Neither Sir Denis nor Cedric Villiers could think of any further objection, and so McPhee and I put on our coats and hats and went down the stairs to look for a policeman, or failing that, a telephone. As we came out on the street, something occurred to me. “Where’s the other fellow who was here when we arrived—the Irishman? Did you send him home already?”
“Oh, Terry?” said McPhee. “Why, once Martha started her show, he wanted to go wet his throat. There wasn’t nothing I needed him for, so I told him to go ahead, long as he came back to straighten up when things were over. Martha usually runs just two hours, so Terry knew how much time he had. You can bet he’ll be surprised when he gets back and finds that fellow dead, and cops all over the place.” McPhee chuckled, as if amused at his assistant’s probable discomfiture. He himself seemed to have accepted the necessity of informing the police of the shooting.
“I should imagine so,” I said. “Well, if he can prove his whereabouts during the séance, he shouldn’t have much trouble with the police.” I looked around me, trying to see through the thick mist that now shrouded the streets in every direction, reducing the flickering gaslights to a nebulous glow and chilling me despite my coat and hat. It had been an eerie scene an hour earlier, when we were merely on our way to the séance, without any notion of what was about to happen. But the fog had thickened, and there was a definite sharpness in the air. After having heard the spirits’ voices, I found the atmosphere downright macabre. Add to that the shock of knowing that a man had died violently, not ten feet away from me . . . I shuddered, in spite of myself.
Then I snapped out of my reverie; action was the best antidote to this sudden fit of apprehension. “Which way are we going?”
“Let’s go thataway,” said McPhee, pointing down the street to our left. “Like that fancy boy said, the coppers usually lurk around over on King’s Road, which is the next big street. If we don’t find ’em there, we can cut back over to that tobacco shop for the telephone. And if they ain’t home, we’ll figure out which way to jump next.”
“Very well, Mr. McPhee, lead the way,” I said. After we’d gone a few paces I added, “I hope you’ll remember what you said about not leaving your wife to face the police alone.”
“Don’t worry, sonny,” said McPhee. “The days is long gone since ol’ Ed could outrun a young sprat like you. ’Sides, you know I went right out of that room after I doused the lights, so there ain’t nothing the law can pin on me, this time. I might have had something to worry about, back in my rowdy days, but I’m a reformed man. And you can go to the bank with that.”
“I certainly hope so,” I said. I meant it, too. I was undoubtedly a faster runner than McPhee, but in a fog this dense, he probably would not have much trouble if he wanted to evade me—especially if I let my attention wander. I made up my mind to keep a close eye on him. I thought the fog had gotten thicker even in the few moments we had been outdoors, and the air had certainly become colder. I buttoned up my collar, wishing I had brought a scarf with me tonight.
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
