The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - Mark Hodder [31]
The hansom panted through Leicester Square and on down Charing Cross Road, passing the antiquarian bookshops-whose volumes were now both obscure and obscured-and continuing on to Trafalgar Square, where Monty had to carefully steer around an overturned fruit wagon and the dead horse that had collapsed in its harness. Apples squished under the hansom's wheels and were ground into the cobbles; the resultant mush was quickly blackening with falling soot.
Along Whitehall the engine chugged, then left into Great Scotland Yard, until, outside the grim old edifice of the police headquarters-a looming shadow in the darkness-Penniforth brought it to a standstill.
"There you go, guv'nor!" he called, knocking on the roof.
Sir Richard Francis Burton disembarked and tossed a couple of coins up to the driver.
"Toddle off for a pie and some ale, Monty. You deserve it. If you get back here in an hour, I'll have another fare for you."
"That's right gen'rous of you, guv'nor. You can rely on me; I'll be 'ere waitin' when you're ready."
"Good man!"
Burton entered Scotland Yard. A valet stepped forward and took his coat, hat, and cane, shaking the soot from them onto the already grimy floor.
Burton crossed to the front desk. A small plaque on it read: J. D. Pepperwick-Clerk. He addressed the man to whom it referred.
"Is Detective Inspector Trounce available? I'd like to speak with him, if possible."
"Your name, sir?"
"Sir Richard Francis Burton."
The clerk, a gaunt fellow with thick spectacles, a red nose, and a straggly moustache, looked surprised.
"Not the explorer chappie, surely?"
"The very same."
"Good gracious! Do you want to talk to the inspector about yesterday's shooting?"
"Perhaps. Would you take a look at this?"
Burton held out his authorisation. The clerk took it, unfolded it, saw the signature, and read the text above it with meticulous care, dwelling on each separate word.
"I say!" he finally exclaimed. "You're an important fellow!"
"So-?" said Burton slowly, suggestively inclining his head and raising his eyebrows.
The clerk got the message. "So I'll call Detective Inspector Trounce-on the double!"
He saluted smartly and turned to a contrivance affixed to the wall behind him. It was a large, flat brass panel which somewhat resembled a honeycomb, divided as it was into rows of small hexagonal compartments. Into these, snug in circular fittings, there were clipped round, domed lids with looped handles. A name was engraved onto each one.
The clerk reached for the lid marked "D. I. Trounce" and pulled it from the frame. It came away trailing a long segmented tube behind it. He twisted open the lid and blew into the tube. Burton knew that at the other end a little valve was popping out of an identical lid and emitting a whistle. A moment later a tinny voice came from the tube: "Yes? What is it?"
Holding its end to his mouth, the clerk spoke into it. Though his voice was muffled, Burton heard him say: "Sir Richard Burton, the Africa chap, is here to see you, sir. He has, um, special authorisation. Says he wants to talk to you about the shooting of John Speke at Bath yesterday."
He transferred the tube to his ear and listened, then put it back to his mouth and said, "Yes, sir."
He replaced the lid, lifting it back to its compartment, the tube automatically snaking in before it.
He smiled at Burton. "The inspector will see you straightaway. Second floor, office number nineteen. The stairs are through that door there, sir," he advised, pointing to the left.
Burton nodded and made for the doors, pushed through them, and climbed the stairs. They were wooden and needed brushing. He came to the second floor and moved along a panelled corridor, looking at the many closed doors. The sound of a woman weeping came from behind one.
About halfway down the passage he found number nineteen and knocked upon it.
"Come!" barked a voice from within.
Burton entered and found himself in a medium-sized, high-ceilinged, square, and shadowy room. Its dark corners lay behind a thin veil of blue cigar smoke.