a letter.’
There was a card. Bushy Brows slid it out of its special little space and contemplated it with thoughtful eyes. He contemplated it for so long that Ben took a peep over his shoulder, and although the light was so dim he could just make out the name inscribed upon it:
Then something else attracted Ben’s attention, something that had fallen out of the case while Bushy Brows had extracted the card and that now lay near the dead man’s foot. Ben stooped and quietly picked it up. It was a photograph of a woman. Rather a good-looker. Not one of your film stars, but a face you didn’t mind looking at, that was a fact. Indeed, the more Ben looked at it, the more he didn’t mind, without exactly knowing why. She was smart, and he was more at home with holes and patches. She had dark hair, and as a rule he preferred ’em blonde—if it was nacherel, mind, and not on one o’ them tarts. This wasn’t no tart! You could tell she was the sort that would draw away quick if she saw Ben coming. There was nothing to suggest that the admiration would be mutual.
One reason why the face appealed to him was that behind the photographic smile there was a hint of trouble which neither the photographer nor his subject had been able to eliminate. Possibly neither was aware of it. But Ben had a subconscious sense for trouble, and an instinctive sympathy for all who encountered it. Lummy, didn’t he know?
Bushy Brows’ voice brought Ben’s head up from the photograph.
‘What have you got there?’
‘Pickcher,’ answered Ben.
‘Oh! Where did you get it?’
‘Fell aht o’ the case, I reckon.’
‘Let’s have a look.’
Rather reluctantly Ben held it out, and the man took it. He seemed as interested as Ben, if from a different angle. When he had finished examining it he slipped it back into the letter-case.
‘Did yer put the card back, too?’ inquired Ben.
‘Don’t worry. You shall have the chap’s name and address if you’re good.’
Deciding not to let on that he already knew them, Ben asked 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