More Work for the Undertaker (29 page)

‘'Im and 'is packets of fags,' said Lugg under his breath.

‘Him and his lip, you mean,' said Luke.

Yeo had begun to rumble quietly. It was a sort of verbal doodling of which he was scarcely aware.

‘This is the old Duke's estate . . . Wickham Street . . . Lady Clara Hough Street . . . There's a little crescent up there. I
wonder . . . No, road turns back here. Wickham Place Street . . . Wick Avenue . . . slowly, boy, slowly here. Any of these little side turnings would save him a quarter of a mile if he knows. May not risk losing himself. You can go faster now. There's no turning for a hundred yards. Blast this rain! I can't see where I am half the time. Oh, yes, there's the Peculiars chapel. Come on, now, come on. Coronet Street . . . slowly again now.'

The interruption from the loud-speaker came as a relief. The unnatural voice with the metallic undertone seemed unusually loud.

‘Central Control calling Car Q23. Attention. At twenty-three fifty-eight hours Constable 675 calling from Box 3Y6 stroke NW corner Clara Hough and Wickham Court Roads nor-west, reports attack at twenty-three fifty hours approx. by driver black horse-drawn vehicle thought to be a coffin brake. Acting on instructions given in your message 17GH, he advanced to intercept but was struck down by driver with heavy weapon, believed whip handle. Brake made off at fair speed, Wickham Court Road proceeding north. Over.'

‘Damn! Now he knows.' Campion spoke savagely. ‘He'll unload at the first opportunity.'

‘Wickham Court Road – we're almost on him!' Yeo was bounding in his seat. ‘He's not shifting as we are, whatever he's got in the shafts. Up here, driver. Turn left at the top. It's barely midnight now. Keep your hair on, Campion; we'll get him, boy. We'll get him. Stands to reason.'

As they turned into the wind the rain descended on the windows in a solid sheet of water. Yeo, crouching over the driver's shoulder, peered through the lunettes made by the screen wipers.

‘Now right, and at once left! – oh, very good. Now – hullo! hullo! what's this? Hoardings? Wait, driver, wait. We're on Wickham Hill now. Wickham Court Road is down there on the left. It's very long and the police box must be close on a quarter of a mile down it. He must have come out here less than five minutes ago. Now then, Luke my boy, which way did he go? He didn't come to meet us. If he went left to Hollow
Street and the trams, he'd be running into the next cop sure as eggs, so there's two alternatives; Polly Road, which is down there about fifty yards, or this little lane. It's called Rose Way. It goes through to Legion Street again.'

‘Wait a minute.' Campion opened the door and as the car stopped, slid out into the rain. He was in a narrow hissing world of brick and water. The hoardings, standing back from improvised fences, rose up over his head on one side, and on the other were blocks of old-fashioned flats. He listened, straining his ears for a single unusual sound in a mechanized age.

Luke stepped quietly out beside him and he too stood listening, his strong chin upraised, the downpour soaking him unheeded.

‘He won't risk going on. He'll unload.' Campion let the words out softly. ‘He'll get away with it.'

The loudspeaker in the car sounded so clearly at their elbows that they both started. The message blared at them, the impersonal statement echoing bewilderingly through the night.

‘Central Control calling Car Q23. Central Control calling Car Q23. Message for Chief Inspector Luke. Attention. Joseph Congreve, 51
B
Terry Street West, found dangerously ill following murderous attack. Locked in cupboard upstairs room, Apron Street branch Clough's Bank zero, zero, zero two hours. Over.'

As the message croaked its way to the end Luke came out of his stunned silence and caught Campion's coat. He was shaking with shock and disappointment.

‘Apron Street!' he exploded bitterly. ‘Apron Street! Bloblip's in Apron Street. What the hell are we doing here?'

Campion was standing perfectly still. He put up his hand for silence.

‘Listen.'

From the far end of the lane which Yeo had called Rose Way came an unmistakable series of sounds. As they waited the noise grew louder and louder, until it seemed to fill the air. The galloping hoofs advanced towards them and behind them was the whisper and rustle of rubber-tyred wheels.

‘Legion Street took him by surprise. He funked meeting the police and turned.' Campion was hardly articulate. ‘My hat, we may have done it after all. Quickly, driver, quickly! Don't let him get away.'

