Previously on Bloatmingle of the Yard...
A female person, quite possibly a woman, has been identified as Dorothy Aileen Knickerthwaite. She was discovered apparently deceased behind the counter of her own corsetry shop - Dorothy Knickerthwaite's Corsetry shop.
Chillingly, she was observed to be grasping a note bearing the words "TOMMY NO-NOSE DONE IT". The story continues...
“Curses!” gritted Bloatmingle. “I knew it! Tommy No-nose eh? You know what this means, Spiggot?”
“Erm, well, erm, are we looking for some cove wivaht a hooter Sir?” suggested the tubby P.C.
“Of course not!” snapped Bloatmingle, relighting his pipe. Beryl’s Old Shag, normally a splendid smoke and recommended by men of action throughout the Empire, did not react well to being wet through. Soon though, thanks to Bloatmingle’s powerful lungs and muscular lips, clouds of blue smoke filled the room.
“Don’t you see, Spiggot? That note is a ruse. A damned cunning one at that.”
“A ruse, Sir?" asked the puzzled bobby. “But surely if it says the No-Nose geezer done it, we should go and nab ‘im?"
Bloatmingle sighed. This boy wasn’t destined to be a high-flyer.
“No Spiggot, we shouldn’t,” explained Bloatmingle patiently. “Tommy No-Nose doesn’t have the brain, the fiendish guile for this. He’s just hired muscle. Poisoning corsets is simply not his game.”
Bloatmingle paused, surveying the room with his steely blue eyes. “No Spiggot, this is the work of someone far more deadly, and far more cunning, someone who has given me the slip more times than I care to remember. That note is a forgery, Spiggot, written by none other than…” Bloatmingle paused, partly for effect and partly because Old Beryl’s Shag was well alight now, as was Bloatmingle’s left thumb.
The ace ‘tec sprang across the room to the sink, extinguished his thumb, turned to face Spiggot and the other two bobbies and said three words – three words which caused all who heard to blanch and visibly tremble…“Doctor Hercules Peasemold!"
"Dr Hercules Peasemold!” echoed the assembled bobbies except for Spiggot who said, “Dr Percules Heasemold”, conversational Spoonerisms being his forte.
“Yes,” said Bloatmingle, his razor sharp brain processing all the facts, a feat impossible for lesser men. “Hercules Peasemold. Who else would lead us on this apparently inexplicable dance but him? He loves to torment and challenge the Law of the Land!”
At that moment, Constable Spiggot, fumbling in the pocket of his uniform, held out a small portion of squashed meat and potato pie. “’Ere you are Sir, you deserve this – what with processing all the facts wot lesser men couldn’t and everything.”
Bloatmingle accepted the humble gift, realizing that whilst Spiggot was as thick as pig shit, his heart was in the right place.
Bloatmingle sprang to his feet. “Right”, he said firmly as he deftly set fire to his left thumb. “This is what we’re going to do!”, his words muffled by the hiss of water on hot flesh. “Spiggot – you check whether Mrs Knickerthwaite is actually dead. Fittock, you and Whatsisname – organize a car and draw two service pistols. We are going calling!”
“Draw pistols sir?” asked Fittock. “I can only do them side on. I’m no good at perspective.”
Bloatmingle sighed, grasped the phone and did it himself. At that moment, with a screech of tyres, a Police Humber pulled up outside. “Well done Whatsisname” called Bloatmingle and beckoned the two constables on board. As they settled themselves in the Humber’s roomy interior, the driver turned and handed Bloatmingle two black Webley service revolvers. “Excellent!” shouted Bloatmingle above the roar of the Humber’s powerful engine. “Slight tappet chatter and something of a small end knock there," he thought, but there was no time to address that problem.
Instead, he shouted to the driver, "Number 37 Dead Man’s Wharf, and step on it!”
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