* A Project Gutenberg Canada Ebook *

This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few
restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make
a change in the ebook (other than alteration for different
display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of
the ebook. If either of these conditions applies, please
check gutenberg.ca/links/licence.html before proceeding.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under
copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your
country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT
IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

Title: Whose Body?
Author: Dorothy L. Sayers (1893-1957)
Date of first publication: 1923; revised and corrected
   edition, 1935
Place and date of edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Gollancz, April 1958
Date first posted: 1 April 2008
Date last updated: 1 April 2008
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #103

This ebook was produced by: Iona Vaughan, Marcia Brooks,
Mark Akrigg & the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




THIS RE-ISSUE OF

WHOSE BODY?


(which has received _some corrections_ and _amendments_ from MISS
SAYERS) has for a Preface _a short biography of Lord Peter Wimsey_,
brought up to date (May 1935) and communicated by his uncle PAUL AUSTIN
DELAGARDIE.

     WIMSEY, PETER DEATH BREDON, D.S.O.; _born_ 1890, _2nd son_
     of Mortimer Gerald Bredon Wimsey, 15th Duke of Denver, and
     of Honoria Lucasta, _daughter_ of Francis Delagardie of
     Bellingham Manor, Hants.

     _Educated:_ Eton College and Balliol College, Oxford (1st
     class honours, Sch. of Mod. Hist. 1912); served with H.M.
     Forces 1914/18 (Major, Rifle Brigade). _Author of:_ "Notes
     on the Collecting of Incunabula," "The Murderer's
     Vade-Mecum," etc.

     _Recreations:_ Criminology; bibliophily; music; cricket.

     _Clubs:_ Marlborough; Egotists'. _Residences:_ 110A
     Piccadilly, W.; Bredon Hall, Duke's Denver, Norfolk.

     _Arms:_ Sable, 3 mice courant, argent; crest, a domestic
     cat couched as to spring, proper; motto: As my Whimsy takes
     me.




BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

_Communicated by_ PAUL AUSTIN DELAGARDIE


I am asked by Miss Sayers to fill up certain lacun and correct a few
trifling errors of fact in her account of my nephew Peter's career. I
shall do so with pleasure. To appear publicly in print is every man's
ambition, and by acting as a kind of running footman to my nephew's
triumph I shall only be showing a modesty suitable to my advanced age.

The Wimsey family is an ancient one--too ancient, if you ask me. The
only sensible thing Peter's father ever did was to ally his exhausted
stock with the vigorous French-English strain of the Delagardies. Even
so, my nephew Gerald (the present Duke of Denver) is nothing but a
beef-witted English squire, and my niece Mary was flighty and foolish
enough till she married a policeman and settled down. Peter, I am glad
to say, takes after his mother and me. True, he is all nerves and
nose--but that is better than being all brawn and no brains like his
father and brothers, or a mere bundle of emotions, like Gerald's boy,
Saint-George. He has at least inherited the Delagardie brains, by way of
safeguard to the unfortunate Wimsey temperament.

Peter was born in 1890. His mother was being very much worried at the
time by her husband's behaviour (Denver was always tiresome, though the
big scandal did not break out till the Jubilee year), and her anxieties
may have affected the boy. He was a colourless shrimp of a child, very
restless and mischievous, and always much too sharp for his age. He had
nothing of Gerald's robust physical beauty, but he developed what I can
best call a kind of bodily cleverness, more skill than strength. He had
a quick eye for a ball and beautiful hands for a horse. He had the
devil's own pluck, too: the intelligent sort of pluck that sees the risk
before it takes it. He suffered badly from nightmares as a child. To his
father's consternation he grew up with a passion for books and music.

His early school-days were not happy. He was a fastidious child, and I
suppose it was natural that his school-fellows should call him "Flimsy"
and treat him as a kind of comic turn. And he might, in sheer
self-protection, have accepted the position and degenerated into a mere
licensed buffoon, if some games-master at Eton had not discovered that
he was a brilliant natural cricketer. After that, of course, all his
eccentricities were accepted as wit, and Gerald underwent the salutary
shock of seeing his despised younger brother become a bigger personality
than himself. By the time he reached the Sixth Form, Peter had contrived
to become the fashion--athlete, scholar, _arbiter elegantiarum--nec
pluribus impar_. Cricket had a great deal to do with it--plenty of Eton
men will remember the "Great Flim" and his performance against
Harrow--but I take credit to myself for introducing him to a good
tailor, showing him the way about Town, and teaching him to distinguish
good wine from bad. Denver bothered little about him--he had too many
entanglements of his own and in addition was taken up with Gerald, who
by this time was making a prize fool of himself at Oxford. As a matter
of fact Peter never got on with his father, he was a ruthless young
critic of the paternal misdemeanours, and his sympathy for his mother
had a destructive effect upon his sense of humour.

Denver, needless to say, was the last person to tolerate his own
failings in his offspring. It cost him a good deal of money to extricate
Gerald from the Oxford affair, and he was willing enough to turn his
other son over to me. Indeed at the age of seventeen, Peter came to me
of his own accord. He was old for his age and exceedingly reasonable,
and I treated him as a man of the world. I established him in
trustworthy hands in Paris, instructing him to keep his affairs upon a
sound business footing and to see that they terminated with goodwill on
both sides and generosity on his. He fully justified my confidence. I
believe that no woman has ever found cause to complain of Peter's
treatment; and two at least of them have since married royalty (rather
obscure royalties, I admit, but royalty of a sort). Here again, I insist
upon my due share of the credit; however good the material one has to
work upon it is ridiculous to leave any young man's social education to
chance.

The Peter of this period was really charming, very frank, modest and
well-mannered, with a pretty, lively wit. In 1909 he went up with a
scholarship to read History at Balliol, and here, I must confess, he
became rather intolerable. The world was at his feet, and he began to
give himself airs. He acquired affectations, an exaggerated Oxford
manner and a monocle, and aired his opinions a good deal, both in and
out of the Union, though I will do him the justice to say that he never
attempted to patronise his mother or me. He was in his second year when
Denver broke his neck out hunting and Gerald succeeded to the title.
Gerald showed more sense of responsibility than I had expected in
dealing with the estate; his worst mistake was to marry his cousin
Helen, a scrawny, over-bred prude, all county from head to heel. She and
Peter loathed each other cordially; but he could always take refuge with
his mother at the Dower House.

And then, in his last year at Oxford, Peter fell in love with a child of
seventeen and instantly forgot everything he had ever been taught. He
treated that girl as if she was made of gossamer, and me as a hardened
old monster of depravity who had made him unfit to touch her delicate
purity. I won't deny that they made an exquisite pair--all white and
gold--a prince and princess of moonlight, people said. Moonshine would
have been nearer the mark. What Peter was to do in twenty years' time
with a wife who had neither brains nor character nobody but his mother
and myself ever troubled to ask, and he, of course, was completely
besotted. Happily, Barbara's parents decided that she was too young to
marry; so Peter went in for his final Schools in the temper of a Sir
Eglamore achieving his first dragon; laid his First-Class Honours at his
lady's feet like the dragon's head, and settled down to a period of
virtuous probation.

Then came the War. Of course the young idiot was mad to get married
before he went. But his own honourable scruples made him mere wax in
other people's hands. It was pointed out to him that if he came back
mutilated it would be very unfair to the girl. He hadn't thought of
that, and rushed off in a frenzy of self-abnegation to release her from
the engagement. I had no hand in that; I was glad enough of the result,
but I couldn't stomach the means.

He did very well in France; he made a good officer and the men liked
him. And then, if you please, he came back on leave with his captaincy
in '16, to find the girl married--to a hardbitten rake of a Major
Somebody, whom she had nursed in the V.A.D. hospital, and whose motto
with women was catch 'em quick and treat 'em rough. It was pretty
brutal; for the girl hadn't had the nerve to tell Peter beforehand. They
got married in a hurry when they heard he was coming home, and all he
got on landing was a letter, announcing the _fait accompli_ and
reminding him that he had set her free himself.

I will say for Peter that he came straight to me and admitted that he
had been a fool. "All right," said I, "you've had your lesson. Don't go
and make a fool of yourself in the other direction." So he went back to
his job with (I am sure) the fixed intention of getting killed; but all
he got was his majority and his D.S.O. for some recklessly good
intelligence work behind the German front. In 1918 he was blown up and
buried in a shell-hole near Caudry, and that left him with a bad nervous
breakdown, lasting, on and off, for two years. After that, he set
himself up in a flat in Piccadilly, with the man Bunter (who had been
his sergeant and was, and is, devoted to him), and started out to put
himself together again.

I don't mind saying that I was prepared for almost anything. He had lost
all his beautiful frankness, he shut everybody out of his confidence,
including his mother and me, adopted an impenetrable frivolity of manner
and a dilettante pose, and became, in fact, the complete comedian. He
was wealthy and could do as he chose, and it gave me a certain amount of
sardonic entertainment to watch the efforts of post-war feminine London
to capture him. "It can't," said one solicitous matron, "be good for
poor Peter to live like a hermit." "Madam," said I, "if he did, it
wouldn't be." No; from that point of view he gave me no anxiety. But I
could not but think it dangerous that a man of his ability should have
no job to occupy his mind, and I told him so.

In 1921 came the business of the Attenbury Emeralds. That affair has
never been written up, but it made a good deal of noise, even at that
noisiest of periods. The trial of the thief was a series of red-hot
sensations, and the biggest sensation of the bunch was when Lord Peter
Wimsey walked into the witness-box as chief witness for the prosecution.

That was notoriety with a vengeance. Actually, to an experienced
intelligence officer, I don't suppose the investigation had offered any
great difficulties; but a "noble sleuth" was something new in thrills.
Denver was furious; personally, I didn't mind what Peter did, provided
he did something. I thought he seemed happier for the work, and I liked
the Scotland Yard man he had picked up during the run of the case.
Charles Parker is a quiet, sensible, well-bred fellow, and has been a
good friend and brother-in-law to Peter. He has the valuable quality of
being fond of people without wanting to turn them inside out.

The only trouble about Peter's new hobby was that it had to be more than
a hobby, if it was to be any hobby for a gentleman. You cannot get
murderers hanged for your private entertainment. Peter's intellect
pulled him one way and his nerves another, till I began to be afraid
they would pull him to pieces. At the end of every case we had the old
nightmares and shell-shock over again. And then Denver, of all
people--Denver, the crashing great booby, in the middle of his
fulminations against Peter's degrading and notorious police activities,
must needs get himself indicted on a murder charge and stand his trial
in the House of Lords, amid a blaze of publicity which made all Peter's
efforts in that direction look like damp squibs.

Peter pulled his brother out of that mess, and, to my relief, was human
enough to get drunk on the strength of it. He now admits that his
"hobby" is his legitimate work for society, and has developed sufficient
interest in public affairs to undertake small diplomatic jobs from time
to time under the Foreign Office. Of late he has become a little more
ready to show his feelings, and a little less terrified of having any to
show.

His latest eccentricity has been to fall in love with that girl whom he
cleared of the charge of poisoning her lover. She refused to marry him,
as any woman of character would. Gratitude and a humiliating inferiority
complex are no foundation for matrimony; the position was false from the
start. Peter had the sense, this time, to take my advice. "My boy," said
I, "what was wrong for you twenty years back is right now. It's not the
innocent young things that need gentle handling--it's the ones that have
been frightened and hurt. Begin again from the beginning--but I warn you
that you will need all the self-discipline you have ever learnt."

Well, he has tried. I don't think I have ever seen such patience. The
girl has brains and character and honesty; but he has got to teach her
how to take, which is far more difficult than learning to give. I think
they will find one another, if they can keep their passions from running
ahead of their wills. He does realise, I know, that in this case there
can be no consent but free consent.

Peter is forty-five now, it is really time he was settled. As you will
see, I have been one of the important formative influences in his
career, and, on the whole, I feel he does me credit. He is a true
Delagardie, with little of the Wimseys about him except (I must be fair)
that underlying sense of social responsibility which prevents the
English landed gentry from being a total loss, spiritually speaking.
Detective or no detective, he is a scholar and a gentleman; it will
amuse me to see what sort of shot he makes at being a husband and
father. I am getting an old man, and have no son of my own (that I know
of); I should be glad to see Peter happy. But as his mother says, "Peter
has always had everything except the things he really wanted," and I
suppose he is luckier than most.

PAUL AUSTIN DELAGARDIE




_BOOKS BY DOROTHY L. SAYERS_

THE NINE TAILORS

HANGMAN'S HOLIDAY

MURDER MUST ADVERTISE

HAVE HIS CARCASE

THE FIVE RED HERRINGS

STRONG POISON

LORD PETER VIEWS THE BODY

THE UNPLEASANTNESS AT THE BELLONA CLUB

THE DOCUMENTS IN THE CASE
(In collaboration with Robert Eustace)

UNNATURAL DEATH

CLOUDS OF WITNESS

GAUDY NIGHT

BUSMAN'S HONEYMOON

IN THE TEETH OF THE EVIDENCE




WHOSE BODY?

by

DOROTHY L. SAYERS


LONDON

VICTOR GOLLANCZ LTD

14 Henrietta Street   Covent Garden




_First published in England 1923
First 2/6 edition 1935
Third impression January 1936
Fourth impression July 1937
Fifth impression January 1939
Sixth impression October 1940
Seventh impression May 1941
Eighth impression October 1942
Ninth impression January 1944
Tenth impression January 1947
Eleventh impression April 1949
Twelfth impression June 1949
Thirteenth impression February 1954
Fourteenth impression April 1958_


PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY RICHARD CLAY AND COMPANY, LTD.

BUNGAY, SUFFOLK


_To M. J._

_Dear Jim:_

_This book is your fault. If it had not been for your brutal insistence,
Lord Peter would never have staggered through to the end of this
enquiry. Pray consider that he thanks you with his accustomed suavity._

_Yours ever,_

_D. L. S._




CHAPTER I


"Oh, damn!" said Lord Peter Wimsey at Piccadilly Circus. "Hi, driver!"

The taxi man, irritated at receiving this appeal while negotiating the
intricacies of turning into Lower Regent Street across the route of a 19
'bus, a 38-B and a bicycle, bent an unwilling ear.

"I've left the catalogue behind," said Lord Peter deprecatingly,
"uncommonly careless of me. D'you mind puttin' back to where we came
from?"

"To the Savile Club, sir?"

"No--110A Piccadilly--just beyond--thank you."

"Thought you was in a hurry," said the man, overcome with a sense of
injury.

"I'm afraid it's an awkward place to turn in," said Lord Peter,
answering the thought rather than the words. His long, amiable face
looked as if it had generated spontaneously from his top hat, as white
maggots breed from Gorgonzola.

The taxi, under the severe eye of a policeman, revolved by slow jerks
with a noise like the grinding of teeth.

The block of new, perfect and expensive flats in which Lord Peter dwelt
upon the second floor, stood directly opposite the Green Park, in a spot
for many years occupied by the skeleton of a frustrate commercial
enterprise. As Lord Peter let himself in he heard his man's voice in the
library, uplifted in that throttled stridency peculiar to well-trained
persons using the telephone.

"I believe that's his lordship just coming in again--if your Grace would
kindly hold the line a moment."

"What is it, Bunter?"

"Her Grace has just called up from Denver, my lord. I was just saying
your lordship had gone to the sale when I heard your lordship's
latchkey."

"Thanks," said Lord Peter; "and you might find me my catalogue, would
you? I think I must have left it in my bedroom, or on the desk."

He sat down to the telephone with an air of leisurely courtesy, as
though it were an acquaintance dropped in for a chat.

"Hullo, Mother--that you?"

"Oh, there you are, dear," replied the voice of the Dowager Duchess. "I
was afraid I'd just missed you."

"Well, you had, as a matter of fact. I'd just started off to
Brocklebury's sale to pick up a book or two, but I had to come back for
the catalogue. What's up?"

"Such a quaint thing," said the Duchess. "I thought I'd tell you. You
know little Mr. Thipps?"

"Thipps?" said Lord Peter. "Thipps? Oh, yes, the little architect man
who's doing the church roof. Yes. What about him?"

"Mrs. Throgmorton's just been in, in quite a state of mind."

"Sorry, Mother, I can't hear. Mrs. Who?"

"Throgmorton--Throgmorton--the vicar's wife."

"Oh, Throgmorton, yes?"

"Mr. Thipps rang them up this morning. It was his day to come down, you
know."

"Yes?"

"He rang them up to say he couldn't. He was so upset, poor little man.
He'd found a dead body in his bath."

"Sorry, Mother, I can't hear; found what, where?"

"A dead body, dear, in his bath."

"What?--no, no, we haven't finished. Please don't cut us off. Hullo!
Hullo! Is that you, Mother? Hullo!--Mother!--Oh yes--sorry, the girl was
trying to cut us off. What sort of body?"

"A dead man, dear, with nothing on but a pair of pince-nez. Mrs.
Throgmorton positively blushed when she was telling me. I'm afraid
people do get a little narrow-minded in country vicarages."

"Well, it sounds a bit unusual. Was it anybody he knew?"

"No, dear, I don't think so, but, of course, he couldn't give her many
details. She said he sounded quite distracted. He's such a respectable
little man--and having the police in the house, and so on, really
worried him."

"Poor little Thipps! Uncommonly awkward for him. Let's see, he lives in
Battersea, doesn't he?"

"Yes, dear; 59 Queen Caroline Mansions; opposite the Park. That big
block just round the corner from the Hospital. I thought perhaps you'd
like to run round and see him and ask if there's anything we can do. I
always thought him a nice little man."

"Oh, quite," said Lord Peter, grinning at the telephone. The Duchess was
always of the greatest assistance to his hobby of criminal
investigation, though she never alluded to it, and maintained a polite
fiction of its non-existence.

"What time did it happen, Mother?"

"I think he found it early this morning, but, of course, he didn't think
of telling the Throgmortons just at first. She came up to me just before
lunch--so tiresome, I had to ask her to stay. Fortunately, I was alone.
I don't mind being bored myself, but I hate having my guests bored."

"Poor old Mother! Well, thanks awfully for tellin' me. I think I'll send
Bunter to the sale and toddle round to Battersea now an' try and console
the poor little beast. So-long."

"Good-bye, dear."

"Bunter!"

"Yes, my lord."

"Her Grace tells me that a respectable Battersea architect has
discovered a dead man in his bath."

"Indeed, my lord? That's very gratifying."

"Very, Bunter. Your choice of words is unerring. I wish Eton and Balliol
had done as much for me. Have you found the catalogue?"

"Here it is, my lord."

"Thanks. I am going to Battersea at once. I want you to attend the sale
for me. Don't lose time--I don't want to miss the Folio Dante[1] nor the
de Voragine--here you are--see? _Golden Legend_--Wynkyn de Worde,
1493--got that?--and, I say, make a special effort for the Caxton folio
of the _Four Sons of Aymon_--it's the 1489 folio and unique. Look! I've
marked the lots I want, and put my outside offer against each. Do your
best for me. I shall be back to dinner."

"Very good, my lord."

"Take my cab and tell him to hurry. He may for you; he doesn't like me
very much. Can I," said Lord Peter, looking at himself in the
eighteenth-century mirror over the mantelpiece, "can I have the heart to
fluster the flustered Thipps further--that's very difficult to say
quickly--by appearing in a top-hat and frock-coat? I think not. Ten to
one he will overlook my trousers and mistake me for the undertaker. A
grey suit, I fancy, neat but not gaudy, with a hat to tone suits my
other self better. Exit the amateur of first editions; new motive
introduced by solo bassoon; enter Sherlock Holmes, disguised as a
walking gentleman. There goes Bunter. Invaluable fellow--never offers to
do his job when you've told him to do somethin' else. Hope he doesn't
miss the _Four Sons of Aymon_. Still, there is another copy of that--in
the Vatican.[2] It might become available, you never know--if the Church
of Rome went to pot or Switzerland invaded Italy--whereas a strange
corpse doesn't turn up in a suburban bathroom more than once in a
lifetime--at least, I should think not--at any rate, the number of times
it's happened, _with_ a pince-nez, might be counted on the fingers of
one hand, I imagine. Dear me! it's a dreadful mistake to ride two
hobbies at once."

He had drifted across the passage into his bedroom, and was changing
with a rapidity one might not have expected from a man of his
mannerisms. He selected a dark-green tie to match his socks and tied it
accurately without hesitation or the slightest compression of his lips;
substituted a pair of brown shoes for his black ones, slipped a monocle
into a breast pocket, and took up a beautiful Malacca walking-stick with
a heavy silver knob.

"That's all, I think," he murmured to himself. "Stay--I may as well have
you--you may come in useful--one never knows." He added a flat silver
matchbox to his equipment, glanced at his watch, and seeing that it was
already a quarter to three, ran briskly downstairs, and, hailing a taxi,
was carried to Battersea Park.

Mr. Alfred Thipps was a small, nervous man, whose flaxen hair was
beginning to abandon the unequal struggle with destiny. One might say
that his only really marked feature was a large bruise over the left
eyebrows which gave him a faintly dissipated air incongruous with the
rest of his appearance. Almost in the same breath with his first
greeting, he made a self-conscious apology for it, murmuring something
about having run against the dining-room door in the dark. He was
touched almost to tear, by Lord Peter's thoughtfulness and condescension
in calling.

"I'm sure it's most kind of your lordship," he repeated for the dozenth
time, rapidly blinking his weak little eyelids. "I appreciate it very
deeply, very deeply, indeed, and so would Mother, only she's so deaf, I
don't like to trouble you with making her understand. It's been very
hard all day," he added, "with the policemen in the house and all this
commotion. It's what Mother and me have never been used to, always
living very retired, and it's most distressing to a man of regular
habits, my lord, and reely, I'm almost thankful Mother doesn't
understand, for I'm sure it would worry her terribly if she was to know
about it. She was upset at first, but she's made up some idea of her own
about it now, and I'm sure it's all for the best."

The old lady who sat knitting by the fire nodded grimly in response to a
look from her son.

"I always said as you ought to complain about that bath, Alfred," she
said suddenly, in the high, piping voice peculiar to the deaf, "and it's
to be 'oped the landlord'll see about it now; not but what I think you
might have managed without having the police in, but there! you always
were one to make a fuss about a little thing, from chicken-pox up."

"There now," said Mr. Thipps apologetically, "you see how it is. Not but
what it's just as well she's settled on that, because she understands
we've locked up the bathroom and don't try to go in there. But it's been
a terrible shock to me, sir--my lord, I should say, but there! my nerves
are all to pieces. Such a thing has never 'appened--happened to me in
all my born days. Such a state I was in this morning--I didn't know if
I was on my head or my heels--I reely didn't, and my heart not being
too strong, I hardly knew how to get out of that horrid room and
telephone for the police. It's affected me, sir, it's affected me, it
reely has--I couldn't touch a bit of breakfast, nor lunch neither, and
what with telephoning and putting off clients and interviewing people
all morning, I've hardly known what to do with myself."

"I'm sure it must have been uncommonly distressin'," said Lord Peter,
sympathetically, "especially comin' like that before breakfast. Hate
anything tiresome happenin' before breakfast. Takes a man at such a
confounded disadvantage, what?"

"That's just it, that's just it," said Mr. Thipps, eagerly, "when I saw
that dreadful thing lying there in my bath, mother-naked, too, except
for a pair of eyeglasses, I assure you, my lord, it regularly turned my
stomach, if you'll excuse the expression. I'm not very strong, sir, and
I get that sinking feeling sometimes in the morning, and what with one
thing and another I 'ad--had to send the girl for a stiff brandy, or I
don't know _what_ mightn't have happened. I felt so queer, though I'm
anything but partial to spirits as a rule. Still, I make it a rule never
to be without brandy, in the house, in case of emergency, you know?"

"Very wise of you," said Lord Peter, cheerfully, "you're a very
far-seein' man, Mr. Thipps. Wonderful what a little nip'll do in case of
need, and the less you're used to it the more good it does you. Hope
your girl is a sensible young woman, what? Nuisance to have women
faintin' and shriekin' all over the place."

"Oh, Gladys is a good girl," said Mr. Thipps, "very reasonable indeed.
She was shocked, of course, that's very understandable. I was shocked
myself, and it wouldn't be proper in a young woman not to be shocked
under the circumstances, but she is reely a helpful, energetic girl in a
crisis, if you understand me. I consider myself very fortunate these
days to have got a good, decent girl to do for me and Mother, even
though she is a bit careless and forgetful about little things, but
that's only natural. She was very sorry indeed about having left the
bathroom window open, she reely was, and though I was angry at first,
seeing what's come of it, it wasn't anything to speak of, not in the
ordinary way, as you might say. Girls will forget things, you know, my
lord, and reely she was so distressed I didn't like to say too much to
her. All I said was: 'It might have been burglars,' I said, 'remember
that, next time you leave a window open all night; this time it was a
dead man,' I said, 'and that's unpleasant enough, but next time it might
be burglars,' I said, 'and all of us murdered in our beds.' But the
police-inspector--Inspector Sugg, they called him, from the Yard--he was
very sharp with her, poor girl. Quite frightened her, and made her think
he suspected her of something, though what good a body could be to her,
poor girl, I can't imagine, and so I told the inspector. He was quite
rude to me, my lord--I may say I didn't like his manner at all. 'If
you've got anything definite to accuse Gladys or me of, Inspector,' I
said to him, 'bring it forward, that's what you have to do,' I said,
'but I've yet to learn that you're paid to be rude to a gentleman in his
own 'ouse--house.' Reely," said Mr. Thipps, growing quite pink on the
top of his head, "he regularly roused me, regularly roused me, my lord,
and I'm a mild man as a rule."

"Sugg all over," said Lord Peter, "I know him. When he don't know what
else to say, he's rude. Stands to reason you and the girl wouldn't go
collectin' bodies. Who'd want to saddle himself with a body?
Difficulty's usually to get rid of 'em. Have you got rid of this one
yet, by the way?"

"It's still in the bathroom," said Mr. Thipps. "Inspector Sugg said
nothing was to be touched till his men came in to move it. I'm expecting
them at any time. If it would interest your lordship to have a look at
it--"

"Thanks awfully," said Lord Peter, "I'd like to very much, if I'm not
puttin' you out."

"Not at all," said Mr. Thipps. His manner as he led the way along the
passage convinced Lord Peter of two things--first, that, gruesome as his
exhibit was, he rejoiced in the importance it reflected upon himself and
his flat, and secondly, that Inspector Sugg had forbidden him to exhibit
it to anyone. The latter supposition was confirmed by the action of Mr.
Thipps, who stopped to fetch the door-key from his bedroom, saying that
he made it a rule to have two keys to every door, in case of accident.

The bathroom was in no way remarkable. It was long and narrow, the
window being exactly over the head of the bath. The panes were of
frosted glass; the frame wide enough to admit a man's body. Lord Peter
stepped rapidly across to it, opened it and looked out.

The flat was the top one of the building and situated about the middle
of the block. The bathroom window looked out upon the backyards of the
flats, which were occupied by various small outbuildings, coal-holes,
garages, and the like. Beyond these were the back gardens of a parallel
line of houses. On the right rose the extensive edifice of St. Luke's
Hospital, Battersea, with its grounds, and, connected with it by a
covered way, the residence of the famous surgeon, Sir Julian Freke, who
directed the surgical side of the great new hospital, and was, in
addition, known in Harley Street as a distinguished neurologist with a
highly individual point of view.

This information was poured into Lord Peter's ear at considerable length
by Mr. Thipps, who seemed to feel that the neighbourhood of anybody so
distinguished shed a kind of halo of glory over Queen Caroline Mansions.

"We had him round here himself this morning," he said, "about this
horrid business. Inspector Sugg thought one of the young medical
gentlemen at the hospital might have brought the corpse round for a
joke, as you might say, they always having bodies in the
dissecting-room. So Inspector Sugg went round to see Sir Julian this
morning to ask if there was a body missing. He was very kind, was Sir
Julian, very kind indeed, though he was at work when they got there, in
the dissecting-room. He looked up the books to see that all the bodies
were accounted for, and then very obligingly came round here to look at
this"--he indicated the bath--"and said he was afraid he couldn't help
us--there was no corpse missing from the hospital, and this one didn't
answer to the description of any they'd had."

"Nor to the description of any of the patients, I hope," suggested Lord
Peter casually.

At this grisly hint Mr. Thipps turned pale.

"I didn't hear Inspector Sugg inquire," he said, with some agitation.
"What a very horrid thing that would be--God bless my soul, my lord, I
never thought of it."

"Well, if they had missed a patient they'd probably have discovered it
by now," said Lord Peter. "Let's have a look at this one."

He screwed his monocle into his eye, adding: "I see you're troubled here
with the soot blowing in. Beastly nuisance, ain't it? I get it,
too--spoils all my books, you know. Here, don't you trouble, if you
don't care about lookin' at it."

He took from Mr. Thipps's hesitating hand the sheet which had been flung
over the bath, and turned it back.

The body which lay in the bath was that of a tall, stout man of about
fifty. The hair, which was thick and black and naturally curly, had been
cut and parted by a master hand, and exuded a faint violet perfume,
perfectly recognisable in the close air of the bathroom. The features
were thick, fleshy and strongly marked, with prominent dark eyes, and a
long nose curving down to a heavy chin. The clean-shaven lips were full
and sensual, and the dropped jaw showed teeth stained with tobacco. On
the dead face the handsome pair of gold pince-nez mocked death with
grotesque elegance; the fine gold chain curved over the naked breast.
The legs lay stiffly stretched out side by side; the arms reposed close
to the body; the fingers were flexed naturally. Lord Peter lifted one
arm, and looked at the hand with a little frown.

"Bit of a dandy, your visitor, what?" he murmured. "Parma violet and
manicure." He bent again, slipping his hand beneath the head. The absurd
eyeglasses slipped off, clattering into the bath, and the noise put the
last touch to Mr. Thipps's growing nervousness.

"If you'll excuse me," he murmured, "it makes me feel quite faint, it
reely does."

He slipped outside, and he had no sooner done so than Lord Peter,
lifting the body quickly and cautiously, turned it over and inspected
it with his head on one side, bringing his monocle into play with the
air of the late Joseph Chamberlain approving a rare orchid. He then laid
the head over his arm, and bringing out the silver matchbox from his
pocket, slipped it into the open mouth. Then making the noise usually
written "Tut-tut," he laid the body down, picked up the mysterious
pince-nez, looked at it, put it on his nose and looked through it, made
the same noise again, readjusted the pince-nez upon the nose of the
corpse, so as to leave no traces of interference for the irritation of
Inspector Sugg; rearranged the body; returned to the window and, leaning
out, reached upwards and sideways with his walking-stick, which he had
somewhat incongruously brought along with him. Nothing appearing to come
of these investigations, he withdrew his head, closed the window, and
rejoined Mr. Thipps in the passage.

Mr. Thipps, touched by this sympathetic interest in the younger son of a
duke, took the liberty, on their return to the sitting-room, of offering
him a cup of tea. Lord Peter, who had strolled over to the window and
was admiring the outlook on Battersea Park, was about to accept, when an
ambulance came into view at the end of Prince of Wales Road. Its
appearance reminded Lord Peter of an important engagement, and with a
hurried "By Jove!" he took his leave of Mr. Thipps.

"My mother sent kind regards and all that," he said, shaking hands
fervently; "hopes you'll soon be down at Denver again. Good-bye, Mrs.
Thipps," he bawled kindly into the ear of the old lady. "Oh, no, my dear
sir, please don't trouble to come down."

He was none too soon. As he stepped out of the door and turned towards
the station, the ambulance drew up from the other direction, and
Inspector Sugg emerged from it with two constables. The inspector spoke
to the officer on duty at the Mansions, and turned a suspicious gaze on
Lord Peter's retreating back.

"Dear old Sugg," said that nobleman, fondly, "dear, dear old bird! How
he does hate me, to be sure."




CHAPTER II


"Excellent, Bunter," said Lord Peter, sinking with a sigh into a
luxurious armchair. "I couldn't have done better myself. The thought of
the Dante makes my mouth water--and the _Four Sons of Aymon_. And you've
saved me 60--that's glorious. What shall we spend it on, Bunter? Think
of it--all ours, to do as we like with, for as Harold Skimpole so
rightly observes, 60 saved is 60 gained, and I'd reckoned on spending
it all. It's your saving, Bunter, and properly speaking, your 60. What
do we want? Anything in your department? Would you like anything altered
in the flat?"

"Well, my lord, as your lordship is so good"--the man-servant paused,
about to pour an old brandy into a liqueur glass.

"Well, out with it, my Bunter, you imperturbable old hypocrite. It's no
good talking as if you were announcing dinner--you're spilling the
brandy. The voice is Jacob's voice, but the hands are the hands of Esau.
What does that blessed darkroom of yours want now?"

"There's a Double Anastigmat with a set of supplementary lenses, my
lord," said Bunter, with a note almost of religious fervour. "If it was
a case of forgery now--or footprints--I could enlarge them right up on
the plate. Or the wide-angled lens would be useful. It's as though the
camera had eyes at the back of its head, my lord. Look--I've got it
here."

He pulled a catalogue from his pocket, and submitted it, quivering, to
his employer's gaze.

Lord Peter perused the description slowly, the corners of his long mouth
lifted into a faint smile.

"It's Greek to me," he said, "and 50 seems a ridiculous price for a few
bits of glass. I suppose, Bunter, you'd say 750 was a bit out of the
way for a dirty old book in a dead language, wouldn't you?"

"It wouldn't be in my place to say so, my lord."

"No, Bunter, I pay you 200 a year to keep your thoughts to yourself.
Tell me, Bunter, in these democratic days, don't you think that's
unfair?"

"No, my lord."

"You don't. D'you mind telling me frankly why you don't think it
unfair?"

"Frankly, my lord, your lordship is paid a nobleman's income to take
Lady Worthington in to dinner and refrain from exercising your
lordship's undoubted powers of repartee."

Lord Peter considered this.

"That's your idea, is it, Bunter? _Noblesse oblige_--for a
consideration. I daresay you're right. Then you're better off than I am,
because I'd have to behave myself to Lady Worthington if I hadn't a
penny. Bunter, if I sacked you here and now, would you tell me what you
think of me?"

"No, my lord."

"You'd have a perfect right to, my Bunter, and if I sacked you on top of
drinking the kind of coffee you make, I'd deserve everything you could
say of me. You're a demon for coffee, Bunter--I don't know how you do
it, because I believe it to be witchcraft, and I don't want to burn
eternally. You can buy your cross-eyed lens."

"Thank you, my lord."

"Have you finished in the dining-room?"