The police car slid forward over the mouth of the lane at the moment when, with a clatter of hoofs as the iron beat the tarmac, the coffin brake appeared.

THE UNDERTAKER PULLED
up the moment he saw the danger. The road was too narrow for him to hope to turn and he made a virtue of the circumstance. He let the mare stand gratefully, the steam rising up from her flanks into the rain. From the high box he looked down inquiringly, water running in streams from the brim of his hard hat.

‘Why, it's Mr Luke.' He sounded both friendly and surprised. ‘Terrible night, sir. Your car hasn't broke down, I hope?'

Luke took the mare's head.

‘Get down, Bowels. Come on, right down into the road.'

‘Why certainly, if you say the word, sir.' He managed to convey complete mystification and began at once to unwrap himslf from the various layers of oilskin which swaddled him.

Campion, who had gone round quietly on the outside, swung himself up to take the heavy whip out of its socket, and the old man stared at him with enlightenment.

‘Mr Luke,' he began, lowering himself cautiously on to the wet surface. ‘Mr Luke, I think I understand you, sir. You've had a bit of a complaint from one of your officers.'

‘Talk at the station,' said the D.D.I., woodenly official.

‘But I'd like to explain, sir – it's not as if we were strangers.' The reminder was eminently reasonable and not without dignity. ‘It was a goodish way back, a constable suddenly jumped out at me. He was like a lunatic, sir, though I don't want to get anyone into trouble. I didn't see 'is uniform at first in the rain, and I'm afraid that in my nervousness I struck out at 'im. It was to save 'is life and that's a fact. The mare had taken fright and I've only this minute quietened 'er. She's taken me half a mile out of my way as It is. That's why I'm here. I
ought to be on the lower road, and I would be if she'd not bolted.'

‘Tell it all at the station.'

‘Very good, sir. But this isn't like you. Bless my soul, what's that?'

A sound from the back of the brake had startled him. Mr Campion was closing the back of the body, which fastened with iron butterfly-bolts and opened upwards, piano-fashion. As he came back towards them Jas smiled.

‘As you'll have seen, sir, I'm on my lawful occasions,' he said heartily. ‘A gentleman 'as died in a nursing home and has had to be took to his son's for the interment. The firm employed couldn't see their way to shift 'im tonight and the nursing home couldn't keep 'im, so their foreman came to me. I obliged. You have to keep all the goodwill you can in my trade.'

‘Hurry up, my man.' Yeo appeared in the darkness and took the horse's head. ‘Take him to the car, Charlie.'

‘Yes, sir. I'm going, sir.' Jas sounded hurt rather than annoyed. ‘Can any of you gentlemen drive? The mare's not quite like a motor. Excuse me asking, but she's had a fright and I wouldn't trust her.'

‘Don't worry about that. I'll bring your horse myself. Get in the car.' The Superintendent's voice, stiff with authority, was yet not unfriendly, and the undertaker was quick to see that he had made an impression.

‘Very good, sir,' he agreed cheerfully. ‘I'm in your hands. Shall I go first, Mr Luke?'

He climbed into the car in silence and sank down in the seat Yeo had vacated. As he removed his sopping hat he came face to face with Lugg. It was a shock, but he said nothing. His fine big head with its crown of white curls remained erect, but his complexion had lost some of its aggressive health and his eyes were thoughtful.

The procession set out immediately, Yeo leading with Campion on the box beside him. The wind, now full behind them, blew the oilskin rugs which they had thrown round their shoulders into tall black wings. They glistened and flapped like
sails in the headlights, lending the brake the illusion of unnatural speed.

The half-drowned city swept by them, and in each vehicle the sense of urgency grew as, in silence, they made the return journey, to draw up at the Barrow Road Divisional Police Station.

Abruptly Luke handed his captive over to the startled constable who had come hurrying to meet him, and then, followed by Lugg, strode along to the brake, which had pulled up just ahead.

‘He's behaving damned naturally,' he announced without preamble.

‘That's what I thought.' Yeo was blunt with misgiving, and both men looked anxiously at the slender figure, now almost obscured by its cloak of dripping oilskin.

