We came to a larger cross street, and McPhee said, “There’s usually a cop over that way”—he pointed to the left—“at least in the daytime when the shops are open, so they can confiscate an apple or a piece of cheese when they’re in the mood.” He chuckled. “I reckon that’s the first place to look.”
“Let’s hope we find him quickly,” I said. “I’m freezing out here.”
“Ah, that’s the way it always goes with the police,” said McPhee. “Smack-dab in your face when you don’t want ’em, and never there when you could use a helping hand. It’s downright aggravatin’, either way. Enough to make a fellow lose faith in the government.”
“I had no idea you had faith in government to begin with,” I said as we walked down the cobbled street. I would have preferred going a bit faster, but there was no hurrying McPhee—and I certainly did not want to get ahead of him.
McPhee laughed, with what seemed false heartiness. “That’s a good one, sonny. I guess if you hang around with ol’ Sam long enough, some of his jokes are like to rub off on you. We’ll make you into a reg’lar fellow, yet.”
I wasn’t entirely sure what sort of man McPhee considered to be a “reg’lar fellow,” let alone whether I wished to be included in that class of humanity. However, I saw no advantage in contradicting him. We walked onward through the lowering fog. At last, in the diffuse light of a street lamp, I discerned a dark-clad figure with the characteristic rounded helmet of a London bobby. “There’s our policeman,” I said, then raising my voice, “Good evening, Constable.”
“And the same to you,” said a deep voice. Under the light, I could see the figure turn to face in our direction. “ ’Ow can I ’elp you?”
“Let me do the talking,” whispered McPhee, then before I could agree or disagree, he called out in a louder voice, “Everything’s fine, just fine. But we got us a little problem we sure could use some help with.”
That hardly seemed an adequate way to characterize a murdered man in his apartment, but I said nothing for the time being. However, I made up my mind to challenge any outright misstatements of fact McPhee might make.
The policeman had walked forward to meet us, and by now we were close enough to make out his features. He was solidly built, a bit above average height, with a square, clean-shaven jaw and large dark eyes. I would have guessed his age somewhere in his thirties. “What’s the problem, then?” he said, eyeing us both up and down. “You two are Yanks, are you not?”
“You got that one right,” said McPhee, adopting the hearty manner he employed when greeting strangers. “Ed McPhee’s the name, and this here’s Mr. Wentworth, works for my old partner Mark Twain—I reckon you’ve heard of him, even in these parts.”
“Aye, that I ’ave,” said the policeman, not obviously impressed. He pointedly ignored McPhee’s proffered handshake. “Now, what can I ’elp you with? Are you two staying ’ere in Chelsea?”
McPhee rubbed his hands together. “So we are, so we are, but that ain’t the problem—in fact, that ain’t no kind of problem at all. Awful nice place, as far as I can see, and I been all over the world, to Mexico and everyplace. But the problem is, I have some folks up to my place for a sort of meeting, quality folks, you understand, Mr. Mark Twain and Sir Denis DeCoursey and all. Well, one of ’ems took mighty sick. I reckon you ought to come take a look.”
“Sick, eh? Well, I’d think you’d want a doctor for that, not a constable.”
“Why, the fellow’s a doctor himself—or was one, I guess is the right way to put it,” said McPhee. I wondered how long it was going to take him to admit that Dr. Parkhurst was dead, let alone that he’d apparently been murdered.
“Was one?” said the policeman, lifting his eyebrows. “Just what is that supposed to mean, now?”
“Well, it seems as if the fellow had a little accident . . .” McPhee began. I could stand his equivocation no longer.
“The doctor is dead,” I said bluntly. “In fact, we believe he’s been murdered.”
“Murdered, is it?” Now the policeman took a definite interest. “Now, I expect we’ll go and ’ave a look at that. Just where did you say this murder was?”
“The place is right off Old Church Street there,” said McPhee, pointing back the way we’d come. He gave me an exasperated look, as if to reprimand me for telling the truth before he was ready to let it all out, but I paid him no heed. The policeman needed to know what he was getting into.
“You wait right ’ere,” said the policeman, in a voice that made it clear he was not issuing an idle request. He grasped the whistle hanging on a lanyard around his neck and blew three sharp blasts. From some distance away came a response—two whistle blasts, a pause, and then two more. The policeman nodded and said, “Right, then. There’ll be one of the lads along in short order. We’ll wait ’ere for ’im.”
Sure enough, in perhaps two minutes, another policeman came into view, walking briskly and swinging his truncheon. “What’s the word, Albert?” he said as he saw his fellow.
“ ’Ullo, Charles. These two tell me there’s a dead man in Old Church Street, apt to be a murder,” said the first policeman. “What address did you say?”
Before McPhee could answer I gave him the number. “The second-story flat, in the back.”
“There you ’ave it. Tell the station I’m going with these two American gentlemen to see what’s ’appened,” said Albert, indicating us with his hand. “ ’Ave ’em send me a lad or two to ’elp sort it all out. They’ll want to send over a doctor, too, in case the bloke’s still breathing.”
“Aye, that they will,” said Charles. “I’ll report straightaway. Best be sharp, lad—if it’s murder, like as not you’ll be seeing the chief inspector this night.” He nodded, turned, and walked off into the fog.
“Well, gentlemen, that’s done. Now, let’s go see what the story’s all about,” said the policeman. We turned and started the short trek back to McPhee’s apartment through the chilly fog.
McPhee kept up a line of irrelevant banter the entire way. “I’m mighty glad we found you as quick as we did,” he said to the policeman. “Sir Denis and his lady, and Mark Twain—he’s my old pal from the river, known him for years—they said, ‘Ed, we’re in a heap of trouble, and no doubt about it.’ And I told ’em, ‘Don’t you worry, boys, I’ll fetch a bobby in and he’ll get straight to the bottom of this mess.’ And so I done it, just like I said I would. Any help you need to figure things out, Ed McPhee’s your man.” For his part, the policeman greeted this obvious attempt to curry favor with the silence it deserved.
We reached our destination soon enough. Cold and damp as it was, I almost wished I could stay outside rather than go back into that room and look at the lifeless body sprawled upon the sofa. But, to judge by my previous encounters with the police, we were in for a long interrogation. Probably even the ladies would be put to the question—even if none of them were suspects, they were certainly witnesses. Although none of us could have seen much in the pitch darkness of that sitting . . .
I wondered how long it would be before I could get back to my warm bed, and whether I would have any luck getting to sleep at all that night. Then I