"Not quite, my lord."

"Well, come back when you have. I have many things to tell you. Hullo!
who's that?"

The doorbell had rung sharply.

"Unless it's anybody interestin' I'm not at home."

"Very good, my lord."

Lord Peter's library was one of the most delightful bachelor rooms in
London. Its scheme was black and primrose; its walls were lined with
rare editions, and its chairs and Chesterfield sofa suggested the
embraces of the houris. In one corner stood a black baby-grand, a wood
fire leaped on a wide old-fashioned hearth, and the Svres vases on the
chimney-piece were filled with ruddy and gold chrysanthemums. To the
eyes of the young man who was ushered in from the raw November fog it
seemed not only rare and unattainable, but friendly and familiar, like a
colourful and gilded paradise in a medival painting.

"Mr. Parker, my lord."

Lord Peter jumped up with genuine eagerness.

"My dear man, I'm delighted to see you. What a beastly foggy night,
ain't it? Bunter, some more of that admirable coffee and another glass
and the cigars. Parker, I hope you're full of crime--nothing less than
arson or murder will do for us to-night. 'On such a night as this--'
Bunter and I were just sitting down to carouse. I've got a Dante, and a
Caxton folio that is practically unique, at Sir Ralph Brocklebury's
sale. Bunter, who did the bargaining, is going to have a lens which does
all kinds of wonderful things with its eyes shut, and

  _"We both have got a body in a bath,
    We both have got a body in a bath--
      For in spite of all temptations
      To go in for cheap sensations
      We insist upon a body in a bath--_

"Nothing less will do for us, Parker. It's mine at present, but we're
going shares in it. Property of the firm. Won't you join us? You really
must put _something_ in the jack-pot. Perhaps you have a body. Oh, do
have a body. Everybody welcome.

    _"Gin a body meet a body
      Hauled before the beak,
    Gin a body jolly well knows who murdered a
      body and that old Sugg is on the wrong tack,
      Need a body speak?_

"Not a bit of it. He tips a glassy wink at yours truly and yours truly
read the truth."

"Ah," said Parker. "I knew you'd been round to Queen Caroline Mansions.
So've I, and met Sugg, and he told me he'd seen you. He was cross, too.
Unwarrantable interference, he calls it."

"I knew he would," said Lord Peter, "I love taking a rise out of dear
old Sugg, he's always so rude. I see by the _Star_ that he has excelled
himself by taking the girl, Gladys What's-her-name, into custody. Sugg
of the evening, beautiful Sugg! But what were _you_ doing there?"

"To tell you the truth," said Parker, "I went round to see if the
Semitic-looking stranger in Mr. Thipps's bath was by any extraordinary
chance Sir Reuben Levy. But he isn't."

"Sir Reuben Levy? Wait a minute, I saw something about that. I know! A
headline: 'Mysterious disappearance of famous financier.' What's it all
about? I didn't read it carefully."

"Well, it's a bit odd, though I daresay it's nothing really--old chap
may have cleared for some reason best known to himself. It only happened
this morning, and nobody would have thought anything about it, only it
happened to be the day on which he had arranged to attend a most
important financial meeting and do some deal involving millions--I
haven't got all the details. But I know he's got enemies who'd just as
soon the deal didn't come off, so when I got wind of this fellow in the
bath, I buzzed round to have a look at him. It didn't seem likely, of
course, but unlikelier things do happen in our profession. The funny
thing is, old Sugg has got bitten with the idea it _is_ him, and is
wildly telegraphing to Lady Levy to come and identify him. But as a
matter of fact, the man in the bath is no more Sir Reuben Levy than
Adolf Beck, poor devil, was John Smith. Oddly enough, though, he would
be really extraordinarily like Sir Reuben if he had a beard, and as Lady
Levy is abroad with the family, somebody may say it's him, and Sugg will
build up a lovely theory, like the Tower of Babel, and destined so to
perish."

"Sugg's a beautiful, braying ass," said Lord Peter. "He's like a
detective in a novel. Well, I don't know anything about Levy, but I've
seen the body, and I should say the idea was preposterous upon the face
of it. What do you think of the brandy?"

"Unbelievable, Wimsey--sort of thing makes one believe in heaven. But I
want your yarn."

"D'you mind if Bunter hears it, too? Invaluable man, Bunter--amazin'
fellow with a camera. And the odd thing is, he's always on the spot when
I want my bath or my boots. I don't know when he develops things--I
believe he does 'em in his sleep. Bunter!"

"Yes, my lord."

"Stop fiddling about in there, and get yourself the proper things to
drink and join the merry throng."

"Certainly, my lord."

"Mr. Parker has a new trick: The Vanishing Financier. Absolutely no
deception. Hey, presto, pass! and where is he? Will some gentleman from
the audience kindly step upon the platform and inspect the cabinet?
Thank you, sir. The quickness of the 'and deceives the heye."

"I'm afraid mine isn't much of a story," said Parker. "It's just one of
those simple things that offer no handle. Sir Reuben Levy dined last
night with three friends at the Ritz. After dinner the friends went to
the theatre. He refused to go with them on account of an appointment. I
haven't yet been able to trace the appointment, but anyhow, he returned
home to his house--9A Park Lane--at twelve o'clock."

"Who saw him?"

"The cook, who had just gone up to bed, saw him on the doorstep, and
heard him let himself in. He walked upstairs, leaving his greatcoat on
the hall peg and his umbrella in the stand--you remember how it rained
last night. He undressed and went to bed. Next morning he wasn't there.
That's all," said Parker abruptly, with a wave of the hand.

"It isn't all, it isn't all. Daddy, go on, that's not _half_ a story,"
pleaded Lord Peter.

"But it _is_ all. When his man came to call him he wasn't there. The bed
had been slept in. His pyjamas and all his clothes were there, the only
odd thing being that they were thrown rather untidily on the ottoman at
the foot of the bed, instead of being neatly folded on a chair, as is
Sir Reuben's custom--looking as though he had been rather agitated or
unwell. No clean clothes were missing, no suit, no boots--nothing. The
boots he had worn were in his dressing-room as usual. He had washed and
cleaned his teeth and done all the usual things. The housemaid was down
cleaning the hall at half-past six, and can swear that nobody came in or
out after that. So one is forced to suppose that a respectable
middle-aged Hebrew financier either went mad between twelve and six a.m.
and walked quietly out of the house in his birthday suit on a November
night, or else was spirited away like the lady in the _Ingoldsby
Legends_, body and bones, leaving only a heap of crumpled clothes behind
him."

"Was the front door bolted?"

"That's the sort of question you _would_ ask, straight off; it took me
an hour to think of it. No; contrary to custom, there was only the Yale
lock on the door. On the other hand, some of the maids had been given
leave to go to the theatre, and Sir Reuben may quite conceivably have
left the door open under the impression they had not come in. Such a
thing has happened before."

"And that's really all?"

"Really all. Except for one very trifling circumstance."

"I love trifling circumstances," said Lord Peter, with childish delight;
"so many men have been hanged by trifling circumstances. What was it?"

"Sir Reuben and Lady Levy, who are a most devoted couple, always share
the same room. Lady Levy, as I said before, is in Mentone at the moment
for her health. In her absence, Sir Reuben sleeps in the double bed as
usual, and invariably on his own side--the outside--of the bed. Last
night he put the two pillows together and slept in the middle, or, if
anything, rather closer to the wall than otherwise. The housemaid, who
is a most intelligent girl, noticed this when she went up to make the
bed, and, with really admirable detective instinct, refused to touch the
bed or let anybody else touch it, though it wasn't till later that they
actually sent for the police."

"Was nobody in the house but Sir Reuben and the servants?"

"No; Lady Levy was away with her daughter and her maid. The valet, cook,
parlourmaid, housemaid and kitchenmaid were the only people in the
house, and naturally wasted an hour or two squawking and gossiping. I
got there about ten."

"What have you been doing since?"

"Trying to get on the track of Sir Reuben's appointment last night,
since, with the exception of the cook, his 'appointer' was the last
person who saw him before his disappearance. There may be some quite
simple explanation, though I'm dashed if I can think of one for the
moment. Hang it all, a man doesn't come in and go to bed and walk away
again 'mid nodings on' in the middle of the night."

"He may have been disguised."

"I thought of that--in fact, it seems the only possible explanation. But
it's deuced odd, Wimsey. An important city man, on the eve of an
important transaction, without a word of warning to anybody, slips off
in the middle of the night, disguised down to his skin, leaving behind
his watch, purse, cheque-book, and--most mysterious and important of
all--his spectacles, without which he can't see a step, as he is
extremely short-sighted. He----"

"That _is_ important," interrupted Wimsey. "You are sure he didn't take
a second pair?"

"His man vouches for it that he had only two pairs, one of which was
found on his dressing-table, and the other in the drawer where it is
always kept."

Lord Peter whistled.

"You've got me there, Parker. Even if he'd gone out to commit suicide
he'd have taken those."

"So you'd think--or the suicide would have happened the first time he
started to cross the road. However, I didn't overlook the possibility.
I've got particulars of all to-day's street accidents, and I can lay my
hand on my heart and say that none of them is Sir Reuben. Besides, he
took his latchkey with him, which looks as though he'd meant to come
back."

"Have you seen the men he dined with?"

"I found two of them at the club. They said that he seemed in the best
of health and spirits, spoke of looking forward to joining Lady Levy
later on--perhaps at Christmas--and referred with great satisfaction to
this morning's business transaction, in which one of them--a man called
Anderson of Wyndham's--was himself concerned."

"Then up till about nine o'clock, anyhow, he had no apparent intention
or expectation of disappearing."

"None--unless he was a most consummate actor. Whatever happened to
change his mind must have happened either at the mysterious appointment
which he kept after dinner, or while he was in bed between midnight and
5.30 a.m."

"Well, Bunter," said Lord Peter, "what do you make of it?"

"Not in my department, my lord. Except that it is odd that a gentleman
who was too flurried or unwell to fold his clothes as usual should
remember to clean his teeth and put his boots out. Those are two things
that quite frequently get overlooked, my lord."

"If you mean anything personal, Bunter," said Lord Peter, "I can only
say that I think the speech an unworthy one. It's a sweet little
problem, Parker mine. Look here, I don't want to butt in, but I should
dearly love to see that bedroom to-morrow. 'Tis not that I mistrust
thee, dear, but I should uncommonly like to see it. Say me not nay--take
another drop of brandy and a Villary Villar, but say not, say not nay!"

"Of course you can come and see it--you'll probably find lots of things
I've overlooked," said the other, equably, accepting the proffered
hospitality.

"Parker, acushla, you're an honour to Scotland Yard. I look at you, and
Sugg appears a myth, a fable, an idiot-boy, spawned in a moonlight hour
by some fantastic poet's brain. Sugg is too perfect to be possible. What
does he make of the body, by the way?"

"Sugg says," replied Parker, with precision, "that the body died from a
blow on the back of the neck. The doctor told him that. He says it's
been dead a day or two. The doctor told him that, too. He says it's the
body of a well-to-do Hebrew of about fifty. Anybody could have told him
that. He says it's ridiculous to suppose it came in through the window
without anybody knowing anything about it. He says it probably walked in
through the front door and was murdered by the household. He's arrested
the girl because she's short and frail-looking and quite unequal to
downing a tall and sturdy Semite with a poker. He'd arrest Thipps, only
Thipps was away in Manchester all yesterday and the day before and
didn't come back till late last night--in fact, he wanted to arrest him
till I reminded him that if the body had been a day or two dead, little
Thipps couldn't have done him in at 10.30 last night. But he'll arrest
him to-morrow as an accessory--and the old lady with the knitting, too,
I shouldn't wonder."

"Well, I'm glad the little man has so much of an alibi," said Lord
Peter, "though if you're only gluing your faith to cadaveric lividity,
rigidity, and all the other quiddities, you must be prepared to have
some sceptical beast of a prosecuting counsel walk slap-bang through the
medical evidence. Remember Impey Biggs defending in that Chelsea teashop
affair? Six bloomin' medicos contradictin' each other in the box, an'
old Impey elocutin' abnormal cases from Glaister and Dixon Mann till the
eyes of the jury reeled in their heads! 'Are you prepared to swear, Dr.
Thingumtight, that the onset of _rigor mortis_ indicates the hour of
death without the possibility of error?' 'So far as my experience goes,
in the majority of cases,' says the doctor, all stiff. 'Ah!' says Biggs,
'but this is a Court of Justice, Doctor, not a Parliamentary election.
We can't get on without a minority report. The law, Dr. Thingumtight,
respects the rights of the minority, alive or dead.' Some ass laughs,
and old Biggs sticks his chest out and gets impressive. 'Gentlemen, this
is no laughing matter. My client--an upright and honourable
gentleman--is being tried for his life--for his life, gentlemen--and it
is the business of the prosecution to show his guilt--if they
can--without a shadow of doubt. Now, Dr. Thingumtight, I ask you again,
can you solemnly swear, without the least shadow of doubt--probable,
possible shadow of doubt--that this unhappy woman met her death neither
sooner nor later than Thursday evening? A probable opinion? Gentlemen,
we are not Jesuits, we are straightforward Englishmen. You cannot ask a
British-born jury to convict any man on the authority of a probable
opinion.' Hum of applause."

"Biggs' man was guilty all the same," said Parker.

"Of course he was. But he was acquitted all the same, an' what you've
just said is libel," Wimsey walked over to the bookshelf and took down a
volume of Medical Jurisprudence. "'_Rigor mortis_--can only be stated in
a very general way--many factors determine the result.' Cautious brute.
'On the average, however, stiffening will have begun--neck and jaw--5 to
6 hours after death'--m'm--'in all likelihood have passed off in the
bulk of cases by the end of 36 hours. Under certain circumstances,
however, it may appear unusually early, or be retarded unusually long'!
Helpful, ain't it, Parker? 'Brown-Squard states ... 3-1/2 minutes after
death.... In certain cases not until lapse of 16 hours after death ...
present as long as 21 days thereafter.' Lord! 'Modifying
factors--age--muscular state--or febrile diseases--or where temperature
of environment is high'--and so on and so on--any bloomin' thing. Never
mind. You can run the argument for what it's worth to Sugg. _He_ won't
know any better." He tossed the book away. "Come back to facts. What did
_you_ make of the body?"

"Well," said the detective, "not very much--I was puzzled--frankly. I
should say he had been a rich man, but self-made, and that his good
fortune had come to him fairly recently."

"Ah, you noticed the calluses on the hands--I thought you wouldn't miss
that."

"Both his feet were badly blistered--he had been wearing tight shoes."

"Walking a long way in them, too," said Lord Peter, "to get such
blisters as that. Didn't that strike you as odd, in a person evidently
well off?"

"Well, I don't know. The blisters were two or three days old. He might
have got stuck in the suburbs one night, perhaps--last train gone and no
taxi--and had to walk home."

"Possibly."

"There were some little red marks all over his back and one leg I
couldn't quite account for."

"I saw them."

"What did you make of them?"

"I'll tell you afterwards. Go on."

"He was very long-sighted--oddly long-sighted for a man in the prime of
life; the glasses were like a very old man's. By the way, they had a
very beautiful and remarkable chain of flat links chased with a pattern.
It struck me he might be traced through it."

"I've just put an advertisement in _The Times_ about it," said Lord
Peter. "Go on."

"He had had the glasses some time--they had been mended twice."

"Beautiful, Parker, beautiful. Did you realise the importance of that?"

"Not specially, I'm afraid--why?"

"Never mind--go on."

"He was probably a sullen, ill-tempered man--his nails were filed down
to the quick as though he habitually bit them, and his fingers were
bitten as well. He smoked quantities of cigarettes without a holder. He
was particular about his personal appearance."

"Did you examine the room at all? I didn't get a chance."

"I couldn't find much in the way of footprints. Sugg & Co. had tramped
all over the place, to say nothing of little Thipps and the maid, but I
noticed a very indefinite patch just behind the head of the bath, as
though something damp might have stood there. You could hardly call it a
print."

"It rained hard all last night, of course."

"Yes; did you notice that the soot on the window-sill was vaguely
marked?"

"I did," said Wimsey, "and I examined it hard with this little fellow,
but I could make nothing of it except that something or other had rested
on the sill." He drew out his monocle and handed it to Parker.

"My word, that's a powerful lens."

"It is," said Wimsey, "and jolly useful when you want to take a good
squint at somethin' and look like a bally fool all the time. Only it
don't do to wear it permanently--if people see you full-face they say:
'Dear me! how weak the sight of that eye must be!' Still, it's useful."

"Sugg and I explored the ground at the back of the building," went on
Parker, "but there wasn't a trace."

"That's interestin'. Did you try the roof?"

"No."

"We'll go over it to-morrow. The gutter's only a couple of feet off the
top of the window. I measured it with my stick--the gentleman-scout's
vade-mecum, I call it--it's marked off in inches. Uncommonly handy
companion at times. There's a sword inside and a compass in the head.
Got it made specially. Anything more?"

"Afraid not. Let's hear your version, Wimsey."

"Well, I think you've got most of the points. There are just one or two
little contradictions. For instance, here's a man wears expensive
gold-rimmed pince-nez and has had them long enough to be mended twice.
Yet his teeth are not merely discoloured, but badly decayed and look as
if he'd never cleaned them in his life. There are four molars missing on
one side and three on the other and one front tooth broken right across.
He's a man careful of his personal appearance, as witness his hair and
his hands. What do you say to that?"

"Oh, these self-made men of low origin don't think much about teeth, and
are terrified of dentists."

"True; but one of the molars has a broken edge so rough that it had made
a sore place on the tongue. Nothing's more painful. D'you mean to tell
me a man would put up with that if he could afford to get the tooth
filed?"

"Well, people are queer. I've known servants endure agonies rather than
step over a dentist's door-mat. How did you see that, Wimsey?"

"Had a look inside; electric torch," said Lord Peter. "Handy little
gadget. Looks like a matchbox. Well--I daresay it's all right, but I
just draw your attention to it. Second point: Gentleman with hair
smellin' of Parma violet and manicured hands and all the rest of it,
never washes inside his ears. Full of wax. Nasty."

"You've got me there, Wimsey; I never noticed it. Still--old bad habits
die hard."

"Right oh! Put it down at that. Third point: Gentleman with the manicure
and the brilliantine and all the rest of it suffers from fleas."

"By Jove, you're right! Flea-bites. It never occurred to me."

"No doubt about it, old son. The marks were faint and old, but
unmistakable."

"Of course, now you mention it. Still, that might happen to anybody. I
loosed a whopper in the best hotel in Lincoln the week before last. I
hope it bit the next occupier!"

"Oh, all these things _might_ happen to anybody--separately. Fourth
point: Gentleman who uses Parma violet for his hair, etc., etc., washes
his body in strong carbolic soap--so strong that the smell hangs about
twenty-four hours later."

"Carbolic to get rid of the fleas."

"I will say for you, Parker, you've an answer for everything. Fifth
point: Carefully got-up gentleman, with manicured, though masticated,
finger-nails, has filthy black toenails which look as if they hadn't
been cut for years."

"All of a piece with habits as indicated."

"Yes, I know, but such habits! Now, sixth, and last point: This
gentleman with the intermittently gentlemanly habits arrives in the
middle of a pouring wet night, and apparently through the window, when
he has already been twenty-four hours dead, and lies down quietly in Mr.
Thipps's bath, unseasonably dressed in a pair of pince-nez. Not a hair on
his head is ruffled--the hair has been cut to recently that there are
quite a number of little short hairs stuck on his neck and the sides of
the bath--and he has shaved so recently that there is a line of dried
soap on his cheek--"

"Wimsey!"

"Wait a minute--and _dried soap in his mouth_."

Bunter got up and appeared suddenly at the detective's elbow, the
respectful man-servant all over.

"A little more brandy, sir?" he murmured.

"Wimsey," said Parker, "you are making me feel cold all over." He
emptied his glass--stared at it as though he were surprised to find it
empty, set it down, got up, walked across to the bookcase, turned round,
stood with his back against it and said:

"Look here, Wimsey--you've been reading detective stories, you're
talking nonsense."

"No, I ain't," said Lord Peter, sleepily, "uncommon good incident for a
detective story, though, what? Bunter, we'll write one, and you shall
illustrate it with photographs."

"Soap in his--Rubbish!" said Parker. "It was something else--some
discoloration--"

"No," said Lord Peter, "there were hairs as well. Bristly ones. He had a
beard."

He took his watch from his pocket, and drew out a couple of longish,
stiff hairs, which he had imprisoned between the inner and the outer
case.

Parker turned them over once or twice in his fingers, looked at them
close to the light, examined them with a lens, handed them to the
impassible Bunter, and said:

"Do you mean to tell me, Wimsey, that any man alive would"--he laughed
harshly--"shave off his beard with his mouth open, and then go and get
killed with his mouth full of hairs? You're mad."

"I don't tell you so," said Wimsey. "You policemen are all alike--only
one idea in your skulls. Blest if I can make out why you're ever
appointed. He was shaved after he was dead. Pretty, ain't it? Uncommonly
jolly little job for the barber, what? Here, sit down, man, and don't be
an ass, stumpin' about the room like that. Worse things happen in war.
This is only a blinkin' old shillin' shocker. But I'll tell you what,
Parker, we're up against a criminal--_the_ criminal--the real artist and
blighter with imagination--real, artistic, finished stuff. I'm enjoying
this, Parker."




CHAPTER III


Lord Peter finished a Scarlatti sonata, and sat looking thoughtfully at
his own hands. The fingers were long and muscular, with wide, flat
joints and square tips. When he was playing his rather hard grey eyes
softened, and his long, indeterminate mouth hardened in compensation. At
no other time had he any pretensions to good looks, and at all times he
was spoilt by a long, narrow chin, and a long, receding forehead,
accentuated by the brushed-back sleekness of his tow-coloured hair.
Labour papers, softening down the chin, caricatured him as a typical
aristocrat.

"That's a wonderful instrument," said Parker.

"It ain't so bad," said Lord Peter, "but Scarlatti wants a harpsichord.
Piano's too modern--all thrills and overtones. No good for our job,
Parker. Have you come to any conclusion?"

"The man in the bath," said Parker, methodically, "was _not_ a well-off
man careful of his personal appearance. He was a labouring man,
unemployed, but who had only recently lost his employment. He had been
tramping about looking for a job when he met with his end. Somebody
killed him and washed him and scented him and shaved him in order to
disguise him, and put him into Thipps's bath without leaving a trace.
Conclusion: the murderer was a powerful man, since he killed him with a
single blow on the neck, a man of cool head and masterly intellect,
since he did all that ghastly business without leaving a mark, a man of
wealth and refinement, since he had all the apparatus of an elegant
toilet handy, and a man of bizarre, and almost perverted imagination, as
is shown in the two horrible touches of putting the body in the bath and
of adorning it with a pair of pince-nez."

"He is a poet of crime," said Wimsey. "By the way, your difficulty
about the pince-nez is cleared up. Obviously, the pince-nez never
belonged to the body."

"That only makes a fresh puzzle. One can't suppose the murderer left
them in that obliging manner as a clue to his own identity."

"We can hardly suppose that: I'm afraid this man possessed what most
criminals lack--a sense of humour."

"Rather macabre humour."

"True. But a man who can afford to be humorous at all in such
circumstances is a terrible fellow. I wonder what he did with the body
between the murder and depositing it _chez_ Thipps. Then there are more
questions. How did he get it there? And why? Was it brought in at the
door, as Sugg of our heart suggests? or through the window, as we think,
on the not very adequate testimony of a smudge on the window-sill? Had
the murderer accomplices? Is little Thipps really in it, or the girl? It
don't do to put the notion out of court merely because Sugg inclines to
it. Even idiots occasionally speak the truth accidentally. If not, why
was Thipps selected for such an abominable practical joke? Has anybody
got a grudge against Thipps? Who are the people in the other flats? We
must find out that. Does Thipps play the piano at midnight over their
heads or damage the reputation of the staircase by bringing home
dubiously respectable ladies? Are there unsuccessful architects
thirsting for his blood? Damn it all, Parker, there must be a motive
somewhere. Can't have a crime without a motive, you know."

"A madman--" suggested Parker, doubtfully.

"With a deuced lot of method in his madness. He hasn't made a
mistake--not one, unless leaving hairs in the corpse's mouth can be
called a mistake. Well, anyhow, it's not Levy--you're right there. I
say, old thing, neither your man nor mine has left much clue to go upon,
has he? And there don't seem to be any motives knockin' about, either.
And we seem to be two suits of clothes short in last night's work. Sir
Reuben makes tracks without so much as a fig-leaf, and a mysterious
individual turns up with a pince-nez, which is quite useless for
purposes of decency. Dash it all! If only I had some good excuse for
takin' up this body case officially--"

The telephone bell rang. The silent Bunter, whom the other two had
almost forgotten, padded across to it.

"It's an elderly lady, my lord," he said, "I think she's deaf--I can't
make her hear anything, but she's asking for your lordship."

Lord Peter seized the receiver, and yelled into it a "Hullo!" that might
have cracked the vulcanite. He listened for some minutes with an
incredulous smile, which gradually broadened into a grin of delight. At
length he screamed: "All right! all right!" several times, and rang off.

"By Jove!" he announced, beaming, "sportin' old bird! It's old Mrs.
Thipps. Deaf as a post. Never used the 'phone before. But determined.
Perfect Napoleon. The incomparable Sugg has made a discovery and
arrested little Thipps. Old lady abandoned in the flat. Thipps's last
shriek to her: 'Tell Lord Peter Wimsey.' Old girl undaunted. Wrestles
with telephone book. Wakes up the people at the exchange. Won't take no
for an answer (not bein' able to hear it), gets through, says: 'Will I
do what I can?' Says she would feel safe in the hands of a real
gentleman. Oh, Parker, Parker! I could kiss her, I reely could, as
Thipps says. I'll write to her instead--no, hang it, Parker, we'll go
round. Bunter, get your infernal machine and the magnesium. I say, we'll
go into partner-ship--pool the two cases and work 'em out together. You
shall see my body to-night, Parker, and I'll look for your wandering Jew
to-morrow. I feel so happy, I shall explode. O Sugg, Sugg, how art thou
suggfied! Bunter, my shoes. I say, Parker, I suppose yours are
rubber-soled. Not? Tut, tut, you mustn't go out like that. We'll lend
you a pair. Gloves? Here. My stick, my torch, the lampblack, the
forceps, knife, pill-boxes--all complete?"

"Certainly, my lord."

"Oh, Bunter, don't look so offended. I mean no harm. I believe in you, I
trust you--what money have I got? That'll do. I knew a man once, Parker,
who let a world-famous poisoner slip through his fingers, because the
machine on the Underground took nothing but pennies. There was a queue
at the booking office and the man at the barrier stopped him, and while
they were arguing about accepting a five-pound-note (which was all he
had) for a twopenny ride to Baker Street, the criminal had sprung into a
Circle train, and was next heard of in Constantinople, disguised as an
elderly Church of England clergyman touring with his niece. Are we all
ready? Go!"

They stepped out, Bunter carefully switching off the lights behind them.

     *     *     *     *     *

As they emerged into the gloom and gleam of Piccadilly, Wimsey stopped
short with a little exclamation.

"Wait a second," he said, "I've thought of something. If Sugg's there
he'll make trouble. I must short-circuit him."

He ran back, and the other two men employed a few minutes of his absence
in capturing a taxi.

Inspector Sugg and a subordinate Cerberus were on guard at 59 Queen
Caroline Mansions, and showed no disposition to admit unofficial
inquirers. Parker, indeed, they could not easily turn away, but Lord
Peter found himself confronted with a surly manner and what Lord
Beaconsfield described as a masterly inactivity. It was in vain that
Lord Peter pleaded that he had been retained by Mrs. Thipps on behalf of
her son.

"Retained!" said Inspector Sugg, with a snort, "_she'll_ be retained if
she doesn't look out. Shouldn't wonder if she wasn't in it herself,
only she's so deaf, she's no good for anything at all."

"Look here, Inspector," said Lord Peter, "what's the use of bein' so
bally obstructive? You'd much better let me in--you know I'll get there
in the end. Dash it all, it's not as if I was takin' the bread out of
your children's mouths. Nobody paid me for finding Lord Attenbury's
emeralds for you."

"It's my duty to keep out the public," said Inspector Sugg, morosely,
"and it's going to stay out."

"I never said anything about your keeping out of the public," said Lord
Peter, easily, sitting down on the staircase to thrash the matter out
comfortably, "though I've no doubt pussyfoot's a good thing, on
principle, if not exaggerated. The golden mean, Sugg, as Aristotle says,
keeps you from bein' a golden ass. Ever been a golden ass, Sugg? I have.
It would take a whole rose-garden to cure me, Sugg----

    _You are my garden of beautiful roses,
     My own rose, my one rose, that's you!_"

"I'm not going to stay any longer talking to you," said the harassed
Sugg, "it's bad enough--hullo, drat that telephone. Here, Cawthorn, go
and see what it is, if that old catamaran will let you into the room.
Shutting herself up there and screaming," said the inspector, "it's
enough to make a man give up crime and take to hedging and ditching."

The constable came back:

"It's from the Yard, sir," he said, coughing apologetically, "the Chief
says every facility is to be given to Lord Peter Wimsey, sir. Um!" He
stood apart non-committally, glazing his eyes.

"Five aces," said Lord Peter, cheerfully. "The Chief's a dear friend of
my mother's. No go, Sugg, it's no good buckin' you've got a full house.
I'm goin' to make it a bit fuller."

He walked in with his followers.

The body had been removed a few hours previously, and when the bathroom
and the whole flat had been explored by the naked eye and the camera of
the competent Bunter, it became evident that the real problem of the
household was old Mrs. Thipps. Her son and servant had both been
removed, and it appeared that they had no friends in town, beyond a few
business acquaintances of Thipps's, whose very addresses the old lady
did not know. The other flats in the building were occupied respectively
by a family of seven, at present departed to winter abroad, an elderly
Indian colonel of ferocious manners, who lived alone with an Indian
man-servant, and a highly respectable family on the third floor, whom
the disturbance over their heads had outraged to the last degree. The
husband, indeed, when appealed to by Lord Peter, showed a little human
weakness, but Mrs. Appledore, appearing suddenly in a warm
dressing-gown, extricated him from the difficulties into which he was
carelessly wandering.

"I am sorry," she said, "I'm afraid we can't interfere in any way. This
is a very unpleasant business, Mr.---- I'm afraid I didn't catch your
name, and we have always found it better not to be mixed up with the
police. Of course, _if_ the Thippses are innocent, and I am sure I hope
they are, it is very unfortunate for them, but I must say that the
circumstances seem to me most suspicious, and to Theophilus too, and I
should not like to have it said that we had assisted murderers. We might
even be supposed to be accessories. Of course you are young, Mr.----"

"This is Lord Peter Wimsey, my dear," said Theophilus mildly.

She was unimpressed.

"Ah, yes," she said, "I believe you are distantly related to my late
cousin, the Bishop of Carisbrooke. Poor man! He was always being taken
in by impostors; he died without ever learning any better. I imagine you
take after him, Lord Peter."

"I doubt it," said Lord Peter. "So far as I know he is only a
connection, though it's a wise child that knows its own father. I
congratulate you, dear lady, on takin' after the other side of the
family. You'll forgive my buttin' in upon you like this in the middle of
the night, though, as you say, it's all in the family, and I'm sure I'm
very much obliged to you, and for permittin' me to admire that awfully
fetchin' thing you've got on. Now, don't you worry, Mr. Appledore. I'm
thinkin' the best thing I can do is to trundle the old lady down to my
mother and take her out of your way, otherwise you might be findin' your
Christian feelin's gettin' the better of you some fine day, and there's
nothin' like Christian feelin's for upsettin' a man's domestic comfort.
Good-night, sir--good-night, dear lady--it's simply rippin' of you to
let me drop in like this."

"Well!" said Mrs. Appledore, as the door closed behind him.

And----

    "_I thank the goodness and the grace
      That on my birth have smiled_,"

said Lord Peter, "and taught me to be bestially impertinent when I
choose. Cat!"

Two a.m. saw Lord Peter Wimsey arrive in a friend's car at the Dower
House, Denver Castle, in company with a deaf and aged lady and an
antique portmanteau.

     *     *     *     *     *

"It's very nice to see you, dear," said the Dowager Duchess, placidly.
She was a small, plump woman, with perfectly white hair and exquisite
hands. In feature she was as unlike her second son as she was like him
in character; her black eyes twinkled cheerfully, and her manners and
movements were marked with a neat and rapid decision. She wore a
charming wrap from Liberty's, and sat watching Lord Peter eat cold beef
and cheese as though his arrival in such incongruous circumstances and
company were the most ordinary event possible, which with him, indeed,
it was.

"Have you got the old lady to bed?" asked Lord Peter.

"Oh, yes, dear. Such a striking old person, isn't she? And very
courageous. She tells me she has never been in a motor-car before. But
she thinks you a very nice lad, dear--that careful of her, you remind
her of her own son. Poor little Mr. Thipps--whatever made your friend
the inspector think he could have murdered anybody?"

"My friend the inspector--no, no more, thank you, Mother--is determined
to prove that the intrusive person in Thipps's bath is Sir Reuben Levy,
who disappeared mysteriously from his house last night. His line of
reasoning is: We've lost a middle-aged gentleman without any clothes on
in Park Lane; we've found a middle-aged gentleman without any clothes on
in Battersea. Therefore they're one and the same person, Q.E.D., and put
little Thipps in quod."

"You're very elliptical, dear," said the Duchess, mildly. "Why should
Mr. Thipps be arrested even if they are the same?"

"Sugg must arrest somebody," said Lord Peter, "but there is one odd
little bit of evidence come out which goes a long way to support Sugg's
theory, only that I know it to be no go by the evidence of my own eyes.
Last night at about 9.15 a young woman was strollin' up the Battersea
Park Road for purposes best known to herself, when she saw a gentleman
in a fur coat and top-hat saunterin' along under an umbrella, lookin' at
the names of all the streets. He looked a bit out of place, so, not
bein' a shy girl, you see, she walked up to him, and said:
'Good-evening.' 'Can you tell me, please,' says the mysterious stranger,
'whether this street leads into Prince of Wales Road?' She said it did,
and further asked him in a jocular manner what he was doing with himself
and all the rest of it, only she wasn't altogether so explicit about
that part of the conversation, because she was unburdenin' her heart to
Sugg, d'you see, and he's paid by a grateful country to have very pure,
high-minded ideals, what? Anyway, the old boy said he couldn't attend to
her just then as he had an appointment. 'I've got to go and see a man,
my dear,' was how she said he put it, and he walked on up Alexandra
Avenue toward Prince of Wales Road. She was starin' after him, still
rather surprised, when she was joined by a friend of hers, who said:
'It's no good wasting your time with him--that's Levy--I knew him when I
lived in the West End, and the girls used to call him Seagreen
Incorruptible'--friend's name suppressed, owing to implications of
story, but girl vouches for what was said. She thought no more about it
till the milkman brought news this morning of the excitement at Queen
Caroline Mansions; then she went round, though not likin' the police as
a rule, and asked the man there whether the dead gentleman had a beard
and glasses. Told he had glasses but no beard, she incautiously said:
'Oh, then, it isn't him,' and the man said: 'Isn't who?' and collared
her. That's her story, Sugg's delighted, of course, and quodded Thipps
on the strength of it."

