The Whispering Woman (Robert Budd Book 11) by Gerald Verner

Author:Gerald Verner [Verner, Gerald]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Endeavour Media
Published: 2018-11-15T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen – MR. CHURCHMAN EXPLAINS

THE big man hauled himself gingerly to his feet and rubbed delicately at those portions of his anatomy that had come in violent contact with the hard floor.

“What’s goin’ on ’ere?” he grunted again. “D’you know I could charge you with assaultin’ an officer of the law in the execution of ’is duty . . .?”

“You couldn’t,” said Churchman, “because it wasn’t me. What were you doing outside my door at this hour of the night, anyhow?”

“I was just goin’ ter ring the bell,” answered Mr. Budd truthfully. “Who’s the feller who came bargin’ out an’ knocked me over?”

Mr. Churchman shook his head.

“I’d like to know that,” he said. “I never got a chance to see his face . . .” He thought for a moment. “If you were coming to see me,” he said, “you’d better come in. I’m going to have a drink and I should think you could do with one, too.”

He led the way to the sitting-room and Mr. Budd followed him. In silence he poured out two stiff whiskies from the bottle of Johnny Walker and handed one to the big man.

“I’d sooner ’ave beer,” remarked Mr. Budd.

“That’ll do you more good,” said Churchman. He swallowed half his whisky, set the glass down and helped himself to a cigarette. “What brought you here?”

Mr. Budd took a mouthful of whisky and allowed it to trickle slowly down his throat. When it was gone he smacked his lips and took another.

“Good stuff that,” he remarked, gazing into the half-empty glass dreamily.

“Don’t you think you’d better do a bit of explaining?” suggested Churchman. “Who are you . . .?”

“You know very well who I am,” said Mr. Budd.

“Do I?” Churchman raised his eyebrows.

“We met at The Talkin’ Parrot. Remember?” said the big man.

“Of course.” The other nodded. “Now that you remind me, I recollect the occasion . . .”

“And we’ve met a good many times apart from that,” said Mr. Budd. “At the Mammoth Cinema . . .”

“Really?” Churchman inhaled deeply and blew out a thin stream of smoke. “I don’t think I remember that . . .”

“It isn’t me that’s got to do the explainin’,” went on Mr. Budd. “You’ve got ter do that, you know.”

“Why?” asked Churchman easily.

“Because this isn’t a game,” said Mr. Budd. “This is a murder investigation . . .”

Churchman’s face changed and when he spoke the faint bantering note had left his voice.

“You’re quite right,” he said seriously. “It isn’t a game at all. It’s wicked and diabolical . . .”

Mr. Budd swallowed the remainder of his whisky and put down the empty glass.

“Look ’ere,” he said, “I’ll be candid with yer. It’s no use you tryin’ to pretend you ain’t Foxlow. I’ve had you ‘tailed’ . . .”

“Most interesting,” murmured Churchman. “Very well, I’ll be equally candid. I am Foxlow.”

“That’s better,” said the big man, nodding approvingly. “Now we know where we are. P’raps you’ll go a bit further an’ tell me why.”

“Have another drink?” suggested Churchman, picking up the bottle of Johnny Walker.

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