innocently:
‘Yer know ’oo it is, then?’
‘I know more than that, Eric.’
‘Oh! Yer do?’
‘I know who put the bullet through his head.’
‘Oh! It was a bullet wot done it?’
‘I never really thought it was a penknife. But you’re not going to pretend now, are you, that you never guessed he’s been shot?’
‘Where’s the gun?’
‘If you’d shot him, would you have left the gun behind?’
‘Tha’s right, and as I ain’t got no gun on me that shows I didn’t shoot ’im, so now yer can tell me ’oo did?’
But Bushy Brows laughed softly as he shook his head.
‘For the moment, if you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll keep that to myself.’
Ben grunted. ‘Yus, yer keeps a lot to yerself, doncher? The corpse’s nime, the corpse’s address, the bloke wot done ’im in, not ter menshun four pahnd eight and six! P’r’aps yer dunno orl yer sez yer does—people ’oo doesn’t tork doesn’t always ’ave anythink ter say!’
Bushy Brows laughed again.
‘Believe me, Eric, I’ve plenty to say, and if I told you the lot those pretty little eyes of yours would grow as big as the moon! Now, listen! You and I have been here as long as is good for us, and it’s high time we said good-bye—or, rather, au revoir. Do you know what that means?’
‘Orrivor? I sez it every night ter meself afore I goes ter sleep.’
‘Really? I’ll have to come and hear you one time, but we’ve no time now to be funny any more, so just attend and get down to business. You’ve got a pound, haven’t you?’
‘And you’ve got four pahnd eight and a tanner, aincher?’
‘Would you like the chance of making even more than that?’
‘I ain’t ’eard meself say no yet.’
‘Very well, then. Let’s agree on certain points. You haven’t seen me here, and I haven’t seen you here. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘And we’ve neither of us seen this fellow on the floor. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Just the same—as we’re getting on so well together—I am now going to tell you what was on the visiting card.’
‘Yer don’t ’ave ter. George Wilby, 18, Drewet Road, SW3, and ’e works at the Southern Bank.’
The bushy brows rose.
‘I got eyes, sime as you,’ said Ben.
‘And use them, eh? Very well. What’s your own address?’
‘Wotcher want ter know for?’
‘Make up your mind quick, for I’m not waiting here any longer. Are we together or aren’t we? If not, I leave you to stew!’
Bushy Brows began to look ominous again.
‘We’re tergether,’ answered Ben meekly.
‘Then act as though we are, or I’ll pair up with somebody else! You see, I’ve got to go away—up north—and what I’m needing is some guy who’ll keep an eye open this end—and particularly on No. 18, Drewet Road—and report when I get in touch again. Got that clear?’
‘As mud.’
‘So what’s your address?’
‘I ain’t got none.’
‘Couldn’t be better, because I can give you one.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘No. 46, Jewel Street, SE. Can you remember it, or shall I write it down?’
‘I can remember it.’
‘No, I’d better write it down. Where’s a bit of paper?’ He examined the wallet again, and tore a blank sheet off the back of a letter. ‘This’ll do.’ Taking a pencil stump from his own pocket, he wrote rapidly for a few moments, and then handed Ben the sheet. ‘Read it.’ He grinned.
Ben read: ‘“Mrs Kenton, 46, Jewel Street, SE. This is to introduce Mr Eric Burns, a pal of mine. As you know, I have to go away, and I want him to occupy my room till I come back. Ask no questions, etc. Love to Maudie. O.B.”’
‘Well?’
‘I’m on.’
‘Then you’re on to a good thing—yes, and you can consider yourself damn’ lucky, Eric, because if it had been a policeman who found you here instead of me you’d have been on to a very bad thing. And I’m not saying you’re out of the wood yet if you don’t behave! Meanwhile, you’re in Easy Street. All right, that’s fixed. You’ve got your note to Ma Kenton, she’ll feed you, and you have a pound to take Maudie to the pictures. That’s the lot. So long—till you next hear from me!’
‘Oi!’ exclaimed Ben, as Bushy Brows turned to go.
‘Yes?’
‘It ain’t quite the lot! Wot abart this bloke ’ere?’
‘He’s nothing to do with us. Are you forgetting? We’ve not seen him. Someone else will find and report him—you and I certainly don’t want to!’
The next moment, Bushy Brows was gone.
Well? Now what?
That was Ben’s perplexing question when he found himself once more alone—because of course you don’t count a corpse as company—and for a few moments he could not find the answer. Then all at once the answer occurred to him with such simplicity and force that he wondered why there had ever been any doubt about it. It was to follow Bushy Brows’ example and to clear out!
But after he had cleared out, and by zigzagging through foggy thoroughfares had put three or four blocks between himself and the block he had started from, the question, ‘Now what?’ reverted to him in an even more perplexing form. He had dealt with the problem of his own immediate danger. The problems of the corpse, of the woman in the photograph—funny how that photograph stuck in his mind—and of Bushy Brows remained.
Corpse.
