Confessions of a Private Dick. Timothy Lea
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that and he is taking it badly. Almost smarting in fact.
There is no one about so I stalk down the corridor and check my equipment outside the door of 367 – my photographic equipment that is. I plan to rush in, bash off a few quick shots and scarper. I don’t reckon that anyone is going to start chasing me, especially if they are in the altogether.
I listen carefully and try to remember if there was a light showing under the door when I was last here. There isn’t now. No sounds either – wait a minute! A sharp exclamation and a squeak of bedsprings. They must be on the job right at this moment. Good timing, Sherlock! Just as well that I did not get to the balaclava (chaver. Ed.) stage with Gretchen or I might have fallen down on the job – never a nice thing to do as we all know from bitter experience.
Taking a deep breath, I position the camera at my feet and start to insert the key in the lock like I am defusing a mine – if the tension is too much for you go out and make a cup of tea. I do hope the lock isn’t stiff. I won’t get much of a photo through the keyhole. I turn the key as far as it will go without meeting resistence and take another deep breath. Here we go! One two, and – bam! I turn the key, push the door open, pick up the camera and charge into the room. It is pitch dark and I stumble into a chair. Where are they?
‘What the—!!??’ A bloke shouts, and there is a rustle of bedclothes. I press the tit on the camera and there is a blinding flash. I press again and the bloke comes rushing at me out of the darkness – at least, I think he is coming for me. In fact, he pushes past me and dashes for the curtains. By the cringe, but he can move, that bloke! There is the sound of breaking glass and for a terrible moment I think he has chucked himself out of the window. What a love dive that would be.
Unfortunately for The Guinness Book of Records, there is a fire escape outside the window. I lean out and catch a glimpse of a bare bum through the ironwork. It is about three floors down and gathering speed like a grape rolling down a helter skelter. Thank gawd for that! Now I can scarper with a clear conscience – at least I could if some clumsy basket had not left a case in the middle of the floor. I take a purler over it and the light that clicks on in the room joins the five hundred that are flashing inside my dented nut. When I look up, Mrs Brown is kneeling on the end of the bed and trying to look at me over the top of her naked knockers. She is bristling and, believe me, she has a lot of bristol to bristle with.
‘Snivelling little creep!’ she hisses. ‘I suppose my husband paid you to come bursting in here ?’
‘I don’t think that Mr Brown would like me to make any comment concerning that statement,’ I say, ruthlessly professional to the last.
‘I could give you an albumful of photographs that would make Gordon throw a purple fit. Do you remember when the World Limbo Dancing Championships were held over here—?’
‘Don’t tell me,’ I say. ‘I have a weak heart and my doctor says that I shouldn’t get over-excited.’ I pick up my camera and am relieved that Mrs Brown makes no move to stop me.
‘Send me a print for my collection,’ she says, slumping back on the bed. ‘I hope you got my best side. Why don’t you take one especially for my husband?’ She sticks out her tongue and extends two fingers. I raise my camera and then think better of it. Mr Brown gave few indications of being a one-man laugh riot. ‘You came a couple of minutes too early. Do you know that?’ Mrs Brown rotates her shoulders against the bed and draws up one of her legs so that I cop an eyeful of snatch thatch. This is obviously a very naughty lady and it is a good job that I am incorruptible. Men of lesser moral fibre might fancy their chances of filling the gap vacated by the gent now probably skipping down Baker Street in a dustbin. ‘Come and sit down,’ says Mrs Brown, patting the bed beside her. Her spare hand drifts down between her legs and it is soon clear that something is itching.
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