Campion said nothing. He climbed quietly down from his seat and went round to the back of the brake. As soon as a constable had taken the mare's head the others followed him. He had got the lid open by the time they arrived and his torch beam was playing on the coffin within. It was black and shining, of unusual size, and the gilding on it would have been less remarkable on a State coach.

‘'At's it, cock. 'At's the one.' Lugg's thick voice was more husky than ever and he laid a cautious hand on the wood. ‘The 'inges must run along the edges, 'ere and 'ere. Can't see 'em, can yer? Artist in his way, Jas is, the old perisher. I see 'im wonderin' if ter mention Beatt the 'ole way along.'

Yeo produced his own torch.

‘Looks normal to me,' he pronounced at last. ‘I'm hanged if I like this, Campion, but it's for Luke to decide.'

The D.D.I. hesitated and glanced at Campion, his own doubts showing clearly in his deep-set eyes. The lean man was as expressionless as was usual when he was very excited.

‘Oh, I think so, you know,' he said gently. ‘I think so. Take it in and open it up.'

In the D.D.I.'s office, Campion and Lugg arranged two wooden chairs in the same pattern as those they had found in the chemist's back bedroom.

Presently, Luke, with Dice and two constables, came slowly in, carrying the coffin between them. They set its glistening length down tenderly on the chairs and stood back, while Yeo, who had followed them, his hands deep in his pockets, began to whistle a little tuneless dirge to himself.

‘The weight's about right,' he observed to Luke.

The younger man glanced at him unhappily, admitting the suggestion. However, having committed himself, he did not waver. He nodded to the sergeant.

‘Bring him along.'

After a moment or so they heard the undertaker and his escort coming down the corridor. He had a confident step as heavy as the police officer's own, and when he stepped into the room, bareheaded and without his heavy driving cape, he looked infinitely respectable.

Every man in the room watched his face as he caught sight of the coffin, but only one fully appreciated his remarkable control. It was true that he stopped in his tracks and the familiar stars of sweat appeared at his curling hair line, but he was outraged rather than afraid. With unerring instinct he turned to Yeo.

‘I hardly expected this, sir,' he said mildly. ‘It may be forward of me to say so, but this isn't very nice.' The understatement embraced the sordidness of the apartment, the sacrilegious handling of the decently dead, the rights of the individual, and the high-handedness of officials generally. He stood before them, an honest, scandalized tradesman.

Luke met his eyes squarely and strove, Mr Campion felt, to avoid anything faintly like defiance.

‘Open it, Bowels.'

‘
Open
it, sir?'

‘Right away. If you won't, we will.'

‘No, no, I'll do it, I'll do it, Mr Luke. You don't know what you're suggesting, sir.' His readiness was far more disconcerting than his shocked protests. ‘I'll do it. I'm bound to do anything you say. I know my duty. I'm surprised, very surprised. I can't say more nor less.' He paused and looked round him with distaste. ‘Did I understand you want me to do it here, sir?'

Once again Yeo had begun to whistle just under his breath. He seemed unaware that he was making a sound and his glance never wavered from the wide pink face with the sharp little eyes and small, unpleasant mouth.

‘Here and now.' Luke was obdurate. ‘Got a screwdriver on you?'

Jas made no attempt to procrastinate. He felt in his coat pocket and nodded.

‘I have, sir. Never move without my tools. I'll just take my jacket off if you'll permit.'

They watched him strip to the very white shirt with the old-fashioned stiff cuffs. He took the gold links out carefully and laid them on the edge of the desk. Then he rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms like a navvy's.

‘Now I'm quite ready, sir. But there's just one little thing.'

‘Speak up, man.' Yeo interfered without intending to. ‘You've every right to say what you like. What is it?'

‘Well, sir, I wondered if I could 'ave a drop of Lysol in a bucket of water, just to put my 'ands in.'

While a constable scuttled off to fetch it for him he took out a large handkerchief, white as his shirt, and folded it cornerwise.

‘The gentleman died of a bad trouble,' he said deprecatingly to the room at large. ‘I'll ask you to stand a foot or so back for the first minute or two. It's for your own sakes. You've got your work to do, but there's no need for you to run into more danger than you need. You'll excuse me, I know.'