HENRY COTTON GINGERLY opens the door that leads into the Three Cups tavern. It is his third visit and the landlord, first to see him, gives him a broad smile, which does not make him entirely at ease; if anything, it has the opposite effect. Cotton peers through the smoky gloom of the pub and sees Tom Hunt sitting at his usual table, though he is dressed in a new jacket and coat, rather less careworn than the apparel he wore previously. His young wife sits next to him, passive and unanimated, and two glasses of spirits sit half empty upon the table in front of them. Hunt, in fact, is engaged in debate with a man nearby, but he breaks off his conversation as he sees Cotton approaching. He greets him like an old friend.
‘Sir! Make room for the gentleman, Liz! This is a surprise, sir. I thought we agreed it was tomorrow we’d meet again?’
Cotton attempts a similarly joyous greeting, though his eyes are distracted by the patches of dark bruising on Lizzie Hunt’s face. Hunt follows his gaze, anticipating what he might say.
‘Don’t be alarmed, sir. Lizzie here is tougher than she looks, ain’t you, love?’
Lizzie mumbles something indistinct.
‘And shy too,’ continues Hunt. ‘I tell you, when I find the fellow what did that, I’ll give him what for, won’t I just?’
Hunt laughs, as if pleased with some personal joke, and Lizzie steals a nervous glance at her husband.
‘I hope this is not a bad time, then?’ ventures Cotton.
‘Not at all, not for an old pal like yourself, eh?’
‘No, well, that is good of you.’
‘We had a fine time of it yesterday, did we not?’
‘It was very instructive. In fact, that is why I came today.’
‘No money returned,’ replies Hunt, laughing, but looking at him a little warily.
‘No, nothing like that. It’s just that I had an idea, something where your particular knowledge and, ah, expertise, might assist my understanding. A different arena, as it were.’
‘I ain’t following you.’
‘No, I should speak more plainly. As you know, I intend to throw light, in my writing, on the workings of the, shall we say, criminal classes.’
Hunt looks ready to make his usual objection to such a slur on his character, but Cotton holds up his hand, and continues.
‘And I know that you yourself, by chance, have been exposed to all kinds of criminality and have a good knowledge of such persons and their manners.’
‘That’s no lie, I confess,’ replies Hunt, affably.
‘Well, the “dodges” you showed me yesterday . . .’
‘Merely for instruction,’ interjects Hunt.
‘Indeed,’ continues Cotton, ‘they were remarkable, but such things have been written of before now.’
‘I should not be surprised,’ replies Hunt.
‘But if I am to take firm hold of the public’s attention, then there must be something novel.’
Hunt raises his eyebrows, but says nothing in reply. Cotton lowers his voice to a confidential whisper.
‘It came to me last night. I am thinking, Mr. Hunt, of a burglary.’
Hunt looks perplexed, uncertain whether to laugh or take the suggestion seriously.
‘I am sure,’ he replies, ‘though I ain’t no scholar, that such things have been written of.’
‘Oh, they have. But not first-hand.’
‘First-hand?’
‘I know of a house, near the Edgware Road, whose owner is absent from the property. He is, in fact, a friend of mine. I would like you to show me how you would go about it.’
‘About what?’
‘Breaking in, of course.’
‘Come, Mr. Phibbs, you are joking. You want me to crack this place of your pal’s?’
‘Do not get me wrong, Mr. Hunt. Nothing must be taken. It is merely so that I might attempt an article on the subject.’
‘You’re a queer fellow, you know that.’
‘Will you do it?’
‘But I take nothing?’
‘I’ll pay, of course.’
‘How much?’
‘A pound.’
‘For breaking a drum? Two guineas.’
‘Done,’ replies Cotton, eagerly, his face as bright and enthusiastic as a schoolboy planning a visit to a sweet-shop.
‘And what if we’re caught?’
‘Well, I will explain the circumstances; my friend would not press charges. Besides, he is not even in London. I will fix everything, before and after.’
Hunt still looks a little doubtful. ‘And when do you propose we have this little adventure?’
‘Tonight.’
‘Two guineas, Mr. Hunt, if we do it tonight. Think on it.’
Hunt breathes out, thinking the matter through.
‘Done.’
‘Now,’ says Cotton, taking out his notebook, ‘tell me how you intend to go about it.’
‘I think, Mr. Phibbs,’ says Hunt, downing the remainder of his drink, ‘my head needs a little lubrication before I can do any serious thinking.’
Phillip P. Butterby, sub-editor of the City and Westminster Press (‘The Oracle of the Metropolis’) looks up in surprise.
‘Phibbs?’
‘That’s the name, yes, sir. We wondered if you knew anyone of that name?’
‘Is he in trouble, then, sergeant?’
‘Then you do know a gentleman by that name, sir?’
‘In a professional capacity. I was expecting a set of articles from him for the paper last week, as it happens, but they never arrived. A most unreliable young man.’
‘What were these articles?’
Butterby looks in his desk drawer, and pulls out a sheet of paper.
‘We had a title. Wrote it myself. Ah, here you go. “London’s Hidden Deeps: An Exploration of Persons and Places Unknown and Unmourned: by One Who Has Seen Them”.’
‘Very colourful, sir.’
‘Well, such things tickle the public’s fancy, sergeant.’
‘I am sure, sir. Now, do you have an address for the gentleman?’
‘Ah. I believe I do not. He was rather a secretive young fellow. I know very little about him. Met him a few weeks back, gave us a smart little submission on “Our Social Ills”. Told him I wanted more before we might publish, and haven’t seen the blessed chap since.’
‘Well, do you expect to see him, sir?’
The sub-editor sniffs. ‘Doubtless he has some masterpiece to finish before then. If I have learnt one thing in my years here, sergeant, it is that you can never trust a literary gentleman to deliver on time.’
‘I see. Perhaps you could give me a full description of the man.’
‘Of course, sergeant. Do tell me, what has he done?’