"Dear me," said the Duchess. "I hope the poor girl won't get into
trouble."

"Shouldn't think so," said Lord Peter. "Thipps is the one that's going
to get it in the neck. Besides, he's done a silly thing. I got that out
of Sugg, too, though he was sittin' tight on the information. Seems
Thipps got into a confusion about the train he took back from
Manchester. Said first he got home at 10.30. Then they pumped Gladys
Horrocks, who let out he wasn't back till after 11.45. Then Thipps,
bein' asked to explain the discrepancy, stammers and bungles and says,
first that he missed the train. Then Sugg makes inquiries at St. Pancras
and discovers that he left a bag in the cloakroom there at ten. Thipps,
again asked to explain, stammers worse an' says he walked about for a
few hours--met a friend--can't say who--didn't meet a friend--can't say
what he did with his time--can't explain why he didn't go back for his
bag--can't say what time he _did_ get in--can't explain how he got a
bruise on his forehead. In fact, can't explain himself at all. Gladys
Horrocks interrogated again. Says, this time Thipps came in at 10.30.
Then admits she didn't hear him come in. Can't say why she didn't hear
him come in. Can't say why she said first of all that she _did_ hear
him. Burst into tears. Contradicts herself. Everybody's suspicion
roused. Quod 'em both."

"As you put it, dear," said the Duchess, "it all sounds very confusing,
and not quite respectable. Poor little Mr. Thipps would be terribly
upset by anything that wasn't respectable."

"I wonder what he did with himself," said Lord Peter thoughtfully. "I
really don't think he was committing a murder. Besides, I believe the
fellow had been dead a day or two, though it don't do to build too much
on doctor's evidence. It's an entertainin' little problem."

"Very curious, dear. But so sad about poor Sir Reuben. I must write a
few lines to Lady Levy; I used to know her quite well, you know, dear,
down in Hampshire, when she was a girl. Christine Ford, she was then,
and I remember so well the dreadful trouble there was about her marrying
a Jew. That was before he made his money, of course, in that oil
business out in America. The family wanted her to marry Julian Freke,
who did so well afterwards and was connected with the family, but she
fell in love with this Mr. Levy and eloped with him. He was very
handsome, then, you know, dear, in a foreign-looking way, but he hadn't
any means, and the Fords didn't like his religion. Of course we're all
Jews nowadays, and they wouldn't have minded so much if he'd pretended
to be something else, like that Mr. Simons we met at Mrs. Porchester's,
who always tells everybody that he got his nose in Italy at the
Renaissance, and claims to be descended somehow or other from La Bella
Simonetta--so foolish, you know, dear--as if anybody believed it; and
I'm sure some Jews are very good people, and personally I'd much rather
they believed something, though of course it must be very inconvenient,
what with not working on Saturdays and circumcising the poor little
babies and everything depending on the new moon and that funny kind of
meat they have with such a slang-sounding name, and never being able to
have bacon for breakfast. Still, there it was, and it was much better
for the girl to marry him if she was really fond of him, though I
believe young Freke was really devoted to her, and they're still great
friends. Not that there was ever a real engagement, only a sort of
understanding with her father, but he's never married, you know, and
lives all by himself in that big house next to the hospital, though he's
very rich and distinguished now, and I know ever so many people have
tried to get hold of him--there was Lady Mainwaring wanted him for that
eldest girl of hers, though I remember saying at the time it was no use
expecting a surgeon to be taken in by a figure that was all
padding--they have so many opportunities of judging, you know, dear."

"Lady Levy seems to have had the knack of makin' people devoted to her,"
said Peter. "Look at the sea-green incorruptible Levy."

"That's quite true, dear; she was a most delightful girl, and they say
her daughter is just like her. I rather lost sight of them when she
married, and you know your father didn't care much about business
people, but I know everybody always said they were a model couple. In
fact it was a proverb that Sir Reuben was as well loved at home as he
was hated abroad. I don't mean in foreign countries, you know,
dear--just the proverbial way of putting things--like 'a saint abroad
and a devil at home'--only the other way on, reminding one of the
_Pilgrim's Progress_."

"Yes," said Peter, "I daresay the old man made one or two enemies."

"Dozens, dear--such a dreadful place, the City, isn't it? Everybody
Ishmaels together--though I don't suppose Sir Reuben would like to be
called that, would he? Doesn't it mean illegitimate, or not a proper
Jew, anyway? I always did get confused with those Old Testament
characters."

Lord Peter laughed and yawned.

"I think I'll turn in for an hour or two," he said. "I must be back in
town at eight--Parker's coming to breakfast."

The Duchess looked at the clock, which marked five minutes to three.

"I'll send up your breakfast at half-past six, dear," she said. "I hope
you'll find everything all right. I told them just to slip a hot-water
bottle in; those linen sheets are so chilly; you can put it out if it's
in your way."




CHAPTER IV


"----So there it is, Parker," said Lord Peter, pushing his coffee-cup
aside and lighting his after-breakfast pipe; "you may find it leads you
to something, though it don't seem to get me any further with my
bathroom problem. Did you do anything more at that after I left?"

"No; but I've been on the roof this morning."

"The deuce you have--what an energetic devil you are! I say, Parker, I
think this co-operative scheme is an uncommonly good one. It's much
easier to work on someone else's job than one's own--gives one that
delightful feelin' of interferin' and bossin' about, combined with the
glorious sensation that another fellow is takin' all one's own work off
one's hands. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours, what? Did you
find anything?"

"Not very much. I looked for any footmarks of course, but naturally,
with all this rain, there wasn't a sign. Of course, if this were a
detective story, there'd been have a convenient shower exactly an hour
before the crime and a beautiful set of marks which could only have come
there between two and three in the morning, but this being real life in
a London November, you might as well expect footprints in Niagara. I
searched the roofs right along--and came to the jolly conclusion that
any person in any blessed flat in the blessed row might have done it.
All the staircases open on to the roof and the leads are quite flat; you
can walk along as easy as along Shaftesbury Avenue. Still, I've got some
evidence that the body did walk along there."

"What's that?"

Parker brought out his pocket-book and extracted a few shreds of
material, which he laid before his friend.

"One was caught in the gutter just above Thipps's bathroom window,
another in a crack of the stone parapet just over it, and the rest came
from the chimney-stack behind, where they had caught in an iron
stanchion. What do you make of them?"

Lord Peter scrutinised them very carefully through his lens.

"Interesting," he said, "damned interesting. Have you developed those
plates, Bunter?" he added, as that discreet assistant came in with the
post.

"Yes, my lord."

"Caught anything?"

"I don't know whether to call it anything or not, my lord," said Bunter,
dubiously. "I'll bring the prints in."

"Do," said Wimsey. "Hallo! here's our advertisement about the gold chain
in _The Times_--very nice it looks: 'Write, 'phone or call 110A
Piccadilly.' Perhaps it would have been safer to put a box number,
though I always think that the franker you are with people, the more
you're likely to deceive 'em; so unused is the modern world to the open
hand and the guileless heart, what?"

"But you don't think the fellow who left that chain on the body is going
to give himself away by coming here and inquiring about it?"

"I don't, fathead," said Lord Peter, with the easy politeness of the
real aristocracy, "that's why I've tried to get hold of the jeweller who
originally sold the chain. See?" He pointed to the paragraph. "It's not
an old chain--hardly worn at all. Oh, thanks, Bunter. Now, see here,
Parker, these are the finger-marks you noticed yesterday on the
window-sash and on the far edge of the bath. I'd overlooked them; I give
you full credit for the discovery. I crawl, I grovel, my name is Watson,
and you need not say what you were just going to say, because I admit it
all. Now we shall----Hullo, hullo, hullo!"

The three men stared at the photographs.

"The criminal," said Lord Peter, bitterly, "climbed over the roofs in
the wet and not unnaturally got soot on his fingers. He arranged the
body in the bath, and wiped away all traces of himself except two, which
he obligingly left to show us how to do our job. We learn from a smudge
on the floor that he wore india-rubber boots, and from this admirable
set of finger-prints on the edge of the bath that he had the usual
number of fingers and wore rubber gloves. That's the kind of man he is.
Take the fool away, gentlemen."

He put the prints aside, and returned to an examination of the shreds of
material in his hand. Suddenly he whistled softly.

"Do you make anything of these, Parker?"

"They seemed to me to be ravellings of some coarse cotton stuff--a
sheet, perhaps, or an improvised rope."

"Yes," said Lord Peter--"yes. It may be a mistake--it may be _our_
mistake. I wonder. Tell me, d'you think these tiny threads are long
enough and strong enough to hang a man?"

He was silent, his long eyes narrowing into slits behind the smoke of
his pipe.

"What do you suggest doing this morning?" asked Parker.

"Well," said Lord Peter, "it seems to me it's about time I took a hand
in your job. Let's go round to Park Lane and see what larks Sir Reuben
Levy was up to in bed last night."

     *     *     *     *     *

"And now, Mrs. Pemming, if you would be so kind as give me a blanket,"
said Mr. Bunter, coming down into the kitchen, "and permit of me hanging
a sheet across the lower part of this window, and drawing the screen
across here, so--so as to shut off any reflections, if you understand
me, we'll get to work."

Sir Reuben Levy's cook, with her eyes upon Mr. Bunter's gentlemanly and
well-tailored appearance, hastened to produce what was necessary. Her
visitor placed on the table a basket, containing a water-bottle, a
silver-backed hair-brush, a pair of boots, a small roll of linoleum, and
the _Letter of a Self-made Merchant to His Son_, bound in polished
morocco. He drew an umbrella from beneath his arm and added it to the
collection. He then advanced a ponderous photographic machine and set it
up in the neighbourhood of the kitchen range; then, spreading a
newspaper over the fair, scrubbed surface of the table, he began to roll
up his sleeves and insinuate himself into a pair of surgical gloves. Sir
Reuben Levy's valet, entering at the moment and finding him thus
engaged, put aside the kitchenmaid, who was staring from a front-row
position, and inspected the apparatus critically. Mr. Bunter nodded
brightly to him, and uncorked a small bottle of grey powder.

"Odd sort of fish, your employer, isn't he?" said the valet, carelessly.

"Very singular, indeed," said Mr. Bunter. "Now, my dear," he added,
ingratiatingly, to the parlour maid, "I wonder if you'd just pour a
little of this grey powder over the edge of the bottle while I'm holding
it--and the same with this boot--here, at the top--thank you, Miss--what
is your name? Price? Oh, but you've got another name besides Price,
haven't you? Mabel, eh? That's a name I'm uncommonly partial to--that's
very nicely done, you've a steady hand, Miss Mabel--see that? That's the
finger-marks--three there, and two here, and smudged over in both
places. No, don't you touch 'em, my dear, or you'll rub the bloom off.
We'll stand 'em up here till they're ready to have their portraits
taken. Now then, let's take the hair-brush next. Perhaps, Mrs. Pemming,
you'd like to lift him up very carefully by the bristles."

"By the bristles, Mr. Bunter?"

"If you please, Mrs. Pemming--and lay him here. Now, Miss Mabel, another
little exhibition of your skill, _if_ you please. No--we'll try
lampblack this time. Perfect. Couldn't have done it better myself. Ah!
there's a beautiful set. No smudges this time. That'll interest his
lordship. Now the little book--no, I'll pick that up myself--with these
gloves, you see, and by the edges--I'm a careful criminal, Mrs. Pemming,
I don't want to leave any traces. Dust the cover all over, Miss Mabel;
now this side--that's the way to do it. Lots of prints and no smudges.
All according to plan. Oh, please, Mr. Graves, you mustn't touch
it--it's as much as my place is worth to have it touched."

"D'you have to do much of this sort of thing?" inquired Mr. Graves, from
a superior standpoint.

"Any amount," replied Mr. Bunter, with a groan calculated to appeal to
Mr. Graves's heart and unlock his confidence. "If you'd kindly hold one
end of this bit of linoleum. Mrs. Pemming, I'll hold up this end while
Miss Mabel operates. Yes, Mr. Graves, it's a hard life, valeting by day
and developing by night--morning tea at any time from 6.30 to 11, and
criminal investigation at all hours. It's wonderful, the ideas these
rich men with nothing to do get into their heads."

"I wonder you stand it," said Mr. Graves. "Now there's none of that
here. A quiet, orderly, domestic life, Mr. Bunter, has much to be said
for it. Meals at regular hours; decent, respectable families to
dinner--none of your painted women--and no valeting at night, there's
_much_ to be said for it. I don't hold with Hebrews as a rule, Mr.
Bunter, and of course I understand that you may find it to your
advantage to be in a titled family, but there's less thought of that
these days, and I will say, for a self-made man, no one could call Sir
Reuben vulgar, and my lady at any rate is county--Miss Ford, she was,
one of the Hampshire Fords, and both of them always most considerate."

"I agree with you, Mr. Graves--his lordship and me have never held with
being narrow-minded--why, yes, my dear, of course it's a footmark, this
is the washstand linoleum. A good Jew can be a good man, that's what
I've always said. And regular hours and considerate habits have a great
deal to recommend them. Very simple in his tastes, now, Sir Reuben,
isn't he? for such a rich man, I mean."

"Very simple indeed," said the cook, "the meals he and her ladyship have
when they're by themselves with Miss Rachel--well, there now--if it
wasn't for the dinners, which is always good when there's company, I'd
be wastin' my talents and education here, if you understand me, Mr.
Bunter."

Mr. Bunter added the handle of the umbrella to his collection, and began
to pin a sheet across the window, aided by the housemaid.

"Admirable," said he. "Now, if I might have this blanket on the table
and another on a towel-horse or something of that kind by way of a
background--you're very kind, Mrs. Pemming.... Ah! I wish his lordship
never wanted valeting at night. Many's the time I've sat up till three
and four, and up again to call him early to go off Sherlocking at the
other end of the country. And the mud he gets on his clothes and his
boots!"

"I'm sure it's a shame, Mr. Bunter," said Mrs. Pemming, warmly. "Low, I
calls it. In my opinion, police-work ain't no fit occupation for a
gentleman, let alone a lordship."

"Everything made so difficult, too," said Mr. Bunter, nobly sacrificing
his employer's character and his own feelings in a good cause; "boots
chucked into a corner, clothes hung up on the floor, as they say----"

"That's often the case with these men as are born with a silver spoon in
their mouths," said Mr. Graves. "Now, Sir Reuben, he's never lost his
good, old-fashioned habits. Clothes folded up neat, boots put out in his
dressing-room, so as a man could get them in the morning, everything
made easy."

"He forgot them the night before last, though."

"The clothes, not the boots. Always thoughtful for others, is Sir
Reuben. Ah! I hope nothing's happened to him."

"Indeed, no, poor gentleman," chimed in the cook, "and as for what
they're sayin', that he'd 'ave gone out surrepshous-like to do something
he didn't ought, well, I'd never believe it of him, Mr. Bunter, not if I
was to take my dying oath upon it."

"Ah!" said Mr. Bunter, adjusting his arc-lamps and connecting them with
the nearest electric light, "and that's more than most of us could say
of them as pays us."

     *     *     *     *     *

"Five-foot-ten," said Lord Peter, "and not an inch more." He peered
dubiously at the depression in the bed-clothes, and measured it a second
time with the gentleman-scout's vade-mecum. Parker entered this
particular in a neat pocket-book.

"I suppose," he said, "a six-foot-two man _might_ leave a five-foot-ten
depression if he curled himself up."

"Have you any Scotch blood in you, Parker?" inquired his colleague,
bitterly.

"Not that I know of," replied Parker. "Why?"

"Because of all the cautious, ungenerous, deliberate and cold-blooded
devils I know," said Lord Peter, "you are the most cautious, ungenerous,
deliberate and cold-blooded. Here am I, sweating my brains out to
introduce a really sensational incident into your dull and disreputable
little police investigation, and you refuse to show a single spark of
enthusiasm."

"Well, it's no good jumping at conclusions."

"Jump? You don't even crawl distantly within sight of a conclusion. I
believe if you caught the cat with her head in the cream-jug you'd say
it was conceivable that the jug was empty when she got there."

"Well, it would be conceivable, wouldn't it?"

"Curse you," said Lord Peter. He screwed his monocle into his eye, and
bent over the pillow, breathing hard and tightly through his nose.
"Here, give me the tweezers," he said presently; "good heavens, man,
don't blow like that, you might be a whale." He nipped up an almost
invisible object from the linen.

"What is it?" asked Parker.

"It's a hair," said Wimsey grimly, his hard eyes growing harder. "Let's
go and look at Levy's hats, shall we? And you might just ring for that
fellow with the churchyard name, do you mind?"

Mr. Graves, when summoned, found Lord Peter Wimsey squatting on the
floor of the dressing-room before a row of hats arranged upside down
before him.

"Here you are," said that nobleman cheerfully. "Now, Graves, this is a
guessin' competition--a sort of three-hat trick, to mix metaphors. Here
are nine hats, including three top-hats. Do you identify all these hats
as belonging to Sir Reuben Levy? You do? Very good. Now I have three
guesses as to which hat he wore the night he disappeared, and if I guess
right, I win; if I don't, you win. See? Ready? Go. I suppose you know
the answer yourself, by the way?"

"Do I understand your lordship to be asking which hat Sir Reuben wore
when he went out on Monday night, your lordship?"

"No, you don't understand a bit," said Lord Peter. "I'm asking if you
know--don't tell me, I'm going to guess."

"I do know, your lordship," said Mr. Graves, reprovingly.

"Well," said Lord Peter, "as he was dinin' at the Ritz he wore a topper.
Here are three toppers. In three guesses I'd be bound to hit the right
one, wouldn't I? That don't seem very sportin'. I'll take one guess. It
was this one."

He indicated the hat next the window.

"Am I right, Graves--have I got the prize?"

"That is the hat in question, my lord," said Mr. Graves, without
excitement.

"Thanks," said Lord Peter, "that's all I wanted to know. Ask Bunter to
step up, would you?"

Mr. Bunter stepped up with an aggrieved air, and his usually smooth hair
ruffled by the focusing cloth.

"Oh, there you are, Bunter," said Lord Peter; "look here----"

"Here I am, my lord," said Mr. Bunter, with respectful reproach, "but if
you'll excuse me saying so, downstairs is where I ought to be, with all
those young women about--they'll be fingering the evidence, my lord."

"I cry you mercy," said Lord Peter, "but I've quarrelled hopelessly with
Mr. Parker and distracted the estimable Graves, and I want you to tell
me what finger-prints you have found. I shan't be happy till I get it,
so don't be harsh with me, Bunter."

"Well, my lord, your lordship understands I haven't photographed them
yet, but I won't deny that their appearance is interesting, my lord. The
little book off the night table, my lord, has only the marks of one set
of fingers--there's a little scar on the right thumb which makes them
easy recognised. The hair-brush, too, my lord, has only the same set of
marks. The umbrella, the toothglass and the boots all have two sets: the
hand with the scarred thumb, which I take to be Sir Reuben's, my lord,
and a set of smudges superimposed upon them, if I may put it that way,
my lord, which may or may not be the same hand in rubber gloves. I
could tell you better when I've got the photographs made, to measure
them, my lord. The linoleum in front of the washstand is very gratifying
indeed, my lord, if you will excuse my mentioning it. Besides the marks
of Sir Reuben's boots which your lordship pointed out, there's the print
of a man's naked foot--a much smaller one, my lord, not much more than a
ten-inch sock, I should say if you asked me."

Lord Peter's face became irradiated with almost a dim, religious light.

"A mistake," he breathed, "a mistake, a little one, but he can't afford
it. When was the linoleum washed last, Bunter?"

"Monday morning, my lord. The housemaid did it and remembered to mention
it. Only remark she's made yet, and it's to the point. The other
domestics----"

His features expressed disdain.

"What did I say, Parker? Five-foot-ten and not an inch longer. And he
didn't dare to use the hair-brush. Beautiful. But he _had_ to risk the
top-hat. Gentleman can't walk home in the rain late at night without a
hat, you know, Parker. Look! what do you make of it? Two sets of
finger-prints on everything but the book and the brush, two sets of feet
on the linoleum, and two kinds of hair in the hat!"

He lifted the top-hat to the light, and extracted the evidence with
tweezers.

"Think of it, Parker--to remember the hair-brush and forget the hat--to
remember his fingers all the time, and to make that one careless step on
the tell-tale linoleum. Here they are, you see, black hair and tan
hair--black hair in the bowler and the panama, and black and tan in last
night's topper. And then, just to make certain that we're on the right
track, just one little auburn hair on the pillow, on this pillow,
Parker, which isn't quite in the right place. It almost brings tears to
my eyes."

"Do you mean to say----?" said the detective, slowly.

"I mean to say," said Lord Peter, "that it was not Sir Reuben Levy whom
the cook saw last night on the doorstep. I say that it was another man,
perhaps a couple of inches shorter, who came here in Levy's clothes and
let himself in with Levy's latchkey. Oh, he was a bold, cunning devil,
Parker. He had on Levy's boots, and every stitch of Levy's clothing down
to the skin. He had rubber gloves on his hands which he never took off,
and he did everything he could to make us think that Levy slept here
last night. He took his chances, and won. He walked upstairs, he
undressed, he even washed and cleaned his teeth, though he didn't use
the hair-brush for fear of leaving red hairs in it. He had to guess what
Levy did with boots and clothes; one guess was wrong and the other
right, as it happened. The bed must look as if it had been slept in, so
he gets in, and lies there in his victim's very pyjamas. Then, in the
morning sometime, probably in the deadest hour between two and three, he
gets up, dresses himself in his own clothes that he has brought with him
in a bag, and creeps downstairs. If anybody wakes, he is lost, but he
is a bold man, and he takes his chance. He knows that people do not wake
as a rule--and they don't wake. He opens the street door which he left
on the latch when he came in--he listens for the stray passer-by or the
policeman on his beat. He slips out. He pulls the door quietly to with
the latchkey. He walks briskly away in rubber-soled shoes--he's the kind
of criminal who isn't complete without rubber-soled shoes. In a few
minutes he is at Hyde Park Corner. After that----"

He paused and added:

"He did all that, and unless he had nothing at stake, he had everything
at stake. Either Sir Reuben Levy has been spirited away for some silly
practical joke, or the man with the auburn hair has the guilt of murder
upon his soul."

"Dear me!" ejaculated the detective, "you're very dramatic about it."

Lord Peter passed his hand rather wearily over his hair.

"My true friend," he murmured in a voice surcharged with emotion, "you
recall me to the nursery rhymes of my youth--the sacred duty of
flippancy:

    _There was an old man of Whitehaven
     Who danced a quadrille with a raven,
       But they said: 'It's absurd
       To encourage that bird'--
     So they smashed that old man of Whitehaven._

"That's the correct attitude, Parker. Here's a poor old buffer spirited
away--such a joke--and I don't believe he'd hurt a fly himself--that
makes it funnier. D'you know, Parker, I don't care frightfully about
this case after all."

"Which, this or yours?"

"Both. I say, Parker, shall we go quietly home and have lunch and go to
the Coliseum?"

"You can if you like," replied the detective; "but you forget I do this
for my bread and butter."

"And I haven't even that excuse," said Lord Peter; "well, what's the
next move? What would you do in my case?"

"I'd do some good, hard grind," said Parker. "I'd distrust every bit of
work Sugg ever did, and I'd get the family history of every tenant of
every flat in Queen Caroline Mansions. I'd examine all their box-rooms
and roof-traps, and I would inveigle them into conversations and
suddenly bring in the words 'body' and 'pince-nez,' and see if they
wriggled, like those modern psycho-what's-his-names."

"You would, would you?" said Lord Peter with a grin. "Well, we've
exchanged cases, you know, so just you toddle off and do it. I'm going
to have a jolly time at Wyndham's."

Parker made a grimace.

"Well," he said, "I don't suppose you'd ever do it, so I'd better.
You'll never become a professional till you learn to do a little work,
Wimsey. How about lunch?"

"I'm invited out," said Lord Peter, magnificently. "I'll run round and
change at the club. Can't feed with Freddy Arbuthnot in these bags;
Bunter!"

"Yes, my lord."

"Pack up if you're ready, and come round and wash my face and hands for
me at the club."

"Work here for another two hours, my lord. Can't do with less than
thirty minutes' exposure. The current's none too strong."

"You see how I'm bullied by my own man, Parker? Well, I must bear it, I
suppose. Ta-ta!"

He whistled his way downstairs.

The conscientious Mr. Parker, with a groan, settled down to a systematic
search through Sir Reuben Levy's papers, with the assistance of a plate
of ham sandwiches and a bottle of Bass.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lord Peter and the Honourable Freddy Arbuthnot, looking together like an
advertisement for gents' trouserings, strolled into the dining-room at
Wyndham's.

"Haven't seen you for an age," said the Honourable Freddy, "what have
you been doin' with yourself?"

"Oh, foolin' about," said Lord Peter, languidly.

"Thick or clear, sir?" inquired the waiter of the Honourable Freddy.

"Which'll you have, Wimsey?" said that gentleman, transferring the
burden of selection to his guest, "they're both equally poisonous."

"Well, clear's less trouble to lick out of the spoon," said Lord Peter.

"Clear," said the Honourable Freddy.

"Consomm Polonais," agreed the waiter. "Very nice, sir."

Conversation languished until the Honourable Freddy found a bone in the
filleted sole, and sent for the head waiter to explain its presence.
When this matter had been adjusted Lord Peter found energy to say:

"Sorry to hear about your guv'nor, old man."

"Yes, poor old buffer," said the Honourable Freddy; "they say he can't
last long now. What? Oh! the Montrachet '08. There's nothing fit to
drink in this place," he added gloomily.

After this deliberate insult to a noble vintage there was a further
pause, till Lord Peter said: "How's 'Change?"

"Rotten," said the Honourable Freddy.

He helped himself gloomily to _salmis_ of game.

"Can I do anything?" asked Lord Peter.

"Oh, no, thanks--very decent of you, but it'll pan out all right in
time."

"This isn't a bad _salmis_," said Lord Peter.

"I've eaten worse," admitted his friend.

"What about those Argentines?" inquired Lord Peter. "Here, waiter,
there's a bit of cork in my glass."

"Cork?" cried the Honourable Freddy, with something approaching
animation; "you'll hear about this, waiter. It's an amazing thing a
fellow who's paid to do the job can't manage to take a cork out of a
bottle. What you say? Argentines? Gone all to hell. Old Levy bunkin' off
like that's knocked the bottom out of the market."

"You don't say so," said Lord Peter; "what d'you suppose has happened to
the old man?"

"Cursed if I know," said the Honourable Freddy; "knocked on the head by
the bears, I should think."

"P'r'aps he's gone off on his own," suggested Lord Peter. "Double life,
you know. Giddy old blighters, some of these City men."

"Oh, no," said the Honourable Freddy, faintly roused; "no, hang it all,
Wimsey, I wouldn't care to say that. He's a decent old domestic bird,
and his daughter's a charmin' girl. Besides, he's straight enough--he'd
_do_ you down fast enough, but he wouldn't _let_ you down. Old Anderson
is badly cut up about it."

"Who's Anderson?"

"Chap with property out there. He belongs here. He was goin' to meet
Levy on Tuesday. He's afraid those railway people will get in now, and
then it'll be all U.P."

"Who's runnin' the railway people over here?" inquired Lord Peter.

"Yankee blighter, John P. Milligan. He's got an option, or says he has.
You can't trust these brutes."

"Can't Anderson hold on?"

"Anderson isn't Levy. Hasn't got the shekels. Besides, he's only one.
Levy covers the ground--he could boycott Milligan's beastly railway if
he liked. That's where he's got the pull, you see."

"B'lieve I met the Milligan man somewhere," said Lord Peter,
thoughtfully; "ain't he a hulking brute with black hair and a beard?"

"You're thinkin' of somebody else," said the Honourable Freddy.
"Milligan don't stand any higher than I do, unless you call
five-feet-ten hulking--and he's bald, anyway."

Lord Peter considered this over the Gorgonzola. Then he said:

"Didn't know Levy had a charmin' daughter."

"Oh, yes," said the Honourable Freddy, with an elaborate detachment.
"Met her and Mamma last year abroad. That's how I got to know the old
man. He's been very decent. Let me into this Argentine business on the
ground floor, don't you know?"

"Well," said Lord Peter, "you might do worse. Money's money, ain't it?
And Lady Levy is quite a redeemin' point. At least, my mother knew her
people."

"Oh, _she's_ all right," said the Honourable Freddy, "and the old man's
nothing to be ashamed of nowadays. He's self-made, of course, but he
don't pretend to be anything else. No side. Toddles off to business on a
96 'bus every morning. 'Can't make up my mind to taxis, my boy,' he
says. 'I had to look at every halfpenny when I was a young man, and I
can't get out of it now.' Though, if he's takin' his family out,
nothing's too good. Rachel--that's the girl--always laughs at the old
man's little economies."

"I suppose they've sent for Lady Levy," said Lord Peter.

"I suppose so," agreed the other. "I'd better pop round and express
sympathy or somethin', what? Wouldn't look well not to, d'you think? But
it's deuced awkward. What am I to say?"

"I don't think it matters much what you say," said Lord Peter,
helpfully. "I should ask if you can do anything."

"Thanks," said the lover, "I will. Energetic young man. Count on me.
Always at your service. Ring me up any time of the day or night. That's
the line to take, don't you think?"

"That's the idea," said Lord Peter.

     *     *     *     *     *

Mr. John P. Milligan, the London representative of the great Milligan
railroad and shipping company, was dictating code cables to his
secretary in an office in Lombard Street, when a card was brought up to
him, bearing the simple legend:

LORD PETER WIMSEY

_Marlborough Club_

Mr. Milligan was annoyed at the interruption, but, like many of his
nation, if he had a weak point, it was the British aristocracy. He
postponed for a few minutes the elimination from the map of a modest but
promising farm, and directed that the visitor should be shown up.

"Good-afternoon," said that nobleman, ambling genially in, "it's most
uncommonly good of you to let me come round wastin' your time like this.
I'll try not to be too long about it, though I'm not awfully good at
comin' to the point. My brother never would let me stand for the county,
y'know--said I wandered on so nobody'd know what I was talkin' about."

"Pleased to meet you, Lord Wimsey," said Mr. Milligan. "Won't you take a
seat?"

"Thanks," said Lord Peter, "but I'm not a peer, you know--that's my
brother Denver. My name's Peter. It's a silly name, I always think, so
old-world and full of homely virtue and that sort of thing, but my
god-fathers and godmothers in my baptism are responsible for that, I
suppose, officially--which is rather hard on them, you know, as they
didn't actually choose it. But we always have a Peter, after the third
duke, who betrayed five kings somewhere about the Wars of the Roses,
though come to think of it, it ain't anything to be proud of. Still, one
has to make the best of it."

Mr. Milligan, thus ingeniously placed at that disadvantage which attends
ignorance, manoeuvred for position, and offered his interrupter a Corona
Corona.

"Thanks, awfully," said Lord Peter, "though you really mustn't tempt me
to stay here burblin' all afternoon. By Jove, Mr. Milligan, if you offer
people such comfortable chairs and cigars like these, I wonder they
don't come an' live in your office." He added mentally: "I wish to
goodness I could get those long-toed boots off you. How's a man to know
the size of your feet? And a head like a potato. It's enough to make one
swear."

"Say now, Lord Peter," said Mr. Milligan, "can I do anything for you."

"Well, d'you know," said Lord Peter, "I'm wonderin' if you would. It's
damned cheek to ask you, but fact is, it's my mother, you know.
Wonderful woman, but don't realise what it means, demands on the time of
a busy man like you. We don't understand hustle over here, you know, Mr.
Milligan."

"Now don't you mention that," said Mr. Milligan; "I'd be surely charmed
to do anything to oblige the Duchess."

He felt a momentary qualm as to whether a duke's mother were also a
duchess, but breathed more freely as Lord Peter went on:

"Thanks--that's uncommonly good of you. Well, now, it's like this. My
mother--most energetic, self-sacrificin' woman, don't you see, is
thinkin' of gettin' up a sort of a charity bazaar down at Denver this
winter, in aid of the church roof, y'know. Very sad case, Mr.
Milligan--fine old antique--early English windows and decorated angel
roof, and all that--all tumblin' to pieces, rain pourin' in and so
on--vicar catchin' rheumatism at early service, owin' to the draught
blowin' in over the altar--you know the sort of thing. They've got a man
down startin' on it--little beggar called Thipps--lives with an aged
mother in Battersea--vulgar little beast, but quite good on angel roofs
and things, I'm told."

At this point, Lord Peter watched his interlocutor narrowly, but finding
that this rigmarole produced in him no reaction more startling than
polite interest tinged with faint bewilderment, he abandoned this line
of investigation, and proceeded:

"I say, I beg your pardon, frightfully--I'm afraid I'm bein' beastly
long-winded. Fact is, my mother is gettin' up this bazaar, and she
thought it'd be an awfully interestin' side-show to have some
lectures--sort of little talks, y'know--by eminent business men of all
nations. 'How I did it' kind of touch, y'know--'A Drop of Oil with a
Kerosene King'--'Cash Conscience and Cocoa' and so on. It would interest
people down there no end. You see, all my mother's friends will be
there, and we've none of us any money--not what you'd call money, I
mean--I expect our incomes wouldn't pay your telephone calls, would
they?--but we like awfully to hear about the people who can make money.
Gives us a sort of uplifted feelin', don't you know. Well, anyway, I
mean, my mother'd be frightfully pleased and grateful to you, Mr.
Milligan, if you'd come down and give us a few words as a representative
American. It needn't take more than ten minutes or so, y'know, because
the local people can't understand much beyond shootin' and huntin', and
my mother's crowd can't keep their minds on anythin' more than ten
minutes together, but we'd really appreciate it very much if you'd come
and stay a day or two and just give us a little breezy word on the
almighty dollar."

