He put back the receiver and turned to his wife. “That’s a rum show!” he exclaimed, not without a tremor of excitement in his voice. “St. Martha’s Hospital, that was. There’s a fellow been run over, and they can’t find out who he is. The only thing in his pocket is a bit of paper with my name an’ address on. Now, who the dickens can it be?”
“Why, young Alf, as likely as not,” replied Mrs. Tovey unemotionally. “Why ’e ’asn’t been run over afore, goin’ about as he does with his ’ead in the air, is more than I can make out.”
Alf was the youth employed by Mr. Tovey to deliver the purchases of such of his customers as did not prefer to carry them home wrapped up in newspaper. But Mr. Tovey shook his head at the suggestion.
“Not it! Young Alf lives down Camberwell way, and he’s not likely to be up this way of a Sunday. Give us my coat, missus, and I’ll go along and see who it is.”
Mr. Tovey struggled into his coat, and turned the collar well up over his ears. It was a most unpleasant evening to be out in, but, after all, it was worth it. His mind had been steeped in sensation all the afternoon, and now he was himself about to take a leading part in some thrilling tragedy. In imagination he could see the account in the next issue of the Paddington Clarion and Marylebone Recorder. Headlines first: “Fatal Accident. Man crushed to death by Motor Bus.” Then his own name: “The body was identified by Mr. Tovey, the well-known Fruit and Vegetable Merchant of Lisson Grove.” This was fame indeed!
He stood at the corner of Lisson Grove for a moment, eyeing the buses as they passed him. Through their streaming window panes he could see that they were all full, a row of dejected looking passengers standing in each one of them. There was nothing for it, he would have to walk. It wasn’t very far, anyhow, not more than half a mile at most.
Mr. Tovey stepped out smartly along Chapel Street, across the Edgware Road, and entered Praed Street. Despite the depressing weather, the pavements seemed to be full of people, groups of whom overflowed into the roadway, only to be driven back helterskelter by the menacing onrush of the motor-buses. Mr. Tovey picked his way through the crowd with the consciousness of the importance of his mission. So intent was he upon reaching his goal, and, having played his part, upon regaining the comfort of his own fireside, that he scarcely spared a glance for the lighted window above Sam Copperdock’s shop. Ivy was behind that drawn curtain, no doubt. He might drop in and pick her up on his way home. He certainly could not stop now.
With a due sense of dignity he climbed the steps of the main entrance of St. Martha’s, and nodded familiarly to the porter in the hall. “My name’s Tovey,” he said, “you rang me up just now to come and identify an accident case.”
The porter looked at him incredulously. “Rang you up? ’Oo rang you up? First I’ve ’eard of it.”
Mr. Tovey clicked his tongue impatiently. “Why, not more than a quarter of an hour ago,” he replied. “Man been run over, and you couldn’t find out who he was.”