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Updated: May 13, 2025
Surely they're more to us, our faithful friends, than mere mere " "Pelf," supplied George, on a thin squeak that was shot out by the excitement of seeing events so lustily playing his hand. "Mere pelf," adopted Mr. Brunger. Mr. Marrapit gulped heavily at the barley water; set his gaze upon a life-size portrait in oils of his darling Rose; with fine calm announced: "If it must be, it must be."
The detective continued: "What are our grounds for this belief?" he asked. "What are our data?" He looked at George. George shook his head. Easy enough, and useful, to acquiesce in the idea of a gang, but uncommonly hard to support the belief. He shook his head. Mr. Brunger was disappointed; a little at sea, he would have clutched eagerly at any aid. However, "impress your client."
Brunger unlocked the roll-top desk; discovered the stump of a half-smoked cigarette; lit it and began to compare the day's racing selections of "Head Lad," who imparted stable secrets to one tipster's organ, with those of "Trainer," who from the knowledge of his position very kindly gave one horse snips to another.
It was precisely because it was in Dippleford Admiral that his young inventor lodger fled through the bar without so much as a civil "good morning." At the post-office, keeping a drumming foot on the terrified Rose, George sent a telegram to Mr. Marrapit. "Think on track. Must be cautious. Don't tell Brunger."
For the privilege of adding to the dignity of his single apartment by having his name inscribed upon the cistern cupboard and upon the emergency exit to the roof, Mr. Brunger paid thirty shillings extra per annum. By half-past ten Mr.
Brunger ceased dictation; took up the receiver. "Are you David Brunger, the private detective?" a voice asked. "We are," replied Mr. Brunger in the thin treble he used on first answering a call. "Who are you, please?" "I am Mr. Christopher Marrapit of Herons' Holt, Paltley Hill, Surrey. "One moment," piped Mr. Brunger. "Is it confidential business?" "It is most urgent business.
"One moment, please. In that case the private secretary must take your message." Mr. Brunger laid down the receiver; took a turn across the room; approached the telephone; in a very deep bass asked, "Are you there?" The frantic narrative that was poured into his ears he punctuated with heavy, guttural "Certainly's," "Yes's," "We comprehend's," "We follow you's." Then: "Mr. David Brunger himself?
Here you may have a complete floor of rooms at from three to five hundred a year; or, high under the roof, you may rent a single room for forty- five pounds. Mr. David Brunger, Private Detective and Confidential Inquiry Agent, appeared on the books of the Bolt Buildings management as lessee of one of these single rooms.
"We shall return your cat. We have our data." He continued: "Now, sir, there are two ways of dealing with a gang. We can capture the gang or we can seduce the gang by offering a reward." George jumped in his chair. "Anything wrong?" Mr. Brunger inquired. "Your your extraordinary grasp of the case astonishes me," George exclaimed. "Experience, sir, experience," said Mr. Brunger airily.
David Brunger drank from the carafe of water on the mantelpiece to clear his tortured throat. In his capacity of the great detective and confidential inquiry agent himself, he then stepped to the telephone and, after exhibiting a power of invention relative to startling crimes in hand that won even the admiration of Mr. Issy Jago, announced that he would be with Mr. Marrapit at three o'clock.
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