"Why, yes," said Mr. Milligan, "I'd like to, Lord Peter. It's kind of
the Duchess to suggest it. It's a very sad thing when these fine old
antiques begin to wear out. I'll come with great pleasure. And perhaps
you'd be kind enough to accept a little donation to the Restoration
Fund."

This unexpected development nearly brought Lord Peter up all standing.
To pump, by means of an ingenious lie, a hospitable gentleman whom you
are inclined to suspect of a peculiarly malicious murder, and to accept
from him in the course of the proceedings a large cheque for a
charitable object, has something about it unpalatable to any but the
hardened Secret Service Agent. Lord Peter temporised.

"That's awfully decent of you," he said. "I'm sure they'd be no end
grateful. But you'd better not give it to me, you know. I might spend
it, or lose it. I'm not very reliable, I'm afraid. The vicar's the right
person--the Rev. Constantine Throgmorton, St. John-before-the-Latin-Gate
Vicarage, Duke's Denver, if you like to send it there."

"I will," said Mr. Milligan. "Will you write it out now for a thousand
pounds, Scoot, in case it slips my mind later?"

The secretary, a sandy-haired young man with a long chin and no
eyebrows, silently did as he was requested. Lord Peter looked from the
bald head of Mr. Milligan to the red head of the secretary, hardened his
heart and tried again.

"Well, I'm no end grateful to you, Mr. Milligan, and so'll my mother be
when I tell her. I'll let you know the date of the bazaar--it's not
quite settled yet, and I've got to see some other business men, don't
you know. I thought of askin' someone from one of the big newspaper
combines to represent British advertisin' talent, what?--and a friend of
mine promises me a leadin' German financier--very interestin' if there
ain't too much feelin' against it down in the country, and I'll have to
find somebody or other to do the Hebrew point of view. I thought of
askin' Levy, y'know, only he's floated off in this inconvenient way."

"Yes," said Mr. Milligan, "that's a very curious thing, though I don't
mind saying, Lord Peter, that it's a convenience to me. He had a cinch
on my railroad combine, but I'd nothing against him personally, and if
he turns up after I've brought off a little deal I've got on, I'll be
happy to give him the right hand of welcome."

A vision passed through Lord Peter's mind of Sir Reuben kept somewhere
in custody till a financial crisis was over. This was exceedingly
possible, and far more agreeable than his earlier conjecture; it also
agreed better with the impression he was forming of Mr. Milligan.

"Well, it's a rum go," said Lord Peter, "but I daresay he had his
reason. Much better not inquire into people's reasons, y'know, what?
Specially as a police friend of mine who's connected with the case says
the old johnnie dyed his hair before he went."

Out of the tail of his eye, Lord Peter saw the red-headed secretary add
up five columns of figures simultaneously and jot down the answer.

"Dyed his hair, did he?" said Mr. Milligan.

"Dyed it red," said Lord Peter. The secretary looked up. "Odd thing is,"
continued Wimsey, "they can't lay hands on the bottle. Somethin' fishy
there, don't you think, what?"

The secretary's interest seemed to have evaporated. He inserted a fresh
sheet into his looseleaf ledger, and carried forward a row of digits
from the preceding page.

"I daresay there's nothin' in it," said Lord Peter, rising to go. "Well,
it's uncommonly good of you to be bothered with me like this, Mr.
Milligan; my mother'll be no end pleased. She'll write you about the
date."

"I'm charmed," said Mr. Milligan, "very pleased to have met you."

Mr. Scoot rose silently to open the door, uncoiling as he did so a
portentous length of thin leg, hitherto hidden by the desk. With a
mental sigh Lord Peter estimated him at six-foot-four.

"It's a pity I can't put Scoot's head on Milligan's shoulders," said
Lord Peter, emerging into the swirl of the city, "and what _will_ my
mother say?"




CHAPTER V


Mr. Parker was a bachelor, and occupied a Georgian but inconvenient flat
at No. 12A Great Ormond Street, for which he paid a pound a week. His
exertions in the cause of civilisation were rewarded, not by the gift of
diamonds, rings from empresses or munificent cheques from grateful
Prime Ministers, but by a modest, though sufficient, salary, drawn from
the pockets of the British taxpayer. He awoke, after a long day of
arduous and inconclusive labour, to the smell of burnt porridge. Through
his bedroom window, hygienically open top and bottom, a raw fog was
rolling slowly in, and the sight of a pair of winter pants, flung
hastily over a chair the previous night, fretted him with a sense of the
sordid absurdity of the human form. The telephone bell rang, and he
crawled wretchedly out of bed and into the sitting-room, where Mrs.
Munns, who did for him by the day, was laying the table, sneezing as she
went.

Mr. Bunter was speaking.

"His lordship says he'd be very glad, sir, if you could make it
convenient to step round to breakfast."

If the odour of kidneys and bacon had been wafted along the wire, Mr.
Parker could not have experienced a more vivid sense of consolation.

"Tell his lordship I'll be with him in half an hour," he said,
thankfully, and plunging into the bathroom, which was also the kitchen,
he informed Mrs. Munns, who was just making tea from a kettle which had
gone off the boil, that he should be out to breakfast.

"You can take the porridge home for the family," he added, viciously,
and flung off his dressing-gown with such determination that Mrs. Munns
could only scuttle away with a snort.

A 19 'bus deposited him in Piccadilly only fifteen minutes later than
his rather sanguine impulse had prompted him to suggest, and Mr. Bunter
served him with glorious food, incomparable coffee, and the _Daily Mail_
before a blazing fire of wood and coal. A distant voice singing the "et
iterum venturus est" from Bach's Mass in B minor proclaimed that for the
owner of the flat cleanliness and godliness met at least once a day, and
presently Lord Peter roamed in, moist and verbena-scented, in a bathrobe
cheerfully patterned with unnaturally variegated peacocks.

"Mornin', old dear," said that gentleman; "beast of a day, ain't it?
Very good of you to trundle out in it, but I had a letter I wanted you
to see, and I hadn't the energy to come round to your place. Bunter and
I've been makin' a night of it."

"What's the letter?" asked Parker.

"Never talk business with your mouth full," said Lord Peter,
reprovingly; "have some Oxford marmalade--and then I'll show you my
Dante; they brought it round last night. What ought I to read this
morning, Bunter?"

"Lord Erith's collection is going to be sold, my lord. There is a column
about it in the _Morning Post_. I think your lordship should look at
this review of Sir Julian Freke's new book on _The Physiological Bases
of the Conscience_ in the _Times Literary Supplement_. Then there is a
very singular little burglary in the _Chronicle_, my lord, and an attack
on titled families in the _Herald_--rather ill-written, if I may say
so, but not without unconscious humour which your lordship will
appreciate."

"All right, give me that and the burglary," said his lordship.

"I have looked over the other papers," pursued Mr. Bunter, indicating a
formidable pile, "and marked your lordship's after-breakfast reading."

"Oh, pray don't allude to it," said Lord Peter, "you take my appetite
away."

There was silence, but for the crunching of toast and the crackling of
paper.

"I see they adjourned the inquest," said Parker presently.

"Nothing else to do," said Lord Peter, "but Lady Levy arrived last
night, and will have to go and fail to identify the body this morning
for Sugg's benefit."

"Time, too," said Mr. Parker shortly.

Silence fell again.

"I don't think much of your burglary, Bunter," said Lord Peter.
"Competent, of course, but no imagination. I want imagination in a
criminal. Where's the _Morning Post_?"

After a further silence, Lord Peter said: "You might send for the
catalogue, Bunter; that Apollonios Rhodios[3] might be worth looking at.
No, I'm damned if I'm going to stodge through that review, but you can
stick the book on the library list if you like. His book on crime was
entertaining enough as far as it went, but the fellow's got a bee in his
bonnet. Thinks God's a secretion of the liver--all right once in a way,
but there's no need to keep on about it. There's nothing you can't prove
if your outlook is only sufficiently limited. Look at Sugg."

"I beg your pardon," said Parker. "I wasn't attending. Argentines are
steadying a little, I see."

"Milligan," said Lord Peter.

"Oil's in a bad way. Levy's made a difference there. That funny little
boom in Peruvians that came on just before he disappeared has died away
again. I wonder if he was concerned in it. D'you know at all?"

"I'll find out," said Lord Peter, "what was it?"

"Oh, an absolutely dud enterprise that hadn't been heard of for years.
It suddenly took a little lease of life last week. I happened to notice
it because my mother got let in for a couple of hundred shares a long
time ago. It never paid a dividend. Now it's petered out again."

Wimsey pushed his plate aside and lit a pipe.

"Having finished, I don't mind doing some work," he said. "How did you
get on yesterday?"

"I didn't," replied Parker. "I sleuthed up and down those flats in my
own bodily shape and two different disguises. I was a gas-meter man and
a collector for a Home for Lost Doggies, and I didn't get a thing to go
on, except a servant in the top flat at the Battersea Bridge Road end of
the row who said she thought she heard a bump on the roof one night.
Asked which night, she couldn't rightly say. Asked if it was Monday
night, she thought it very likely. Asked if it mightn't have been that
high wind on Saturday night that blew my chimney-pot off, she couldn't
say but what it might have been. Asked if she was sure it was on the
roof and not inside the flat, said to be sure they did find a picture
tumbled down next morning. Very suggestible girl. I saw your friends,
Mr. and Mrs. Appledore, who received me coldly, but could make no
definite complaint about Thipps except that his mother dropped her h's,
and that he once called on them uninvited, armed with a pamphlet about
anti-vivisection. The Indian colonel on the first floor was loud, but
unexpectedly friendly. He gave me Indian curry for supper and some good
whiskey, but he's a sort of hermit, and all _he_ could tell me was that
he couldn't stand Mrs. Appledore."

"Did you get nothing at the house?"

"Only Levy's private diary. I brought it away with me. Here it is. It
doesn't tell one much, though. It's full of entries like: 'Tom and Annie
to dinner'; and 'My dear wife's birthday; gave her an old opal ring';
'Mr. Arbuthnot dropped in to tea; he wants to marry Rachel, but I should
like someone steadier for my treasure.' Still, I thought it would show
who came to the house and so on. He evidently wrote it up at night.
There's no entry for Monday."

"I expect it'll be useful," said Lord Peter, turning over the pages.
"Poor old buffer. I say, I'm not so certain now he was done away with."

He detailed to Mr. Parker his day's work.

"Arbuthnot?" said Parker, "is that the Arbuthnot of the diary?"

"I suppose so. I hunted him up because I knew he was fond of fooling
round the Stock Exchange. As for Milligan, he _looks_ all right, but I
believe he's pretty ruthless in business and you never can tell. Then
there's the red-haired secretary--lightnin' calculator man with a face
like a fish, keeps on sayin' nuthin'--got the Tarbaby in his family
tree, I should think. Milligan's got a jolly good motive for, at any
rate, suspendin' Levy for a few days. Then there's the new man."

"What new man?"

"Ah, that's the letter I mentioned to you. Where did I put it?--here we
are. Good parchment paper, printed address of solicitor's office in
Salisbury, and postmark to correspond. Very precisely written with a
fine nib by an elderly business man of old-fashioned habits."

Parker took the letter and read:

"CRIMPLESHAM AND WICKS,
"_Solicitors_,
"MILFORD HILL, SALISBURY,
"17 November, 192--.

"SIR,

"With reference to your advertisement to-day in the personal column of
_The Times_, I am disposed to believe that the eyeglasses and chain in
question may be those I lost on the L.B. & S.C. Electric Railway while
visiting London last Monday. I left Victoria by the 5.45 train, and did
not notice my loss till I arrived at Balham. This indication and the
optician's specification of the glasses, which I enclose, should suffice
at once as an identification and a guarantee of my _bona fides_. If the
glasses should prove to be mine, I should be greatly obliged to you if
you would kindly forward them to me by registered post, as the chain was
a present from my daughter, and is one of my dearest possessions.

"Thanking you in advance for this kindness, and regretting the trouble
to which I shall be putting you, I am,

"Yours very truly,
"THOS. CRIMPLESHAM.

"Lord Peter Wimsey,
"110A Piccadilly, W.
"(Encl.)."

"Dear me," said Parker, "this is what you might call unexpected."

"Either it is some extraordinary misunderstanding," said Lord Peter, "or
Mr. Crimplesham is a very bold and cunning villain. Or possibly, of
course, they are the wrong glasses. We may as well get a ruling on that
point at once. I suppose the glasses are at the Yard. I wish you'd just
ring 'em up and ask 'em to send round an optician's description of them
at once--and you might ask at the same time whether it's a very common
prescription."

"Right you are," said Parker, and took the receiver off its hook.

"And now," said his friend, when the message was delivered, "just come
into the library for a minute."

On the library table, Lord Peter had spread out a series of bromide
prints, some dry, some damp, and some but half-washed.

"These little ones are the originals of the photos we've been taking,"
said Lord Peter, "and these big ones are enlargements all made to
precisely the same scale. This one here is the footmark on the linoleum
we'll put that by itself at present. Now these finger-prints can be
divided into five lots. I've numbered 'em on the prints--see?--and made
a list.

"A. The finger-prints of Levy himself, off his little bedside book and
his hair-brush--this and this--you can't mistake the little scar on the
thumb.

"B. The smudges made by the gloved fingers of the man who slept in
Levy's room on Monday night. They show clearly on the water-bottle and
on the boots--superimposed on Levy's. They are very distinct on the
boots--surprisingly so for gloved hands, and I deduce that the gloves
were rubber ones and had recently been in water.

"Here's another interestin' point. Levy walked in the rain on Monday
night, as we know, and these dark marks are mud-splashes. You see they
lie _over_ Levy's finger-prints in every case. Now see: on this left
boot we find the stranger's thumb-mark _over_ the mud on the leather
above the heel. That's a funny place to find a thumb-mark on a boot,
isn't it? That is, if Levy took off his own boots. But it's the place
where you'd expect to see it if somebody forcibly removed his boots for
him. Again, most of the stranger's finger-marks come _over_ the
mud-marks, but here is one splash of mud which comes on top of them
again. Which makes me infer that the stranger came back to Park Lane,
wearing Levy's boots, in a cab, carriage or car, but that at some point
or other he walked a little way--just enough to tread in a puddle and
get a splash on the boots. What do you say?"

"Very pretty," said Parker. "A bit intricate, though, and the marks are
not all that I could wish a finger-print to be."

"Well, I won't lay too much stress on it. But it fits in with our
previous ideas. Now let's turn to:

"C. The prints obligingly left by my own particular villain on the
further edge of Thipps's bath, where you spotted them, and I ought to be
scourged for not having spotted them. The left hand, you notice, the
base of the palm and the fingers, but not the tips, looking as though he
had steadied himself on the edge of the bath while leaning down to
adjust something at the bottom, the pince-nez perhaps. Gloved, you see,
but showing no ridge or seam of any kind--I say rubber, you say rubber.
That's that. Now see here:

"D and E come off a visiting-card of mine. There's this thing at the
corner, marked F, but that you can disregard; in the original document
it's a sticky mark left by the thumb of the youth who took it from me,
after first removing a piece of chewing-gum from his teeth with his
finger to tell me that Mr. Milligan might or might not be disengaged. D
and E are the thumb-marks of Mr. Milligan and his red-haired secretary.
I'm not clear which is which, but I saw the youth with the chewing-gum
hand the card to the secretary, and when I got into the inner shrine I
saw John P. Milligan standing with it in his hand, so it's one or the
other, and for the moment it's immaterial to our purpose which is which.
I boned the card from the table when I left.

"Well, now, Parker, here's what's been keeping Bunter and me up till the
small hours. I've measured and measured every way backwards and forwards
till my head's spinnin', and I've stared till I'm nearly blind, but I'm
hanged if I can make my mind up. Question 1. Is C identical with B?
Question 2. Is D or E identical with B? There's nothing to go on but the
size and shape, of course, and the marks are so faint--what do you
think?"

Parker shook his head doubtfully.

"I think E might almost be put out of the question," he said, "it seems
such an excessively long and narrow thumb. But I think there is a
decided resemblance between the span of B on the water-bottle and C on
the bath. And I don't see any reason why D shouldn't be the same as B
only there's so little to judge from."

"Your untutored judgment and my measurements have brought us both to the
same conclusion--if you can call it a conclusion," said Lord Peter,
bitterly.

"Another thing," said Parker. "Why on earth should we try to connect B
with C? The fact that you and I happen to be friends doesn't make it
necessary to conclude that the two cases we happen to be interested in
have any organic connection with one another. Why should they? The only
person who thinks they have is Sugg, and he's nothing to go by. It would
be different if there were any truth in the suggestion that the man in
the bath was Levy, but we know for a certainty he wasn't. It's
ridiculous to suppose that the same man was employed in committing two
totally distinct crimes on the same night, one in Battersea and the
other in Park Lane."

"I know," said Wimsey, "though of course we mustn't forget that Levy
_was_ in Battersea at the time, and now we know he didn't return home at
twelve as was supposed, we've no reason to think he ever left Battersea
at all."

"True. But there are other places in Battersea besides Thipps's
bathroom. And he _wasn't_ in Thipps's bathroom. In fact, come to think
of it, that's the one place in the universe where we know definitely
that he wasn't. So what's Thipps's bath got to do with it?"

"I don't know," said Lord Peter. "Well, perhaps we shall get something
better to go on to-day."

He leaned back in his chair and smoked thoughtfully for some time over
the papers which Bunter had marked for him.

"They've got you out in the limelight," he said. "Thank Heavens Sugg
hates me too much to give me any publicity. What a dull Agony Column!
'Darling Pipsy--Come back soon to your distracted Popsey'--and the usual
young man in need of financial assistance, and the usual injunction to
'Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth.' Hullo, there's the
bell. Oh, it's our answer from Scotland Yard."

The note from Scotland Yard enclosed an optician's specification
identical with that sent by Mr. Crimplesham, and added that it was an
unusual one, owing to the peculiar strength of the lenses and the marked
difference between the sight of the two eyes.

"That's good enough," said Parker.

"Yes," said Wimsey. "Then Possibility No. 3 is knocked on the head.
There remain Possibility No. 1: Accident or Misunderstanding, and No. 2:
Deliberate Villainy, of a remarkably bold and calculating kind--of a
kind, in fact, characteristic of the author or authors of our two
problems. Following the methods inculcated at that University of which I
have the honour to be a member, we will now examine severally the
various suggestions afforded by Possibility No. 2. This Possibility may
be again subdivided into two or more Hypotheses. On Hypothesis 1
(strongly advocated by my distinguished colleague Professor Snupshed),
the criminal, whom we may designate as X, is not identical with
Crimplesham, but is using the name of Crimplesham as his shield, or
gis. This hypothesis may be further subdivided into two alternatives.
Alternative A: Crimplesham is an innocent and unconscious accomplice,
and X is in his employment. X writes in Crimplesham's name on
Crimplesham's office-paper and obtains that the object in question, i.e.
the eyeglasses, be despatched to Crimplesham's address. He is in a
position to intercept the parcel before it reaches Crimplesham. The
presumption is that X is Crimplesham's charwoman, office-boy, clerk,
secretary or porter. This offers a wide field of investigation. The
method of inquiry will be to interview Crimplesham and discover whether
he sent the letter, and if not, who has access to his correspondence.
Alternative B: Crimplesham is under X's influence or in his power, and
has been induced to write the letter by (_a_) bribery, (_b_)
misrepresentation or (_c_) threats. X may in that case be a persuasive
relation or friend, or else a creditor, blackmailer or assassin;
Crimplesham, on the other hand, is obviously venal or a fool. The method
of inquiry in this case, I would tentatively suggest, is again to
interview Crimplesham, put the facts of the case strongly before him,
and assure him in the most intimidating terms that he is liable to a
prolonged term of penal servitude as an accessory after the fact in the
crime of murder----Ah-hem! Trusting gentlemen, that you have followed me
thus far, we will pass to the consideration of Hypothesis No. 2, to
which I personally incline, and according to which X is identical with
Crimplesham.

"In this case, Crimplesham who is, in the words of an English classic, a
man-of-infinite-resource-and-sagacity, correctly deduces that, of all
people, the last whom we shall expect to find answering our
advertisement is the criminal himself. Accordingly, he plays a bold game
of bluff. He invents an occasion on which the glasses may very easily
have been lost or stolen, and applies for them. If confronted, nobody
will be more astonished than he to learn where they were found. He will
produce witnesses to prove that he left Victoria at 5.45 and emerged
from the train at Balham at the scheduled time, and sat up all Monday
night playing chess with a respectable gentleman well known in Balham.
In this case, the method of inquiry will be to pump the respectable
gentleman in Balham, and if he should happen to be a single gentleman
with a dear housekeeper, it may be no easy matter to impugn the alibi,
since, outside detective romances, few ticket-collectors and
'bus-conductors keep an exact remembrance of all the passengers passing
between Balham and London on any and every evening of the week.

"Finally, gentlemen, I will frankly point out the weak point of all
these hypotheses, namely: that none of them offers any explanation as to
why the incriminating article was left so conspicuously on the body in
the first instance."

Mr. Parker had listened with commendable patience to this academic
exposition.

"Might not X," he suggested, "be an enemy of Crimplesham's, who designed
to throw suspicion upon him?"

"He might. In that case he should be easy to discover, since he
obviously lives in close proximity to Crimplesham and his glasses, and
Crimplesham in fear of his life will then be a valuable ally for the
prosecution."

"How about the first possibility of all, misunderstanding or accident?"

"Well! Well, for purposes of discussion, nothing, because it really
doesn't afford any data for discussion."

"In any case," said Parker, "the obvious course appears to be to go to
Salisbury."

"That seems indicated," said Lord Peter.

"Very well," said the detective, "is it to be you or me or both of us?"

"It is to be me," said Lord Peter, "and that for two reasons. First
because, if (by Possibility No. 2, Hypothesis 1, Alternative A)
Crimplesham is an innocent catspaw, the person who put in the
advertisement is the proper person to hand over the property. Secondly,
because, if we are to adopt Hypothesis 2, we must not overlook the
sinister possibility that Crimplesham-X is laying a careful trap to rid
himself of the person who so unwarily advertised in the daily press his
interest in the solution of the Battersea Park mystery."

"That appears to me to be an argument for our both going," objected the
detective.

"Far from it," said Lord Peter. "Why play into the hands of
Crimplesham-X by delivering over to him the only two men in London with
the evidence, such as it is, and shall I say the wits, to connect him
with the Battersea body?"

"But if we told the Yard where we were going, and we both got nobbled,"
said Mr. Parker, "it would afford strong presumptive evidence of
Crimplesham's guilt, and anyhow, if he didn't get hanged for murdering
the man in the bath he'd at least get hanged for murdering us."

"Well," said Lord Peter, "if he only murdered me you could still hang
him--what's the good of wasting a sound, marriageable young male like
yourself? Besides, how about old Levy? If you're incapacitated, do you
think anybody else is going to find him?"

"But we could frighten Crimplesham by threatening him with the Yard."

"Well, dash it all, if it comes to that, _I_ can frighten him by
threatening him with _you_, which, seeing you hold what evidence there
is, is much more to the point. And, then, suppose it's a wild-goose
chase after all, you'll have wasted time when you might have been
getting on with the case. There are several things that need doing."

"Well," said Parker, silenced but reluctant, "why can't I go, in that
case?"

"Bosh!" said Lord Peter. "I am retained (by old Mrs. Thipps, for whom I
entertain the greatest respect) to deal with this case, and it's only by
courtesy I allow you to have anything to do with it."

Mr. Parker groaned.

"Will you at least take Bunter?" he said.

"In deference to your feelings," replied Lord Peter, "I will take
Bunter, though he could be far more usefully employed taking photographs
or overhauling my wardrobe. When is there a good train to Salisbury,
Bunter?"

"There is an excellent train at 10.50, my lord."

"Kindly make arrangements to catch it," said Lord Peter, throwing off
his bathrobe and trailing away with it into his bedroom. "And Parker--if
you have nothing else to do you might get hold of Levy's secretary and
look into that little matter of the Peruvian oil."

       *       *       *       *       *

Lord Peter took with him, for light reading in the train, Sir Reuben
Levy's diary. It was a simple, and in the light of recent facts, rather
a pathetic document. The terrible fighter of the Stock Exchange, who
could with one nod set the surly bear dancing, or bring the savage bull
to feed out of his hand, whose breath devastated whole districts with
famine or swept financial potentates from their seats, was revealed in
private life as kindly, domestic, innocently proud of himself and his
belongings, confiding, generous and a little dull. His own small
economies were duly chronicled side by side with extravagant presents to
his wife and daughter. Small incidents of household routine appeared,
such as: "Man came to mend the conservatory roof," or "The new butler
(Simpson) has arrived, recommended by the Goldbergs. I think he will be
satisfactory." All visitors and entertainments were duly entered, from a
very magnificent lunch to Lord Dewsbury, the Minister for Foreign
Affairs, and Dr. Jabez K. Wort, the American plenipotentiary, through a
series of diplomatic dinners to eminent financiers, down to intimate
family gatherings of persons designated by Christian names or
nicknames. About May there came a mention of Lady Levy's nerves, and
further reference was made to the subject in subsequent months. In
September it was stated that "Freke came to see my dear wife and advised
complete rest and change of scene. She thinks of going abroad with
Rachel." The name of the famous nerve-specialist occurred as a diner or
luncher about once a month and it came into Lord Peter's mind that Freke
would be a good person to consult about Levy himself. "People sometimes
tell things to the doctor," he murmured to himself. "And, by Jove! if
Levy was simply going round to see Freke on Monday night, that rather
disposes of the Battersea incident, doesn't it?" He made a note to look
up Sir Julian and turned on further. On September 18th, Lady Levy and
her daughter had left for the south of France. Then suddenly, under the
date October 5th, Lord Peter found what he was looking for: "Goldberg,
Skriner and Milligan to dinner."

There was the evidence that Milligan had been in that house. There had
been a formal entertainment--a meeting as of two duellists shaking hands
before the fight. Skriner was a well-known picture-dealer; Lord Peter
imagined an after-dinner excursion upstairs to see the two Corots in the
drawing-room, and the portrait of the eldest Levy girl, who had died at
the age of sixteen. It was by Augustus John, and hung in the bedroom.
The name of the red-haired secretary was nowhere mentioned unless the
initial S., occurring in another entry, referred to him. Throughout
September and October Anderson (of Wyndham's) had been a frequent
visitor.

Lord Peter shook his head over the diary, and turned to the
consideration of the Battersea Park mystery. Whereas in the Levy affair
it was easy enough to supply a motive for the crime, if crime it were,
and the difficulty was to discover the method of its carrying out and
the whereabouts of the victim, in the other case the chief obstacle to
inquiry was the entire absence of any imaginable motive. It was odd
that, although the papers had carried news of the affair from one end of
the country to the other, and a description of the body had been sent to
every police station in the country, nobody had as yet come forward to
identify the mysterious occupant of Mr. Thipps's bath. It was true that
the description, which mentioned the clean-shaven chin, elegantly cut
hair and the pince-nez, was rather misleading, but on the other hand,
the police had managed to discover the number of molars missing, and the
height, complexion and other data were correctly enough stated, as also
the date at which death had presumably occurred. It seemed, however, as
though the man had melted out of society without leaving a gap or so
much as a ripple. Assigning a motive for the murder of a person without
relations or antecedents or even clothes is like trying to visualise the
fourth dimension--admirable exercise for the imagination, but arduous
and inconclusive. Even if the day's interview should disclose black
spots in the past or present of Mr. Crimplesham, how were they to be
brought into connection with a person apparently without a past, and
whose present was confined to the narrow limits of a bath and a police
mortuary?

"Bunter," said Lord Peter, "I beg that in the future you will restrain
me from starting two hares at once. These cases are gettin' to be a
strain on my constitution. One hare has nowhere to run from, and the
other has nowhere to run to. It's a kind of mental D.T., Bunter. When
this is over I shall turn pussyfoot, forswear the police news, and take
to an emollient diet of the works of the late Charles Garvice."

     *     *     *     *     *

It was its comparative proximity to Milford Hill that induced Lord Peter
to lunch at the Minster Hotel rather than at the White Hart or some
other more picturesquely situated hostel. It was not a lunch calculated
to cheer his mind; as in all Cathedral cities, the atmosphere of the
Close pervades every nook and corner of Salisbury, and no food in that
city but seems faintly flavoured with prayer-books. As he sat sadly
consuming that impassive pale substance known to the English as "cheese"
unqualified (for there are cheeses which go openly by their names, as
Stilton, Camembert, Gruyre, Wensleydale or Gorgonzola, but "cheese" is
cheese and everywhere the same), he inquired of the waiter the
whereabouts of Mr. Crimplesham's office.

The waiter directed him to a house rather further up the street on the
opposite side, adding: "But anybody'll tell you, sir; Mr. Crimplesham's
very well known hereabouts."

"He's a good solicitor, I suppose?" said Lord Peter.

"Oh, yes, sir," said the waiter, "you couldn't do better than trust to
Mr. Crimplesham, sir. There's folk say he's old-fashioned, but I'd
rather have my little bit of business done by Mr. Crimplesham than by
one of these fly-away young men. Not but what Mr. Crimplesham'll be
retiring soon, sir, I don't doubt, for he must be close on eighty, sir,
if he's a day, but then there's young Mr. Wicks to carry on the
business, and he's a very nice, steady-like young gentleman."

"Is Mr. Crimplesham really as old as that?" said Lord Peter. "Dear me!
He must be very active for his years. A friend of mine was doing
business with him in town last week."

"Wonderful active, sir," agreed the waiter, "and with his game leg, too,
you'd be surprised. But there, sir, I often think when a man's once past
a certain age, the older he grows the tougher he gets, and women the
same or more so."

"Very likely," said Lord Peter, calling up and dismissing the mental
picture of a gentleman of eighty with a game leg carrying a dead body
over the roof of a Battersea flat at midnight. "'He's tough, sir,
tough, is old Joey Bagstock, tough and devilish sly,'" he added
thoughtlessly.

"Indeed, sir?" said the waiter. "I couldn't say, I'm sure."

"I beg your pardon," said Lord Peter, "I was quoting poetry. Very silly
of me. I got the habit at my mother's knee and I can't break myself of
it."

"No, sir," said the waiter, pocketing a liberal tip. "Thank you very
much, sir. You'll find the house easy. Just afore you come to
Pennyfarthing Street, sir, about two turnings off, on the right hand
side opposite."

"Afraid that disposes of Crimplesham-X," said Lord Peter. "I'm rather
sorry; he was a fine sinister figure as I had pictured him. Still, he
may yet be the brain behind the hands--the aged spider sitting invisible
in the centre of the vibrating web, you know, Bunter."

"Yes, my lord," said Bunter. They were walking up the street together.

"There is the office over the way," pursued Lord Peter. "I think,
Bunter, you might step into this little shop and purchase a sporting
paper, and if I do not emerge from the villain's lair--say within
three-quarters of an hour, you may take such steps as your perspicuity
may suggest."

Mr. Bunter turned into the shop as desired, and Lord Peter walked across
and rang the lawyer's bell with decision.

"The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth is my long suit
here, I fancy," he murmured, and when the door was opened by a clerk, he
delivered over his card with an unflinching air.

He was ushered immediately into a confidential-looking office, obviously
furnished in the early years of Queen Victoria's reign, and never
altered since. A lean, frail-looking old gentleman rose briskly from his
chair as he entered and limped forward to meet him.

"My dear sir," exclaimed the lawyer, "how extremely good of you to come
in person! Indeed, I am ashamed to have given you so much trouble, I
trust you were passing this way, and that my glasses have not put you to
any great inconvenience. Pray take a seat, Lord Peter." He peered
gratefully at the young man over a pince-nez obviously the fellow of
that now adorning a dossier in Scotland Yard.

Lord Peter sat down. The lawyer sat down. Lord Peter picked up a glass
paper-weight from the desk and weighed it thoughtfully in his hand.
Subconsciously he noted what an admirable set of finger-prints he was
leaving upon it. He replaced it with precision on the exact centre of a
pile of letters.

"It's quite all right," said Lord Peter. "I was here on business. Very
happy to be of service to you. Very awkward to lose one's glasses, Mr.
Crimplesham."

"Yes," said the lawyer, "I assure you I feel quite lost without them. I
have this pair, but they do not fit my nose so well--besides, that
chain has a great sentimental value for me. I was terribly distressed
on arriving at Balham to find that I had lost them. I made inquiries of
the railway, but to no purpose. I feared they had been stolen. There
were such crowds at Victoria, and the carriage was packed with people
all the way to Balham. Did you come across them in the train?"

"Well, no," said Lord Peter. "I found them in rather an unexpected
place. Do you mind telling me if you recognised any of your
fellow-travellers on that occasion?"

The lawyer stared at him.

"Not a soul," he answered. "Why do you ask?"

"Well," said Lord Peter. "I thought perhaps the--the person with whom I
found them might have taken them for a joke."

The lawyer looked puzzled.

"Did the person claim to be an acquaintance of mine?" he inquired. "I
know practically nobody in London, except the friend with whom I was
staying in Balham, Dr. Philpots, and I should be very greatly surprised
at his practising a jest upon me. He knew very well how distressed I was
at the loss of the glasses. My business was to attend a meeting of
shareholders in Medlicott's Bank, but the other gentlemen present were
all personally unknown to me, and I cannot think that any of them would
take so great a liberty. In any case," he added, "as the glasses are
here, I will not inquire too closely into the manner of their
restoration. I am deeply obliged to you for your trouble."

Lord Peter hesitated.

"Pray forgive my seeming inquisitiveness," he said, "but I must ask you
another question. It sounds rather melodramatic, I'm afraid, but it's
this. Are you aware that you have any enemy--anyone, I mean, who would
profit by your--er--decease or disgrace?"

Mr. Crimplesham sat frozen into stony surprise and disapproval.

"May I ask the meaning of this extraordinary question?" he inquired
stiffly.

"Well," said Lord Peter, "the circumstances are a little unusual. You
may recollect that my advertisement was addressed to the jeweller who
sold the chain."

"That surprised me at the time," said Mr. Crimplesham, "but I begin to
think your advertisement and your behaviour are all of a piece."

"They are," said Lord Peter. "As a matter of fact I did not expect the
owner of the glasses to answer my advertisement. Mr. Crimplesham, you
have no doubt read what the papers have to say about the Battersea Park
mystery. Your glasses are the pair that was found on the body, and they
are now in the possession of the police at Scotland Yard, as you may see
by this." He placed the specification of the glasses and the official
note before Crimplesham.

