CHAPTER XXVIII
PEBBLEMARSH
At five o’clock next day, Jones, re-dressed by Kellerman in a morning coat rather the worse for wear—a coat that had been left behind at the bungalow by one of Kellerman’s friends—and a dark cloth cap, took his departure from the bungalow. His appearance was frankly abominable, but quite distinct from the appearance of a man dressed in a grey flannel tennis coat and wearing a Panama—and that was the main point.
Kellerman had also worked up a history and personality for the newly attired one.
“You are Mr. Isaacson,” said he.
“Here’s the card of a Mr. Isaacson who called some time ago, put it in your pocket. I will write you a couple of fake letters to back the card, you are in the watch trade. Pebblemarsh is the nearest town, only five miles down the road; there’s a station there, but you’d better avoid that. There’s a garage. You could get a car to London. If they nail you, scream like an excited Jew, produce your credentials, and if the worst comes to the worst refer to me and come back here. I would love that interview. Country policeman, lunatic asylum man, Mr. Isaacson highly excited, and myself.”
He sat down to write the fake letters addressed to Mr. Isaacson by his uncle Julius Goldberg and his partner Marcus Cohen. As he wrote he talked over his shoulder on the subject of disguises, alleging that the only really impenetrable disguise was that of a nigger minstrel.
“You see, all black faces are pretty much the same,” said he. “Their predominant expression is black, but I haven’t got the fixings nor the coloured pants and things, to say nothing of a banjo, so I reckon you’ll just have to be Mr. Isaacson, and you may thank the God of the Hebrews I haven’t made you an old clothes man—watches are respectable. Here are your letters, they are short but credible. Have you enough money?”
“Lots,” said Jones, “and I don’t know in the least how to thank you for what you have done. I’d have been had, sure, wearing that hat and coat—well, maybe we’ll meet again.”