Miss Martin's eyes closed. Her breathing heavy. Smith lifting her legs and tucking them in on the sofa. Turning back to his room and standing in front of a round mirror. Lathered on a cloud of shaving cream. Unfold this long razor, and lay it against the flesh. Trip down all these mighty little hairs. High up out of the air shaft planes fly over, buzzing and rattling the window panes.
A dog's bark out in the corridor of Dynamo House. Smith stiffening in the back room of 604. Wiping face with the pink towel, pulling down pink shirt and buttoning cuffs. Throwing arms into jacket and straightening tie. Past Miss Martin still snoring on the couch. Peeking out the door and down the hall. Edging slowly back in again. Out there a man and a brown crippled dog. Who lays down every few feet to rest, panting. And the man leaning over to pat its head kindly while he looked at the numbers of the doors. The aristocratic back, carriage, hair and dishevelled clothes. Bonniface. Sporting brown attire. Just slip by now and down the opposite stairs. Leave Miss Martin to his mercy. You wretch, Smith. Remember. Clementine, burier of Miss Tomson's dog. In the pet cemetery not far from The Goose Goes Inn. Bonniface reserves nobility while the rest of us have none.
Smith escaping down the side stairs. Across the lobby of Dynamo House and out the wagging doors into a sunny friendly street. Treasury clock bell tolls noon. Raise a hand to shout for a taxi. And another hand comes down to rest gently on a shoulder. And turn to face a warm sad smile.
"Smith. Ah Smith. What about some beer and onions. You think I vault the statues of public peace, safety and justice and land in that little area they call amnesty. You think that. This is my faithful friend here. He is a dog. He is old and tired now, walks only few steps at a time. Then he must lie down and rest till the energy comes back. But I am his friend too, I wait, we both go forward together. Make each other's life worth while. He nice dog. He called Mr. Mystery. Nice name. Ah George you go so grey. You worry too much."
"How do you do, Bonniface."
"Come George. Flag this taxi here. Come. Pick up Mr. Mystery. Mr. Mystery, do not growl at George, he had to be mean to make money. But meanness, niceness, it's all the same. Often nice to be mean and mean to be nice. My God George I'm going absolutely demented in this town. I do not know what you do but many rumours fly about you. Mr. Jiffy said you were cunning, astute. You escaped with the most beautiful woman. Abandoned your comely secretary. Left me in the ice house."
"Sorry Bonniface, I can't come. I have an urgent matter to attend."
"Ah George. Listen to me. Her Majesty is in town. You greet that news with silence. Come now get in this taxi with Mr. Mystery and me."
"No."
Taxi driver slowly turning round. Honking horns behind in the street.
"Hey look gentlemen. Already I'm taking a crippled dog in my cab, maybe fleas,how do I know."
"Come George. Don't have a mental struggle. Come. I'll tell you where you can find Her Majesty. I know how badly you would like to know. Don't fight it. And become a sad victim of will power. Melt it down, reharden it later, even harder. Let laxity triumph."
Smith entering the cab. To speed down Owl Street by the fish market, by the vegetable Pushcart Market under the bridge, to the left, along by a narrow dusty park of benches draped with sprawling men. And further up a cobblestone avenue.
"Smith do you shake hands with yourself in the morning because of loneliness. You desert wife and children. Climb in this cab at the mention of Her Majesty. Never-mind reasons. Mr. Jiffy has assisted me. Gave me a letter of introduction to a man who owns airplanes. Many many airplanes. He say, Mr. Clementine, you have beautiful manners, let me hire you to run my airport. Ah, George, surprise. Think I touch you for money. Or fill your life with fear. Not me. I just want to talk. Put you on the right track. Give you back your faith in people. They are not out to get you George, you imagine it."
Cab turning into a tenement street Of broken houses and steps. Garbage pouring out of cans. Taxi stopping in front of a little green façade of plate glass window and lace curtain. Bonniface slowly clinking change in the driver's hand. Said he was not tipping as it was a holy week in his religion. Two figures entering this establishment. The tallest of them with his arms full of dog.
At a washed maple table. Inside this cool and calm interior. Poinsettiae on a shelf. Calendar with a sunset and nude girl ankle deep in surf. Bonniface smilingly toting beer, bread and onion slices over to the sad dark suited Smith. And bending with a special serving to slip between the yellowing jaws of Mr. Mystery.
"O.K. George, tell me the truth. What are you up to in Dynamo House. In the Cabin in the woods. In the Merry Mansions. In the Renown Cemetery."
"Where is Her Majesty."
"Smith, you pant for Her Majesty, old enough to be your mother. Have a flower for your buttonhole. And for you under there Mr. Mystery, another slice of onion. Get yourself a dog, George, ere long. Be a true friend to animals. See how he wags. Eyes sad but full of friendship. Someone pushed him out to die, you realise that George."
"Where's Her Majesty."
"Ah now. Patience. Look over there. Those old men play chess. Remember a certain five o'clock on a chilly late autumn day. Across the seas. Turf smoke. Leaves gone from the trees in the square. I came like a moth to a light in the gloomy afternoon, George. Your white coated servant let me in. You gave me a green bowl of tea. I said thank you. How was I to know then that you would deliberately pursue a life of secrecy and possibly shame. All gaiety defunk. Maybe you like men, George. And surround yourself with wife, kiddies, secretaries and girl friends as a blind. You can tell me. I'm frequently having my privates interfered with in this town. Stay off the transit. Stay out of the bed linen market, the outdoor jewelry market."
Smith standing. Bonniface reaching over with a hand pressing it down on his shoulder. Smith collapsing back on the chair.
"George, don't go. Have some recreation. Then promise to bring you straight to Her Majesty. Look at Mr. Mystery down there. Used to like lady dogs in his prime. Bow wow he went. Hello lady doggie. Sniff sniff. Naughty Mystery. Nice lady dog. Lift leg on corner stones and parked motor wheels. I am in command George, walk out on the apron of the airport, hand extended to a celebrity and say, please, this way, with the compliments of Motor Bird Inc. Refreshment is set up. At the flick of a cuff link I am of service."
Smith looking down upon his cool beer. Foam gently climbing the edge of the glass. A thick slab of onion. Deeply worn smooth grain of the table. The light eyes of Bonniface. Whose earthly wish he once said was to be taken back into history and there be assigned four porters to fetch him to various breweries on a throne.
"George listen to me. Never let your capability get confounded. I know you've found the mammoth nipple. Have it hidden somewhere in this town. Look out the window and watch the cars. When they stop flowing that's the time to worry. You rich. Me banjaxed. Wait, don't go."
"Bonniface, I'm going. You and Mr. Mystery stay. But I must go. Urgently."
Bonniface rising, bowing. Mr. Mystery flapping his tail on the floor.
"George I will tell you the whereabouts of Her Majesty when you come back."
Smith entering a delicatessen across the street. After much heated and hilarious argument he bought a paper bag from the proprietor who said they were for customers to carry a purchase. Smith reaching a fast settlement, buying the air rights within the said container. Stepping outside, late lunch stampede on the pavements. Smith into a cab. At a traffic light, driver shouting epithets out the window at another taxi. Why don't you smoke a bomb. Why don't you dig a grave and drop dead. Lights go green. To sadness and deals. And every man's hope.