Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

There was little I could say. Her story had the ring of truth. And had I not wondered how Constable Cowley and Constable Picker happened to be there waiting for us when we emerged from that foul underworld?

The disappointment must have been plain in my face, for she did touch my arm consolingly and said: “I’m right sorry, young sir. My on’y hope was p’rhaps he truly was a friend of yours and would return it, though I could not imagine that such as you would have that sort for a friend.”

“What sort was he? Could you describe him? Had you seen him before?”

“Oh, you sees so many here in the Garden, wanderin’ about. He never bought from me, of that Fm sure, else I’d remember him. He was about your size, Fd say, but older ‘n you, and he had a right nasty look on him — why, I was doubtful of him right from the start.”

“Was he well-dressed?”

“Not a bit of it. Not shabby, mind, but the coat he wore weren’t near so grand as that one you gave me for safe-keepin’.”

Fd held some faint hope that Bunkins might have taken the coat, though I could in no wise imagine that he would treat a woman so rude. And since joining Mr. Bilbo, he was as finely dressed as any young gentleman you might meet in Vauxhall Gardens. Nor could any say that Bunkins had a nasty look. No, not Jimmie Bunkins.

“I am right sorry it happened so,” said she.

“I believe you,” said I With a shrug, I thanked her and started off on my way to Bow Street.

It seemed my coat had been seized by a common thief who had first tried simply to cozen her with a he. That evening I sought out the two constables in question, and they confirmed the greengrocer’s story. I wrung an apology from each that they had considered the stolen coat to be of so little moment. Their apologies, of course, helped little to retrieve my coat.

At my next opportunity, I brought up the matter to Bunkins and Constable Perkins. That came as we walked together part of the distance from Mr. Perkins’s stable-top dwelling off Little Russell Street before parting to our separate destinations. I told them what the woman in Covent Garden had said of the thief, and attempted to describe the coat to them.

“But,” said I, remembering, “you’ve seen it, Mr. Perkins. Do you recall? I was wearing it that day we walked together and discovered the body of what we took to be the Raker’s first victim.”

“Ah, so you were,” said he, “and a handsome coat it was. As I remembers it, ‘twas green.”

“Dark green,” said I, “bottle green, they call it.”

“Dark green, is it?” said Bunkins. “And does it have white trim?”

I looked at him in surprise. “Indeed it does — about the pockets and the buttonholes. Have you seen such a coat?”

“It might be that I have,” said he, “and worn by a joe you know, old chum.”

“Oh? And who might that be?”

“Why not see if we can find this partic’lar joe? We may then find your toggy, as well.”

And so Bunkins, saying nothing more, remained with us past that point on our walk where by custom he would have left us for the grand house in St. James Street wherein he dwelt with Mr. Bilbo and his company. We had not gone far thus together when he suggested that perhaps he and I might go round about the regular route to Bow Street and lake a turn for Bedford Street.

“But you, Mr. Perkins,” said he to the constable, “I

reckon you must be on your way. Duty calls, as they say.”

“Duty don’t call for near an hour,” said Mr. Perkins, overmastering a wry smile. “But as a constable I’m ever obliged to see stolen property returned to its rightful owner. You wouldn’t be trying to be rid of me, now would you, Jimmie B.?”

“Oh no, sir,” said Bunkins, all offended innocence. “How could you think such?”

Thus together did we three go round about to Bedford Street. Though I had asked no questions of Bunkins, I had a good notion of who it was in Bedford Street might be wearing my good coat. And all that the greengrocer had told me of the thief supported my present suspicions.

When we reached our destination, Bunkins told us to wait as he entered the first dive we came to. The street was not near as filled as it soon would be; those leaving work for home tended to avoid it due to its bad repute. I noted that Mr. Perkins, keeping silent, was casually engaged in buttoning his coat; when he had done, the red waistcoat he wore (which marked him as one of the Bow Street Runners) was no longer visible. Bunkins emerged from the place, shaking his head, and we went on to the next, which advertised itself as a grog shop, and then on to the next, a tavern so-called. It was not until we found ourselves waiting before the fifth of these low places that Mr. Perkins chose to speak.

“I’ll stay well back from things,” said he. “But I want you to remember what I taught you, and you’ll be fine.”

I, who had grown more tense as we had moved from one dive to the next, took heart from what Mr. Perkins had said: I had been taught; I was ready.

Bunkins appeared at the door; he beckoned us inside.

Mr. Perkins held me back. He took his club and tucked it into my belt right at the small of my back.

“Don’t use it unless you’ve a call to,” said he to me.

And so we went inside. Mr. Perkins left me and went to stand at the bar. I went to Jimmie Bunkins, who had reentered the place. He said nothing but simply pointed. It was near as dark as it was outside in the first hour of night. An oil lantern bumed at the bar, a fire blazed in the fireplace, and there were candles alit at the few tables where drinkers sat. Thus, with so little illumination, it was not altogether easy to locate him I sought. As it happened, I heard him — that silly, whinnying giggle — ere my eyes had penetrated the gloom to the rear of the room. For yes, there he was, sitting at a table with four of his fellows — Jackie Carver.

I could not make out at such a distance, and in poor light, if the coat he wore was mine, and so I moved towards him, threading a path through the tables. Bunkins followed. As I approached. Carver saw me, recognized me, and left off his chatter. By the time I reached his table, I had seen the coat well: bottle-green it was, with white trim, and unmistakably my own. All eyes at the table were upon me as I took my place close before him and waited.

“What do you want?” asked he. with a most theatrical sneer.

“My coat,” said I.

“Your coat?” He laughed his little giggle. “This here’s a man’s coat. Last time I saw you, you was wearin’ women’s duds, makin’ out you was a bawd. You got no right to wear a man’s coat.”

This caused hilarity among his table-mates. While he sat smirking, the rest fell into great guffaws; one of them, a villainous-looking fellow of about thirty, pounded the table with glee. All the rest in the place had fallen silent. The barkeep moved towards us.

I waited until the laughter had subsided. “Nevertheless, I want it.”

“Well, you’ll not have it.” He stared hatefully up at me from his place at the end of the oblong table.

And then, to break the contact with his eyes, I reached my right hand before him and snapped my fingers. His eyes shifted involuntarily to them, as I knew they would. And in one swift, planned movement, I grabbed his ear with my left hand, twisted it, and pulled up. He had no choice but to rise, or have his ear torn off. When he was halfway to his feet, I gave a great push to his head and released my grip. He fell back in a clutter against the chair and the wall but managed to keep upright. The others at the table were too shocked by this event to do more than look wide-eyed from him to me. Then did he reach behind him as if to draw his knife, yet allowed his hand to remain there as a threat.