"Good God!" exclaimed the lawyer. He glanced at the paper, and then
looked narrowly at Lord Peter.

"Are you yourself connected with the police?" he inquired.

"Not officially," said Lord Peter. "I am investigating the matter
privately, in the interests of one of the parties."

Mr. Crimplesham rose to his feet.

"My good man," he said, "this is a very impudent attempt, but blackmail
is an indictable offence, and I advise you to leave my office before you
commit yourself." He rang the bell.

"I was afraid you'd take it like that," said Lord Peter. "It looks as
though this ought to have been my friend Detective Parker's job, after
all." He laid Parker's card on the table beside the specification, and
added: "If you should wish to see me again, Mr. Crimplesham, before
to-morrow morning, you will find me at the Minster Hotel."

Mr. Crimplesham disdained to reply further than to direct the clerk who
entered to "show this person out."

In the entrance Lord Peter brushed against a tall young man who was just
coming in, and who stared at him with surprised recognition. His face,
however, aroused no memories in Lord Peter's mind, and the baffled
gentleman, calling out Bunter from the newspaper shop, departed to his
hotel to get a trunk-call through to Parker.

Meanwhile in the office, the meditations of the indignant Mr.
Crimplesham were interrupted by the entrance of his junior partner.

"I say," said the latter, "has somebody done something really wicked at
last? Whatever brings such a distinguished amateur of crime on our sober
doorstep?"

"I have been the victim of a vulgar attempt at blackmail," said the
lawyer; "an individual passing himself off as Lord Peter Wimsey----"

"But that _is_ Lord Peter Wimsey," said Mr. Wicks, "there's no mistaking
him. I saw him give evidence in the Attenbury emerald case. He's a big
little pot in his way, you know, and goes fishing with the head of
Scotland Yard."

"Oh dear," said Mr. Crimplesham.

       *       *       *       *       *

Fate arranged that the nerves of Mr. Crimplesham should be tried that
afternoon. When, escorted by Mr. Wicks, he arrived at the Minster Hotel,
he was informed by the porter that Lord Peter Wimsey had strolled out,
mentioning that he thought of attending Evensong. "But his man is here,
sir," he added, "if you like to leave a message."

Mr. Wicks thought that on the whole it would be well to leave a message.
Mr. Bunter, on inquiry, was found to be sitting by the telephone,
waiting for a trunk-call. As Mr. Wicks addressed him the bell rang, and
Mr. Bunter, politely excusing himself, took down the receiver.

"Hullo!" he said. "Is that Mr. Parker? Oh, thanks! Exchange! Exchange!
Sorry, can you put me through to Scotland Yard? Excuse me, gentlemen,
keeping you waiting--Exchange! all right--Scotland Yard--Hullo! Is that
Scotland Yard?--Is Inspector Parker round there?--Can I speak to him?--I
shall have done in a moment, gentlemen.--Hullo! is that you, Mr. Parker?
Lord Peter would be much obliged if you could find it convenient to step
down to Salisbury, sir. Oh, no, sir, he's in excellent health, sir--just
stepped round to hear Evensong, sir--oh, no, I think to-morrow morning
would do excellently, sir, thank you, sir."




CHAPTER VI


It was, in fact, inconvenient for Mr. Parker to leave London. He had had
to go and see Lady Levy towards the end of the morning, and subsequently
his plans for the day had been thrown out of gear and his movements
delayed by the discovery that the adjourned inquest of Mr. Thipps's
unknown visitor was to be held that afternoon, since nothing very
definite seemed forthcoming from Inspector Sugg's inquiries. Jury and
witnesses had been convened accordingly for three o'clock. Mr. Parker
might altogether have missed the event, had he not run against Sugg that
morning at the Yard and extracted the information from him as one would
a reluctant tooth. Inspector Sugg, indeed, considered Mr. Parker rather
interfering; moreover, he was hand-in-glove with Lord Peter Wimsey, and
Inspector Sugg had no words for the interferingness of Lord Peter. He
could not, however, when directly questioned, deny that there was to be
an inquest that afternoon, nor could he prevent Mr. Parker from enjoying
the inalienable right of any interested British citizen to be present.
At a little before three, therefore, Mr. Parker was in his place, and
amusing himself with watching the efforts of these persons who arrived
after the room was packed to insinuate, bribe or bully themselves into a
position of vantage. The Coroner, a medical man of precise habits and
unimaginative aspect, arrived punctually, and looking peevishly round at
the crowded assembly, directed all the windows to be opened, thus
letting in a stream of drizzling fog upon the heads of the unfortunates
on that side of the room. This caused a commotion and some expressions
of disapproval, checked sternly by the Coroner, who said that with the
influenza about again an unventilated room was a death-trap; that
anybody who chose to object to open windows had the obvious remedy of
leaving the court, and further, that if any disturbance was made he
would clear the court. He then took a Formamint lozenge, and proceeded,
after the usual preliminaries, to call up fourteen good and lawful
persons and swear them diligently to inquire and a true presentment make
of all matters touching the death of the gentleman with the pince-nez
and to give a true verdict according to the evidence, so help them God.
When an expostulation by a woman juror--an elderly lady in spectacles
who kept a sweet-shop, and appeared to wish she was back there--had been
summarily squashed by the Coroner, the jury departed to view the body.
Mr. Parker gazed round again and identified the unhappy Mr. Thipps and
the girl Gladys led into an adjoining room under the grim guard of the
police. They were soon followed by a gaunt old lady in a bonnet and
mantle. With her, in a wonderful fur coat and a motor bonnet of
fascinating construction, came the Dowager Duchess of Denver, her quick,
dark eyes darting hither and thither about the crowd. The next moment
they had lighted on Mr. Parker, who had several times visited the Dower
House, and she nodded to him, and spoke to a policeman. Before long, a
way opened magically through the press, and Mr. Parker found himself
accommodated with a front seat just behind the Duchess, who greeted him
charmingly, and said: "What's happened to poor Peter?" Parker began to
explain, and the Coroner glanced irritably in their direction. Somebody
went up and whispered in his ear, at which he coughed, and took another
Formamint.

"We came up by car," said the Duchess--"so tiresome--such bad roads
between Denver and Gunbury St. Walters--and there were people coming to
lunch--I had to put them off--I couldn't let the old lady go alone could
I? By the way, such an odd thing's happened about the Church Restoration
Fund--the Vicar--oh, dear, here are these people coming back again;
well, I'll tell you afterwards--do look at that woman looking shocked,
and the girl in tweeds trying to look as if she sat on undraped
gentlemen every day of her life--I don't mean that--corpses of
course--but one finds oneself being so Elizabethan nowadays--what an
awful little man the Coroner is, isn't he? He's looking daggers at
me--do you think he'll dare to clear me out of the court or commit me
for what-you-may-call-it?"

The first part of the evidence was not of great interest to Mr. Parker.
The wretched Mr. Thipps, who had caught cold in gaol, deposed in an
unhappy croak to having discovered the body, when he went to take his
bath at eight o'clock. He had had such a shock, he had to sit down and
send the girl for brandy. He had never seen the deceased before. He had
no idea how he came there.

Yes, he had been in Manchester the day before. He had arrived at St.
Pancras at ten o'clock. He had cloak-roomed his bag. At this point, Mr.
Thipps became very red, unhappy and confused, and glanced nervously
about the court.

"Now, Mr. Thipps," said the Coroner, briskly, "we must have your
movements quite clear. You must appreciate the importance of the
matter. You have chosen to give evidence, which you need not have done,
but having done so, you will find it best to be perfectly explicit."

"Yes," said Mr. Thipps faintly.

"Have you cautioned this witness, officer?" inquired the Coroner,
turning sharply to Inspector Sugg.

The Inspector replied that he had told Mr. Thipps that anything he said
might be used agin' him at his trial. Mr. Thipps became ashy, and said
in a bleating voice that he 'adn't--hadn't meant to do anything that
wasn't right.

This remark produced a mild sensation, and the Coroner became even more
acidulated in manner than before.

"Is anybody representing Mr. Thipps?" he asked, irritably. "No? Did you
not explain to him that he could--that he _ought_ to be represented? You
did not? Really, Inspector! Did you not know, Mr. Thipps, that you had a
right to be legally represented?"

Mr. Thipps clung to a chair-back for support, and said "No" in a voice
barely audible.

"It is incredible," said the Coroner, "that so-called educated people
should be so ignorant of the legal procedure of their own country. This
places us in a very awkward position. I doubt, Inspector, whether I
should permit the prisoner--Mr. Thipps--to give evidence at all. It is a
delicate position."

The perspiration stood on Mr. Thipps's forehead.

"Save us from our friends," whispered the Duchess to Parker. "If that
cough-drop-devouring creature had openly instructed those fourteen
people--and what unfinished-looking faces they have--so characteristic,
I always think, of the lower middle-class, rather like sheep, or calves'
head (boiled, I mean), to bring in wilful murder against the poor little
man, he couldn't have made himself plainer."

"He can't let him incriminate himself, you know," said Parker.

"Stuff!" said the Duchess. "How could the man incriminate himself when
he never did anything in his life? You men never think of anything but
your red tape."

Meanwhile Mr. Thipps, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, had summoned
up courage. He stood up with a kind of weak dignity, like a small white
rabbit brought to bay.

"I would rather tell you," he said, "though it's reely very unpleasant
for a man in my position. But I reely couldn't have it thought for a
moment that I'd committed this dreadful crime. I assure you, gentlemen,
I _couldn't bear_ that. No. I'd rather tell you the truth, though I'm
afraid it places me in rather a--well, I'll tell you."

"You fully understand the gravity of making such a statement, Mr.
Thipps," said the Coroner.

"Quite," said Mr. Thipps. "It's all right--I--might I have a drink of
water?"

"Take your time," said the Coroner, at the same time robbing his remark
of all conviction by an impatient glance at his watch.

"Thank you, sir," said Mr. Thipps. "Well, then, it's true I got to St.
Pancras at ten. But there was a man in the carriage with me. He'd got in
at Leicester. I didn't recognise him at first, but he turned out to be
an old school-fellow of mine."

"What was this gentleman's name?" inquired the Coroner, his pencil
poised.

Mr. Thipps shrank together visibly.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that," he said. "You see--that is, you
_will_ see--it would get him into trouble, and I couldn't do that--no, I
reelly couldn't do that, not if my life depended on it. No!" he added,
as the ominous pertinence of the last phrase smote upon him, "I'm sure I
couldn't do that."

"Well, well," said the Coroner.

The Duchess leaned over to Parker again. "I'm beginning quite to admire
the little man," she said.

Mr. Thipps resumed.

"When we got to St. Pancras I was going home, but my friend said no. We
hadn't met for a long time and we ought to--to make a night of it, was
his expression. I fear I was weak, and let him over-persuade me to
accompany him to one of his haunts. I use the word advisedly," said Mr.
Thipps, "and I assure you, sir, that if I had known beforehand where we
were going I never would have set foot in the place.

"I cloak-roomed my bag, for he did not like the notion of our being
encumbered with it, and we got into a taxicab and drove to the corner of
Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street. We then walked a little way and
turned into a side street (I do not recollect which) where there was an
open door, with the light shining out. There was a man at a counter and
my friend bought some tickets, and I heard the man at the counter say
something to him about 'Your friend,' meaning me, and my friend said,
'Oh, yes, he's been here before, haven't you, Alf?' (which was what they
called me at school), though I assure you, sir"--here Mr. Thipps grew
very earnest--"I never had, and nothing in the world should induce me to
go to such a place again."

"Well, we went down into a room underneath, where there were drinks, and
my friend had several, and made me take one or two--though I am an
abstemious man as a rule--and he talked to some other men and girls who
were there--a very vulgar set of people, I thought them, though I
wouldn't say but what some of the young ladies were nice-looking enough.
One of them sat on my friend's knee and called him a slow old thing, and
told him to come on--so we went into another room, where there were a
lot of people dancing all these up-to-date dances. My friend went and
danced, and I sat on the sofa. One of the young ladies came up to me and
said, didn't I dance, and I said 'No,' so she said wouldn't I stand her
a drink then. 'You'll stand us a drink then, darling,' that was what she
said, and I said, 'Wasn't it after hours?' and she said that didn't
matter. So I ordered the drink--a gin and bitters it was--for I didn't
like not to, the young lady seemed to expect if of me and I felt it
wouldn't be gentlemanly to refuse when she asked. But it went against my
conscience--such a young girl as she was--and she put her arm round my
neck afterwards and kissed me just like as if she was paying for the
drink--and it reely went to my 'eart," said Mr. Thipps, a little
ambiguously, but with uncommon emphasis.

Here somebody at the back said, "Cheer-oh!" and a sound was heard as of
the noisy smacking of lips.

"Remove the person who made that improper noise," said the Coroner, with
great indignation. "Go on, please, Mr. Thipps."

"Well," said Mr. Thipps, "about half-past twelve, as I should reckon,
things began to get a bit lively, and I was looking for my friend to say
good-night, not wishing to stay longer, as you will understand, when I
saw him with one of the young ladies, and they seemed to be getting on
altogether too well, if you follow me, my friend pulling the ribbons off
her shoulder and the young lady laughing--and so on," said Mr. Thipps,
hurriedly, "so I thought I'd just slip quietly out, when I heard a
scuffle and a shout--and before I knew what was happening there were
half a dozen policemen in, and the lights went out, and everybody
stampeding and shouting--quite horrid, it was. I was knocked down in the
rush, and hit my head a nasty knock on a chair--that was where I got
that bruise they asked me about--and I was dreadfully afraid I'd never
get away and it would all come out, and perhaps my photograph in the
papers, when someone caught hold of me--I think it was the young lady
I'd given the gin and bitters to--and she said, 'This way,' and pushed
me along a passage and out at the back somewhere. So I ran through some
streets, and found myself in Goodge Street, and there I got a taxi and
came home. I saw the account of the raid afterwards in the papers, and
saw my friend had escaped, and so, as it wasn't the sort of thing I
wanted made public, and I didn't want to get him into difficulties, I
just said nothing. But that's the truth."

"Well, Mr. Thipps," said the Coroner, "we shall be able to substantiate
a certain amount of this story. Your friend's name----"

"No," said Mr. Thipps, stoutly, "not on any account."

"Very good," said the Coroner. "Now, can you tell us what time you did
get in?"

"About half-past one, I should think. Though reely, I was so upset----"

"Quite so. Did you go straight to bed?"

"Yes, I took my sandwich and glass of milk first. I thought it might
settle my inside, so to speak," added the witness apologetically, "not
being accustomed to alcohol so late at night and on an empty stomach, as
you may say."

"Quite so. Nobody sat up for you?"

"Nobody."

"How long did you take getting into bed first and last?"

Mr. Thipps thought it might have been half an hour.

"Did you visit the bathroom before turning in?"

"No."

"And you heard nothing in the night?"

"No. I fell fast asleep. I was rather agitated, so I took a little dose
to make me sleep, and what with being so tired and the milk and the
dose, I just tumbled right off and didn't wake till Gladys called me."

Further questioning elicited little from Mr. Thipps. Yes, the bathroom
window had been open when he went in in the morning, he was sure of
that, and he had spoken very sharply to the girl about it. He was ready
to answer any questions; he would be only too 'appy--happy to have this
dreadful affair sifted to the bottom.

Gladys Horrocks stated that she had been in Mr. Thipps's employment
about three months. Her previous employers would speak to her character.
It was her duty to make the round of the flat at night, when she had
seen Mrs. Thipps to bed at ten. Yes, she remembered doing so on Monday
evening. She had looked into all the rooms. Did she recollect shutting
the bathroom window that night? Well, no, she couldn't swear to it, not
in particular, but when Mr. Thipps called her into the bathroom in the
morning it certainly _was_ open. She had not been into the bathroom
before Mr. Thipps went in. Well, yes, it had happened that she had left
that window open before, when anyone had been 'aving a bath in the
evening and 'ad left the blind down. Mrs. Thipps 'ad 'ad a bath on
Monday evening. Mondays was one of her regular bath nights. She was very
much afraid she 'adn't shut the window on Monday night though she wished
her 'ead 'ad been cut off afore she'd been so forgetful.

Here the witness burst into tears and was given some water, while the
Coroner refreshed himself with a third lozenge.

Recovering, witness stated that she had certainly looked into all the
rooms before going to bed. No, it was quite impossible for a body to be
'idden in the flat without her seeing of it. She 'ad been in the kitchen
all evening, and there wasn't 'ardly room to keep the best dinner
service there, let alone a body. Old Mrs. Thipps sat in the
drawing-room. Yes, she was sure she'd been into the dining-room. How?
Because she put Mr. Thipps's milk and sandwiches there ready for him.
There had been nothing in there--that she could swear to. Nor yet in her
own bedroom nor in the 'all. Had she searched the bedroom cupboard and
the box-room? Well, no, not to say searched; she wasn't use to searchin'
people's 'ouses for skeletons every night. So that a man might have
concealed himself in the box-room or a wardrobe? She supposed he might.

In reply to a woman juror--well, yes, she was walking out with a young
man. Williams was his name, Bill Williams--well, yes, William Williams,
if they insisted. He was a glazier by profession. Well, yes, he 'ad been
in the flat sometimes. Well, she supposed you might say he was
acquainted with the flat. Had she ever--no, she 'adn't, and if she'd
thought such a question was going to be put to a respectable girl she
wouldn't 'ave offered to give evidence. The vicar of St. Mary's would
speak to her character and to Mr. Williams's. Last time Mr. Williams was
at the flat was a fortnight ago.

Well, no, it wasn't exactly the last time she 'ad seen Mr. Williams.
Well, yes, the last time was Monday--well, yes, Monday night. Well, if
she must tell the truth, she must. Yes, the officer had cautioned her,
but there wasn't any 'arm in it, and it was better to lose her place
than to be 'ung, though it was a cruel shame a girl couldn't 'ave a bit
of fun without a nasty corpse comin' in through the window to get 'er
into difficulties. After she 'ad put Mrs. Thipps to bed, she 'ad slipped
out to go to the Plumbers' and Glaziers' Ball at the "Black Faced Ram."
Mr. Williams 'ad met 'er and brought 'er back. 'E could testify for
where she'd been and that there wasn't no 'arm in it. She'd left before
the end of the ball. It might 'ave been two o'clock when she got back.
She'd got the keys of the flat from Mrs. Thipps's drawer when Mrs.
Thipps wasn't looking. She 'ad asked leave to go, but couldn't get it,
along of Mr. Thipps bein' away that night. She was bitterly sorry she
'ad be'aved so, and she was sure she'd been punished for it. She had
'eard nothing suspicious when she came in. She had gone straight to bed
without looking round the flat. She wished she were dead.

No, Mr. and Mrs. Thipps didn't 'ardly ever 'ave any visitors: they kep'
themselves very retired. She had found the outside door bolted that
morning as usual. She wouldn't never believe any 'arm of Mr. Thipps.
Thank you, Miss Horrocks. Call Georgiana Thipps, and the Coroner thought
we had better light the gas.

The examination of Mrs. Thipps provided more entertainment than
enlightenment, affording as it did an excellent example of the game
called "cross questions and crooked answers." After fifteen minutes'
suffering, both in voice and temper, the Coroner abandoned the struggle,
leaving the lady with the last word.

"You needn't try to bully me, young man," said that octogenarian with
spirit, "settin' there spoilin' your stomach with them nasty jujubes."

At this point a young man arose in court and demanded to give evidence.
Having explained that he was William Williams, glazier, he was sworn,
and corroborated the evidence of Gladys Horrocks in the matter of her
presence at the "Black Faced Ram" on the Monday night. They had returned
to the flat rather before two, he thought, but certainly later than
1.30. He was sorry that he had persuaded Miss Horrocks to come out with
him when she didn't ought. He had observed nothing of a suspicious
nature in Prince of Wales Road at either visit.

Inspector Sugg gave evidence of having been called in at about half past
eight on Monday morning. He had considered the girl's manner to be
suspicious and had arrested her. On later information, leading him to
suspect that the deceased might have been murdered that night, he had
arrested Mr. Thipps. He had found no trace of breaking into the flat.
There were marks on the bathroom window-sill which pointed to somebody
having got in that way. There were no ladder marks or footmarks in the
yard; the yard was paved with asphalt. He had examined the roof, but
found nothing on the roof. In his opinion the body had been brought into
the flat previously and concealed till the evening by someone who had
then gone out during the night by the bathroom window, with the
connivance of the girl. In that case, why should not the girl have let
the person out by the door? Well, it might have been so. Had he found
traces of a body or a man or both having been hidden in the flat? He
found nothing to show that they might _not_ have been so concealed. What
was the evidence that led him to suppose that the death had occurred
that night?

At this point Inspector Sugg appeared uneasy, and endeavoured to retire
upon his professional dignity. On being pressed, however, he admitted
that the evidence in question had come to nothing.

_One of the jurors_: Was it the case that any finger-marks had been left
by the criminal?

Some marks had been found on the bath, but the criminal had worn gloves.

_The Coroner_: Do you draw any conclusion from this fact as to the
experience of the criminal?

_Inspector Sugg_: Looks as if he was an old hand, sir.

_The Juror_: Is that very consistent with the charge against Alfred
Thipps, Inspector?

The Inspector was silent.

_The Coroner_: In the light of the evidence which you have just heard,
do you still press the charge against Alfred Thipps and Gladys Horrocks?

_Inspector Sugg_: I consider the whole set-out highly suspicious.
Thipps's story isn't corroborated, and as for the girl Horrocks, how do
we know this Williams ain't in it as well?

_William Williams_: Now, you drop that. I can bring a 'undred
witnesses----

_The Coroner_: Silence, if you please. I am surprised, Inspector, that
you should make this suggestion in that manner. It is highly improper.
By the way, can you tell us whether a police raid was actually carried
out on the Monday night on any Night Club in the neighbourhood of St.
Giles's Circus?

_Inspector Sugg_ (sulkily): I believe there was something of the sort.

_The Coroner_: You will, no doubt, inquire into the matter. I seem to
recollect having seen some mention of it in the newspapers. Thank you,
Inspector, that will do.

Several witnesses having appeared and testified to the characters of Mr.
Thipps and Gladys Horrocks, the Coroner stated his intention of
proceeding to the medical evidence.

"Sir Julian Freke."

There was considerable stir in the court as the great specialist walked
up to give evidence. He was not only a distinguished man, but a striking
figure, with his wide shoulders, upright carriage and leonine head. His
manner as he kissed the Book presented to him with the usual deprecatory
mumble by the Coroner's officer, was that of a St. Paul condescending to
humour the timid mumbo-jumbo of superstitious Corinthians.

"So handsome, I always think," whispered the Duchess to Mr. Parker,
"just exactly like William Morris, with that bush of hair and beard and
those exciting eyes looking out of it--so splendid, these dear men
always devoted to something or other--not but what I think socialism is
a mistake--of course it works with all those nice people, so good and
happy in art linen and the weather always perfect--Morris, I mean, you
know--but so difficult in real life. Science is different--I'm sure if I
had nerves I should go to Sir Julian just to look at him--eyes like that
give one something to think about, and that's what most of these people
want, only I never had any--nerves, I mean. Don't you think so?"

"You are Sir Julian Freke," said the Coroner, "and live at St. Luke's
House, Prince of Wales Road, Battersea, where you exercise a general
direction over the surgical side of St. Luke's Hospital?"

Sir Julian assented briefly to this definition of his personality.

"You were the first medical man to see the deceased?"

"I was."

"And you have since conducted an examination in collaboration with Dr.
Grimbold of Scotland Yard?"

"I have."

"You are in agreement as to the cause of death?"

"Generally speaking, yes."

"Will you communicate your impressions to the jury?"

"I was engaged in research work in the dissecting-room at St. Luke's
Hospital at about nine o'clock on Monday morning, when I was informed
that Inspector Sugg wished to see me. He told me that the dead body of a
man had been discovered under mysterious circumstances at 59 Queen
Caroline Mansions. He asked me whether it could be supposed to be a joke
perpetrated by any of the medical students at the hospital. I was able
to assure him, by an examination of the hospital's books, that there was
no subject missing from the dissecting-room."

"Who would be in charge of such bodies?"

"William Watts, the dissecting-room attendant."

"Is William Watts present?" inquired the Coroner of the officer.

William Watts was present and could be called if the Coroner thought it
necessary.

"I suppose no dead body would be delivered to the hospital without your
knowledge, Sir Julian?"

"Certainly not."

"Thank you. Will you proceed with your statement?"

"Inspector Sugg then asked me whether I would send a medical man round
to view the body. I said that I would go myself."

"Why did you do that?"

"I confess to my share of ordinary human curiosity, Mr. Coroner."

Laughter from a medical student at the back of the court.

"On arriving at the flat I found the deceased lying on his back in the
bath. I examined him, and came to the conclusion that death had been
caused by a blow on the back of the neck, dislocating the fourth and
fifth cervical vertebrae, bruising the spinal cord and producing
internal hmorrhage and partial paralysis of the brain. I judged the
deceased to have been dead at least twelve hours, possibly more. I
observed no other sign of violence of any kind upon the body. Deceased
was a strong, well-nourished man of about fifty to fifty-five years of
age."

"In your opinion, could the blow have been self-inflicted?"

"Certainly not. It had been made with a heavy, blunt instrument from
behind, with great force and considerable judgment. It is quite
impossible that it was self-inflicted."

"Could it have been the result of an accident?"

"That is possible, of course."

"If, for example, the deceased had been looking out of the window, and
the sash had shut violently down upon him?"

"No; in that case there would have been signs of strangulation and a
bruise upon the throat as well."

"But deceased might have been killed through a heavy weight accidentally
falling upon him?"

"He might."

"Was death instantaneous, in your opinion?"

"It is difficult to say. Such a blow might very well cause death
instantaneously, or the patient might linger in a partially paralysed
condition for some time. In the present case I should be disposed to
think that deceased might have lingered for some hours. I base my
decision upon the condition of the brain revealed at the autopsy. I may
say, however, that Dr. Grimbold and I are not in complete agreement on
the point."

"I understand that a suggestion has been made as to the identification
of the deceased. _You_ are not in a position to identify him?"

"Certainly not. I never saw him before. The suggestion to which you
refer is a preposterous one, and ought never to have been made. I was
not aware until this morning that it had been made; had it been made to
me earlier, I should have known how to deal with it, and I should like
to express my strong disapproval of the unnecessary shock and distress
inflicted upon a lady with whom I have the honour to be acquainted."

_The Coroner_: "It was not my fault, Sir Julian: I had nothing to do
with it; I agree with you that it was unfortunate you were not
consulted."

The reporters scribbled busily, and the court asked each other what was
meant, while the jury tried to look as if they knew already.

"In the matter of the eyeglasses found upon the body, Sir Julian. Do
these give any indication to a medical man?"

"They are somewhat unusual lenses; an oculist would be able to speak
more definitely, but I will say for myself that I should have expected
them to belong to an older man than the deceased."

"Speaking as a physician, who has had many opportunities of observing
the human body, did you gather anything from the appearance of the
deceased as to his personal habits?"

"I should say that he was a man in easy circumstances, but who had only
recently come into money. His teeth are in a bad state, and his hands
show signs of recent manual labour."

"An Australian colonist, for instance, who had made money?"

"Something of that sort; of course, I could not say positively."

"Of course not. Thank you, Sir Julian."

Dr. Grimbold, called, corroborated his distinguished colleague in every
particular, except that, in his opinion, death had not occurred for
several days after the blow. It was with the greatest hesitancy that he
ventured to differ from Sir Julian Freke, and he might be wrong. It was
difficult to tell in any case, and when he saw the body, deceased had
been dead at least twenty-four hours, in his opinion.

Inspector Sugg, recalled. Would he tell the jury what steps had been
taken to identify the deceased?

A description had been sent to every police station and had been
inserted in all the newspapers. In view of the suggestion made by Sir
Julian Freke, had inquiries been made at all the seaports? They had. And
with no results? With no results at all. No one had come forward to
identify the body? Plenty of people had come forward; but nobody
succeeded in identifying it. Had any effort been made to follow up the
clue afforded by the eyeglasses? Inspector Sugg submitted that, having
regard to the interests of justice, he would beg to be excused from
answering the question. Might the jury see the eyeglasses? The
eyeglasses were handed to the jury.

William Watts, called, confirmed the evidence of Sir Julian Freke with
regard to dissecting-room subjects. He explained the system by which
they were entered. They usually were supplied by the workhouses and free
hospitals. They were under his sole charge. The young gentlemen could
not possibly get the keys. Had Sir Julian Freke, or any of the house
surgeons, the keys? No, not even Sir Julian Freke. The keys had remained
in his possession on Monday night? They had. And, in any case the
inquiry was irrelevant, as there was no body missing, nor ever had been?
That was the case.

The Coroner then addressed the jury, reminding them with some asperity
that they were not there to gossip about who the deceased could or could
not have been, but to give their opinion as to the cause of death. He
reminded them that they should consider whether, according to the
medical evidence, death could have been accidental or self-inflicted, or
whether it was deliberate murder, or homicide. If they considered the
evidence on this point insufficient, they could return an open verdict.
In any case, their verdict could not prejudice any person; if they
brought it in "murder," all the whole evidence would have to be gone
through again before the magistrate. He then dismissed them, with the
unspoken adjuration to be quick about it.

Sir Julian Freke, after giving his evidence, had caught the eye of the
Duchess, and now came over and greeted her.

"I haven't seen you for an age," said that lady. "How are you?"

"Hard at work," said the specialist. "Just got my new book out. This
kind of thing wastes time. Have you seen Lady Levy yet?"

"No, poor dear," said the Duchess. "I only came up this morning, for
this. Mrs. Thipps is staying with me--one of Peter's eccentricities, you
know. Poor Christine! I must run round and see her. This is Mr. Parker,"
she added, "who is investigating that case."

"Oh," said Sir John, and paused. "Do you know," he said in a low voice
to Parker, "I am very glad to meet you. Have you seen Lady Levy yet?"

"I saw her this morning."

"Did she ask you to go on with the inquiry?"

"Yes," said Parker; "she thinks," he added, "that Sir Reuben may be
detained in the hands of some financial rival or that perhaps some
scoundrels are holding him to ransom."

"And is that _your_ opinion?" asked Sir John.

"I think it very likely," said Parker, frankly.

Sir Julian hesitated again.

"I wish you would walk back with me when this is over," he said.

"I should be delighted," said Parker.

At this moment the jury returned and took their places, and there was a
little rustle and hush. The Coroner addressed the foreman and inquired
if they were agreed upon their verdict.

"We are agreed, Mr. Coroner, that deceased died of the effects of a blow
upon the spine, but how that injury was inflicted we consider that there
is not sufficient evidence to show."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Parker and Sir Julian Freke walked up the road together.

"I had absolutely no idea until I saw Lady Levy this morning," said the
doctor, "that there was any idea of connecting this matter with the
disappearance of Sir Reuben. The suggestion was perfectly monstrous, and
could only have grown up in the mind of that ridiculous police officer.
If I had had any idea what was in his mind I could have disabused him
and avoided all this."

"I did my best to do so," said Parker, "as soon as I was called in to
the Levy case----"

"Who called you in, if I may ask?" inquired Sir Julian.

"Well, the household first of all, and then Sir Reuben's uncle, Mr. Levy
of Portman Square, wrote to me to go on with the investigation."

"And now Lady Levy has confirmed those instructions?"

"Certainly," said Parker in some surprise.

Sir Julian was silent for a little time.

"I'm afraid I was the first person to put the idea into Sugg's head,"
said Parker, rather penitently. "When Sir Reuben disappeared, my first
step, almost, was to hunt up all the street accidents and suicides and
so on that had turned up during the day, and I went down to see this
Battersea Park body as a matter of routine. Of course, I saw that the
thing was ridiculous as soon as I got there, but Sugg froze on to the
idea--and it's true there was a good deal of resemblance between the
dead man and the portraits I've seen of Sir Reuben."

"A strong superficial likeness," said Sir Julian. "The upper part of the
face is a not uncommon type, and as Sir Reuben wore a heavy beard and
there was no opportunity of comparing the mouths and chins, I can
understand the idea occurring to anybody. But only to be dismissed at
once. I am sorry," he added, "as the whole matter has been painful to
Lady Levy. You may know, Mr. Parker, that I am an old, though I should
not call myself an intimate, friend of the Levys."

"I understood something of the sort."

"Yes. When I was a young man I--in short, Mr. Parker, I hoped once to
marry Lady Levy." (Mr. Parker gave the usual sympathetic groan.) "I have
never married, as you know," pursued Sir Julian. "We have remained good
friends. I have always done what I could to spare her pain."

"Believe me, Sir Julian," said Parker, "that I sympathise very much
with you and with Lady Levy, and that I did all I could to disabuse
Inspector Sugg of this notion. Unhappily, the coincidence of Sir
Reuben's being seen that evening in the Battersea Park Road----"

"Ah, yes," said Sir Julian. "Dear me, here we are at home. Perhaps you
would come in for a moment, Mr. Parker, and have tea or a
whiskey-and-soda or something."

Parker promptly accepted this invitation, feeling that there were other
things to be said.

The two men stepped into a square, finely furnished hall with a
fireplace on the same side as the door, and a staircase opposite. The
dining-room door stood open on their right, and as Sir Julian rang the
bell a man-servant appeared at the far end of the hall.

"What will you take?" asked the doctor.

"After that dreadfully cold place," said Parker, "what I really want is
gallons of hot tea, if you, as a nerve specialist, can bear the thought
of it."

"Provided you allow of a judicious blend of China in it," replied Sir
Julian in the same tone, "I have no objection to make. Tea in the
library at once," he added to the servant, and led the way upstairs.

"I don't use the downstairs rooms much, except the dining-room," he
explained as he ushered his guest into a small but cheerful library on
the first floor. "This room leads out of my bedroom and is more
convenient. I only live part of my time here, but it's very handy for my
research work at the hospital. That's what I do there, mostly. It's a
fatal thing for a theorist, Mr. Parker, to let the practical work get
behind-hand. Dissection is the basis of all good theory and all correct
diagnosis. One must keep one's hand and eye in training. This place is
far more important to me than Harley Street, and some day I shall
abandon my consulting practice altogether and settle down here to cut up
my subjects and write my books in peace. So many things in this life are
a waste of time, Mr. Parker."

Mr. Parker assented to this.

"Very often," said Sir Julian, "the only time I get for any research
work--necessitating as it does the keenest observation and the faculties
at their acutest--has to be at night, after a long day's work and by
artificial light, which, magnificent as the lighting of the
dissecting-room here is, is always more trying to the eyes than
daylight. Doubtless your own work has to be carried on under even more
trying conditions."

