls, "He can't drive."

"Let's skip your father," I said hurriedly. "Let's talk about you. How about a drink?"

"I could go for a large gin with a very little lime if the gin was large enough," she said, brightening. "Do you think I could have that?"

I nodded to Sam, pulled up a stool, patted it. "Park your weight," I said. "How do you like it here?"

She climbed up on the stool, sat down, rested her small hands on the bar. "I love it," she told me. "It's so sinful and nice. You've no idea how dull it is at home. There's only father and me and all the animals that need stuffing. You'd be surprised at the animals people bring to father. He's working on a stag some crank wants to keep in his hall. Can you imagine having a stuffed stag in your hall?"

"You could always hang your hat and umbrella on its antlers," I said, after giving the matter thought.

She drank some of the gin. "You're the kind of person who makes the best of everything," she said. "I'll tell father about that idea. He might make money out of it." She sipped more gin, sighed. "I love this stuff. Now I can't get a two-way stretch, it's the only thing that holds me together." An idea struck her, and she grabbed hold of my arm.

"Did you bring any silk stockings over with you?"

"Sure," I said. "I have half a dozen pairs of nylons at my hotel."

She clenched her fists, shut her eyes.

"Six pairs?" she repeated in a hoarse whisper.

"That's right."

"Oh, dear," she said, shivered. "You weren't thinking of giving them to anyone, were you? They couldn't be lying in your old room unattached so to speak?"

"I brought them for someone," I said quietly.

She nodded to herself. "I might have guessed it," she said, sighed.

"Well, never mind. Some girls have all the luck. Some get them, others just dream about them. You certainly made my heart go pit-a-pat for a moment. But I shall get over it."

"I brought them for Netta Scott," I explained. "She was a friend of mine."

Crystal turned quickly, her eyes showed surprise. "Netta? You knew Netta?"

"Sure."

"And you brought the stockings . . . but, she's dead. Didn't you know?"

"Yes, I know."

"Then you haven't anyone to give . . ." She caught herself up, actually blushed. "Oh, I am awful! Poor Netta! I always get depressed when I think of her. I feel I could cry right now."

"If you want those stockings you can have them," I said. "Netta can't use them, so they're unattached as you put it."

Her eyes brightened. "I don't know what to say. I'd love them-they'd save my life, but knowing they were for Netta . . . well, it does make a difference, doesn't it?"

"Does it?"

She thought, frowning. I could see she would always find thought difficult: she just wasn't the thinking type.

"I don't know. I suppose not. I mean . . . well, where are they?"

"At my hotel. Shall we go over and get them?"

She slid off her stool. "You mean right now? This very moment?"

"Why not? Can you get away?"

"Oh, yes. All we girls are free lances. We make what we pick up-doesn't it sound sordid?" She giggled. "I suppose I'd have to come all the way up to your room and there wouldn't be any crowds in there?"

I shook my head. "No crowds. Just you and me."

She looked doubtful. "I don't know whether I should. My father said he'd be terribly angry if I ever appeared in the News of the World."

"Who's going to tell the News of the World?" I asked patiently.

She brightened up again. "I wish I was clever. Do you know, I never thought of that. Well, come on. Let's go."

I finished my drink. "Is there a garage at the back of this joint?"

She nodded. "Yes, a big one. Why?"

I patted her hand. "Some Americans like to look at old churches," I said, smiling. "I'm crazy about garages. You'd be surprised at the number of garages there are to look at. They're full of oil and interest."

"But why garages?" she asked blankly.

"Why old churches?" I returned.

She nodded. "I expect you're right. I had an uncle who liked visiting public houses. I suppose it's the same sort of idea."

"Along those lines," I said, walked with her to the door.

As we reached the head of the stairs, I saw a big woman coming up. She wore a black evening dress and a heavy gold collar surrounded her thick neck. Her black hair was scraped back and her broad, rather sullen face was a mask of make-up. I drew back to allow her to pass. She came on, gave Crystal a cold hard stare, didn't notice me, went on.

I stared after her, a tingling sensation running down my spine.

The woman was Mrs. Brambee.

chapter eight.

Do you know what it means when a girl is said to be ruined?" Crystal asked, sitting on the bed and surveying my room with approval.

I put my hat in the cupboard, sat down in the armchair. "I have a vague idea," I said, smiling at her. "But it's a little technical to go into at this stage of our association. What makes you ask?"

She fluffed up her blonde curls. "My father says that if a girl allows a man to take her into his bedroom, she's as good as ruined."

I nodded gravely. "There are times when your father talks sense," I said, "but it doesn't count with me. You're not the ruining type."

"I thought there was a catch in it," she said, sighing. "Nothing ever happens to me. Confidentially, my greatest ambition is to be chased up a dark alley by a man with glaring eyes. I've hung around dark alleys until I'm sick and tired of them, but no man with or even without glaring eyes ever shows up."