More Work for the Undertaker

by Margery Allingham

  The noise of the door-bell ceased.

  A new clamour, this time of alarm bells both inside and on the front of the building, brought both men to their toes. Yeo had just time to swear violently before a shadow, jaunty and silent as an alley-cat, bore down upon them from the street.

  It was Luke. Recklessness had made him off-handedly cheerful.

  ‘Okay,’ he murmured. ‘It’s Lugg. He’s gone in through the window in a shower of glass. Damn it, he’s a burglar, isn’t he? He’ll get the door open, hop it, and we’ll rush in and protect the property. Sorry, Super. I’m working for my ticket this time, anyhow.’

  Mr Campion divined rather than saw Yeo’s face and could have laughed had the moment been any other than the dizzy one of failure. He could see himself opening that corner cupboard and finding it empty or full of books.

  Luke pulled his sleeve. ‘Time we cops did our duty and answered the bell before our efficient inferiors hear it from over the way.’ He was grinning, but there was appeal and trust in his voice. Campion found them horrific. ‘Come on, sir, do your bit of magic.’

  They moved towards the street, but as he came out into the rain, and just before he turned the corner, Campion looked back. The sound he made stopped the others and they turned. In the centre of the mews was a sight of fantasy.

  From a dark coach-house, whose doors must have been standing open unseen in the gloom, a monstrous anachronism had appeared. It was a large black horse-drawn vehicle, sinister in shape, with a high box-seat for the driver and an ominous flat body entirely enclosed. Swaying and glistening in the light of its own old-fashioned lamps, the coffin brake swung away from them and moved lightly and with surprising swiftness towards the Barrow Road exit of the mews.

  Yeo’s hand felt like iron on Campion’s shoulder. The Superintendent was out of his depth.

  ‘What the hell’s that?’ he demanded. ‘Who is it? Where’s he going at this time of night?’

  Campion laughed aloud. He sounded hysterical.

  ‘It’s Jas,’ he said. ‘He’s saved us – or rather, Luke’s inspired general call has. He’s going “up Apron Street” before our eyes. Can we get a car?’

  ‘Can do.’ Luke strode off across the road with suspicious alacrity.

  Above them the burglar-alarm continued its panic-stricken cacophony. Yeo was deeply quiet for a second before he moved nearer to his old friend. Then he cleared his throat and said with a deferential restraint which lent the announcement the force of an explosion :‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘Hope on, Guv’nor.’ Campion spoke devoutly.

  At that moment a long black car appeared out of the curtains of the sheeting rain.

  Yeo grunted. ‘What about the bank?’

  ‘Dice and a couple of chaps are just behind me, sir. They’ll take care of it.’ Luke handed him into the car, and after thrusting Campion in after him, would have followed himself had not a large wet figure, furious as a startled fowl and making much the same noise, descended upon them from the soaking darkness.

  ‘’Ere, ’ere, ’ere! What’s the game, eh? What’s on the ivories? What are you all playin’ at?’ Lugg was drenched. His bald head ran water and his moustache was hung with diamond drops. He thrust Luke aside and shot into the tonneau like a cannon-ball of wet washing, to subside on the floor on the far side, where he added considerably to the discomfort of all concerned.

  As the door closed after Luke, and the car started, he was still expostulating.

  ‘Broken glass in me armpits, me finger-prints all over the door which is now ajar, and you scarpering like a pack of silly kids . . . I can believe it of some of you, but what you think you’re doing, Mr Yeo, I don’t know!’

  Luke placed a large but not unfriendly hand over his face.

  ‘Now, sir,’ he said briskly to Campion, ‘what’s the message?’

  The message, which caused comment over the entire circuit, went out in a matter of seconds.

  ‘Car Q23 calling all cars. Chief Inspector Luke. Am pursuing black horse-drawn vehicle with single passenger driver. Technical name coffin brake, repeat coffin brake. Last seen Barrow Road, West, proceeding north. Inform all call points. Over.’

  As they approached the old tram terminus at the top of Barrow Road, Yeo could bear it no longer.

  ‘Where’s the fire?’ he muttered to Campion, who was jammed in beside him. ‘No one on God’s earth could miss an archaic contraption like that. You can’t lose it. An ordinary Call must have picked him up in half an hour. What are we playing at?’

  ‘It’s imperative he doesn’t stop. We must get him before he stops, that’s vital.’

  ‘All right, if you say so. Any idea at all where he’s going?’

  ‘I think to Fletcher’s Town. What’s the address, Lugg?’

  The sodden bundle heaved itself into a more comfortable position.

  ‘Peter George Jelf’s? Seventy-eight Lockhart Crescent. Going to broadcast that? You won’t see him for skid marks!’

  ‘Peter George Jelf? That’s a name from the past.’ Yeo sounded surprised and gratified. This morning Old Pullen came in to see me. He happened to mention he’d run into Jelf on Euston Station as he came into town. The man seemed quite respectable, which is a contradiction in terms, and said he’d got a little haulage business in North London. Pullen glanced in the van, the only thing the chap had on board was a packing-case marked “Conjurer’s Stores” – singularly appropriate when one thinks back over his career.’

  ‘Conjurer’s Stores . . .’ The lean man’s lazy voice was soft with relief and satisfaction.

  ‘So that’s how they got the coffin back; I wondered about that.’

  ‘Back?’ said Luke, sitting up. ‘Back?’

  Mr Campion was about to explain when the loudspeaker interrupted him.

  ‘Central Control calling Car Q23. Black horse-drawn vehicle thought to be coffin brake, seen twenty-three forty-four hours corner of Greatorex Road and Findlay Avenue N.W. proceeding north up Findlay Avenue at fair speed. Over.’

  ‘Hullo, he’s round the park,’ announced Yeo, the intrinsic excitement of the chase suddenly hitting him. ‘Seven and a quarter minutes ago. He’s shifting, Campion. Astounding. No traffic, of course, but a dangerous surface. Here, turn up here, driver. It’ll take you to Philomel Place. There’s a way through right at the north end which will bring you to the Broadway. Cross the Canal Bridge there and you get out into – blow it! – thingummy street . . . I’ll think of it in a moment. It’s a rabbit warren just there.’

  ‘We mustn’t lose him. Mustn’t miss him in the side streets.’ Campion spoke abruptly. ‘He mustn’t get to Jelf and he mustn’t stop. That’s vital.’

  ‘Why not call one of the other buses? J54 is up in Tanner’s Hill.’ Luke was fidgeting. ‘He could get down to Lockhart Crescent and hang about for him. They can hold him till we come, can’t they?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Campion did not sound happy. ‘I want him to go on feeling he’s safe. All right, though. Probably best.’

  Luke saw that the message went out as they raced through the dark built-up streets. Yeo, whose knowledge of London was legendary, had begun to enjoy himself, and the driver, also not without experience, became gratifyingly respectful.

  The rain continued doggedly. It had settled into its stride and appeared to have achieved inevitability. They passed down Findlay Avenue and plunged into Legion Street at the roundabout where that great highroad settles down to its uninterrupted run to the north-western suburbs.

  ‘Steady.’ Yeo could not have spoken more softly on the banks of a trout stream. ‘Steady now. Even if he’s kept up his pace he can’t be far now.’

  ‘’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 . . . Lad
y 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, 51B 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.

  26. Conjurer’s Stores

  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 bla
ck 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.