"Yes, sometimes," said Parker; "but then you see," he added, "the
conditions are, so to speak, part of the work."

"Quite so, quite so," said Sir Julian; "you mean that the burglar, for
example, does not demonstrate his methods in the light of day, or plant
the perfect footmark in the middle of a damp patch of sand for you to
analyse."

"Not as a rule," said the detective, "but I have no doubt many of your
diseases work quite as insidiously as any burglar."

"They do, they do," said Sir Julian, laughing, "and it is my pride, as
it is yours, to track them down for the good of society. The neuroses,
you know, are particularly clever criminals--they break out into as many
disguises as----"

"As Leon Kestrel, the Master-Mummer," suggested Parker, who read
railway-stall detective stories on the principle of the 'busman's
holiday.

"No doubt," said Sir Julian, who did not, "and they cover up their
tracks wonderfully. But when you can really investigate, Mr. Parker, and
break up the dead, or for preference the living body with the scalpel,
you always find the footmarks--the little trail of ruin or disorder left
by madness or disease or drink or any other similar pest. But the
difficulty is to trace them back, merely by observing the surface
symptoms--the hysteria, crime, religion, fear, shyness, conscience, or
whatever it may be; just as you observe a theft or a murder and look for
the footsteps of the criminal, so I observe a fit of hysterics or an
outburst of piety and hunt for the little mechanical irritation which
has produced it."

"You regard all these things as physical?"

"Undoubtedly. I am not ignorant of the rise of another school of
thought, Mr. Parker, but its exponents are mostly charlatans or
self-deceivers. '_Sie haben sich so weit darin eingelheimnisst_' that,
like Sludge the Medium, they are beginning to believe their own
nonsense. I should like to have the exploring of some of their brains,
Mr. Parker; I would show you the little faults and landslips in the
cells--the misfiring and short-circuiting of the nerves, which produce
these notions and these books. At least," he added, gazing sombrely at
his guest, "at least, if I could not quite show you to-day, I shall be
able to do so to-morrow--or in a year's time--or before I die."

He sat for some minutes gazing into the fire, while the red light played
upon his tawny beard and struck out answering gleams from his compelling
eyes.

Parker drank tea in silence, watching him. On the whole, however, he
remained but little interested in the causes of nervous phenomena and
his mind strayed to Lord Peter, coping with the redoubtable Crimplesham
down in Salisbury. Lord Peter had wanted him to come; that meant, either
that Crimplesham was proving recalcitrant or that a clue wanted
following. But Bunter had said that to-morrow would do, and it was just
as well. After all, the Battersea affair was not Parker's case; he had
already wasted valuable time attending an inconclusive inquest, and he
really ought to get on with his legitimate work. There was still Levy's
secretary to see and the little matter of the Peruvian Oil to be looked
into. He looked at his watch.

"I am very much afraid--if you will excuse me----" he murmured.

Sir Julian came back with a start to the consideration of actuality.

"Your work calls you?" he said, smiling. "Well, I can understand that. I
won't keep you. But I wanted to say something to you in connection with
your present inquiry--only I hardly know--I hardly like----"

Parker sat down again, and banished every indication of hurry from his
face and attitude.

"I shall be very grateful for any help you can give me," he said.

"I'm afraid it's more in the nature of hindrance," said Sir Julian, with
a short laugh. "It's a case of destroying a clue for you, and a breach
of professional confidence on my side. But since--accidentally--a
certain amount has come out, perhaps the whole had better do so."

Mr. Parker made the encouraging noise which, among laymen, supplies the
place of the priest's insinuating. "Yes, my son?"

"Sir Reuben Levy's visit on Monday night was to me," said Sir Julian.

"Yes?" said Mr. Parker, without expression.

"He found cause for certain grave suspicions concerning his health,"
said Sir Julian, slowly, as though weighing how much he could in honour
disclose to a stranger. "He came to me, in preference to his own medical
man, as he was particularly anxious that the matter should be kept from
his wife. As I told you, he knew me fairly well, and Lady Levy had
consulted me about a nervous disorder in the summer."

"Did he make an appointment with you?" asked Parker.

"I beg your pardon," said the other, absently.

"Did he make an appointment?"

"An appointment? Oh, no! He turned up suddenly in the evening after
dinner when I wasn't expecting him. I took him up here and examined him,
and he left me somewhere about ten o'clock, I should think."

"May I ask what was the result of your examination?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"It might illuminate--well, conjecture as to his subsequent conduct,
said Parker, cautiously. This story seemed to have little coherence with
the rest of the business, and he wondered whether coincidence was alone
responsible for Sir Reuben's disappearance on the same night that he
visited the doctor.

"I see," said Sir Julian. "Yes. Well, I will tell you in confidence that
I saw grave grounds of suspicion, but as yet, no absolute certainty of
mischief."

"Thank you. Sir Reuben left you at ten o'clock?"

"Then or thereabouts. I did not at first mention the matter as it was so
very much Sir Reuben's wish to keep his visit to me secret, and there
was no question of accident in the street or anything of that kind,
since he reached home safely at midnight."

"Quite so," said Parker.

"It would have been, and is, a breach of confidence," said Sir Julian,
"and I only tell you now because Sir Reuben was accidentally seen, and
because I would rather tell you in private than have you ferreting round
here and questioning my servants, Mr. Parker. You will excuse my
frankness."

"Certainly," said Parker. "I hold no brief for the pleasantness of my
profession, Sir Julian. I am very much obliged to you for telling me
this. I might otherwise have wasted valuable time following up a false
trail."

"I am sure I need not ask you, in your turn, to respect this
confidence," said the doctor. "To publish the matter abroad could only
harm Sir Reuben and pain his wife, besides placing me in no favourable
light with my patients."

"I promise to keep the thing to myself," said Parker, "except of
course," he added hastily, "that I must inform my colleague."

"You have a colleague in the case?"

"I have."

"What sort of person is he?"

"He will be perfectly discreet, Sir Julian."

"Is he a police officer?"

"You need not be afraid of your confidence getting into the records at
Scotland Yard."

"I see that you know how to be discreet, Mr. Parker."

"We also have our professional etiquette, Sir Julian."

       *       *       *       *       *

On returning to Great Ormond Street, Mr. Parker found a wire awaiting
him, which said: "Do not trouble to come. All well. Returning to-morrow.
Wimsey."




CHAPTER VII


On returning to the flat just before lunchtime on the following morning,
after a few confirmatory researches in Balham and the neighbourhood of
Victoria Station, Lord Peter was greeted at the door by Mr. Bunter (who
had gone straight home from Waterloo), with a telephone message and a
severe and nursemaidlike eye.

"Lady Swaffham rang me up, my lord, and said she hoped your lordship had
not forgotten you were lunching with her."

"I have forgotten, Bunter, and I mean to forget, I trust you told her I
had succumbed to lethargic encephalitis suddenly, no flowers by
request."

"Lady Swaffham said, my lord, she was counting on you. She met the
Duchess of Denver yesterday----"

"If my sister-in-law's there I won't go, that's flat," said Lord Peter.

"I beg your pardon, my lord, the Dowager Duchess."

"What's she doing in town?"

"I imagine she came up for the inquest, my lord."

"Oh yes--we missed that, Bunter."

"Yes, my lord. Her Grace is lunching with Lady Swaffham."

"Bunter, I can't. I can't, really. Say I'm in bed with whooping cough
and ask my mother to come round after lunch."

"Very well, my lord. Mrs. Tommy Frayle will be at Lady Swaffham's my
lord, and Mr. Milligan----"

"Mr. Who?"

"Mr. John P. Milligan, my lord, and----"

"Good God, Bunter, why didn't you say so before? Have I time to get
there before he does? All right. I'm off. With a taxi I can just----"

"Not in those trousers, my lord," said Mr. Bunter, blocking the way to
the door with deferential firmness.

"Oh, Bunter," pleaded his lordship, "do let me--just this once. You
don't know how important it is."

"Not on any account, my lord. It would be as much as my place is worth."

"The trousers are all right, Bunter."

"Not for Lady Swaffham's, my lord. Besides, your lordship forgets the
man that ran against you with a milk-can at Salisbury."

And Mr. Bunter laid an accusing finger on a slight stain of grease
showing across the light cloth.

"I wish to God I'd never let you grow into a privileged family retainer,
Bunter," said Lord Peter, bitterly, dashing his walking-stick into the
umbrella stand. "You've no conception of the mistakes my mother may be
making."

Mr. Bunter smiled grimly and led his victim away.

When an immaculate Lord Peter was ushered, rather late for lunch, into
Lady Swaffham's drawing-room the Dowager Duchess of Denver was seated on
a sofa, plunged in intimate conversation with Mr. John P. Milligan of
Chicago.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I'm vurry pleased to meet you, Duchess," had been that financier's
opening remark, "to thank you for your exceedingly kind invitation. I
assure you it's a compliment I deeply appreciate."

The Duchess beamed at him, while conducting a rapid rally of all her
intellectual forces.

"Do come and sit down and talk to me, Mr. Milligan," she said. "I do so
love talking to you great business men--let me see, is it a railway king
you are or something about puss-in-the-corner--at least, I don't mean
that exactly, but that game one used to play with cards, all about
wheat and oats, and there was a bull and a bear, too--or was it a
horse?--no, a bear, because I remember one always had to try and get rid
of it and it used to get so dreadfully crumpled and torn, poor thing,
always being handed about, one got to recognise it, and then one had to
buy a new pack--so foolish and dreadfully noisy, but really excellent
for breaking the ice with rather stiff people who didn't know each
other--I'm quite sorry it's gone out."

Mr. Milligan sat down.

"Wal, now," he said, "I guess it's as interesting for us business men to
meet British aristocrats as it is for Britishers to meet American
railway kings, Duchess. And I guess I'll make as many mistakes talking
your kind of talk as you would make if you were tryin' to run a corner
of wheat in Chicago. Fancy now, I called that fine lad of yours Lord
Wimsey the other day, and he thought I'd mistaken him for his brother.
That made me feel rather green."

This was an unhoped-for lead. The Duchess walked warily.

"Dear boy," she said, "I am so glad you met him, Mr. Milligan. _Both_ my
sons are a _great_ comfort to me, you know, though, of course, Gerald is
more conventional--but the right kind of person for the House of Lords,
you know, and a splendid farmer. I can't see Peter down at Denver half
so well, though he is always going to all the right things in town, and
very amusing sometimes, poor boy."

"I was vurry much gratified by Lord Peter's suggestion," pursued Mr.
Milligan, "for which I understand you are responsible, and I'll surely
be very pleased to come any day you like, though I think you're
flattering me too much."

"Ah, well," said the Duchess, "I don't know if you're the best judge of
that, Mr. Milligan. Not that I know anything about business myself," she
added. "I'm rather old-fashioned for these days, you know, and I can't
pretend to do more than know a nice _man_ when I see him; for the other
things I rely on my son."

The accent of this speech was so flattering that Mr. Milligan purred
almost audibly, and said:

"Wal, Duchess, I guess that's where a lady with a real, beautiful,
old-fashioned soul has the advantage of these modern young
blatherskites--there aren't many men who wouldn't be nice--to her, and
even then, if they aren't rock-bottom she can see through them."

"But that leaves me where I was," thought the Duchess. "I believe," she
said aloud, "that I ought to be thanking you in the name of the vicar of
Duke's Denver for a very munificent cheque which reached him yesterday
for the Church Restoration Fund. He was so delighted and astonished,
poor dear man."

"Oh, that's nothing," said Mr. Milligan, "we haven't any fine old
crusted buildings like yours over on our side, so it's a privilege to be
allowed to drop a little kerosene into the worm-holes when we hear one
in the old country suffering from senile decay. So when your lad told me
about Duke's Denver I took the liberty to subscribe without waiting for
the Bazaar."

"I'm sure it was very kind of you," said the Duchess. "You are coming to
the Bazaar, then?" she continued, gazing into his face appealingly.

"Sure thing," said Mr. Milligan, with great promptness. "Lord Peter said
you'd let me know for sure about the date, but we can always make time
for a little bit of good work anyway. Of course I'm hoping to be able to
avail myself of your kind invitation to stop, but if I'm rushed, I'll
manage anyhow to pop over and speak my piece and pop back again."

"I hope so very much," said the Duchess. "I must see what can be done
about the date--of course, I can't promise----"

"No, no," said Mr. Milligan heartily. "I know what these things are to
fix up. And then there's not only me--there's all the real big men of
European eminence your son mentioned, to be consulted."

The Duchess turned pale at the thought that any one of these illustrious
persons might some time turn up in somebody's drawing-room, but by this
time she had dug herself in comfortably, and was even beginning to find
her range.

"I can't say how grateful we are to you," she said, "it will be such a
treat. Do tell me what you think of saying."

"Wal----" began Mr. Milligan.

Suddenly everybody was standing up and a penitent voice was heard to
say:

"Really, most awfully sorry, y'know--hope you'll forgive me, Lady
Swaffham, what? Dear lady, could I possibly forget an invitation from
you? Fact is, I had to go an' see a man down in Salisbury--absolutely
true, 'on my word, and the fellow wouldn't let me get away. I'm simply
grovellin' before you, Lady Swaffham. Shall I go and eat my lunch in the
corner?"

Lady Swaffham gracefully forgave the culprit.

"Your dear mother is here," she said.

"How do, Mother?" said Lord Peter uneasily.

"How are you, dear?" replied the Duchess. "You really oughtn't to have
turned up just yet. Mr. Milligan was just going to tell me what a
thrilling speech he's preparing for the Bazaar, when you came and
interrupted us."

Conversation at lunch turned, not unnaturally, on the Battersea inquest,
the Duchess giving a vivid impersonation of Mrs. Thipps being
interrogated by the Coroner.

"'Did you hear anything unusual in the night?' says the little man,
leaning forward and screaming at her, and so crimson in the face and his
ears sticking out so--just like a cherubim in that poem of
Tennyson's--or is a cherub blue?--perhaps it's seraphim I mean--anyway
you know what I mean, all eyes, with little wings on its head. And dear
old Mrs. Thipps saying, 'Of course I have, any time these eighty years,'
and _such_ a sensation in court till they found out she thought he'd
said, 'Do you sleep without a light?' and everybody laughing, and then
the Coroner said quite loudly, 'Damn the woman,' and she heard that, I
can't think why, and said: 'Don't you get swearing, young man, sitting
there in the presence of Providence, as you may say, I don't know what
young people are coming to nowadays'--and he's sixty if he's a day, you
know," said the Duchess.

       *       *       *       *       *

By a natural transition, Mrs. Tommy Frayle referred to the man who was
hanged for murdering three brides in a bath.

"I always thought that was so ingenious," she said, gazing soulfully at
Lord Peter, "and do you know, as it happened, Tommy had just made me
insure my life, and I got so frightened, I gave up my morning bath and
took to having it in the afternoon when he was in the House--I mean,
when he was _not_ in the house--not at home, I mean."

"Dear lady," said Lord Peter, reproachfully, "I have a distinct
recollection that all those brides were thoroughly unattractive. But it
was an uncommonly ingenious plan--the first time of askin'--only he
shouldn't have repeated himself."

"One demands a little more originality in these days, even from
murderers," said Lady Swaffham. "Like dramatists, you know--so much
easier in Shakespeare's time, wasn't it? Always the same girl dressed up
as a man, and even that borrowed from Boccaccio or Dante or somebody.
I'm sure if I'd been a Shakespeare hero, the very minute I saw a
slim-legged young page-boy I'd have said: 'Odsbodikins! There's that
girl again!'"

"That's just what happened, as a matter of fact," said Lord Peter. "You
see, Lady Swaffham, if ever you want to commit a murder, the thing
you've got to do is to prevent people from associatin' their ideas. Most
people don't associate anythin'--their ideas just roll about like so
many dry peas on a tray, makin' a lot of noise an goin' nowhere, but
once you begin lettin' 'em string their peas into a necklace, it's goin'
to be strong enough to hang you, what?"

"Dear me!" said Mrs. Tommy Frayle, with a little scream, "what a
blessing it is none of my friends have any ideas at all!"

"Y'see," said Lord Peter, balancing a piece of duck on his fork and
frowning, "it's only in Sherlock Holmes and stories like that, that
people think things out logically. Or'nar'ly, if somebody tells you
somethin' out of the way, you just say, 'By Jove!' or 'How sad!' an'
leave it at that, an' half the time you forget about it, 'nless
somethin' turns up afterwards to drive it home. F'r instance, Lady
Swaffham, I told you when I came in that I'd been down to Salisbury,
'n' that's true, only I don't suppose it impressed you much; 'n' I don't
suppose it'd impress you much if you read in the paper to-morrow of a
tragic discovery of a dead lawyer down in Salisbury, but if I went to
Salisbury again next week 'n' there was a Salisbury doctor found dead
the day after, you might begin to think I was a bird of ill omen for
Salisbury residents; and if I went there again the week after, 'n' you
heard next day that the see of Salisbury had fallen vacant suddenly, you
might begin to wonder what took me to Salisbury, an' why I'd never
mentioned before that I had friends down there, don't you see, an' you
might think of goin' down to Salisbury yourself, an' askin' all kinds of
people if they'd happened to see a young man in plum-coloured socks
hangin' round the Bishop's Palace."

"I daresay I should," said Lady Swaffham.

"Quite. An' if you found that the lawyer and the doctor had once upon a
time been in business at Poggleton-on-the-Marsh when the bishop had been
vicar there, you'd begin to remember you'd once heard of me payin' a
visit to Poggleton-on-the-Marsh a long time ago, an' you'd begin to look
up the parish registers there an' discover I'd been married under an
assumed name by the vicar to the widow of a wealthy farmer, who'd died
suddenly of peritonitis, as certified by the doctor, after the lawyer'd
made a will leavin' me all her money, and _then_ you'd begin to think I
might have very good reasons for gettin' rid of such promisin'
blackmailers as the lawyer, the doctor an' the bishop. Only, if I hadn't
started an association in your mind by gettin' rid of 'em all in the
same place, you'd never have thought of goin' to Poggleton-on-the-Marsh,
'n' you wouldn't even have remembered I'd ever been there."

"_Were_ you ever there, Lord Peter?" inquired Mrs. Tommy, anxiously.

"I don't think so," said Lord Peter, "the name threads no beads in my
mind. But it might, any day, you know."

"But if you were investigating a crime," said Lady Swaffham, "you'd have
to begin by the usual things, I suppose--finding out what the person had
been doing, and who'd been to call, and looking for a motive, wouldn't
you?"

"Oh, yes," said Lord Peter, "but most of us have such dozens of motives
for murderin' all sorts of inoffensive people. There's lots of people
I'd like to murder, wouldn't you?"

"Heaps," said Lady Swaffham. "There's that dreadful--perhaps I'd better
not say it, though, for fear you should remember it later on."

"Well, I wouldn't if I were you," said Peter, amiably. "You never know.
It'd be beastly awkward if the person died suddenly to-morrow."

"The difficulty with this Battersea case, I guess," said Mr. Milligan,
"is that nobody seems to have any associations with the gentleman in the
bath."

"So hard on poor Inspector Sugg," said the Duchess. "I quite felt for
the man, having to stand up there and answer a lot of questions when he
had nothing at all to say."

Lord Peter applied himself to the duck, having got a little behind-hand.
Presently he heard somebody ask the Duchess if she had seen Lady Levy.

"She is in great distress," said the woman who had spoken, a Mrs.
Freemantle, "though she clings to the hope that he will turn up. I
suppose you knew him, Mr. Milligan--know him, I should say, for I hope
he's still alive somewhere."

Mrs. Freemantle was the wife of an eminent railway director, and
celebrated for her ignorance of the world of finance. Her _faux pas_ in
this connection enlivened the tea parties of city men's wives.

"Wal, I've dined with him," said Mr. Milligan, good-naturedly. "I think
he and I've done our best to ruin each other, Mrs. Freemantle. If this
were the States," he added, "I'd be much inclined to suspect myself of
having put Sir Reuben in a safe place. But we can't do business that way
in your old country; no, ma'am."

"It must be exciting work doing business in America," said Lord Peter.

"It is," said Mr. Milligan. "I guess my brothers are having a good time
there now. I'll be joining them again before long, as soon as I've fixed
up a little bit of work for them on this side."

"Well, you mustn't go till after my bazaar," said the Duchess.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lord Peter spent the afternoon in a vain hunt for Mr. Parker. He ran him
down eventually after dinner in Great Ormond Street.

Parker was sitting in an elderly but affectionate armchair, with his
feet on the mantelpiece, relaxing his mind with a modern commentary on
the Epistle to the Galatians. He received Lord Peter with quiet
pleasure, though without rapturous enthusiasm, and mixed him a
whiskey-and-soda. Peter took up the book his friend had laid down and
glanced over the pages.

"All these men work with a bias in their minds, one way or other," he
said; "they find what they are looking for."

"Oh, they do," agreed the detective, "but one learns to discount that
almost automatically, you know. When I was at college, I was all on the
other side--Conybeare and Robertson and Drews and those people, you
know, till I found they were all so busy looking for a burglar whom
nobody had ever seen, that they couldn't recognise the footprints of the
household, so to speak. Then I spent two years learning to be cautious."

"Hum," said Lord Peter, "theology must be good exercise for the brain
then, for you're easily the most cautious devil I know. But I say, do go
on reading--it's a shame for me to come and root you up in your off-time
like this."

"It's all right, old man," said Parker.

The two men sat silent for a little, and then Lord Peter said:

"D'you like your job?"

The detective considered the question, and replied:

"Yes--yes, I do. I know it to be useful, and I am fitted to it. I do it
quite well--not with inspiration, perhaps, but sufficiently well to take
a pride in it. It is full of variety and it forces one to keep up to the
mark and not get slack. And there's a future to it. Yes, I like it.
Why?"

"Oh, nothing," said Peter. "It's a hobby to me, you see. I took it up
when the bottom of things was rather knocked out for me, because it was
so damned exciting, and the worst of it is, I enjoy it--up to a point.
If it was all on paper I'd enjoy every bit of it. I love the beginning
of a job--when one doesn't know any of the people and it's just exciting
and amusing. But if it comes to really running down a live person and
getting him hanged, or even quodded, poor devil, there don't seem as if
there was any excuse for me buttin' in, since I don't have to make my
livin' by it. And I feel as if I oughtn't ever to find it amusin'. But I
do."

Parker gave this speech his careful attention.

"I see what you mean," he said.

"There's old Milligan, f'r instance," said Lord Peter. "On paper,
nothin' would be funnier than to catch old Milligan out. But he's rather
a decent old bird to talk to. Mother likes him. He's taken a fancy to
me. It's awfully entertainin' goin' and pumpin' him with stuff about a
bazaar for church expenses, but when he's so jolly pleased about it and
that, I feel a worm. S'pose old Milligan has cut Levy's throat and
plugged him into the Thames. It ain't my business."

"It's as much yours as anybody's," said Parker; "it's no better to do it
for money than to do it for nothing."

"Yes, it is," said Peter stubbornly. "Havin' to live is the only excuse
there is for doin' that kind of thing."

"Well, but look here!" said Parker. "If Milligan has cut poor old Levy's
throat for no reason except to make himself richer, I don't see why he
should buy himself off by giving 1,000 to Duke's Denver church roof, or
why he should be forgiven just because he's childishly vain, or
childishly snobbish."

"That's a nasty one," said Lord Peter.

"Well, if you like, even because he has taken a fancy to you."

"No, but----"

"Look here, Wimsey--do you think he _has_ murdered Levy?"

"Well, he may have."

"But do you think he has?"

"I don't want to think so."

"Because he has taken a fancy to you?"

"Well, that biases me, of course----"

"I daresay it's quite a legitimate bias. You don't think a callous
murderer would be likely to take a fancy to you?"

"Well--besides, I've taken rather a fancy to him."

"I daresay that's quite legitimate, too. You've observed him and made a
subconscious deduction from your observations, and the result is, you
don't think he did it. Well, why not? You're entitled to take that into
account."

"But perhaps I'm wrong, and he did do it."

"Then why let your vainglorious conceit in your own power of estimating
character stand in the way of unmasking the singularly cold-blooded
murder of an innocent and lovable man?"

"I know--but I don't feel I'm playing the game somehow."

"Look here, Peter," said the other with some earnestness, "suppose you
get this playing-fields-of-Eton complex out of your system once and for
all. There doesn't seem to be much doubt that something unpleasant has
happened to Sir Reuben Levy. Call it murder, to strengthen the argument.
If Sir Reuben has been murdered, is it a game? and is it fair to treat
it as a game?"

"That's what I'm ashamed of, really," said Lord Peter. "It _is_ a game
to me, to begin with, and I go on cheerfully, and then I suddenly see
that somebody is going to be hurt, and I want to get out of it."

"Yes, yes, I know," said the detective, "but that's because you're
thinking about your attitude. You want to be consistent, you want to
look pretty, you want to swagger debonairly through a comedy of puppets
or else to stalk magnificently through a tragedy of human sorrows and
things. But that's childish. If you've any duty to society in the way of
finding out the truth about murders, you must do it in any attitude that
comes handy. You want to be elegant and detached? That's all right, if
you find the truth out that way, but it hasn't any value in itself, you
know. You want to look dignified and consistent--what's that got to do
with it? You want to hunt down a murderer for the sport of the thing and
then shake hands with him and say, 'Well played--hard luck--you shall
have your revenge to-morrow!' Well, you can't do it like that. Life's
not a football match. You want to be a sportsman. You can't be a
sportsman. You're a responsible person."

"I don't think you ought to read so much theology," said Lord Peter. "It
has a brutalising influence."

He got up and paced about the room, looking idly over the book-shelves.
Then he sat down again, filled and lit his pipe, and said:

"Well, I'd better tell you about the ferocious and hardened
Crimplesham."

He detailed his visit to Salisbury. Once assured of his _bona fides_,
Mr. Crimplesham had given him the fullest details of his visit to town.

"And I've substantiated it all," groaned Lord Peter, "and unless he's
corrupted half Balham, there's no doubt he spent the night there. And
the afternoon was really spent with the bank people. And half the
residents of Salisbury seem to have seen him off on Monday before lunch.
And nobody but his own family or young Wicks seems to have anything to
gain by his death. And even if young Wicks wanted to make away with him,
it's rather far-fetched to go and murder an unknown man in Thipps's
place in order to stick Crimplesham's eyeglasses on his nose."

"Where was young Wicks on Monday?" asked Parker.

"At a dance given by the Precentor," said Lord Peter, wildly.
"David--his name is David--dancing before the ark of the Lord in the
face of the whole Cathedral Close."

There was a pause.

"Tell me about the inquest," said Wimsey.

Parker obliged with a summary of the evidence.

"Do you believe the body could have been concealed in the flat after
all?" he asked. "I know we looked, but I suppose we might have missed
something."

"We might. But Sugg looked as well."

"Sugg!"

"You do Sugg an injustice," said Lord Peter; "if there had been any
signs of Thipps's complicity in the crime, Sugg would have found them."

"Why?"

"Why? Because he was looking for them. He's like your commentators on
Galatians. He thinks that either Thipps, or Gladys Horrocks, or Gladys
Horrocks's young man did it. Therefore he found marks on the window-sill
where Gladys Horrocks's young man might have come in or handed something
in to Gladys Horrocks. He didn't find any signs on the roof, because he
wasn't looking for them."

"But he went over the roof before me."

"Yes, but only in order to prove that there were no marks there. He
reasons like this: Gladys Horrocks's young man is a glazier. Glaziers
come on ladders. Glaziers have ready access to ladders. Therefore Gladys
Horrocks's young man had ready access to a ladder. Therefore Gladys
Horrocks's young man came on a ladder. Therefore there will be marks on
the window-sill and none on the roof. Therefore he finds marks on the
window-sill but none on the roof. He finds no marks on the ground, but
he thinks he would have found them if the yard didn't happen to be paved
with asphalt. Similarly, he thinks Mr. Thipps may have concealed the
body in the box-room or elsewhere. Therefore you may be sure he searched
the box-room and all the other places for signs of occupation. If they
had been there he would have found them, because he was looking for
them. Therefore, if he didn't find them it's because they weren't
there."

"All right," said Parker, "stop talking. I believe you."

He went on to detail the medical evidence.

"By the way," said Lord Peter, "to skip across for a moment to the other
case, has it occurred to you that perhaps Levy was going out to see
Freke on Monday night?"

"He was; he did," said Parker, rather unexpectedly, and proceeded to
recount his interview with the nerve-specialist.

"Humph!" said Lord Peter. "I say, Parker, these are funny cases, ain't
they? Every line of inquiry seems to peter out. It's awfully exciting up
to a point, you know, and then nothing comes of it. It's like rivers
getting lost in the sand."

"Yes," said Parker. "And there's another one I lost this morning."

"What's that?"

"Oh, I was pumping Levy's secretary about his business. I couldn't get
much that seemed important except further details about the Argentine
and so on. Then I thought I'd just ask round in the City about those
Peruvian Oil shares, but Levy hadn't even heard of them so far as I
could make out. I routed out the brokers, and found a lot of mystery and
concealment, as one always does, you know, when somebody's been rigging
the market, and at least I found one name at the back of it. But it
wasn't Levy's."

"No? Whose was it?"

"Oddly enough, Freke's. It seems mysterious. He bought a lot of shares
last week, in a secret kind of way, a few of them in his own name, and
then quietly sold 'em out on Tuesday at a small profit--a few hundreds,
not worth going to all that trouble about, you wouldn't think."

"Shouldn't have thought he ever went in for that kind of gamble."

"He doesn't as a rule. That's the funny part of it."

"Well, you never know," said Lord Peter; "people do these things just to
prove to themselves or somebody else that they could make a fortune that
way if they liked. I've done it myself in a small way."

He knocked out his pipe and rose to go.

"I say, old man," he said suddenly, as Parker was letting him out, "does
it occur to you that Freke's story doesn't fit in awfully well with what
Anderson said about the old boy having been so jolly at dinner on Monday
night? Would you be, if you thought you'd got anything of that sort?"

"No, I shouldn't," said Parker; "but," he added with his habitual
caution, "some men will jest in the dentist's waiting-room. You, for
one."

"Well, that's true," said Lord Peter, and went downstairs.




CHAPTER VIII


Lord Peter reached home about midnight, feeling extraordinarily wakeful
and alert. Something was jigging and worrying in his brain; it felt like
a hive of bees, stirred up by a stick. He felt as though he were looking
at a complicated riddle, of which he had once been told the answer but
had forgotten it and was always on the point of remembering.

"Somewhere," said Lord Peter to himself, "somewhere I've got the key to
these two things. I know I've got it, only I can't remember what it is.
Somebody said it. Perhaps I said it. I can't remember where, but I know
I've got it. Go to bed, Bunter, I shall sit up a little. I'll just slip
on a dressing-gown."

Before the fire he sat down with his pipe in his mouth and his jazzy
coloured peacocks gathered about him. He traced out this line and that
line of investigation--rivers running into the sand. They ran out from
the thought of Levy, last seen at ten o'clock in Prince of Wales Road.
They ran back from the picture of the grotesque dead man in Mr. Thipps's
bathroom--they ran over the roof, and were lost--lost in the sand.
Rivers running into the sand--rivers running underground, very far
down--

    _Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
    Through caverns measureless to man
    Down to a sunless sea._

By leaning his head down, it seemed to Lord Peter that he could hear
them, very faintly, lipping and gurgling somewhere in the darkness. But
where? He felt quite sure that somebody had told him once, only he had
forgotten.

He roused himself, threw a log on the fire, and picked up a book which
the indefatigable Bunter, carrying on his daily fatigues amid the
excitements of special duty, had brought from the Times Book Club. It
happened to be Sir Julian Freke's _Physiological Bases of the
Conscience_, which he had seen reviewed two days before.

"This ought to send one to sleep," said Lord Peter; "if I can leave
these problems to my subconscious I'll be as limp as a rag to-morrow."

He opened the book slowly, and glanced carelessly through the preface.

"I wonder if that's true about Levy being ill," he thought, putting the
book down; "it doesn't seem likely. And yet----Dash it all, I'll take my
mind off it."

He read on resolutely for a little.

"I don't suppose Mother's kept up with the Levys much," was the next
importunate train of thought. "Dad always hated self-made people and
wouldn't have 'em at Denver. And old Gerald keeps up the tradition. I
wonder if she knew Freke well in those days. She seems to get on with
Milligan. I trust Mother's judgment a good deal. She was a brick about
that bazaar business. I ought to have warned her. She said something
once----"

He pursued an elusive memory for some minutes, till it vanished
altogether with a mocking flicker of the tail. He returned to his
reading.

Presently another thought crossed his mind aroused by a photograph of
some experiment in surgery.

"If the evidence of Freke and that man Watts hadn't been so positive,"
he said to himself, "I should be inclined to look into the matter of
those shreds of lint on the chimney."

He considered this, shook his head, and read with determination.

Mind and matter were one thing, that was the theme of the physiologist.
Matter could erupt, as it were, into ideas. You could carve passions in
the brain with a knife. You could get rid of imagination with drugs and
cure an outworn convention like a disease. "The knowledge of good and
evil is an observed phenomenon, attendant upon a certain condition of
the brain-cells, which is removable." That was one phrase; and again:

"Conscience in man may, in fact, be compared to the sting of a hive-bee,
which, so far from conducing to the welfare of its possessor, cannot
function, even in a single instance, without occasioning its death. The
survival-value in each case is thus purely social; and if humanity ever
passes from its present phase of social development into that of a
higher individualism, as some of our philosophers have ventured to
speculate, we may suppose that this interesting mental phenomenon may
gradually cease to appear; just as the nerves and muscles which once
controlled the movements of our ears and scalps have, in all save a few
backward individuals, become atrophied and of interest only to the
physiologist."

"By Jove!" thought Lord Peter, idly, "that's an ideal doctrine for the
criminal. A man who believed that would never----"

And then it happened--the thing he had been half-unconsciously
expecting. It happened suddenly, surely, as unmistakably, as sunrise. He
remembered--not one thing, not another thing, nor a logical succession
of things, but everything--the whole thing, perfect, complete, in all
its dimensions as it were and instantaneously; as if he stood outside
the world and saw it suspended in infinitely dimensional space. He no
longer needed to reason about it, or even to think about it. He knew it.

