going down the bus lane.’
‘Bus lane?’ queried Cameron Bell. Leaning forwards to stare.
‘‘Orse bus lane, guv’nor. A new in-o-va-cation to ease London’s traffic. The next thing you know they’ll be charging folk to drive into the capital.’
‘Enough of this biting satire,’ called Cameron Bell. ‘Take to the bus lane or whatever, but do catch up with the brougham.’
The private detective returned his cigar to its case and replaced this in his pocket. From another pocket he removed his handgun, checked it for ammunition and cradled it in his lap.
‘Blimey,’ called the cabbie, glancing down. ‘I ‘opes you’re not meaning to fire that thing in my cab.’
‘I have a special licence to use it,’ called Cameron Bell. ‘And,’ he added, ‘I believe the gentleman in the brougham to be a murderer.’
‘Even so,’ said the cabbie, who had his reservations.
‘And French,’ said Cameron Bell. Knowing full well how all right-thinking Englishmen harboured especial distaste for the unwholesome Johnny Frenchman.
‘Then fair enough!’ The cabbie now steered his hansom into the bus lane and cracked his whip at the horse. Cameron was thrown back in his seat as the cab gathered speed.
The brougham swerved out from the crowded public lane and into that reserved for horse buses, hansoms and the like.
‘Must be a damned Frenchie!’ cried the cabbie. ‘No lawa-ma-biding son of this Sceptical Isle would behave like that!’
‘There’s a sovereign in it, should you bring him to a halt,’ bawled Cameron Bell. Clutching his pistol in one hand and holding on tight with the other.
‘‘E does ‘ave two ‘orses to my one,’ the cabbie replied. ‘But we’ll catch ‘im, don’t you fret.’ He cracked his whip above the horse’s head. ‘Giddy up, Shergar!’ [6] he shouted.
The chase was on, the horse’s hooves thundered, the hansom rattled fearfully and Cameron Bell held on tight. All was relatively safe and secure along the Strand and down into Pall Mall. Sporting toffs, who shopped in this fashionable area, raised their top hats and cheered as brougham and hansom rushed by. ‘Jolly good fun,’ they remarked.
Things took the first big turn for the worse when the brougham, up upon two wheels, turned right into St James’ Street. Here a steam-pantechnicon was parked, with removal men unloading a grand piano. The brougham crashed back down onto four wheels and the driver dragged the horses to the right, but the brougham’s rear end struck the grand piano, scattering removal men and hurling the piano through the glazed facade of a pharmacy. One of several such pharmacies, owned by a physician from Brentford in Middlesex named Professor Superdrug. [7] This particular pharmacy specialised in volatile nostrums of an unstable nature.
‘Boom!’ went the explosion.
The hansom cab, now hard upon the brougham’s heels, took much of the force. Cameron Bell suddenly found himself engulfed in flames and choking fumes and battered by a downpour of surgical appliances.
‘Oh my dear dead mother!’ The private detective hung on to his hat as a truss caught him full in the face.
‘Wah!’ wailed the cabbie. ‘Me bowler’s blown off and me barnet’s on fire. I’m proper angered now!’
Billowing smoke and bawling invective, the cabbie stepped up the pace.
The brougham had now turned left into Piccadilly and was heading past Green Park.
Normally, when passing this delightful area of pastoral beauty, the cabbie would become melancholic and often find the muse upon him and recite either Gray’s ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’ or William Wordsworth’s ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud’ (otherwise known as ‘Daffodils’).
‘******* French *******!’ swore the cabbie, beating at his smouldering topknot and whipping further life into Shergar.
It was at Hyde Park Corner that things took a second and decidedly worse turn for the worse.
‘We’ll ‘ave ‘im in all this ‘ere
‘Bus lane?’ queried Cameron Bell. Leaning forwards to stare.
‘‘Orse bus lane, guv’nor. A new in-o-va-cation to ease London’s traffic. The next thing you know they’ll be charging folk to drive into the capital.’
‘Enough of this biting satire,’ called Cameron Bell. ‘Take to the bus lane or whatever, but do catch up with the brougham.’
The private detective returned his cigar to its case and replaced this in his pocket. From another pocket he removed his handgun, checked it for ammunition and cradled it in his lap.
‘Blimey,’ called the cabbie, glancing down. ‘I ‘opes you’re not meaning to fire that thing in my cab.’
‘I have a special licence to use it,’ called Cameron Bell. ‘And,’ he added, ‘I believe the gentleman in the brougham to be a murderer.’
‘Even so,’ said the cabbie, who had his reservations.
‘And French,’ said Cameron Bell. Knowing full well how all right-thinking Englishmen harboured especial distaste for the unwholesome Johnny Frenchman.
‘Then fair enough!’ The cabbie now steered his hansom into the bus lane and cracked his whip at the horse. Cameron was thrown back in his seat as the cab gathered speed.
The brougham swerved out from the crowded public lane and into that reserved for horse buses, hansoms and the like.
‘Must be a damned Frenchie!’ cried the cabbie. ‘No lawa-ma-biding son of this Sceptical Isle would behave like that!’
‘There’s a sovereign in it, should you bring him to a halt,’ bawled Cameron Bell. Clutching his pistol in one hand and holding on tight with the other.
‘‘E does ‘ave two ‘orses to my one,’ the cabbie replied. ‘But we’ll catch ‘im, don’t you fret.’ He cracked his whip above the horse’s head. ‘Giddy up, Shergar!’ [6] he shouted.
The chase was on, the horse’s hooves thundered, the hansom rattled fearfully and Cameron Bell held on tight. All was relatively safe and secure along the Strand and down into Pall Mall. Sporting toffs, who shopped in this fashionable area, raised their top hats and cheered as brougham and hansom rushed by. ‘Jolly good fun,’ they remarked.
Things took the first big turn for the worse when the brougham, up upon two wheels, turned right into St James’ Street. Here a steam-pantechnicon was parked, with removal men unloading a grand piano. The brougham crashed back down onto four wheels and the driver dragged the horses to the right, but the brougham’s rear end struck the grand piano, scattering removal men and hurling the piano through the glazed facade of a pharmacy. One of several such pharmacies, owned by a physician from Brentford in Middlesex named Professor Superdrug. [7] This particular pharmacy specialised in volatile nostrums of an unstable nature.
‘Boom!’ went the explosion.
The hansom cab, now hard upon the brougham’s heels, took much of the force. Cameron Bell suddenly found himself engulfed in flames and choking fumes and battered by a downpour of surgical appliances.
‘Oh my dear dead mother!’ The private detective hung on to his hat as a truss caught him full in the face.
‘Wah!’ wailed the cabbie. ‘Me bowler’s blown off and me barnet’s on fire. I’m proper angered now!’
Billowing smoke and bawling invective, the cabbie stepped up the pace.
The brougham had now turned left into Piccadilly and was heading past Green Park.
Normally, when passing this delightful area of pastoral beauty, the cabbie would become melancholic and often find the muse upon him and recite either Gray’s ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’ or William Wordsworth’s ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud’ (otherwise known as ‘Daffodils’).
‘******* French *******!’ swore the cabbie, beating at his smouldering topknot and whipping further life into Shergar.
It was at Hyde Park Corner that things took a second and decidedly worse turn for the worse.
‘We’ll ‘ave ‘im in all this ‘ere
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