Have His Carcase (56 page)

persons. At present he was sitting at his bedroom window, reading a book by

Edgar Walace which Bunter had seen him purchase the day before at Leicester

Square Tube Station.

Suddenly, as Bunter watched him, he shut up the book and stepped back

from the window. Peering across the courtyard, Bunter saw him stooping,

moving about, raising and lowering his arms in a familiar series of actions.

Bunter, who had performed these actions many hundreds of times, was not at a

loss. The man was folding and packing pyjamas and other wearing apparel.

Bunter hastened down to the office, handed over the key of his room (there

was no bil for, being without luggage, he had paid for his bed and breakfast in

advance), and stepped out into the street. Here he was fortunate enough to find

a cruising taxi with an inteligent-looking driver, who was ready enough to

engage in a little detective work. The street was a cul-de-sac and Bunter,

getting into the taxi, was driven out into the main road. Here he got out and

entered a newspaper shop, leaving the taximan to watch the entrance to the cul-

de-sac. Presently, while Bunter, standing just within the doorway, pretended to

be absorbed in the morning paper, he saw the driver raise his hand as a signal.

A green taxi had driven into the cul-de-sac. So far, so good.

‘Go slowly along to the corner,’ said Bunter, ‘and stand there til the taxi

comes out again. If it’s the right man, I’l tap on the glass. Then folow him, but

not too close. Only don’t lose him in the traffic.’

‘Right you are. Divorce, eh?’

‘Murder,’ said Bunter.

‘Crikey!’ said the driver. ‘Police, eh?’

Bunter nodded.

‘Gorblimey,’ said the driver. ‘You don’t look it. P’raps you don’t mean to.

Here we are. Taxi’s at the ’otel door. Keep your ’ed down – I’l tel you when

’e comes out.’

So saying, the taximan descended in a leisurely way from his perch and

puled open the bonnet of his machine. A passing policeman gave him a glance,

nodded and strode heavily by.

‘Just a-coming out now,’ said the driver, thrusting his head in at the window,

and then, in a louder tone: ‘Al right, guv’nor – jest a loose connection. She’l

start first swing now.’

He crawled up, just as the green taxi swung out of the cul-de-sac. Bunter,

peering from behind his newspaper, recognised the pale face of Mr Bright and

tapped on the glass. The green taxi passed within a foot of them. Bunter’s taxi

circled in the road and swung in thirty yards behind.

The green taxi wriggled through some dismal by-streets, emerged into Judd

Street and went ahead through Brunswick Square into Guilford Street and

down Lamb’s Conduit Street and Red Lion Street. It turned to the right into

Holborn, then to the left again into Kingsway, and then circled across into Great

Queen Street and Long Acre. The folowing taxi kept it in view without very

great difficulty til at last it turned to the left down one of the narrow streets,

encumbered with huge drays and stationary carts, which lead down into Covent

Garden. At the entrance to the market the green taxi puled up.

Bunter’s taxi was one of the new and superior sort, which have an electric

speaking-tube which realy works. Bunter pressed the button and addressed his

driver.

‘If he gets out here, drive past very slowly round that big cart. I shal slip out.

Don’t look round or take any notice. I’m leaving a ten-bob note on the seat.

Go straight on through the market.’

The driver’s head nodded assent. From the left-hand window, Bunter saw

Bright standing on the pavement settling his fare. Bunter went on his way, and

as the taxi passed on the far side of the big cart, he slipped quickly to the

pavement. A fruiterer’s man, observing this manoeuvre, turned sharply to shout

to the driver that his fare was bilking him, but at that moment the hand of the

faithful taximan came round and slammed the door shut. The fruiterer’s man

stood staring, while Bunter, who had exchanged the felt hat for the cap in the

taxi, dodged round in front of the cart to look for Bright.

To his great delight he saw Bright standing on the kerb, watching with a

pleased air the steady retreat of Bunter’s taxi. After a quick scrutiny of his

sourroundings, the man appeared satisfied that he was not being folowed and

set off, briskly, suit-case in hand, towards the market. Bunter took up the trail,

squelching his way among the oddments of fruit and cabbage-leaves. The chase

led through the market, out into Tavistock Street and down towards the Strand.

Here Bright took a bus going West, Bunter pursuing in a fresh taxi. The new

trail led only as far as Charing Cross, where Bright got out and hastened into

the station-yard. Bunter, hurriedly flinging a florin to his driver, dived in after

him.

Bright led the way into the Charing Cross Hotel; Bunter was forced this time

to folow closely, lest he should lose his prey. Bright went up to the desk and

spoke to the reception-clerk. After a short pause and the display of a visiting-

card, a parcel was handed over. Upon receiving it and putting it away in his

suit-case, Bright turned sharp round and walked back to the door, passing

Bunter within a couple of feet. Their eyes met, but Bright’s showed no

recognition. He went straight out into the station-yard again.

From now onwards it was hit or miss for Bunter. He had been seen once

and it was now more than ever his business to keep out of sight. He waited for

a few agonising moments before folowing, and was just in time to see Bright

vanishing down the subway to the Underground.

At this moment, Bunter would have given much for his trusty bowler. He did

his best, by again exchanging the cap for the hat as he ran across the yard, and

struggling into the subfusc overcoat. It is not necessary to pursue the involved

underground journey that occupied the next hour. At the end of it, hare and

hound emerged in good order at Piccadily, having boxed the compass pretty

successfuly in the interval The next move was to the Corner House, where

Bright took the lift.

