The Importance of Being Ernestine by Dorothy Cannell Page A

mouth than I heard the indisputable sound of a footstep.
    â€œCat! Me Aunt Fanny!” Mrs. M. gave the leopard toque, that matched her fur coat, a twitch. “There’s someone out there. But there’s no need to get your knickers in a twist. It’ll be Lady Krumley come back to tell us something she forgot. Or Milk,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion, “stumbling up the stairs to die at his desk with a cigarette between his lips and his very own bottle of booze in his hand after being shot in the back by some thug he was onto . . .”
    She didn’t get to paint a vivid word picture of her selflessly nursing Mr. Jugg back to health and vigor. The office door that neither of us had thought to lock after her ladyship’s departure was thrust open and a man stood in the opening. He wore a raincoat and hat as befitted the weather and a pair of sunglasses that didn’t. He also happened to be holding a gun, which he waved around in what seemed to me a random fashion while twitching on his feet like someone with a bad case of chilblains.
    â€œWell, I must say! The least you could do was knock!” Mrs. Malloy glared at him.
    â€œWhere’s the boss?” he snarled.
    â€œLeft for the evening.” I glanced toward the desk hoping that some heavy object would leap off it into my hand.
    â€œAnd who are you two?”
    â€œA pair of waxwork dummies,” snipped Mrs. M.
    â€œTry not to annoy him.” I gave her a nudge.
    â€œThat’s right!” He waved the gun around some more. “I’ve got a real nasty temper and would as soon shoot your lights out as look at you.”
    â€œBe our guest,” responded the comic in our midst, without so much as a quiver. “It’s not like we pay the electricity bill. If you’ve got eyes in your head behind those stupid glasses one look around this place will show you that me and Mrs. H. . . . Hodgkins here are giving it to you straight. Mr. Jugg’s not hiding under the desk or in the washbasin. He’s off on his holidays. Can’t say where he’s gone or when he’ll be back.”
    â€œDon’t you neither of you move while I check out the joint.” The man sidled toward the door leading to the loo and after a look inside opened the one to the broom cupboard. He was in his mid to late thirties. The brim of his hat was tipped down over his nose, and his shoulders hunched. A memory, a vague sense of familiarity, prodded at my mind. Was that why I wasn’t trembling with terror. Because he made me think of a bad actor in an even worse movie. Or had I seen him somewhere, quite recently? This evening? I had the answer before he was fully facing us once more.
    â€œYou’re the man in the café. You were sitting at a table by the window reading, or pretending to read a newspaper.”
    â€œSo what if I was?”
    â€œJust being chatty, that’s always her way.” Mrs. Malloy draped a comradely arm around my shoulder.
    â€œYou shut your gob, tiger lady, or I’ll have you stuffed and hung on a wall.” He had stopped twitching his feet and held the gun steady. “Now you two dames hear me good and clear. You’re to get hold of your boss on the double and give him a message from me. He’s to tell old Lady Crumb Cake she needs to stop making up stories or someone will see she’s locked up in the loony bin and stays there. If he don’t he’ll be just one other P. I. that doesn’t show up for business as usual.”
    â€œCould you give us your business card?” I was able to be flippant because I was sure now he wasn’t going to kill us, unless we were stupid enough to follow him down the stairs and try to get the license plate number if he made off in a car. Although surely any self-respecting thug would know enough to melt into the shadows before hopping aboard public transportation or slipping into a waiting vehicle. I