The Adventures of Police-Constable Cook

An Episode from the Dangling Prussian

It was a dark and stormy night. At least that’s the way the journalists from the paper would refer to it later, so address your complaints to the Times et al. One even ventured so far as to call it "extremely" dark and stormy. And in this dark and stormy night Police-Constable Cook, of the H Division, was strolling the Embankment near Waterloo Bridge, twirling his billy club in a jaunty figure-eight. He was three hours into his shift and the rain had soaked his cuffs, the ankles of his trousers, and everything else that wasn’t covered by his rain-gear.

The wind howled through the streets of London, loudly whirling and winding through the city’s architecture like a pack of banshees out for a night of carousing. In a dark, wet night that seemed to snuff out stray beams of light, the sounds of the wind were rather disheartening for anyone forced to remain outside. Disheartening was what a solid Briton would call it. In America they’d just call it like they saw it: damn scary.

Police-Constable Cook’s elaborate billy club twirl took the place of whistling in the dark, as he never quite got the knack of whistling. It was a damned nuisance being a beat cop and not being able to whistle as you strolled. But at least his beat was a solitary one, so he had no partner to make fun of his inadequacy.

It was about 9:30 if the far-off chimes were to be believed. Cook had just passed the obelisk on his way toward the bridge. No one was out for a casual evening stroll on this night, no one, that is, except him. It was a police-constable’s job to stroll casually, even if it was a wind-filled rainy evening when anyone in their right mind was outdoors only to make a direct path toward somewhere indoors at the fastest possible speed.

Jelline was indoors right now, Police-Constable Cook mused. Probably just slipping under the covers on that overstuffed feather-bed of hers. Cook had just managed to summon a mental image of the lily-white rise of Jelline’s magnificent bosom when duty called. Duty didn’t just call, either, it was fairly shrieking at him. Jelline vanished.

Someone was desperately crying out for help just ahead. Cook couldn’t see a thing in the darkness, but the splash from the river told him that the cry was for real. He made it to the embankment’s edge, blowing his whistle at full blast the entire way. Down in the blackness of the river he could barely make out a white face bobbing in and out of the waves.

"Can you swim?" Police-Constable Cook shouted down to the face.

"For a bit!" the face yelled back. "Do you have a rope?"

"We’ll have one here in an instant!" Cook told the fellow. Two American seamen appeared at Cook’s side.

"He’s going under!" one of them exclaimed and dove into the river.

"What?" the drowning man asked just before the water filled his mouth and his head disappeared.

"Mike will get him," the sailor at Cook’s side told him. "Mike’s a strong swimmer." The police-constable had his doubts, as "Mike" had not surfaced since he first dove into the river. What seemed like long minutes passed and a face finally appeared at the surface, sputtering and coughing.

"I lost him," the seaman called Mike shouted. "The undertow took him!"

"Can you hold on until we get you a rope?" Cook asked Mike.

"I can make the steamer dock downriver," Mike called back, "I’m going to swim for it."

"Mike’s a strong swimmer," the other sailor repeated.

"Okay!" Cook yelled back, "We’ll follow you in case you get into trouble."

Even the wind-swelled waves of the Thames proved little problem for Mike, and Cook and Mike’s friend Jim were soon helping the sailor up the steps at the steamer dock.

The water-police arrived, and the search for the first man went on for hours before his body was found. Police-Constable Cook and the two seamen stayed for the entire search, and when it was all over, Cook realized that his shift had been over for a full forty-five minutes.

His replacement was coming up the embankment, and the policeman realized that he’d like nothing better than a good gin-hot. He must have spoken his thoughts without even realizing it, as Mike and Jim were quickly steering him into the city to a favorite spot of theirs.

Up Wellington and past the Police Court, along Shaftesbury and High Holborn — it was a bit more walk that a police-constable coming off his beat would like, but the two sailors seemed sure the walk would be worth it. They wound up around the corner from the British Museum, in a pub called "The Dangling Prussian."

"Back for more, boys?" a well-proportioned barmaid asked Jim and Mike.

"Right there, Do," Jim told her. "We need a gin-hot for our friend Cook here. A pint for me and a bottle for Mike, as always. And have the lighter barkeep draw ‘em, will you?"

The barmaid grimaced and shook her head, then headed for the bar, where an East Indian and an American were pouring drinks. The American was obviously who Jim meant by "the lighter one."

Cook noticed this, and asked about it.

"Lose some of your people in the Mutiny?"

"No, why ... oh, I get you. My people didn’t have anything to do with your mutiny, constable. I just don’t want nobody who’s not white touching my drinks. I’ll pour it myself first."

"I see. Are you telling me that if that poor chap in the Thames hadn’t been white you lads wouldn’t have tried to help him," Cook asked.

Mike and Jim laughed, coarse, mean laughter.

"He was as good as dark-skinned," Jim said to his friend, low and under his breath. Cook didn’t like the sound of that, and something began to flick at some corner of his mind.

The waitress returned just then, with a tray of drinks: three mugs, a bottle, and a yellowed envelope. She set the gin-hot in front of Cook, the pint in front of Jim, and the bottle and an empty mug in front of Mike. Lastly, she picked up the envelope and laid it carefully in front of Jim.

"S.H. for J.O." was scribbled across the front of the envelope in slightly faded ink. The whole thing looked like it had been setting out for years, waiting for this moment. Cook decided the "J" was for "Jim."

Jim look puzzled, but slowly slid his finger under the flap, tearing it open. He looked inside, frowned, and poured the envelope’s contents out on the table. Five dried out seeds rolled out.

"Captain Calhoun?" a voice piped up from behind Jim. It was the American bartender. "A lady was in here. She left this for you." He held out a neatly wrapped package.

"A lady, eh? Bit of a looker was she?"

"Yep," the bartender agreed.

"Must have been that little floozie I had last night. The ladies love me I tell you."

"Well, unwrap it," Jim Calhoun’s shipmate urged.

"Okay, okay." Calhoun pulled a pocket-knife out to cut the string holding the paper in place.

"It’s a clock!" the American bartender exclaimed.

Indeed it was. But it was unlike any clock Police-Constable Cook had ever seen. The base of the clock was a white brick of what looked like clay. Two wires were stuck into the clay, and the wires ran up to the clock face that was taped to the brick. The clock not only counted hours and minutes, but counted days as well.

"Looks like your lady friend is counting the time until you come back," the bartender quipped, grinning broadly. "Something for you to remember her by when you’re out in the middle of the Atlantic aboard the Lone Star. I saw a clock like that once. It doesn’t need winding or anything."

"Hmmm," Calhoun mused, looking the thing over. "I like it. It’ll go nice on the shelf over my bunk."

"Perfect!" the bartender exclaimed, seeming far to cheerful for someone who wasn’t getting the present himself. But Americans were funny that way.

Captain Calhoun looked at the seeds again, frowned again, and downed his pint in one long drink. "C’mon, Mike."

With that, the two sailors were gone.

The American bartender came and sat down with Police-Constable Cook.

"Tough night fighting crime?" the American asked.

"Miserable," Cook replied.

"Yeah, but we all have to do our part." With that the bartender started laughing like he had just heard the best joke of his life. His chair tipped over, kept laughing as he rolled around the floor.

Americans. Police-Constable Cook had had enough of them for one night.

Finis