Now, at the Corner House there are three large floors, and each large floor

has two doorways. Yet to get into the same lift as Bright was to chalenge

disaster. Bunter, like a baffled cat that sees its mouse vanish down a hole, stood

and watched the ascending lift. Then he moved to the centre counter and stood,

apparently inspecting the array of cakes and sweetmeats, but in reality keeping

a sharp look-out on al the lift-doors and the two marble staircases. After ten

minutes he felt that he might assume Bright’s purpose to be genuinely that of

getting refreshment. He made for the nearest staircase and went up it like a

lamp-lighter. The lift passed him on a downward journey before he reached the

first floor, and he was assailed by a horrible conviction that it was bearing

Bright away with it. No matter, the die was cast now. He pushed open the

swing door on the first floor and began his slow strol among the crowded

tables.

The sight of bewildered customers looking for a seat is no unusual one in the

Corner House. Nobody paid any attention to Bunter until he had made the

circuit of the big room and satisfied himself that Bright was not among those

present. He went out by the farther door, where he was chalenged by the

inquiry whether he had been served. He replied that he was looking for a friend

and ran on up to the second floor.

This room was the exact twin of the first, except that, instead of a male

orchestra in evening dress playing
My Canary has Circles under His Eyes
, it

possessed a female orchestra in blue playing excerpts from
The Gondoliers
.

Bunter pushed his way slowly through the throng until – his staid heart giving a

sudden leap beneath the deplorable blue serge waistcoat – he caught sight of a

familiar sandy head and crooked pair of shoulders. Bright was there, seated at

a table containing three elderly women, and peacefuly eating a griled chop.

Bunter gazed desperately about him. At first it seemed hopeless to find a seat

anywhere near, but at length he espied a girl making-up her face and dabbling

at her hair preparatory to leaving. He made a dart for the table and secured the

reversion of her chair. He was some time catching the eye of the waitress and

ordering a cup of coffee; fortunately Bright seemed to be in no particular hurry

with his chop. Bunter asked for the bil as soon as the coffee was brought, and

sat patiently, his useful newspaper wel spread out before him.

After what seemed an interminable delay, Bright finished his lunch, looked at

his watch, caled for his bil and rose. Bunter was four behind him in the queue

at the pay-desk, and squeezed through the door in time to see the sandy head

disappearing down the stairs. At this happy moment, the lift arrived. Bunter

bundled into it, and was shot out on the ground floor wel ahead of the quarry.

He watched Bright out, took up the trail and, after a few minutes of hectic

traffic-dodging, found himself in a cinema in the Haymarket, purchasing a ticket

for the stals.

Bright took a seat in the third row of the three-and-sixpennies. Bunter, hastily

whispering to the attendant that he didn’t care to be too far forward, managed

to slip in a couple of rows behind him. Now he could breathe again. From

where he sat, he could see the top of Bright’s head, outlined against the

comparative brightness at the foot of the screen. Ignoring the drama of Love

and Passion which shimmered and squeaked its mechanical way from the first

misunderstanding to the last lingering kiss, Bunter fixed his eyes on that head

with such concentration that the tears stole down his cheeks.

The film shuddered to its close. The lights went up. Bright stood suddenly

upright and pushed his way out into the gangway. Bunter prepared to folow,

but Bright, instead of making for the nearest exit, merely walked across and

passed behind a discreet curtain over which was blazoned in blue fire the

legend ‘Gentlemen.’

Bunter sank down again and waited. Other gentlemen passed in and out, but

no Bright returned. Fear smote Bunter. Was there a way out through the cloak-

room? The lights dimmed and blacked out, and a Comic started. Bunter rose

up, tripping over the feet of three sniggering girls and an irritable old man, and

sneaked gently down the gangway.

As he did so the curtain leading to ‘Gentlemen’ was drawn aside and a man

came out. Bunter stared at him as he passed in the soft, thick twilight, but the

sharp peak of the silhouette told him that this was a bearded man. He passed

Bunter with a muttered apology and went on up the gangway. Bunter

proceeded on his way down but, by some instinct, turned at the curtained door

and looked back.

He saw the back of the bearded man, outlined against the sudden blue

daylight, passing through an exit, and remembered how Wimsey had once said

to him: ‘Any fool can disguise his face, but it takes a genius to disguise a back.’

He had not folowed that back through London for five days without knowing

every line of it. In a moment he was hurrying up the gangway and out through

the exit. Beard or no beard, this was his man.

Two more taxis and then a clear run out to Kensington. This time, Bright

appeared to be realy going somewhere. His taxi drew up at a neat house in a

good quarter; he got out and let himself in with a latch-key. Bunter went on to

the next corner and there interrogated his driver.

‘Did you see the number of the house they stopped at?’

‘Yes, sir. Number 17.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Divorce, sir?’ asked the man, with a grin.

‘Murder,’ said Bunter.

‘Crikey!’ This appeared to be the natural reaction to murder. ‘Wel,’ said the

taximan, ‘ ’ope ’e swings for it.’ and drove off.

Bunter glanced about him. He dared not pass Number 17. Bright might stil

be on the watch, and both the cap and the felt hat were now, he felt, war-worn

veterans of whom nothing more could be asked in the way of disguise. He saw

a chemist’s shop and went in.

‘Can you tel me,’ he asked, ‘who lives at No. 17?’

‘Why, yes,’ said the chemist, ‘gentleman of the name of Morecambe.’

‘Morecambe?’ A great piece of jig-saw seemed to fal into place in Bunter’s

mind with an almost audible click. ‘Littlish gentleman with one shoulder a bit

higher than the other?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Reddish hair.’

‘Yes, sir; reddish hair and beard.’

‘Oh, he wears a beard?’

‘Oh, yes sir. Gentleman in the City, he is. Lived here as long as I can

remember. Very pleasant gentleman. Did you want to know—?’