Free Gay Phoenix by Michael Innes Page A

in his chair. ‘He told you that ?’
    ‘Tomorrow as ever is,’ he said, ‘he’s going to I knew who.’
    ‘The fuzz?’
    ‘I knew who. Those were his words.’ Povey paused on this pedantic precision. ‘I suppose we know what to make of them.’
    ‘You’re telling me.’ The ferocious man – who now didn’t look at all ferocious – gulped down the remainder of his brandy and dropped his half-smoked cigar into an ashtray. He was in a panic – which was just as well for Povey’s crazy deception. This particular member of the gang (Povey felt) was almost unbelievably thick. There must be others who would be more capable of assessing the situation coolly – or who would merely and simply know that Povey wasn’t the man he was masquerading as. But now nobody must be given an opportunity to reflect. Imparting a sustained momentum to the affair was the single essential thing. And the thick man’s behaviour was promising. He had jumped to his feet.
    ‘Get on the blower,’ he said in an agitated mutter. ‘Get instructions. That’s what I’ve to do. No time to lose, and no mistake. Found drowned in the morning – that’s what Butter will have to be, if you ask me. Or a brick fallen on him. Or collided with a bus. Or tumbled downstairs after words passing with a tart.’
    ‘Well, then – get along, man, and stop jabbering.’
    ‘Yes, that’s right.’ The ferocious man had become humble and bewildered. ‘Thanks, mate. I’ll go.’
    ‘And mention, by the way, that I have another date with Butter in inside half an hour.’
    ‘What’s that?’ The incompetent criminal whom a benign Providence had tossed in Povey’s way had taken his first hurried steps from the restaurant. But now he halted, turned round, and stared. ‘You’re seeing him again?’
    ‘Yes, for a drink at the Cock and Bottle. You must know the Cock and Bottle; it’s that pub opposite the pier. Listen!’ Povey seemed to have been struck by a sudden idea. ‘A nice lonely place by now, that pier will be. So just suggest to them that found drowned’s the thing. Get you a good mark with the bosses, old boy.’
    ‘Butter could be got out there?’ The ferocious man was open-mouthed.
    ‘Leave that to me.’ Povey glanced at his watch. ‘An hour from now, he’ll have taken a toddle to the end of it.’
    ‘The end of him , that will be, if you can work it.’ The ferocious man was enormously impressed. ‘But are you sure, mate? Can’t afford a boss-shot, can we? Put the bastard on his guard and he’ll be with the bloody fuzz before anybody can take another swipe at him.’
    ‘Leave it to me, I say.’ Povey was impatient. ‘I’ve been there before, haven’t I?’
    ‘On that pier? How that help you?’
    ‘On this kind of job, you idiot. These assignments are my line, aren’t they? Frig off to that blower, for Christ’s sake.’
    Arthur Povey, although scarcely to be described as a man of unimpaired moral sensibility, enunciated these coarse and blasphemous words not without effort.
    He was chuckling to himself, however, before this imbecile thug had vanished from the restaurant. He felt that he was more than halfway home.
     

5
     
    He was less sure of himself by the time he reached the Cock and Bottle. It was a most respectable-looking little pub, which somehow made the whole crazy project seem crazier still. The trap – the other end of the trap – was no doubt being baited now. But how on earth was he to bring off his part of this bizarrely improvised homicide? He had already decided that his chance of persuading Butter to take a stroll along a deserted pier with him was nil. And now he found that he hadn’t an idea in his head. He simply had to play the thing off the cuff. It had perhaps been a mistake to drink almost the whole of that bottle of claret. On top of a couple of dry martinis it had been a bit much. No doubt it had helped him in his encounter with that horrible thickie, had given him just the extra punch