From now onwards it was hit or miss for Bunter. He had been seen once and it was now more than ever his business to keep out of sight. He waited for a few agonising moments before following, and was just in time to see Bright vanishing down the subway to the Underground.
At this moment, Bunter would have given much for his trusty bowler. He did his best, by again exchanging the cap for the hat as he ran across the yard, and struggling into the subfusc overcoat. It is not necessary to pursue the involved underground journey that occupied the next hour. At the end of it, hare and hound emerged in good order at Piccadilly, having boxed the compass pretty successfully in the interval The next move was to the Corner House, where Bright took the lift.
Now, at the Corner House there are three large floors, and each large floor has two doorways. Yet to get into the same lift as Bright was to challenge disaster. Bunter, like a baffled cat that sees its mouse vanish down a hole, stood and watched the ascending lift. Then he moved to the centre counter and stood, apparently inspecting the array of cakes and sweetmeats, but in reality keeping a sharp look-out on all the lift-doors and the two marble staircases. After ten minutes he felt that he might, assume Bright’s purpose to be genuinely that of getting refreshment. He made for the nearest staircase and went up it like a lamplighter. The lift passed him on a downward journey before he reached the first floor, and he was assailed by ‘a horrible conviction that it was bearing Bright away with it. No matter, the die was cast now. He pushed open the swing door on the first floor and began his slow stroll among the crowded tables.
The sight of bewildered customers looking for a seat is no unusual one in the Corner House. Nobody paid any attention to Bunter until he had made the circuit of the big room and satisfied himself that Bright was not among those present. He went out by the, farther door, where he was challenged by the inquiry whether he had been served. He replied that he was looking for a friend and ran on up to the second floor.
This room was the exact twin of the first, except that, instead of a male orchestra in evening dress playing My Canary has Circles under His Eyes, it possessed a female orchestra in blue playing excerpts from The Gondoliers. Bunter pushed his way slowly through the throng until his staid heart giving a sudden leap beneath the deplorable blue serge waistcoat — he caught sight of a familiar sandy head and crooked pair of shoulders. Bright was there, seated at a table containing three elderly women, and peacefully eating a grilled chop.
Bunter’ gazed desperately about him. At first it seemed hopeless to find a seat anywhere near, but at length he espied a girl making-up her face and dabbling at her hair: preparatory to leaving. He made a dart for the table and secured the, reversion of her chair. He was some time catching the eye of the waitress and ordering a cup of coffee; fortunately Bright seemed to be in no particular hurry with his chop. Bunter asked for the bill as soon as the coffee was brought, and sat patiently, his useful newspaper well spread out before him.
After what seemed an interminable delay, Bright finished his lunch, looked at his watch, called for his bill and rose. Bunter was four behind him in the queue at the pay-desk, and squeezed through the door in time to see the sandy head disappearing down the stairs. At this happy moment, the lift arrived.. Bunter bundled into it, and was shot out on the ground floor well ahead of the quarry. He watched Bright out, took up the trail and, after a few minutes of hectic traffic-dodging, found himself in a cinema in the Haymarket, purchasing a ticket for the stalls.
Bright took a seat in the third row of the three-and-sixpennies. Bunter, hastily whispering to the, attendant that he didn’t care to be too far forward, managed to slip in a couple of rows behind him. Now he could breathe again. From where he sat, he could see the top of Bright’s head, outlined against the comparative brightness at the foot of the screen. Ignoring the drama of Love and Passion which shimmered and, squeaked its mechanical way from the first misunderstanding to the last lingering kiss, Bunter fixed his eyes on that head with such concentration that the tears stole down his cheeks.
The film shuddered to its close. The lights went up. Bright stood suddenly upright and pushed his way out into the, gangway. Bunter prepared to follow, but Bright, instead of making for the nearest exit, merely walked across and passed behind a discreet curtain — over which was blazoned in blue fire the legend ‘GENTLEMEN.’
Bunter sank down again and waited. Other gentlemen passed in and out, but no Bright returned. Fear smote Bunter. Was there a way out through the cloak-room? The lights dimmed and blacked out, and a Comic started. Bunter.rose up, tripping over the feet of three sniggering girls and an irritable old man, and sneaked gently down the gangway.
As he did so the curtain leading to ‘GENTLEMEN’ was drawn aside and a man came out. Bunter stared at him as he passed in the soft, thick twilight, but the sharp peak of the silhouette told him that this was a bearded man. He passed Bunter with a muttered apology and went on up the gangway. Bunter proceeded on, his way down but, by some instinct, turned at the curtained door and looked back.
He saw the back of the bearded man, outlined against the sudden blue daylight, passing through an exit, and remembered how Wimsey had once said to him: Any fool can disguise his face, but it takes a genius to disguise a back.’ He had not followed that back through London for five days without knowing every line of it. In a moment he was hurrying up the gangway and out through the exit. Beard or no beard, this was his man.
Two more taxis and then a clear run out to Kensington. This time, Bright appeared to be really going somewhere. His taxi drew up at a neat house in a good, quarter; he got out and let himself in with a latch-key. Bunter went on to the next corner and there interrogated his driver.
‘Did you see the number of the house they stopped at?’
‘Yes, sir. Number 17’
Thanks.’
‘Divorce, sir?’ asked the man, with a grin.
‘Murder,’ said Bunter.
‘Crikey!’ This appeared to be the natural reaction to murder. ‘Well,’ said the taximan, ’ope ’e swings for it.’ and drove off.
Bunter glanced about him. He dared not pass Number 17. Bright, might still be on the watch, and both the cap and the felt hat were now, he felt, war-worn veterans of whom nothing more could be asked in the way of disguise. He saw a chemist’s shop and went in.
‘Can you tell me,’ he asked, ‘who lives at No. 17?’
‘Why, yes,’ said the chemist, ‘gentleman of the name of Morecambe.’
‘Morecambe?’ A great piece of jig-saw seemed to fall into place in Bunter’s mind with an almost audible click.
Littlish gentleman with one shoulder a bit higher than, the other?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Reddish hair.’
‘Yes, sir; reddish hair and beard.’
‘Oh, he wears a beard?’
‘Oh, yes sir. Gentleman in the City, he is. Lived here as long as I can remember. Very pleasant gentleman. Did you want to know—?’