No Good Deed 62

The man was at that stage of inebriation where the association of ideas, whilst not impossible, required a great deal more concentration than when sober. In fact, it appeared that two ideas could not even be entertained at one and the same time, for the promise of a drink proved sufficient to distract him from musing upon my imposture. I informed him he had the advantage of me, in the matter of names. His uncertain gaze fell on my hideous playing card waistcoat and his jaw worked as his brow furrowed. Evidently, whatever he could not bring forth from his memory was forgotten by the time he held out a slightly unsteady hand and said,

'Effingham T. Wallace, ' he said, whilst peering at me.

I took the trouble not to laugh, although it was sure he would not have divined the reason as being his ludicrous appellation.

'A pleasure, sir!' I said, raising my glass in his face, which caused his eyes to cross still further.

We consumed several glasses, under the unseeing eye of Gottschalk, who seemed lost in a reverie which continued to prevent any trilling in his unsteady tenor. It was only a matter of time before Wallace began to salivate in prodigious volume, a known precursor to the drunkard's vomit. To Wallace's credit, I was forced to purchase a half-dozen whiskeys to bring him to that pass.

'Gottschalk, I shall help our mutual friend to some revivifying fresh air.'

This information had quite as well been delivered to the craniallly deficient goliath behind the bar, for all the reaction it provoked. My arm was solidly linked with Wallace's, though he did not resist, much less protest, as we left The Moon and Two Feathers for the dark cut-through to the side of the building. I would dearly have liked to have prised valuable information from Wallace about the identity I had assumed. It was not possible, the man did not cease from vomiting from the moment we encountered the chilly evening breeze – not even when my knife slipped under his ribs. He had surely been drinking throughout the day for his pockets yielded only a crumpled dollar and a piece of animal gut, doubtless a French letter, both of which I pocketed against the day of need.

Quite why Gottschalk had chosen this particular moment to shake off his brown study and quit the bar, I could not imagine. He peered at me from the mouth of the alley,

'That feller alright?' He looked from me to the crumpled form lying in the shadows.

'Of course, Gottschalk, just too much to drink.'

I took him by the arm and said, 'Come, we've an appointment in North Rampart Street.'

Gottschalk craned his neck behind him no more than twice as we left Effingham T. Wallace to the final reward for dissipation.