Doug Allyn - v108 n03-04_1996-09-10

“Never heard of them,” she said. “I’m Mandy Levine, I run a little club out Barnet way. Thursday night’s old-time night, always get a good crowd in, you’d go down well there. Here’s my card if you think you might fancy it.”

She laid her hand on his arm, gave him the warm smile, plus a promising squeeze and a saucy wink, then turned to join her friend, who seemed to be bringing the rest of the mystery mourners up to date. After a while they moved off en masse to the car park and dispersed in a snarl of Jags and BMWs.

On the way back, Joe said to Lou, “What was all that about then?”

The funeral director said, “Don’t know and I don’t want to know, and unless someone’s paying you a lot of money to find out, I reckon you don’t want to know either.”

One of Joe’s great strengths as a P.I. was that he never let bafflement bother him in the line of business. If, as often, he couldn’t see the wood for the trees, he was usually quite content to rest peaceful in a clearing, confident that luck or instinct or a passing lumberjack would show him the way out.

But puzzles that were none of his concern either personally or professionally fascinated him.

He took out the card the woman had given him and studied it. It read Mandy Levine, The Green Hat plus a telephone number.

“That woman offered me a spot at her club,” he said.

“Mandy Levine? I’d steer clear there.”

“Why’s that, Lou?” said Joe, getting a bit pissed with all this gratuitous advice.

“Because if it’s your deep brown voice she’s after, she’ll rip you off. And if it’s your deep brown dick she’s after, Arnie, her husband, will do the ripping off.”

“Arnie Levine? Sounds familiar. Tell me about him.”

Lou laughed shortly. Perhaps it was okay once you’d got rid of the coffin.

“Nothing to tell,” he said. “Except that colleagues of mine in north London reckon him and his mates are good for business.”

Joe digested this. It was like ripe Camembert — nasty smell but compulsive.

“And that was Arnie giving you a row at the crem?”

“That’s right. He and his friends were pissed off at not being told Mr. Tallas had been postponed.”

“So why’d you not tell them?”

“Didn’t know they were coming, did I? Mr. Smith from the Insurance said, quiet do, family only.”

And his family lived in Greece. Where he’d died. Funny.

The funeral tea was a great success mainly because old Miss Tooley had insisted on laying in a supply of bottled Guinness and Irish whisky. When Mirabelle, who was as near teetotal as wouldn’t have stirred the needle on a Breathalyzer, looked disapproving, Miss Tooley said, “Two things Daniel asked for in his will, one being the scattering of his ashes at the dog track — the other being that his friends should drink him slainte, and you can’t do that in tay!”

Mirabelle took her revenge when the old lady, in response to a question about her travelling plans, announced that, to be sure, she ought to be getting back, but the planes to Belfast were so packed now the peace was here, she doubted if she could get a seat for several days more.

“I’ve some good news for you there, Miss Tooley,” said Mirabelle, who’d just returned from her flat next door looking triumphant. “I’ve just been phoning my old friend Mrs. Marley’s daughter who works on the booking desk at the airport and when I told her how desperate you were to get back home, she played with that machine of hers and came up with a ticket for you on the eight-thirty flight tomorrow morning.”

“Eight-thirty?” said Miss Tooley in dismay. “Now how am I going to get up and find my way to the airport at such an ungodly hour?”

“Don’t you fret, my dear,” said Mirabelle. “I’ll see you don’t oversleep. And Joe here will drive you to the airport, won’t you, Joe?” Joe, having once again been given the proof that no one messed with Mirabelle, eschewed even token resistance and said, “My pleasure, Miss Tooley.”

It looked like game, set, and match to the home team till at the height of what was now undeniably a party, Miss Tooley screamed, “The ashes! I can’t go without scattering dear dead Daniel’s ashes!” and collapsed in a fit of what Mirabelle termed the vaporizers.

Joe knew what was going to happen before it happened and was already heading out of the Tooley apartment when his aunt announced. “Don’t you give that no nevermind, Miss Tooley. Joe will fetch them. And if you set out half an hour earlier, you’ll have plenty of time for the scattering.”

Joe looked at his watch. Quarter to seven. Would the ashes still be at the crem or would Lou have had them collected? Either way, would there be anybody in either spot to hand them over? For once in his life he acted sensibly and dived into Mirabelle’s flat and picked up the phone.

It rang ten times before it was picked up and Lou’s professionally sepulchral tones announced, “Webster Funerals. How may I help you?”

“Lou, it’s Joe. Listen, you got Mr. Tooley’s ashes yet?”

“Yes. Made sure of it. Mirabelle said the old lady would be flying home very soon.”

“Sooner than she thinks,” said Joe. “Listen, we need ’em now. Any chance you could bring them round?”

“No way. It’s the annual LAUFS dinner and I’m giving the address.”

“Laughs?” said Joe. “Didn’t know you did comedy, Lou.”

“Luton Association of Undertaking and Funeral Services,” said Lou. “And I’m late.”

“Sorry,” said Joe. “Any way I can collect them myself? It’s a matter of death and death.”

He’d hit the right note.

“What I’ll do is leave the key to the workshop entrance, that’s round the back by the garages, on the ledge above the door. The urn will be just inside. Lock up behind you and push the key through the front door. And don’t hang about getting here. I get burgled, it’s down to you.”

“Thanks, Lou. I’ll be there five minutes tops.”

It was a lie. He knew it was a lie as soon as he got out into the cold night air and realized just how much he’d enjoyed of old Miss Tooley’s Irish hospitality. The car was out, and the Rasselas Estate was not the kind of place that taxis cruised.

He set off walking, wasted time waiting for a bus, saw three sweep by in convoy when he was between stops, took a shortcut, got lost, and was resigning himself to the last indignity for a P.I. of having to ask his way when he saw the sign, Webster’s Funerals.

He made his way round the back. There was a car parked in the shadow of the garages, a BMW. Lou must be doing well, thought Joe, glad it wasn’t a hearse. He took out the pencil torch he carried and ran its finger of light over the door ledge till he found the key.

As he took it down and poked the finger of light into the keyhole, a distant clock struck eight.

Superstitiously, he felt mightily relieved it wasn’t midnight.

The relief was short-lived.

Midnight was nothing, a time to frighten kids with telling ghost stories round the fire.

When you were standing outside a darkened funeral parlour and the door swung open at the mere touch of the key, didn’t matter what time of day it was, that was really scary.

He stepped inside, telling himself Lou had been careless and forgotten to lock the door. He didn’t believe himself, but that didn’t always mean he was wrong, any more than believing himself had ever meant he was right. He was in a long stone-flagged corridor. His torchlight dribbled onto an urn standing against the wall. He picked it up and gave it a little shake. It was full, presumably of Mr. Tooley.

Now was the time to withdraw, lock the door, and if in the morning it turned out someone had stolen all Lou’s gilt-edged coffin handles, say, “Hey man, I’m sorry, but I didn’t notice a thing.”