David Dean: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005

“Ter meetcher, Mrs. Jimbo,” he said. “Jimbo’s been tellin’ me all aboutcher, the lucky bounder. Have ter say he didn’t do yer justice.”

The Mem took the very tips of two of his fingers in her hand and gave them the tiniest shake.

“And to what,” she said, “do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“Jimbo’s been kind enough to offer me a cot in your splendid residence for a night or two.”

Jimbo jumped in.

“Least we can do, Hetty, old thing,” he said, “seein’ as Loopy’s in the neighbourhood on business.”

“Really?” The Mem was clearly in the grip of some strong emotion and her tone could have stripped paint. “And what sort of business might that be, Captain Drinkwater? If one might ask.”

Loopy tapped the side of his nose and eyed her slyly, while at the same time, she noticed, also eyeing the fireplace.

“Buyin’ and sellin’,” he said, “can’t say more, y’understand. Other parties involved. Wouldn’t be aboveboard.”

“Quite,” said Jimbo, “quite understand.”

“Well,” said the Mem, “that is more than I do. Dinner will be at eight sharp. James, show Captain Drinkwater to his room. The Blue Room, I think. And we do not smoke in the bedrooms, Captain.”

When Jimbo set down the battered suitcase in the Blue Room, Loopy gave the bed a practice bounce.

“I think your wife’s rather taken to me, ol’ man.”

Jimbo stared at him fuzzily.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “I think you might be right.”

Dinner that night at eight sharp was a fairly silent affair. Jimbo’s attempts to engender and prolong conversation met with scant encouragement, and his gallant efforts to summon up the jolly ghosts of shared times past met with groping responses from Loopy and frigid disinterest from the Mem.

Over the soup, Jimbo tried desperately to whip up some brio.

“I say, Loopy,” he said, “do you still do the old painting? Loopy,” he explained to the Mem, “used to be a dab hand with the old watercolours.”

“Really,” said the Mem, clearly not believing it for a moment.

Loopy shook his head.

“Gave it up, ol’ man. The old peepers not up to it anymore.” He waved a fork dangerously close to the organs in question.

“Pity, that,” Jimbo said. “I was thinking you could have painted the Mem’s portrait.”

“Nothing would have tickled me more,” said Loopy, fixing them both earnestly, one eye each, “than to immortalise Mrs. Jimbo’s classic beauty, but alas, Dame Fortune has dealt me a measly hand, the old cow.”

Following this, silence fell again, until with no warning, halfway through the feast, Loopy began, between and through mouthfuls of roast beef, a series of off-colour reminiscences which to Jimbo seemed singularly ill-chosen for the company. He was supported in this opinion by the Mem, who, throughout the entire sequence, remained absolutely still, eyes closed and wattles quivering. At the end of the meal, which came none too soon, the Mem announced her intention of speaking to Mrs. Whipple about tasks for the following day, rose, and left the room. Loopy looked after her.

“I say, ol’ man, I hope I didn’t offend Mrs. Jimbo in any way.”

“Good God, no. Didn’t notice a thing, I’m sure,” said Jimbo with an unconvincing laugh, as he thought about the reception the Mem was preparing for him. A roasting, this time, he thought. Cold shoulder was painful, but roastings were pure hell.

The Mem had noticed. And she noticed lots more things in the days that followed. Because Loopy’s lightning visit turned out to be not as lightning as all that. But as Jimbo told her, sometimes business can take longer to transact than you thought. And she told him that, according to Mrs. Whipple, Loopy’s business seemed to consist largely of loafing outside billiard halls and public houses with assorted louche individuals.

“He has been seen in Cambridge,” said the Mem, “being extremely coarse on the public footpath.”

“Chap’s a right to relax a bit after he’s been doing business all day.”

But the Mem was having none of it. With disconcerting speed, she changed the subject. She could turn on a sixpence, the Mem could.

“In any case, you will have the goodness to ask him to stop calling me Mrs. Jimbo. My nerves are in absolute shreds. Another thing: What gives him the right to take your car to go off and do his bits of so-called business? And, I might add, to do hand-brake turns into the drive at three o’clock in the morning, the worse for drink, I have no doubt.”

“Chap’s got a right to some transport, Hetty,” said Jimbo defensively. He too had heard Loopy’s erratic entries but had, with characteristic generosity, put it all down to boyish high spirits.

“And I,” said the Mem, taking no prisoners, “have the right to know why your so-called Captain Drinkwater wears his hat indoors. A hat, moreover, which is lined with BacoFoil, I happen to know.”

It was true, Jimbo had noticed that Loopy wore his trilby in the house. Except at mealtimes, of course. An odd habit, but a chap who had been through it a bit had the right to the occasional odd habit.

“BacoFoil?” he said, trying a flanking move. “I didn’t know we had any in the house.”

“We do not,” said the Mem. “Mrs. Whipple and I are against the use of aluminium in the preparation of food. It is a deadly poison. Which means that your Captain Drinkwater has smuggled it into the house.”

“Righto,” said Jimbo vaguely, beating a retreat, “see what I can do.”

Tell you one thing, Jimbo said to himself that night. Life With Loopy might be a pain, but it’s never boring. He realised that he was quite looking forward to the next Loopy outrage, and even to the roasting that would ineluctably follow it, as the night the day.

Loopy had been in residence for about three weeks when Jimbo returned home from a meeting with his bank manager and lunch at the RAC. He garaged the car and went into the kitchen, where he found the Mem sprawled full-length, facedown on the floor. He thought at first that the Mem was playing some sort of prank on him, but on reflection recalled that this sort of jape was not her style at all.

“Good Lord,” he said, “Good Lord.”

He had not had much experience with death, but he had had enough to know that this excessive stillness was not a sign of bouncing good health.

“Hetty,” he said tentatively, “Hetty? It’s James here. How goes it, old thing?”

But there was no answer from the floor.

“Oh Lord,” he said, and left the kitchen, feeling rather weak around the old knees.

He went into the sitting room, went straight across to the drinks tray, and poured himself a stiff brandy, which he downed in one. He poured himself another, and then became aware that Loopy was sitting in an armchair, suited and trilbied, reading the Sporting Times and smoking a cigar.

“I say, Loopy,” he said. “I say, I’ve had a bit of a blow.”

Loopy looked up.

“Oh, yes?” he said. “And what’s that then, ol’ man?”

Jimbo sat down heavily on the sofa. “Just found the Mem in the kitchen. Lying on the floor. Stretched out. Like this.” He tried, unsuccessfully, to give Loopy some idea of the posture. He took another gulp of brandy. “There’s blood, too. Gave me a hell of a turn, I can tell you. Bit of a blow this, and no mistake.”

Loopy looked at him vaguely.

“Sorry, ol’ man, I was miles away,” he said. “The Mem? Ah yes, that was probably me, I expect.”

“You, Loopy? What on earth do you mean?”

“Caught her going through my doings,” said Loopy. “Came home, went upstairs, and there she was going through my suitcase. She’d picked the locks with a hairpin. Going through my doings, cool as you like.”