There is a game in which one is presented with a jumble of letters and
is required to make a word out of them, as thus:

COSSSSRI

The slow way of solving the problem is to try out all the permutations
and combinations in turn, throwing away impossible conjunctions of
letters, as:

SSSIRC

or

SCSRSO

Another way is to stare at the inco-ordinate elements until, by no
logical process that the conscious mind can detect, or under some
adventitious external stimulus, the combination

SCISSORS

presents itself with calm certainty. After that, one does not even need
to arrange the letters in order. The thing is done.

Even so, the scattered elements of two grotesque conundrums, flung
higgledy-piggledy into Lord Peter's mind, resolved themselves,
unquestioned henceforward. A bump on the roof of the end house--Levy in
a welter of cold rain talking to a prostitute in the Battersea Park
Road--a single ruddy hair--lint bandages--Inspector Sugg calling the
great surgeon from the dissecting-room of the hospital--Lady Levy with a
nervous attack--the smell of carbolic soap--the Duchess's voice--"not
really an engagement, only a sort of understanding with her
father"--shares in Peruvian Oil--the dark skin and curved, fleshy
profile of the man in the bath--Dr. Grimbold giving evidence, "In my
opinion, death did not occur for several days after the
blow"--india-rubber gloves--even, faintly, the voice of Mr. Appledore,
"He called on me, sir, with an anti-vivisectionist pamphlet"--all these
things and many others rang together and made one sound, they swung
together like bells in a steeple, with the deep tenor booming through
the clamour:

"The knowledge of good and evil is a phenomenon of the brain, and is
removable, removable, removable. The knowledge of good and evil is
removable."

Lord Peter Wimsey was not a young man who habitually took himself very
seriously, but this time he was frankly appalled. "It's impossible,"
said his reason, feebly; "_credo quia impossible_," said his interior
certainty with impervious self-satisfaction. "All right," said
conscience, instantly allying itself with blind faith, "what are you
going to do about it?"

Lord Peter got up and paced the room: "Good Lord!" he said. "Good Lord!"
He took down _Who's Who_ from the little shelf over the telephone and
sought comfort in its pages.

     FREKE, Sir Julian, Kt. _cr._ 1916; G.C.V.O. _cr._ 1919;
     K.C.V.O., 1917; K.C.B., 1918; M.D., F.R.C.P., F.R.C.S., Dr.
     en Md. Paris; D.Sci. Cantab.; Knight of Grace of the Order
     of S. John of Jerusalem; Consulting Surgeon of St. Luke's
     Hospital, Battersea. _b._ Gryllingham, 16 March, 1872,
     _only son_ of Edward Curzon Freke, Esq., of Gryll Court,
     Gryllingham. _Educ._ Harrow and Trinity Coll., Cambridge;
     Col. A.M.S.; late Member of the Advisory Board of the Army
     Medical Service. _Publications:_ Some Notes on the
     Pathological Aspects of Genius, 1892; Statistical
     Contributions to the Study of Infantile Paralysis in
     England and Wales, 1894; Functional Disturbances of the
     Nervous System, 1899; Cerebro-Spinal Diseases, 1904; The
     Borderland of Insanity, 1906; An Examination into the
     Treatment of Pauper Lunacy in the United Kingdom, 1906;
     Modern Developments in Psycho-Therapy: A Criticism, 1910;
     Criminal Lunacy, 1914; The Application of Psycho-Therapy to
     the Treatment of Shell-Shock, 1917; An Answer to Professor
     Freud, with a Description of Some Experiments Carried Out
     at the Base Hospital at Amiens, 1919; Structural
     Modifications Accompanying the More Important Neuroses,
     1920. _Clubs:_ White's; Oxford and Cambridge; Alpine, etc.
     _Recreations:_ Chess, Mountaineering, Fishing. _Address:_
     282 Harley Street and St. Luke's House, Prince of Wales
     Road, Battersea Park, S.W.11.

He flung the book away. "Confirmation!" he groaned. "As if I needed it!"

He sat down again and buried his face in his hands. He remembered quite
suddenly how, years ago, he had stood before the breakfast table at
Denver Castle--a small, peaky boy in blue knickers, with a thunderously
beating heart. The family had not come down; there was a great silver
urn with a spirit lamp under it, and an elaborate coffee-pot boiling in
a glass dome. He had twitched the corner of the tablecloth--twitched it
harder, and the urn moved ponderously forward and all the teaspoons
rattled. He seized the tablecloth in a firm grip and pulled his
hardest--he could feel now the delicate and awful thrill as the urn and
the coffee machine and the whole of a Svres breakfast service had
crashed down in one stupendous ruin--he remembered the horrified face of
the butler, and the screams of a lady guest.

A log broke across and sank into a fluff of white ash. A belated
motor-lorry rumbled past the window.

Mr. Bunter, sleeping the sleep of the true and faithful servant, was
aroused in the small hours by a hoarse whisper, "Bunter!"

"Yes, my lord," said Bunter, sitting up and switching on the light.

"Put that light out, damn you!" said the voice. "Listen--over
there--listen--can't you hear it?"

"It's nothing, my lord," said Mr. Bunter, hastily getting out of bed and
catching hold of his master; "it's all right, you get to bed quick and
I'll fetch you a drop of bromide. Why, you're all shivering--you've been
sitting up too late."

"Hush! no, no--it's the water," said Lord Peter, with chattering teeth;
"it's up to their waists down there, poor devils. But listen! can't you
hear it? Tap, tap, tap--they're mining us--but I don't know where--I
can't hear--I can't. Listen, you! There it is again--we must find it--we
must stop it.... Listen! Oh, my God! I can't hear--I can't hear anything
for the noise of the guns. Can't they stop the guns?"

"Oh dear!" said Mr. Bunter to himself. "No, no--it's all right,
Major--don't you worry."

"But I hear it," protested Peter.

"So do I," said Mr. Bunter stoutly; "very good hearing, too, my lord.
That's our own sappers at work in the communication trench. Don't you
fret about that, sir."

Lord Peter grasped his wrist with a feverish hand.

"Our own sappers," he said; "sure of that?"

"Certain of it," said Mr. Bunter, cheerfully.

"They'll bring down the tower," said Lord Peter.

"To be sure they will," said Mr. Bunter, "and very nice, too. You just
come and lay down a bit, sir--they're come to take over this section."

"You're sure it's safe to leave it?" said Lord Peter.

"Safe as houses, sir," said Mr. Bunter, tucking his master's arm under
his and walking him off to his bedroom.

Lord Peter allowed himself to be dosed and put to bed without further
resistance. Mr. Bunter, looking singularly un-Bunterlike in striped
pyjamas, with his stiff black hair ruffled about his head, sat grimly
watching the younger man's sharp cheekbones and the purple stains under
his eyes.

"Thought we'd had the last of these attacks," he said. "Been over-doin'
of himself. Asleep?" He peered at him anxiously. An affectionate note
crept into his voice. "Bloody little fool!" said Sergeant Bunter.




CHAPTER IX


Mr. Parker, summoned the next morning to 110A Piccadilly, arrived to
find the Dowager Duchess in possession. She greeted him charmingly.

"I am going to take this silly boy down to Denver for the weekend," she
said, indicating Peter, who was writing and only acknowledged his
friend's entrance with a brief nod. "He's been doing too much--running
about to Salisbury and places and up till all hours of the night--you
really shouldn't encourage him, Mr. Parker, it's very naughty of
you--waking poor Bunter up in the middle of the night with scares about
Germans, as if that wasn't all over years ago, and he hasn't had an
attack for ages, but there! Nerves are such funny things, and Peter
always did have nightmares when he was quite a little boy--though very
often of course it was only a little pill he wanted; but he was so
dreadfully bad in 1918, you know, and I suppose we can't expect to
forget all about a great war in a year or two, and, really, I ought to
be very thankful with both my boys safe. Still, I think a little peace
and quiet at Denver won't do him any harm."

"Sorry you've been having a bad turn, old man," said Parker, vaguely
sympathetic; "you're looking a bit seedy."

"Charles," said Lord Peter, in a voice entirely void of expression, "I
am going away for a couple of days because I can be no use to you in
London. What has got to be done for the moment can be much better done
by you than by me. I want you to take this"--he folded up his writing
and placed it in an envelope--"to Scotland Yard immediately and get it
sent out to all the workhouses, infirmaries, police stations, Y.M.C.A.s
and so on in London. It is a description of Thipps's corpse as he was
before he was shaved and cleaned up. I want to know whether any man
answering to that description has been taken in anywhere, alive or dead,
during the last fortnight. You will see Sir Andrew Mackenzie personally,
and get the paper sent out at once, by his authority; you will tell him
that you have solved the problems of the Levy murder and the Battersea
mystery"--Mr. Parker made an astonished noise to which his friend paid
no attention--"and you will ask him to have men in readiness with a
warrant to arrest a very dangerous and important criminal at any moment
on your information. When the replies to this paper come in, you will
search for any mention of St. Luke's Hospital, or of any person
connected with St. Luke's Hospital, and you will send for me at once.

"Meanwhile you will scrape acquaintance--I don't care how--with one of
the students at St. Luke's. Don't march in there blowing about murders
and police warrants, or you may find yourself in Queer Street. I shall
come up to town as soon as I hear from you, and I shall expect to find a
nice ingenuous Sawbones here to meet me." He grinned faintly.

"D'you mean you've got to the bottom of this thing?" asked Parker.

"Yes. I may be wrong. I hope I am, but I know I'm not."

"You won't tell me?"

"D'you know," said Peter, "honestly I'd rather not. I say I _may_ be
wrong--and I'd feel as if I'd libelled the Archbishop of Canterbury."

"Well, tell me--is it one mystery or two?"

"One."

"You talked of the Levy murder. Is Levy dead?"

"God--yes!" said Peter, with a strong shudder.

The Duchess looked up from where she was reading the _Tatler_.

"Peter," she said, "is that your ague coming on again? Whatever you two
are chattering about, you'd better stop it at once if it excites you.
Besides, it's about time to be off."

"All right, Mother," said Peter. He turned to Bunter, standing
respectfully in the door with an overcoat and suitcase. "You understand
what you have to do, don't you?" he said.

"Perfectly, thank you, my lord. The car is just arriving, your Grace."

"With Mrs. Thipps inside it," said the Duchess. "She'll be delighted to
see you again, Peter. You remind her so of Mr. Thipps. Good-morning,
Bunter."

"Good-morning, your Grace."

Parker accompanied them downstairs.

When they had gone he looked blankly at the paper in his hand--then
remembering that it was Saturday and there was need for haste, he hailed
a taxi.

"Scotland Yard!" he cried.

       *       *       *       *       *

Tuesday morning saw Lord Peter and a man in a velveteen jacket swishing
merrily through seven acres of turnip-tops, streaked yellow with early
frosts. A little way ahead, a sinuous under-current of excitement among
the leaves proclaimed the unseen yet ever-near presence of one of the
Duke of Denver's setter pups. Presently a partridge flew up with a noise
like a police rattle, and Lord Peter accounted for it very creditably
for a man who, a few nights before, had been listening to imaginary
German sappers. The setter bounded foolishly through the turnips, and
fetched back the dead bird.

"Good dog," said Lord Peter.

Encouraged by this, the dog gave a sudden ridiculous gambol and barked,
its ear tossed inside out over its head.

"Heel," said the man in velveteen, violently. The animal sidled up,
ashamed.

"Fool of a dog, that," said the man in velveteen; "can't keep quiet. Too
nervous, my lord. One of old Black Lass's pups."

"Dear me," said Peter, "is the old dog still going?"

"No, my lord; we had to put her away in the spring."

Peter nodded. He always proclaimed that he hated the country, and was
thankful to have nothing to do with the family estates, but this morning
he enjoyed the crisp air and the wet leaves washing darkly over his
polished boots. At Denver things moved in an orderly way; no one died
sudden and violent deaths except aged setters--and partridges, to be
sure. He sniffed up the autumn smell with appreciation. There was a
letter in his pocket which had come by the morning post, but he did not
intend to read it just yet. Parker had not wired; there was no hurry.

     *     *     *     *     *

He read it in the smoking-room after lunch. His brother was there dozing
over _The Times_--a good, clean Englishman, sturdy and conventional,
rather like Henry VIII in his youth; Gerald, sixteenth Duke of Denver.
The Duke considered his cadet rather degenerate, and not quite good
form; he disliked his taste for police-court news.

The letter was from Mr. Bunter.

110A Piccadilly,
W.1.

MY LORD:

I write (Mr. Bunter had been carefully educated and knew that nothing is
more vulgar than a careful avoidance of beginning a letter with the
first person singular) as your lordship directed, to inform you of the
result of my investigations.

I experienced no difficulty in becoming acquainted with Sir Julian
Freke's man-servant. He belongs to the same club as the Hon. Frederick
Arbuthnot's man, who is a friend of mine, and was very willing to
introduce me. He took me to the club yesterday (Sunday) evening, and we
dined with the man, whose name is John Cummings, and afterwards I
invited Cummings to drinks and a cigar in the flat. Your lordship will
excuse me doing this, knowing that it is not my habit, but it has always
been my experience that the best way to gain a man's confidence is to
let him suppose that one takes advantage of one's employer.

("I always suspected Bunter of being a student of human nature,"
commented Lord Peter.)

I gave him the best old port ("The deuce you did," said Lord Peter),
having heard you and Mr. Arbuthnot talk over it. ("Hum!" said Lord
Peter.)

Its effects were quite equal to my expectations as regards the principal
matter in hand, but I very much regret to state that the man had so
little understanding of what was offered to him that he smoked a cigar
with it (one of your lordship's Villary Villars). You will understand
that I made no comment on this at the time, but your lordship will
sympathise with my feelings. May I take this opportunity of expressing
my grateful appreciation of your lordship's excellent taste in food,
drink and dress? It is, if I may say so, more than a pleasure--it is an
education, to valet and buttle your lordship.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lord Peter bowed his head gravely.

"What on earth are you doing, Peter, sittin' there noddin' an' grinnin'
like a what-you-may-call-it?" demanded the Duke, coming suddenly out of
a snooze. "Someone writin' pretty things to you, what?"

"Charming things," said Lord Peter.

The Duke eyed him doubtfully.

"Hope to goodness you don't go and marry a chorus beauty," he muttered
inwardly, and returned to _The Times_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Over dinner I had set myself to discover Cummings's tastes, and found
them to run in the direction of the music-hall stage. During his first
glass I drew him out in this direction, your lordship having kindly
given me opportunities of seeing every performance in London, and I
spoke more freely than I should consider becoming in the ordinary way in
order to make myself pleasant to him. I may say that his views on women
and the stage were such as I should have expected from a man who would
smoke with your lordship's port.

With the second glass I introduced the subject of your lordship's
inquiries. In order to save time I will write our conversation in the
form of a dialogue, as nearly as possible as it actually took place.

_Cummings:_ You seem to get many opportunities of seeing a bit of life,
Mr. Bunter.

_Bunter:_ One can always make opportunities if one knows how.

_Cummings:_ Ah, it's very easy for you to talk, Mr. Bunter. You're not
married, for one thing.

_Bunter:_ I know better than that, Mr. Cummings.

_Cummings:_ So do I--_now_, when it's too late. (He sighed heavily, and
I filled up his glass.)

_Bunter:_ Does Mrs. Cummings live with you at Battersea?

_Cummings:_ Yes, her and me we do for my governor. Such a life! Not but
what there's a char comes in by the day. But what's a char? I can tell
you it's dull all by ourselves in that d----d Battersea suburb.

_Bunter:_ Not very convenient for the Halls, of course.

_Cummings:_ I believe you. It's all right for you, here in Piccadilly,
right on the spot as you might say. And I daresay your governor's often
out all night, eh?

_Bunter:_ Oh, frequently, Mr. Cummings.

_Cummings:_ And I daresay you take the opportunity to slip off yourself
every so often, eh?

_Bunter:_ Well, what do _you_ think, Mr. Cummings?

_Cummings:_ That's it; there you are! But what's a man to do with a
nagging fool of a wife and a blasted scientific doctor for a governor,
as sits up all night cutting up dead bodies and experimenting with
frogs?

_Bunter:_ Surely he goes out sometimes.

_Cummings:_ Not often. And always back before twelve. And the way he
goes on if he rings the bell and you ain't there. I give you _my_ word,
Mr. Bunter.

_Bunter:_ Temper?

_Cummings:_ No-o-o--but looking through you, nasty-like, as if you was
on that operating table of his and he was going to cut you up. Nothing a
man could rightly complain of, you understand, Mr. Bunter, just nasty
looks. Not but what I say he's very correct. Apologises if he's been
inconsiderate. But what's the good of that when he's been and gone and
lost you your night's rest?

_Bunter:_ How does he do that? Keeps you up late, you mean?

_Cummings:_ Not him; far from it. House locked up and household to bed
at half-past ten. That's his little rule. Not but what I'm glad enough
to go as a rule, it's that dreary. Still, when I _do_ go to bed I like
to go to sleep.

_Bunter:_ What does he do? Walk about the house?

_Cummings:_ Doesn't he? All night. And in and out of the private door to
the hospital.

_Bunter_: You don't mean to say, Mr. Cummings, a great specialist like
Sir Julian Freke does night work at the hospital?

_Cummings_: No, no; he does his own work--research work, as you may say.
Cuts people up. They say he's very clever. Could take you or me to
pieces like a clock, Mr. Bunter, and put us together again.

_Bunter_: Do you sleep in the basement, then, to hear him so plain?

_Cummings_: No; our bedroom's at the top. But, Lord! what's that? He'll
bang the door so you can hear him all over the house.

_Bunter_: Ah, many's the time I've had to speak to Lord Peter about
that. And talking all night. And baths.

_Cummings_: Baths? You may well say that, Mr. Bunter. Baths? Me and my
wife sleep next to the cistern-room. Noise fit to wake the dead. All
hours. When d'you think he chose to have a bath? No later than last
Monday night, Mr. Bunter?

_Bunter_: I've known them to do it at two in the morning, Mr. Cummings.

_Cummings_: Have you, now? Well, this was at three. Three o'clock in the
morning we was waked up. I give you _my_ word.

_Bunter_: You don't say so, Mr. Cummings.

_Cummings_: He cuts up diseases, you see, Mr. Bunter, and then he don't
like to go to bed till he's washed the bacilluses off, if you understand
me. Very natural, too, I daresay. But what I say is, the middle of the
night's no time for a gentleman to be occupying his mind with diseases.

_Bunter_: These great men have their own way of doing things.

_Cummings_: Well, all I can say is, it isn't my way.

(I could believe that, your lordship. Cummings has no signs of greatness
about him, and his trousers are not what I would wish to see in a man of
his profession.)

_Bunter_: Is he habitually as late as that, Mr. Cummings?

_Cummings_: Well, no, Mr. Bunter, I will say, not as a general rule. He
apologised, too, in the morning, and said he would have the cistern seen
to--and very necessary, in my opinion, for the air gets into the pipes,
and the groaning and screeching as goes on is something awful. Just like
Niagara, if you follow me, Mr. Bunter, I give you my word.

_Bunter_: Well, that's as it should be, Mr. Cummings. One can put up
with a great deal from a gentleman that has the manners to apologise.
And, of course, sometimes they can't help themselves. A visitor will
come in unexpectedly and keep them late, perhaps.

_Cummings_: That's true enough, Mr. Bunter. Now I come to think of it,
there was a gentleman come in on Monday evening. Not that he came late,
but he stayed about an hour, and may have put Sir Julian behind-hand.

_Bunter_: Very likely. Let me give you some more port, Mr. Cummings. Or
a little of Lord Peter's old brandy.

_Cummings_: A little of the brandy, thank you, Mr. Bunter. I suppose you
have the run of the cellar here. (He winked at me.)

"Trust me for that," I said, and I fetched him the Napoleon. I assure
your lordship it went to my heart to pour it out for a man like that.
However, seeing we had got on the right track, I felt it wouldn't be
wasted.

"I'm sure I wish it was always gentlemen that come here at night," I
said. (Your lordship will excuse me, I am sure, making such a
suggestion.)

("Good God," said Lord Peter, "I wish Bunter was less thorough in his
methods.")

_Cummings_: Oh, he's that sort, his lordship, is he? (He chuckled and
poked me. I suppress a portion of his conversation here, which could not
fail to be as offensive to your lordship as it was to myself. He went
on:) No, it's none of that with Sir Julian. Very few visitors at night,
and always gentlemen. And going early as a rule, like the one I
mentioned.

_Bunter_: Just as well. There's nothing I find more wearisome, Mr.
Cummings, than sitting up to see visitors out.

_Cummings_: Oh, I didn't see this one out. Sir Julian let him out
himself at ten o'clock or thereabouts. I heard the gentleman shout "Good
night!" and off he goes.

_Bunter_: Does Sir Julian always do that?

_Cummings_: Well, that depends. If he sees visitors downstairs, he lets
them out himself: if he sees them upstairs in the library, he rings for
me.

_Bunter_: This was a downstairs visitor, then?

_Cummings_: Oh, yes. Sir Julian opened the door to him, I remember. He
happened to be working in the hall. Though now I come to think of it,
they went up to the library afterwards. That's funny. I know they did,
because I happened to go up to the hall with coals, and I heard them
upstairs. Besides, Sir Julian rang for me in the library a few minutes
later. Still, anyway, we heard him go at ten, or it may have been a bit
before. He hadn't only stayed about three-quarters of an hour. However,
as I was saying, there was Sir Julian banging in and out of the private
door all night, and a bath at three in the morning, and up again for
breakfast at eight--it beats me. If I had all his money, curse me if I'd
go poking about with dead men in the middle of the night. I'd find
something better to do with my time, eh, Mr. Bunter----

I need not repeat any more of his conversation, as it became unpleasant
and incoherent, and I could not bring him back to the events of Monday
night. I was unable to get rid of him till three. He cried on my neck
and said I was the bird, and you were the governor for him. He said that
Sir Julian would be greatly annoyed with him for coming home so late,
but Sunday night was his night out and if anything was said about it he
would give notice. I think he will be ill-advised to do so, as I feel he
is not a man I could conscientiously recommend if I were in Sir Julian
Freke's place. I noticed that his boot heels were slightly worn down.

I should wish to add, as a tribute to the great merits of your
lordship's cellar, that, although I was obliged to drink a somewhat
large quantity both of the Cockburn '68 and the 1800 Napoleon, I feel no
headache or other ill effects this morning.

Trusting that your lordship is deriving real benefit from the country
air, and that the little information I have been able to obtain will
prove satisfactory, I remain.

With respectful duty to all the family,

Obediently yours,

MERVYN BUNTER.

"Y'know," said Lord Peter thoughtfully to himself, "I sometimes think
Mervyn Bunter's pullin' my leg. What is it, Soames?"

"A telegram, my lord."

"Parker," said Lord Peter, opening it. It said:

"Description recognised Chelsea Workhouse. Unknown vagrant injured
street accident Wednesday week. Died workhouse Monday. Delivered St.
Luke's same evening by order Freke. Much puzzled. PARKER."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Hurray!" said Lord Peter, suddenly sparkling. "I'm glad I've puzzled
Parker. Gives me confidence in myself. Makes me feel like Sherlock
Holmes. 'Perfectly simple, Watson.' Dash it all, though! this is a
beastly business. Still, it's puzzled Parker."

"What's the matter?" asked the Duke, getting up and yawning.

"Marching orders," said Peter, "back to town. Many thanks for your
hospitality, old bird--I'm feelin' no end better. Ready to tackle
Professor Moriarty or Leon Kestrel or any of 'em."

"I do wish you'd keep out of the police courts," grumbled the Duke. "It
makes it so dashed awkward for me, havin' a brother makin' himself
conspicuous."

"Sorry, Gerald," said the other, "I know I'm a beastly blot on the
'scutcheon."

"Why can't you marry and settle down and live quietly, doin' something
useful?" said the Duke, unappeased.

"Because that was a wash-out, as you perfectly well know," said Peter;
"besides," he added cheerfully, "I'm bein' no end useful. You may come
to want me yourself; you never know. When anybody comes blackmailin'
you, Gerald, or your first deserted wife turns up unexpectedly from the
West Indies, you'll realise the pull of havin' a private detective in
the family. 'Delicate private business arranged with tact and
discretion. Investigations undertaken. Divorce evidence a speciality.
Every guarantee!' Come, now."

"Ass!" said Lord Denver, throwing the newspaper violently into his
armchair. "When do you want the car?"

"Almost at once. I say, Jerry, I'm taking Mother up with me."

"Why should she be mixed up in it?"

"Well, I want her help."

"I call it most unsuitable," said the Duke.

The Dowager Duchess, however, made no objection.

"I used to know her quite well," she said, "when she was Christine Ford.
Why, dear?"

"Because," said Lord Peter, "there's a terrible piece of news to be
broken to her about her husband."

"Is he dead, dear?"

"Yes; and she will have to come and identify him."

"Poor Christine."

"Under very revolting circumstances, Mother."

"I'll come with you, dear."

"Thank you, Mother, you're a brick. D'you mind gettin' your things on
straight away and comin' up with me? I'll tell you about it in the car."




CHAPTER X


Mr. Parker, a faithful though doubting Thomas, had duly secured his
medical student: a large young man like an overgrown puppy, with
innocent eyes and a freckled face. He sat on the Chesterfield before
Lord Peter's library fire, bewildered in equal measure by his errand,
his surroundings and the drink which he was absorbing. His palate,
though untutored, was naturally a good one, and he realised that even to
call this liquid a drink--the term ordinarily used by him to designate
cheap whiskey, post-war beer or a dubious glass of claret in a Soho
restaurant--was a sacrilege; this was something outside normal
experience; a genie in a bottle.

The man called Parker, whom he had happened to run across the evening
before in the public-house at the corner of Prince of Wales Road, seemed
to be a good sort. He had insisted on bringing him round to see this
friend of his, who lived splendidly in Piccadilly. Parker was quite
understandable; he put him down as a government servant, or perhaps
something in the City. The friend was embarrassing; he was a lord, to
begin with, and his clothes were a kind of rebuke to the world at large.
He talked the most fatuous nonsense, certainly, but in a disconcerting
way. He didn't dig into a joke and get all the fun out of it; he made it
in passing, so to speak, and skipped away to something else before your
retort was ready. He had a truly terrible man-servant--the sort you
read about in books--who froze the marrow in your bones with silent
criticism. Parker appeared to bear up under the strain, and this made
you think more highly of Parker; he must be more habituated to the
surroundings of the great than you would think to look at him. You
wondered what the carpet had cost on which Parker was carelessly
spilling cigar ash; your father was an upholsterer--Mr. Piggott, of
Piggott & Piggott, Liverpool--and you knew enough about carpets to know
that you couldn't even guess at the price of this one. When you moved
your head on the bulging silk cushion in the corner of the sofa, it made
you wish you shaved more often and more carefully. The sofa was a
monster--but even so, it hardly seemed big enough to contain you. This
Lord Peter was not very tall--in fact, he was rather a small man, but he
didn't look undersized. He looked right; he made you feel that to be
six-foot-three was rather vulgarly assertive; you felt like Mother's new
drawing-room curtains--all over great, big blobs. But everybody was very
decent to you, and nobody said anything you couldn't understand, or
sneered at you. There were some frightfully deep-looking books on the
shelves all round, and you had looked into a great folio Dante which was
lying on the table, but your hosts were talking quite ordinarily and
rationally about the sort of books you read yourself--clinking good love
stories and detective stories. You had read a lot of those, and could
give an opinion, and they listened to what you had to say, though Lord
Peter had a funny way of talking about books, too, as if the author had
confided in him beforehand, and told him how the story was put together,
and which bit was written first. It reminded you of the way old Freke
took a body to pieces.

"Thing I object to in detective stories," said Mr. Piggott, "is the way
fellows remember every bloomin' thing that's happened to 'em within the
last six months. They're always ready with their time of day and was it
rainin' or not, and what were they doin' on such an' such a day. Reel it
all off like a page of poetry. But one ain't like that in real life,
d'you think so, Lord Peter?" Lord Peter smiled and young Piggott,
instantly embarrassed, appealed to his earlier acquaintance. "You know
what I mean, Parker. Come now. One day's so like another, I'm sure I
couldn't remember--well, I might remember yesterday, p'r'aps, but I
couldn't be certain about what I was doin' last week if I was to be shot
for it."

"No," said Parker, "and evidence given in police statements sounds just
as impossible. But they don't really get it like that, you know. I mean,
a man doesn't just say, 'Last Friday I went out at 10 a.m. to buy a
mutton chop. As I was turning into Mortimer Street I noticed a girl of
about twenty-two with black hair and brown eyes, wearing a green jumper,
check skirt, Panama hat and black shoes, riding a Royal Sunbeam cycle at
about ten miles an hour turning the corner by the Church of St. Simon
and St. Jude on the wrong side of the road riding towards the market
place!' It amounts to that, of course, but it's really wormed out of him
by a series of questions."

"And in short stories," said Lord Peter, "it has to be put in statement
form, because the real conversation would be so long and twaddly and
tedious, and nobody would have the patience to read it. Writers have to
consider their readers, if any, y'see."

"Yes," said Mr. Piggott, "but I bet you most people would find it jolly
difficult to remember, even if you ask 'em things. I should--of course,
I know I'm a bit of a fool, but then, most people are, ain't they? You
know what I mean. Witnesses ain't detectives, they're just average
idiots like you and me."

"Quite so," said Lord Peter, smiling as the force of the last phrase
sank into its unhappy perpetrator; "you mean, if I were to ask you in a
general way what you were doin'--say, a week ago to-day, you wouldn't be
able to tell me a thing about it offhand?"

"No--I'm sure I shouldn't." He considered. "No. I was in at the Hospital
as usual, I suppose, and, being Tuesday, there'd be a lecture on
something or the other--dashed if I know what--and in the evening I went
out with Tommy Pringle--so, that must have been Monday--or was it
Wednesday? I tell you, I couldn't swear to anything."

"You do yourself an injustice," said Lord Peter gravely. "I'm sure, for
instance, you recollect what work you were doing in the dissecting-room
on that day, for example."

"Lord, no! not for certain. I mean, I daresay it might come back to me
if I thought for a long time, but I wouldn't swear to it in a court of
law."

"I'll bet you half-a-crown to sixpence," said Lord Peter, "that you'll
remember within five minutes."

"I'm sure I can't."

"We'll see. Do you keep a notebook of the work you do when you dissect?
Drawings or anything?"

"Oh, yes."

"Think of that. What's the last thing you did in it?"

"That's easy, because I only did it this morning. It was leg muscles."

"Yes. Who was the subject?"

"An old woman of sorts; died of pneumonia."

"Yes. Turn back the pages of your drawing book in your mind. What came
before that?"

"Oh, some animals--still legs; I'm doing motor muscles at present. Yes.
That was old Cunningham's demonstration on comparative anatomy. I did
rather a good thing of a hare's leg, and a frog's, and rudimentary legs
on a snake."

"Yes. Which day does Mr. Cunningham lecture?"

"Friday."

"Friday: yes. Turn back again. What comes before that?"

Mr. Piggott shook his head.

"Do your drawings of legs begin on the right-hand page or the left-hand
page? Can you see the first drawing?"

"Yes--yes--I can see the date written at the top. It's a section of a
frog's hind leg, on the right-hand page."

"Yes. Think of the open book in your mind's eye. What is opposite to
it?"

This demanded some mental concentration.

"Something round--coloured--oh, yes--it's a hand."

"Yes. You went on from the muscles of the hand and arm to leg and
foot-muscles?"

"Yes; that's right, I've got a set of drawings of arms."

"Yes. Did you make those on the Thursday?"

"No; I'm never in the dissecting-room on Thursday."

"On Wednesday, perhaps?"

"Yes; I must have made them on Wednesday. Yes; I did. I went in there
after we'd seen those tetanus patients in the morning. I did them on
Wednesday afternoon. I know I went back because I wanted to finish 'em.
I worked rather hard--for me. That's why I remember."

"Yes; you went back to finish them. When had you begun them, then?"

"Why, the day before."

"The day before. That was Tuesday, wasn't it?"

"I've lost count--yes, the day before Wednesday--yes, Tuesday."

"Yes. Were they a man's arms or a woman's arms?"

"Oh, a man's arms."

"Yes; last Tuesday, a week ago to-day, you were dissecting a man's arms
in the dissecting-room. Sixpence, please."

"By Jove!"

"Wait a moment. You know a lot more about it than that. You've no idea
how much you know. You know what kind of man he was."

"Oh, I never saw him complete, you know. I got there a bit late that
day, I remember. I'd asked for an arm specially, because I was rather
weak in arms, and Watts--that's the attendant--had promised to save me
one."

"Yes. You have arrived late and found your arm waiting for you. You are
dissecting it--taking your scissors and slitting up the skin and pinning
it back. Was it very young, fair skin?"

"Oh, no--no. Ordinary skin, I think--with dark hairs on it--yes, that
was it."

"Yes. A lean, stringy arm, perhaps, with no extra fat anywhere?"

"Oh, no--I was rather annoyed about that. I wanted a good, muscular arm,
but it was rather poorly developed and the fat got in my way."

"Yes; a sedentary man who didn't do much manual work."

"That's right."

"Yes. You dissected the hand, for instance, and made a drawing of it.
You would have noticed any hard calluses."

"Oh, there was nothing of the sort."

"No. But should you say it was a young man's arm? Firm young flesh and
limber joints?"

"No--no."

"No. Old and stringy, perhaps."

"No. Middle-aged--with rheumatism. I mean, there was a chalky deposit in
the joints, and the fingers were a bit swollen."

"Yes. A man about fifty."

"About that."

"Yes. There were other students at work on the same body."

"Oh, yes."

"Yes. And they made all the usual sort of jokes about it."

"I expect so--oh, yes!"

"You can remember some of them. Who is your local funny man, so to
speak?"

"Tommy Pringle."

"What was Tommy Pringle doing?"

"Can't remember."

"Whereabouts was Tommy Pringle working?"

"Over by the instrument cupboard--by sink C."

"Yes. Get a picture of Tommy Pringle in your mind's eye."

Piggott began to laugh.

"I remember now. Tommy Pringle said the old Sheeny----"

"Why did he call him a Sheeny?"

"I don't know. But I know he did."

"Perhaps he looked like it. Did you see his head?"

"No."

"Who had the head?"

"I don't know--oh, yes, I do, though. Old Freke bagged the head himself,
and little Bouncible Binns was very cross about it, because he'd been
promised a head to do with old Scrooger."

"I see; what was Sir Julian doing with the head?"

"He called us up and gave us a jaw on spinal hmorrhage and nervous
lesions."

"Yes. Well, go back to Tommy Pringle."

Tommy Pringle's joke was repeated, not without some embarrassment.

"Quite so. Was that all?"

