The clerk got the message. "So I'll call Detective Inspector Trounce-on the double!"
He saluted smartly and turned to a contrivance affixed to the wall behind him. It was a large, flat brass panel which somewhat resembled a honeycomb, divided as it was into rows of small hexagonal compartments. Into these, snug in circular fittings, there were clipped round, domed lids with looped handles. A name was engraved onto each one.
The clerk reached for the lid marked "D. I. Trounce" and pulled it from the frame. It came away trailing a long segmented tube behind it. He twisted open the lid and blew into the tube. Burton knew that at the other end a little valve was popping out of an identical lid and emitting a whistle. A moment later a tinny voice came from the tube: "Yes? What is it?"
Holding its end to his mouth, the clerk spoke into it. Though his voice was muffled, Burton heard him say: "Sir Richard Burton, the Africa chap, is here to see you, sir. He has, um, special authorisation. Says he wants to talk to you about the shooting of John Speke at Bath yesterday."
He transferred the tube to his ear and listened, then put it back to his mouth and said, "Yes, sir."
He replaced the lid, lifting it back to its compartment, the tube automatically snaking in before it.
He smiled at Burton. "The inspector will see you straightaway. Second floor, office number nineteen. The stairs are through that door there, sir," he advised, pointing to the left.
Burton nodded and made for the doors, pushed through them, and climbed the stairs. They were wooden and needed brushing. He came to the second floor and moved along a panelled corridor, looking at the many closed doors. The sound of a woman weeping came from behind one.
About halfway down the passage he found number nineteen and knocked upon it.
"Come!" barked a voice from within.
Burton entered and found himself in a medium-sized, high-ceilinged, square, and shadowy room. Its dark corners lay behind a thin veil of blue cigar smoke. There was a very tall, narrow window in the opposite wall, a fireplace with quietly crackling logs in its hearth to his right, and a row of large filing cabinets lining the wall to his left. A red and threadbare rug covered the centre of the floor, a hatstand supported a battered bowler and dusty overcoat by the door, and a big portrait of Sir Robert Peel hung over the fireplace. Gas lamps flickered dimly in the alcoves to either side of the chimney breast. A lit candle wavered on the heavy desk beneath the window. It cast an orange light over the left side of Detective Inspector Trounce's face.
He was sitting behind the desk, facing the door, but stood as Burton entered.
Trounce was short, big-boned, and heavily muscled. He possessed wide shoulders, an enormous chest, and the merest hint of a paunch. He was a man, decided Burton, to whom the word "blunt" could be most aptly applied. He had thick, blunt-ended fingers, a short blunt nose, and, under a large outward-sweeping brown moustache, an aggressive chin that suggested a bluntness of character, too.
The police officer extended a hand and shook Burton's.
"I'm pleased to meet you, Sir Richard," he said, indicating a chair as he sat in his own.
"Please," his visitor replied, "captain will do." He pulled the chair over to the desk and sat down.
"You served in the military?" Trounce's voice was deep with a slightly guttural rasp.
"Yes, in the 18th Bombay Native Infantry."
"Ah. I didn't know. The newspapers only ever mention the expeditions. Anyway, how can I help you, Captain? Something to do with Lieutenant Speke's accident, I suppose?"
"Actually, no. Something to do with Spring Heeled Jack."
Trounce jumped back to his feet. In an instant, his face hardened and his eyes turned cold.
"Then you can leave this office at once, sir! Who put you up to this? Was it that little prig, Honesty? I'll take the mockery no more!"
Burton remained seated, crossed his legs, and pulled a couple of cigars from his jacket pocket.
"Would you care to smoke, Inspector?" he asked.
Trounce glared at him and said, "I don't know what it has to do with you, but let me make something very clear: I will never deny what I saw!"
"I don't doubt it. Sit and calm down, man! Have a cigar."
Trounce remained standing.
Burton sighed. "Inspector, as you can see, I have a black eye, a cut lip, a burned brow, and a number of very painful bruises. Do you want to know how I got them?"
"How?"
"Last night, I was set upon by a creature that fits the description of Spring Heeled Jack."
Trounce dropped into his chair. He distractedly took the proffered cigar, cut it, held it to the candle, placed it to his lips, and inhaled the sweet smoke. His eyes never left Burton's face.
"Tell me what happened. Describe him," he muttered, the blue smoke puffing from his mouth.
Burton cut and lit his own cigar and recounted the events of the previous evening.
When he'd finished, Trounce leaned forward and the candle flame reflected in his eager blue eyes. "That's him, Captain Burton! That's him! So he's back!"
"Buckingham Palace and the prime minister have asked me to look into the matter, and I was told that you are the expert. So, you see, you overre acted. I'm not here to mock; rather, I thought perhaps we could work together."
The detective inspector got up and crossed to the filing cabinets, slid open one of the bottom drawers and, without having to search for it, selected a well-thumbed file and took it back to the desk.
"My apologies. Mention of that devil never fails to get my goat. I've had to put up with a great deal of derision over the years. Well now, tell me: what do you know of him?"
"Virtually nothing. Until last night, I thought he was a fairy story, and I didn't even make that connection until Palmerston brought his name up in relation to my attacker."
"In that case, I shall give you a brief history."
Without consulting the report, Trounce-who obviously knew the facts by heart-gave an account of its contents: "The first sighting was twentyfour years ago, in 1837, when a gentleman reported seeing a grotesque figure leaping over the gate of a cemetery near the Bedlam mental hospital. A few days later, it was October, a fifteen-year-old servant girl named Mary Stevens, who'd just visited her parents in Battersea, was returning to her employer's home on Lavender Hill via Cut Throat Lane when she was grabbed by someone-or something-fitting the same description as your attacker. It was a sexual assault, Captain Burton-her clothes were ripped from her body and her flesh was squeezed and caressed in an aggressive manner. Not surprisingly, the girl screamed, which attracted the attention of several local residents, who came to investigate the commotion. Upon hearing them approach, the assailant bounded away, making tremendous jumps, and is said to have vanished in midair.
"The following day, in the same neighbourhood, the creature sprang out of an alleyway onto the side of a passing brougham and demanded to know the whereabouts of `Lizzie,' whoever she may be. The terrified coachman lost control of his horses and crashed the carriage into the side of a shop, suffering serious injuries. There were a great many witnesses, all of whom reported that the `ghost'-as it was referred to at the time-escaped by vaulting over a nine-foot-high wall. According to one witness, the creature was laughing insanely and babbling in a fairly incoherent manner something about history and ancestors."
"And its appearance?" interrupted Burton.
"Again, apart from minor variations which can be attributed to the usual unreliability of witnesses, the various descriptions are remarkably consistent and tally with what you saw. Can I offer you a drink? There's a decanter of red wine in the top-left filing drawer."
Burton shook his head. "No thank you. I must confess, I rather overdid it last night."