“Maybe we can just walk casually around the room and see if we spot him,” said Mr. Clemens.
“Oh, I can see very well from here,” I said, not wanting to encourage him in this idea. Standing by the bar, our intrusion was easily overlooked; walking around obviously looking for someone was likely to draw attention from someone hostile to strangers. I added, “Besides, I don’t think he’d drink in one of his known haunts if he knew the police were after him, do you?”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” said Mr. Clemens. “If he gets thirsty enough, he might decide this is safer than someplace he doesn’t usually go to. Here, at least, he knows there won’t be many strangers.” He craned his neck, peering here and there.
“Let’s not make ourselves conspicuous,” I said. “I’m beginning to think we shouldn’t have come here.”
“Hell, I’ve been in plenty of worse places,” Mr. Clemens began. “When I was your age—”
Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by the arrival of the tavernkeeper with our pints, which he had topped off now that the foam had dissipated. “ ’Ere’s your pints,” he hissed, shoving them across the counter at us abruptly enough to slosh some of the contents out of the glasses. “Hi’d had-vise you drink right up and be hon your way. We don’t want no trouble ’ere.”
Mr. Clemens picked up his glass and leaned forward. “We don’t want trouble anywhere, but sometimes you get it when you don’t want it.” He took a sip, then added in a lower voice, “A friend of ours is in jail right now for something he didn’t do. There’s a man who comes in here sometimes who might be able to help us get him out.”
“Well, hif ’e drinks hin ’ere, ’e’s no bloomin’ barrister,” the tavernkeeper said, his expression skeptical. “What did ye say this bloke’s name was, guv’nor?”
“I didn’t yet, because the wrong people might hear it,” said Mr. Clemens, lowering his voice to a barely audible growl. “Scotland Yard’s looking for him, and for all I know they’ve got half a dozen lousy snoops in here right now. Can you vouch for everybody in the place?”
The tavernkeeper narrowed his eyes and shifted them from one side to another, taking in the entire room in a single sweep. Then he shook his head. “Not a soul ’ere but the reg’lars. Hi know the lot of ’em. Hexcept you and your fellow, ’ere.”
“That don’t mean one of them won’t go sell the cops every word he overhears,” said Mr. Clemens. He had stuck a cigar in his mouth and was mumbling around it. It gave him an air of conspiracy, and I realized that he had somehow managed to make himself seem every bit as disreputable as the rest of the denizens of The Painted Lady. “I reckon that’s how they caught this fellow we know—he came in here a couple of times, I hear tell. Curly-headed fellow, wears a big hat and puffs up like a banty rooster. McPhee’s the name, Ed McPhee.”
“Aye, that’s the bloke to a tee,” said the tavernkeeper, smiling for the first time at Mr. Clemens’s imitation of McPhee’s voice and accent. “Jabbers and japes, just like that, honly louder. ’E’s in the clink, you say now, guv’nor?”
“That’s right,” said my employer. He made shushing motions and lowered his voice again. “Now, Ed came in here looking for somebody to help him with a job he was doing, I guess you know the kind of work I mean.”
“Maybe I does and maybe I doesn’t,” said the tavernkeeper, his face becoming suspicious again. “Hit ain’t wise for a man to blab heverythin’ ’e might know.”
“That’s the kind of man I thought you were,” said Mr. Clemens, nodding approvingly. Just then there was an outbreak of raucous laughter from someone in the back of the room. We all peered through the smoke, trying to make out what was so funny, but whatever the reason was, we never learned it. After a moment, Mr. Clemens turned back to the tavernkeeper and continued.
“I like a man who finds out who he’s talking to before he says something he might regret,” he said. “I’m not here to ask a bunch of questions, anyway. There’s just one thing maybe you can help me with. Ed hired a fellow name of Terry Mulligan, and we think Terry can help us get Ed out. Terry’s gone into hiding, not that I blame him one bit. Now, I’m not asking you where he is—what I don’t know can’t hurt anybody. But if you knew somebody that might get the word to Terry that Ed’s old pal Sam is looking for him—well, I reckon he can figure out how to find me if he wants to talk.”
“Maybe I can do that,” said the tavernkeeper. “I don’t know if I remember Terry, or ’oo might know ’im.”
“This might help you remember,” said Mr. Clemens, and he passed a folded banknote to the man. “Just make sure nobody finds out who doesn’t need to know.”
“I’ll think about hit, guv’nor,” the barman said, slipping the bill into the pocket of his apron. He glanced around the room again, then said, “Now maybe you hought to drink up ’fore some of the lads get restless. Hif somebody recollects where Terry might be, I’ll make sure ’e knows to get the message to ’im.”
“Fair enough,” said Mr. Clemens, and he handed the man another bill. “This ought to make sure the fellow knows to keep things under his hat.” Then he turned to me and added, “Drink up, Cabot, we’ll get out of the way so these good folks can drink without worrying about
