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

He turned and looked down into the new hole.

“With you, Jimbo, I thought I had found sanctuary,” said Loopy, behind him, “but now it turns out you were in league with them all along.”

Jolly fine hole, Jimbo thought, the sides and edges all square and straight.

“Must say, very neat work, Loopy,” he said, and turned to find that Loopy was galloping towards him through the orchard, clearly trying to swat a bothersome wasp with the upraised shovel. Jimbo stepped sideways to give him room to work, but Loopy continued to head straight towards him.

“I say,” said Jimbo, “you ought to be a bit—” He never finished the sentence. The toe of Loopy’s boot caught in a loose square of the Mem’s turf, which had come unaccountably dislodged. His run continued, but now there was more stumble content. He stopped dead at the edge of the new hole, clearly thinking about jumping it to use up his momentum, but it was too late, his upper body was already on the way. He looked briefly at Jimbo with intense irritation, said, “Dammit,” then fell across the hole at attention, still holding the shovel at port-arms, until he was stopped by his chin hitting the far side. There was a dull, very final-sounding crack. He hung there in a perfect curve like a suspension bridge, the insteps of his boots on one side of the hole and his chin on the other. His arms hung down below him, his hands still clenched on the shovel.

Oh Lord.

Jimbo walked round to look him in the face. Loopy’s eyes were open, and Jimbo saw that the strangest thing had happened.

“I say, your squint’s gone, Loopy ol’ man,” he said. And it was true, Loopy’s eyes were now as straight as anybody’s. They were staring past Jimbo’s shoulder out of the Here into the Somewhere Else.

“Well, this is a facer,” said Jimbo. “Poor old Loopy. Came to pay your last respects and stayed to share them.”

He sat for a while on the side of the hole next to Loopy, humming and swinging his legs and musing on nothing in particular. When he next looked about him it was dark and seemed to have been for some time.

“This is no good,” he said to Loopy, “have to get this squared away.”

He went up to the house to find the Tilley lamp. And then he went up to the Blue Room and collected Loopy’s suitcase. He did not open it. One did not rummage through another chap’s doings, after all. Back at the hole, he had to climb down inside to retrieve the shovel from Loopy’s deathly grip.

Once out, Jimbo went round to Loopy’s feet side. He was careful to stamp down the turf on the Mem’s hole, because it was clear you still had to watch yourself when she was around. Well, no, she wasn’t around, was she? She was in Weston. He waved a mental hand at the flies that filled his brain, gripped Loopy firmly by the ankles, and pulled. Loopy’s chin slipped from its hold and his upper body fell down towards the bottom of the hole, but Jimbo, with a soldier’s instinct for these things, had been ready for this, and remained rock-steady. He hauled Loopy out and laid him out reverently.

“Well, Loopy, old comrade,” he said, “this is the end of the trail. Last Post and Lights Out. Pay Parade on the other side. Now hold on tight, ol’ man, this could be a mite bumpy.”

He rolled Loopy into the hole and dropped the suitcase in beside him.

By the time he had finished filling it in, replacing the turf and patting it down to match, then scattering the unused earth around the orchard, the sun was well up, he was grimy, sweaty, and exhausted, and his pyjamas were a perfect disgrace. To cap it all, he found Loopy’s trilby lying behind him on the ground, plain as anything. He sighed, picked it up, and trudged back to the house and into the kitchen. The kitchen clock said half-past eight.

“Good Lord,” he said aloud, “look at that. Eight-thirty. Well, Jimbo, the sun’s over the yardarm somewhere in the world.” He chucked the trilby on the table and went to the sitting room to pour himself a large restorative snifter of brandy.

He sat down in an armchair, bone-weary, and raised his glass. Well, that was that.

“Here’s to you, Loopy,” he said to the empty air, “happy landings.” And he drank deeply.

The doorbell rang.

“Oh Lord,” he said to the sitting room, “why can’t people leave other people in peace?”

He went to the door, glass in hand. He opened the door. There was a man standing on the top step. Jimbo stared at him. He was shortish and tubbyish, wearing a tweed suit. He had a plump face, moist blue eyes, and a neat moustache. Very much the sort of face, in fact, that Jimbo had owned until recently.

“Yah?” said Jimbo, suppressing a yawn.

“Jimbo!” said the man, beaming pinkly at him. “Jimbo, after all these years! Yer don’t recognise me, do yer, you old bugger. It’s me, old lad, Loopy, Loopy Drinkwater!”

“Right,” said Jimbo, nodding. “Right. Come in.”

“You’re surprised to see me, can’t say I blame yer. Thing is,” said the man, entering and wiping his feet neatly, “we’re in the neighbourhood, the wife and I, on a sort of painting holiday. We’re both still very keen on the old watercolours and you’ve got some first-class countryside round here. We’re putting up at the Blue Boar, the wife’s settling herself in as we speak. I said to the little woman, tell you what, I said, I’ll kill two birds with one stone and pop round and say hello to old Jimbo. Righto, she said, and here I am.”

He looked closely at Jimbo, at the muddied pyjamas and the filthy bare feet.

“Looking a bit seedy, old lad, if you don’t mind me saying so.” He peered at the glass in Jimbo’s hand and sniffed at it. “Aha. Naughty.” He wagged a finger roguishly. “Drinking spirits in the mornin’. I see it all. The better half ’s away, I can tell, and you’ve let yerself run to seed a bit. Done the same myself many a time and oft. And from the look of yer she’s been away some time.”

“Weston-super-Mare,” said Jimbo hoarsely. “Got a postcard. Nice postcard.”

“Weston-super-Mare? Fine place. Well, if she comes home without warning, you’ll get what for. She’ll be wanting to see you clean, bright, and lightly oiled. Come on, old lad, let’s get you sorted out. Where’s yer kitchen? Through here, unless my instincts have deserted me.” And he bustled off down the hall at a smart clip. Jimbo followed him more slowly.

“Good God,” said the other, in the kitchen. Jimbo looked around. He supposed it was in a bit of a state. There were, it was true, many flies, mainly concerning themselves with the immense pile of dirty plates in the sink, and the blackened Stromboli pan on the stove.

“Phew! Let a bit of air in, I think, don’t you?” The man opened the door, and looked out.

“By Jove, damn fine orchard you’ve got there, Jimbo, I must say.” His face was wreathed in a pleased smile. “In fact, you got a damn nice billet all round. Lovely little village. Not a soul about. Lovely and quiet, just the way we like it. Almost deserted, this morning.”

Jimbo stared at him for a moment. He opened his mouth. The other man stood about three seconds of the sounds that were coming in his direction, and then backed away. Just a little.

“Look, old lad,” he said, fitting his words in carefully whenever Jimbo had to take a breath, “I think I’ll take a turn around the garden. Perhaps you might freshen up a bit, change out of those pijjies that have seen better days, and then we can have a little chat and clean the place up a bit. How’d that be?”

Without waiting for an answer, he stepped out into the garden and walked down to the orchard. Jimbo finished off with thirty seconds of racking whoops and thigh-pounding, and sat down heavily at the kitchen table. He finished his glass of brandy with a gulp, staring at the door, his heart beating with the excitement of it all. His brain was in Spin Cycle.