"No. The chap who was working with Tommy said that sort of thing came
from over-feeding."

"I deduce that Tommy Pringle's partner was interested in the alimentary
canal."

"Yes; and Tommy said, if he'd thought they'd feed you like that he'd go
to the workhouse himself."

"Then the man was a pauper from the workhouse?"

"Well, he must have been, I suppose."

"Are the workhouse paupers usually fat and well-fed?"

"Well, no--come to think of it, not as a rule."

"In fact, it struck Tommy Pringle and his friend that this was something
a little out of the way in a workhouse subject?"

"Yes."

"And if the alimentary canal was so entertaining to these gentlemen I
imagine the subject had come by his death shortly after a full meal."

"Yes--oh, yes--he'd have had to, wouldn't he?"

"Well, I don't know," said Lord Peter. "That's in your department, you
know. That would be your inference, from what they said."

"Oh, yes. Undoubtedly."

"Yes; you wouldn't, for example, expect them to make that observation if
the patient had been ill for a long time and fed on slops."

"Of course not."

"Well, you see, you really know a lot about it. On Tuesday week you were
dissecting the arm muscles of a rheumatic middle-aged Jew, of sedentary
habits, who had died shortly after eating a heavy meal, of some injury
producing spinal hmorrhage and nervous lesions, and so forth, and who
was presumed to come from the workhouse?"

"Yes."

"And you could swear to those facts, if need were?"

"Well, if you put it that way, I suppose I could."

"Of course you could."

Mr. Piggott sat for some moments in contemplation.

"I say," he said at last, "I did know all that, didn't I?"

"Oh, yes--you knew it all right--like Socrates' slave."

"Who's he?"

"A person in a book I used to read as a boy."

"Oh--does he come in _The Last Days of Pompeii_?"

"No--another book--I daresay you escaped it. It's rather dull."

"I never read much except Henty and Fenimore Cooper at school....
But--have I got rather an extra good memory, then?"

"You have a better memory than you credit yourself with."

"Then why can't I remember all the medical stuff? It all goes out of my
head like a sieve."

"Well, why can't you?" said Lord Peter, standing on the hearthrug and
smiling down at his guest.

"Well," said the young man, "the chaps who examine one don't ask the
same sort of questions you do."

"No?"

"No--they leave you to remember all by yourself. And it's beastly hard.
Nothing to catch hold of, don't you know? But, I say--how did you know
about Tommy Pringle being the funny man and----"

"I didn't, till you told me."

"No; I know. But how did you know he'd be there if you did ask? I mean
to say--I say," said Mr. Piggott, who was becoming mellowed by
influences themselves not unconnected with the alimentary canal--"I say,
are you rather clever, or am I rather stupid?"

"No, no," said Lord Peter, "it's me. I'm always askin' such stupid
questions, everybody thinks I must mean somethin' by 'em."

This was too involved for Mr. Piggott.

"Never mind," said Parker, soothingly, "he's always like that. You
mustn't take any notice. He can't help it. It's premature senile decay,
often observed in the families of hereditary legislators. Go away,
Wimsey, and play us the _Beggar's Opera_, or something."

"That's good enough, isn't it?" said Lord Peter, when the happy Mr.
Piggott had been despatched home after a really delightful evening.

"I'm afraid so," said Parker. "But it seems almost incredible."

"There's nothing incredible in human nature," said Lord Peter; "at
least, in educated human nature. Have you got that exhumation order?"

"I shall have it to-morrow. I thought of fixing up with the workhouse
people for to-morrow afternoon. I shall have to go and see them first."

"Right you are; I'll let my mother know."

"I begin to feel like you, Wimsey, I don't like this job."

"I like it a deal better than I did."

"You are really certain we're not making a mistake?"

Lord Peter had strolled across to the window. The curtain was not
perfectly drawn, and he stood gazing out through the gap into lighted
Piccadilly. At this he turned round:

"If we are," he said, "we shall know to-morrow, and no harm will have
been done. But I rather think you will receive a certain amount of
confirmation on your way home. Look here, Parker, d'you know, if I were
you I'd spend the night here. There's a spare bedroom; I can easily put
you up."

Parker stared at him.

"Do you mean--I'm likely to be attacked?"

"I think it very likely indeed."

"Is there anybody in the street?"

"Not now; there was half an hour ago."

"When Piggott left?"

"Yes."

"I say--I hope the boy is in no danger."

"That's what I went down to see. I don't think so. Fact is, I don't
suppose anybody would imagine we'd exactly made a confidant of Piggott.
But I think you and I are in danger. You'll stay?"

"I'm damned if I will, Wimsey; why should I run away?"

"Bosh!" said Peter, "you'd run away all right if you believed me, and
why not? You don't believe me. In fact, you're still not certain I'm on
the right tack. Go in peace, but don't say I didn't warn you."

"I won't; I'll dictate a message with my dying breath to say I was
convinced."

"Well, don't walk--take a taxi."

"Very well, I'll do that."

"And don't let anybody else get into it."

"No."

It was a raw, unpleasant night. A taxi deposited a load of people
returning from the theatre at the block of flats next door, and Parker
secured it for himself. He was just giving the address to the driver,
when a man came hastily running up from a side street. He was in evening
dress and an overcoat. He rushed up, signalling frantically.

"Sir--sir!--dear me! why, it's Mr. Parker! How fortunate! If you would
be so kind--summoned from the club--a sick friend--can't find a
taxi--everybody going home from the theatre--if I might share your
cab--you are returning to Bloomsbury? I want Russell Square--if I might
presume--a matter of life and death."

He spoke in hurried gasps, as though he had been running violently and
far. Parker promptly stepped out of the taxi.

"Delighted to be of service to you, Sir Julian," he said; "take my taxi.
I am going down to Craven Street myself, but I'm in no hurry. Pray make
use of the cab."

"It's extremely kind of you," said the surgeon. "I am ashamed----"

"That's all right," said Parker, cheerily. "I can wait." He assisted
Freke into the taxi. "What number? 24 Russell Square, driver, and look
sharp."

The taxi drove off. Parker remounted the stairs and rang Lord Peter's
bell.

"Thanks, old man," he said. "I'll stop the night, after all."

"Come in," said Wimsey.

"Did you see that?" asked Parker.

"I saw something. What happened exactly?"

Parker told his story. "Frankly," he said, "I've been thinking you a bit
mad, but now I'm not quite so sure of it."

Peter laughed.

"Blessed are they that have not seen and yet have believed. Bunter, Mr.
Parker will stay the night."

"Look here, Wimsey, let's have another look at this business. Where's
that letter?"

Lord Peter produced Bunter's essay in dialogue. Parker studied it for a
short time in silence.

"You know, Wimsey. I'm as full of objections to this idea as an egg is
of meat."

"So'm I, old son. That's why I want to dig up our Chelsea pauper. But
trot out your objections."

"Well----"

"Well, look here, I don't pretend to be able to fill in all the blanks
myself. But here we have two mysterious occurrences in one night, and a
complete chain connecting the one with another through one particular
person. It's beastly, but it's not unthinkable."

"Yes, I know all that. But there are one or two quite definite
stumbling-blocks."

"Yes, I know. But, see here. On the one hand, Levy disappeared after
being last seen looking for Prince of Wales Road at nine o'clock. At
eight next morning a dead man, not unlike him in general outline, is
discovered in a bath in Queen Caroline Mansions. Levy, by Freke's own
admission, was going to see Freke. By information received from Chelsea
workhouse a dead man, answering to the description of the Battersea
corpse in its natural state, was delivered that same day to Freke. We
have Levy with a past, and no future, as it were; an unknown vagrant
with a future (in the cemetery) and no past, and Freke stands between
their future and their past."

"That looks all right----"

"Yes. Now, further: Freke has a motive for getting rid of Levy--an old
jealousy."

"Very old--and not much of a motive."

"People have been known to do that sort of thing.[4] You're thinking
that people don't keep up old jealousies for twenty years or so. Perhaps
not. Not just primitive, brute jealousy. That means a word and a blow.
But the thing that rankles is hurt vanity. That sticks. Humiliation. And
we've all got a sore spot we don't like to have touched. I've got it.
You've got it. Some blighter said hell knew no fury like a woman
scorned.

"Stickin' it on to women, poor devils. Sex is every man's loco spot--you
needn't fidget, you know it's true--he'll take a disappointment, but not
a humiliation. I knew a man once who'd been turned down--not too
charitably--by a girl he was engaged to. He spoke quite decently about
her. I asked what had become of her. 'Oh,' he said, 'she married the
other fellow,' And then burst out--couldn't help himself. 'Lord, yes!'
he cried. 'To think of it--jilted for a Scotchman!' I don't know why he
didn't like Scots, but that was what got him on the raw. Look at Freke.
I've read his books. His attacks on his antagonists are savage. And he's
a scientist. Yet he can't bear opposition, even in his work, which is
where any first-class man is most sane and open-minded. Do you think
he's a man to take a beating from any man on a side-issue? On a man's
most sensitive side-issue? People are opinionated about side-issues, you
know. I see red if anybody questions my judgment about a book. And
Levy--who was nobody twenty years ago--romps in and carries off Freke's
girl from under his nose. It isn't the girl Freke would bother
about--it's having his aristocratic nose put out of joint by a little
Jewish nobody.

"There's another thing. Freke's got another side-issue. He likes crime.
In that criminology book of his he gloats over a hardened murderer. I've
read it, and I've seen the admiration simply glaring out between the
lines whenever he writes about a callous and successful criminal. He
reserves his contempt for the victims or the penitents or the men who
lose their heads and get found out. His heroes are Edmond de la
Pommerais, who persuaded his mistress into becoming an accessory to her
own murder, and George Joseph Smith of Brides-in-a-bath fame, who could
make passionate love to his wife in the night and carry out his plot to
murder her in the morning. After all, he thinks conscience is a sort of
vermiform appendix. Chop it out and you'll feel all the better. Freke
isn't troubled by the usual conscientious deterrent. Witness his own
hand in his books. Now again. The man who went to Levy's house in his
place knew the house: Freke knew the house; he was a red-haired man,
smaller than Levy, but not much smaller, since he could wear his clothes
without appearing ludicrous: you have seen Freke--you know his
height--about five-foot-eleven, I suppose, and his auburn mane; he
probably wore surgical gloves: Freke is a surgeon; he was a methodical
and daring man: surgeons are obliged to be both daring and methodical.
Now take the other side. The man who got hold of the Battersea corpse
had to have access to dead bodies. Freke obviously had access to dead
bodies. He had to be cool and quick and callous about handling a dead
body. Surgeons are all that. He had to be a strong man to carry the body
across the roofs and dump it in at Thipps's window. Freke is a powerful
man and a member of the Alpine Club. He probably wore surgical gloves
and he let the body down from the roof with a surgical bandage. This
points to a surgeon again. He undoubtedly lived in the neighbourhood.
Freke lives next door. The girl you interviewed heard a bump on the roof
of the end house. That is the house next to Freke's. Every time we look
at Freke, he leads somewhere, whereas Milligan and Thipps and
Crimplesham and all the other people we've honoured with our suspicion
simply led nowhere."

"Yes; but it's not quite so simple as you make out. What was Levy doing
in that surreptitious way at Freke's on Monday night?"

"Well, you have Freke's explanation."

"Rot, Wimsey. You said yourself it wouldn't do."

"Excellent. It won't do. Therefore Freke was lying. Why should he lie
about it, unless he has some object in hiding the truth?"

"Well, but why mention it at all?"

"Because Levy, contrary to all expectation, had been seen at the corner
of the road. That was a nasty accident for Freke. He thought it best to
be beforehand with an explanation--of sorts. He reckoned, of course, on
nobody's ever connecting Levy with Battersea Park."

"Well, then, we come back to the first question: Why did Levy go there?"

"I don't know, but he was got there somehow. Why did Freke buy all those
Peruvian Oil shares?"

"I don't know," said Parker in his turn.

"Anyway," went on Wimsey, "Freke expected him, and made arrangements to
let him in himself, so that Cummings shouldn't see who the caller was."

"But the caller left again at ten."

"Oh, Charles! I did not expect this of you. This is the purest Suggery.
Who saw him go? Somebody said 'Good-night' and walked away down the
street. And you believe it was Levy because Freke didn't go out of his
way to explain that it wasn't."

"D'you mean that Freke walked cheerfully out of the house to Park Lane,
and left Levy behind--dead or alive--for Cummings to find?"

"We have Cummings's word that he did nothing of the sort. A few minutes
after the steps walked away from the house, Freke rang the library bell
and told Cummings to shut up for the night."

"Then----"

"Well--there's a side door to the house, I suppose--in fact, you know
there is--Cummings said so--through the hospital."

"Yes--well, where was Levy?"

"Levy went up into the library and never came down. You've been in
Freke's library. Where would you have put him?"

"In my bedroom next door."

"Then that's where he did put him."

"But suppose the man went in to turn down the bed?"

"Beds are turned down by the housekeeper, earlier than ten o'clock."

"Yes.... But Cummings heard Freke about the house all night."

"He heard him go in and out two or three times. He'd expect him to do
that, anyway."

"Do you mean to say Freke got all that job finished before three in the
morning?"

"Why not?"

"Quick work."

"Well, call it quick work. Besides, why three? Cummings never saw him
again till he called him for eight o'clock breakfast."

"But he was having a bath at three."

"I don't say he didn't get back from Park Lane before three. But I don't
suppose Cummings went and looked through the bathroom keyhole to see if
he was in the bath."

Parker considered again.

"How about Crimplesham's pince-nez?" he asked.

"That is a bit mysterious," said Lord Peter.

"And why Thipps's bathroom?"

"Why, indeed? Pure accident, perhaps--or pure devilry."

"Do you think all this elaborate scheme could have been put together in
a night, Wimsey?"

"Far from it. It was conceived as soon as that man who bore a
superficial resemblance to Levy came into the workhouse. He had several
days."

"I see."

"Freke gave himself away at the inquest. He and Grimbold disagreed about
the length of the man's illness. If a small man (comparatively speaking)
like Grimbold presumes to disagree with a man like Freke, it's because
he is sure of his ground."

"Then--if your theory is sound--Freke made a mistake."

"Yes. A very slight one. He was guarding, with unnecessary caution,
against starting a train of thought in the mind of anybody--say, the
workhouse doctor. Up till then he'd been reckoning on the fact that
people don't think a second time about anything (a body, say) that's
once been accounted for."

"What made him lose his head?"

"A chain of unforeseen accidents. Levy's having been recognised--my
mother's son having foolishly advertised in _The Times_ his connection
with the Battersea end of the mystery--Inspector Parker (whose
photograph has been a little prominent in the illustrated press lately)
seen sitting next door to the Duchess of Denver at the inquest. His aim
in life was to prevent the two ends of the problem from linking up. And
there were two of the links, literally side by side. Many criminals are
wrecked by over-caution."

Parker was silent.




CHAPTER XI


"A regular pea-souper, by Jove," said Lord Peter.

Parker grunted, and struggled irritably into an overcoat.

"It affords me, if I may say so, the greatest satisfaction," continued
the noble lord, "that in a collaboration like ours all the uninteresting
and disagreeable routine work is done by you."

Parker grunted again.

"Do you anticipate any difficulty about the warrant?" inquired Lord
Peter.

Parker grunted a third time.

"I suppose you've seen to it that all this business is kept quiet?"

"Of course."

"You've muzzled the workhouse people?"

"Of course."

"And the police?"

"Yes."

"Because, if you haven't there'll probably be nobody to arrest."

"My dear Wimsey, do you think I'm a fool?"

"I had no such hope."

Parker grunted finally and departed.

Lord Peter settled down to a perusal of his Dante. It afforded him no
solace. Lord Peter was hampered in his career as a private detective by
a public-school education. Despite Parker's admonitions, he was not
always able to discount it. His mind had been warped in its young growth
by "Raffles" and "Sherlock Holmes," or the sentiments for which they
stand. He belonged to a family which had never shot a fox.

"I am an amateur," said Lord Peter.

Nevertheless, while communing with Dante, he made up his mind.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the afternoon he found himself in Harley Street. Sir Julian Freke
might be consulted about one's nerves from two till four on Tuesdays and
Fridays. Lord Peter rang the bell.

"Have you an appointment, sir?" inquired the man who opened the door.

"No," said Lord Peter, "but will you give Sir Julian my card? I think it
possible he may see me without one."

He sat down in the beautiful room in which Sir Julian's patients awaited
his healing counsel. It was full of people. Two or three fashionably
dressed women were discussing shops and servants together, and teasing a
toy griffon. A big, worried-looking man by himself in a corner looked at
his watch twenty times a minute. Lord Peter knew him by sight. It was
Wintrington, a millionaire, who had tried to kill himself a few months
ago. He controlled the finances of five countries, but he could not
control his nerves. The finances of five countries were in Sir Julian
Freke's capable hands. By the fireplace sat a soldierly-looking young
man, of about Lord Peter's own age. His face was prematurely lined and
worn; he sat bolt upright, his restless eyes darting in the direction of
every slightest sound. On the sofa was an elderly woman of modest
appearance, with a young girl. The girl seemed listless and wretched;
the woman's look showed deep affection, and anxiety tempered with a
timid hope. Close beside Lord Peter was another younger woman, with a
little girl, and Lord Peter noticed in both of them the broad cheekbones
and beautiful grey, slanting eyes of the Slav. The child, moving
restlessly about, trod on Lord Peter's patent-leather toe, and the
mother admonished her in French before turning to apologise to Lord
Peter.

"Mais je vous en prie, madame," said the young man, "it is nothing."

"She is nervous, pauvre petite," said the young woman.

"You are seeking advice for her?"

"Yes. He is wonderful, the doctor. Figure to yourself, monsieur, she
cannot forget, poor child, the things she has seen." She leaned nearer,
so that the child might not hear. "We have escaped--from starving
Russia--six months ago. I dare not tell you--she has such quick ears,
and then, the cries, the tremblings, the convulsions--they all begin
again. We were skeletons when we arrived--mon Dieu!--but that is better
now. See, she is thin, but she is not starved. She would be fatter but
for the nerves that keep her from eating. We who are older, we
forget--enfin, on apprend  ne pas y penser--but these children! When
one is young, monsieur, tout a impressionne trop."

Lord Peter, escaping from the thraldom of British good form, expressed
himself in that language in which sympathy is not condemned to mutism.

"But she is much better, much better," said the mother proudly, "the
great doctor, he does marvels."

"C'est un homme prcieux," said Lord Peter.

"Ah, monsieur, c'est un saint qui opre des miracles! Nous prions pour
lui, Natasha et moi, tous les jours. N'est-ce pas, chrie? And consider,
monsieur, that he does it all, ce grand homme, cet homme illustre, for
nothing at all. When we come here, we have not even the clothes upon our
backs--we are ruined, famished. Et avec a que nous sommes de bonne
famille--mais hlas! monsieur, en Russie, comme vous savez, a ne vous
vaut que des insultes--des atrocits. Enfin! the great Sir Julian sees
us, he says--'Madame, your little girl is very interesting to me. Say no
more. I cure her for nothing--pour ses beaux yeux,' a-t-il ajout en
riant. Ah, monsieur, c'est un saint, un vritable saint! and Natasha is
much, much better."

"Madame, je vous en flicite."

"And you, monsieur? You are young, well, strong--you also suffer? Is it
still the war, perhaps?"

"A little remains of shell-shock," said Lord Peter.

"Ah, yes. So many good, brave, young men----"

"Sir Julian can spare you a few minutes, my lord, if you will come in
now," said the servant.

Lord Peter bowed to his neighbour, and walked across the waiting-room.
As the door of the consulting-room closed behind him, he remembered
having once gone, disguised, into the staff-room of a German officer. He
experienced the same feeling--the feeling of being caught in a trap, and
a mingling of bravado and shame.

       *       *       *       *       *

He had seen Sir Julian Freke several times from a distance, but never
close. Now, while carefully and quite truthfully detailing the
circumstances of his recent nervous attack, he considered the man before
him. A man taller than himself, with immense breadth of shoulder, and
wonderful hands. A face beautiful, impassioned and inhuman; fanatical,
compelling eyes, bright blue amid the ruddy bush of hair and beard. They
were not the cool and kindly eyes of the family doctor, they were the
brooding eyes of the inspired scientist, and they searched one through.

"Well," thought Lord Peter, "I shan't have to be explicit, anyhow."

"Yes," said Sir Julian, "yes. You had been working too hard. Puzzling
your mind. Yes. More than that, perhaps--troubling your mind, shall we
say?"

"I found myself faced with a very alarming contingency."

"Yes. Unexpectedly, perhaps."

"Very unexpectedly indeed."

"Yes. Following on a period of mental and physical strain."

"Well--perhaps. Nothing out of the way."

"Yes. The unexpected contingency was--personal to yourself?"

"It demanded an immediate decision as to my own actions--yes, in that
sense it was certainly personal."

"Quite so. You would have to assume some responsibility, no doubt."

"A very grave responsibility."

"Affecting others beside yourself?"

"Affecting one other person vitally, and a very great number
indirectly."

"Yes. The time was night. You were sitting in the dark?"

"Not at first. I think I put the light out afterwards."

"Quite so--that action would naturally suggest itself to you. Were you
warm?"

"I think the fire had died down. My man tells me that my teeth were
chattering when I went in to him."

"Yes. You live in Piccadilly?"

"Yes."

"Heavy traffic sometimes goes past during the night, I expect."

"Oh, frequently."

"Just so. Now this decision you refer to--you had taken that decision."

"Yes."

"Your mind was made up?"

"Oh, yes."

"You had decided to take the action, whatever it was."

"Yes."

"Yes. It involved perhaps a period of inaction."

"Of comparative inaction--yes."

"Of suspense, shall we say?"

"Yes--of suspense, certainly."

"Possibly of some danger?"

"I don't know that that was in my mind at the time."

"No--it was a case in which you could not possibly consider yourself."

"If you like to put it that way."

"Quite so. Yes. You had these attacks frequently in 1918?"

"Yes--I was very ill for some months."

"Quite. Since then they have recurred less frequently?"

"Much less frequently."

"Yes--when did the last occur?"

"About nine months ago."

"Under what circumstances?"

"I was being worried by certain family matters. It was a question of
deciding about some investments, and I was largely responsible."

"Yes. You were interested last year, I think, in some police case?"

"Yes--in the recovery of Lord Attenbury's emerald necklace."

"That involved some severe mental exercise?"

"I suppose so. But I enjoyed it very much."

"Yes. Was the exertion of solving the problem attended by any bad
results physically?"

"None."

"No. You were interested, but not distressed."

"Exactly."

"Yes. You have been engaged in other investigations of the kind?"

"Yes. Little ones."

"With bad results for your health?"

"Not a bit of it. On the contrary. I took up these cases as a sort of
distraction. I had a bad knock just after the war, which didn't make
matters any better for me, don't you know."

"Ah! you are not married?"

"No."

"No. Will you allow me to make an examination? Just come a little nearer
to the light. I want to see your eyes. Whose advice have you had till
now?"

"Sir James Hodges'."

"Ah! yes--he was a sad loss to the medical profession. A really great
man--a true scientist. Yes. Thank you. Now I should like to try you with
this little invention."

"What's it do?"

"Well--it tells me about your nervous reactions. Will you sit here?"

The examination that followed was purely medical. When it was concluded,
Sir Julian said:

"Now, Lord Peter, I'll tell you about yourself in quite untechnical
language----"

"Thanks," said Peter, "that's kind of you. I'm an awful fool about long
words."

"Yes. Are you fond of private theatricals, Lord Peter?"

"Not particularly," said Peter, genuinely surprised. "Awful bore as a
rule. Why?"

"I thought you might be," said the specialist, drily. "Well, now. You
know quite well that the strain you put on your nerves during the war
has left its mark on you. It has left what I may call old wounds in your
brain. Sensations received by your nerve-endings sent messages to your
brain, and produced minute physical changes there--changes we are only
beginning to be able to detect, even with our most delicate instruments.
These changes in their turn set up sensations; or I should say, more
accurately, that sensations are the names we give to those changes of
tissue when we perceive them: we call them horror, fear, sense of
responsibility and so on."

"Yes, I follow you."

"Very well. Now, if you stimulate those damaged places in your brain
again, you run the risk of opening up the old wounds. I mean, that if
you get nerve-sensations of any kind producing the reactions which we
call horror, fear, and sense of responsibility, they may go on to make
disturbance right along the old channel, and produce in their turn
physical changes which you will call by the names you were accustomed to
associate with them--dread of German mines, responsibility for the lives
of your men, strained attention and the inability to distinguish small
sounds through the overpowering noise of guns."

"I see."

"This effect would be increased by extraneous circumstances producing
other familiar physical sensations--night, cold or the rattling of heavy
traffic, for instance."

"Yes."

"Yes. The old wounds are nearly healed, but not quite. The ordinary
exercise of your mental faculties has no bad effect. It is only when you
excite the injured part of your brain."

"Yes, I see."

"Yes. You must avoid these occasions. You must learn to be
irresponsible, Lord Peter."

"My friends say I'm only too irresponsible already."

"Very likely. A sensitive nervous temperament often appears so, owing to
its mental nimbleness."

"Oh!"

"Yes. This particular responsibility you were speaking of still rests
upon you?"

"Yes, it does."

"You have not yet completed the course of action on which you have
decided?"

"Not yet."

"You feel bound to carry it through?"

"Oh, yes--I can't back out of it now."

"No. You are expecting further strain?"

"A certain amount."

"Do you expect it to last much longer?"

"Very little longer now."

"Ah! Your nerves are not all they should be."

"No?"

"No. Nothing to be alarmed about, but you must exercise care while
undergoing this strain, and afterwards you should take a complete rest.
How about a voyage in the Mediterranean or the South Seas or somewhere?"

"Thanks. I'll think about it."

"Meanwhile, to carry you over the immediate trouble I will give you
something to strengthen your nerves. It will do you no permanent good,
you understand, but it will tide you over the bad time. And I will give
you a prescription."

"Thank you."

Sir Julian got up and went into a small surgery leading out of the
consulting-room. Lord Peter watched him moving about--boiling something
and writing. Presently he returned with a paper and a hypodermic
syringe.

"Here is the prescription. And now, if you will just roll up your
sleeve, I will deal with the necessity of the immediate moment."

Lord Peter obediently rolled up his sleeve. Sir Julian Freke selected a
portion of his forearm and anointed it with iodine.

"What's that you're goin' to stick into me. Bugs?"

The surgeon laughed.

"Not exactly," he said. He pinched up a portion of flesh between his
finger and thumb. "You've had this kind of thing before, I expect."

"Oh, yes," said Lord Peter. He watched the cool fingers, fascinated, and
the steady approach of the needle. "Yes--I've had it before--and, d'you
know--I don't care frightfully about it."

He had brought up his right hand, and it closed over the surgeon's wrist
like a vice.

The silence was like a shock. The blue eyes did not waver; they burned
down steadily upon the heavy white lids below them. Then these slowly
lifted; the grey eyes met the blue--coldly, steadily--and held them.

When lovers embrace, there seems no sound in the world but their own
breathing. So the two men breathed face to face.

"As you like, of course, Lord Peter," said Sir Julian, courteously.

"Afraid I'm rather a silly ass," said Lord Peter, "but I never could
abide these little gadgets. I had one once that went wrong and gave me a
rotten bad time. They make me a bit nervous."

"In that case," replied Sir Julian, "it would certainly be better not to
have the injection. It might rouse up just those sensations which we are
desirous of avoiding. You will take the prescription, then, and do what
you can to lessen the immediate strain as far as possible."

"Oh, yes--I'll take it easy, thanks," said Lord Peter. He rolled his
sleeve down neatly. "I'm much obliged to you. If I have any further
trouble I'll look in again."

"Do--do----" said Sir Julian, cheerfully. "Only make an appointment
another time. I'm rather rushed these days. I hope your mother is quite
well. I saw her the other day at that Battersea inquest. You should have
been there. It would have interested you."




CHAPTER XII


The vile, raw fog tore your throat and ravaged your eyes. You could not
see your feet. You stumbled in your walk over poor men's graves.

The feel of Parker's old trench-coat beneath your fingers was
comforting. You had felt it in worse places. You clung on now for fear
you should get separated. The dim people moving in front of you were
like Brocken spectres.

"Take care, gentlemen," said a toneless voice out of the yellow
darkness, "there's an open grave just hereabouts."

You bore away to the right, and floundered in a mass of freshly turned
clay.

"Hold up, old man," said Parker.

"Where is Lady Levy?"

"In the mortuary; the Duchess of Denver is with her. Your mother is
wonderful, Peter."

"Isn't she?" said Lord Peter.

A dim blue light carried by somebody ahead wavered and stood still.

"Here you are," said a voice.

Two Dantesque shapes with pitchforks loomed up.

"Have you finished?" asked somebody.

"Nearly done, sir." The demons fell to work again with the
pitchforks--no, spades.

Somebody sneezed. Parker located the sneezer and introduced him.

"Mr. Levett represents the Home Secretary. Lord Peter Wimsey. We are
sorry to drag you out on such a day, Mr. Levett."

"It's all in the day's work," said Mr. Levett, hoarsely. He was muffled
to the eyes.

The sound of the spades for many minutes. An iron noise of tools thrown
down. Demons stooping and straining.

A black-bearded spectre at your elbow. Introduced. The Master of the
Workhouse.

"A very painful matter, Lord Peter. You will forgive me for hoping you
and Mr. Parker may be mistaken."

"I should like to be able to hope so, too."

Something heaving, straining, coming up out of the ground.

"Steady, men. This way. Can you see? Be careful of the graves--they lie
pretty thick hereabouts. Are you ready?"

"Right you are, sir. You go on with the lantern. We can follow you."

Lumbering footsteps. Catch hold of Parker's trench-coat again. "That
you, old man? Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Levett--thought you were
Parker."

"Hullo, Wimsey--here you are."

More graves. A headstone shouldered crookedly aslant. A trip and jerk
over the edge of the rough grass. The squeal of gravel under your feet.

"This way, gentlemen, mind the step."

The mortuary. Raw red brick and sizzling gas-jets. Two women in black,
and Dr. Grimbold. The coffin laid on the table with a heavy thump.

"'Ave you got that there screw-driver, Bill? Thank 'ee. Be keerful wi'
the chisel now. Not much substance to these 'ere boards, sir."

Several long creaks. A sob. The Duchess's voice, kind but peremptory.

"Hush, Christine. You mustn't cry."

A mutter of voices. The lurching departure of the Dante demons--good,
decent demons in corduroy.

Dr. Grimbold's voice--cool and detached as if in the consulting-room.

"Now--have you got that lamp, Mr. Wingate? Thank you. Yes, here on the
table, please. Be careful not to catch your elbow in the flex, Mr.
Levett. It would be better, I think, if you came on this side.
Yes--yes--thank you. That's excellent."

The sudden brilliant circle of an electric lamp over the table. Dr.
Grimbold's beard and spectacles. Mr. Levett blowing his nose. Parker
bending close. The Master of the Workhouse peering over him. The rest of
the room in the enhanced dimness of the gas-jets and the fog.

A low murmur of voices. All heads bent over the work.

Dr. Grimbold again--beyond the circle of the lamplight.

"We don't want to distress you unnecessarily, Lady Levy. If
you will just tell us what to look for--the----? Yes, yes,
certainly--and--yes--stopped with gold? Yes--the lower jaw, the last but
one on the right? Yes--no teeth missing--no--yes? What kind of mole?
Yes--just over the left breast? Oh, I beg your pardon, just
under--yes--appendicitis? Yes--a long one--yes--in the middle? Yes, I
quite understand--a scar on the arm? Yes, I don't know if we shall be
able to find that--yes--any little constitutional weakness that
might----? Oh, yes--arthritis--yes--thank you, Lady Levy, that's very
clear. Don't come unless I ask you to. Now, Wingate."

A pause. A murmur. "Pulled out? After death, you think--well, so do I.
Where is Dr. Colegrove? You attended this man in the workhouse? Yes. Do
you recollect----? No? You're quite certain about that? Yes--we mustn't
make a mistake, you know. Yes, but there are reasons why Sir Julian
can't be present; I'm asking _you_, Dr. Colegrove. Well, you're
certain--that's all I want to know. Just bring the light closer, Mr.
Wingate, if you please. These miserable shells let the damp in so
quickly. Ah! what do you make of this? Yes--yes--well, that's rather
unmistakable, isn't it? Who did the head? Oh, Freke--of course. I was
going to say they did good work at St. Luke's. Beautiful, isn't it, Dr.
Colegrove? A wonderful surgeon--I saw him when he was at Guy's. Oh, no,
gave it up years ago. Nothing like keeping your hand in. Ah--yes,
undoubtedly that's it. Have you a towel, handy, sir? Thank you. Over the
head, if you please--I think we might have another here. Now, Lady
Levy--I am going to ask you to look at a scar, and see if you recognise
it. I'm sure you are going to help us by being very firm. Take your
time--you won't see anything more than you absolutely must."

"Lucy, don't leave me."

"No, dear."

A space cleared at the table. The lamplight on the Duchess's white
hair.

"Oh, yes--oh, yes! No, no--I couldn't be mistaken. There's that funny
little kink in it. I've seen it hundreds of times. Oh, Lucy--Reuben!"

"Only a moment more, Lady Levy. The mole----"

"I--I think so--oh, yes, that is the very place."

"Yes. And the scar--was it three-cornered, just above the elbow?"

"Yes, oh, yes."

"Is this it?"

"Yes--yes----"

"I must ask you definitely, Lady Levy. Do you, from these three marks
identify the body as that of your husband?"

"Oh! I must, mustn't I? Nobody else could have them just the same in
just those places? It is my husband. It is Reuben. Oh----"

"Thank you, Lady Levy. You have been very brave and very helpful."

"But--I don't understand yet. How did he come here? Who did this
dreadful thing?"

"Hush, dear," said the Duchess, "the man is going to be punished."

"Oh, but--how cruel! Poor Reuben! Who could have wanted to hurt him? Can
I see his face?"

"No, dear," said the Duchess. "That isn't possible. Come away--you
mustn't distress the doctors and people."

"No--no--they've all been so kind. Oh, Lucy!"

"We'll go home, dear. You don't want us any more, Dr. Grimbold?"

"No, Duchess, thank you. We are very grateful to you and to Lady Levy
for coming."

There was a pause, while the two women went out, Parker, collected and
helpful, escorted them to their waiting car. Then Dr. Grimbold again:

"I think Lord Peter Wimsey ought to see--the correctness of his
deductions--Lord Peter--very painful--you may wish to see--yes,
I was uneasy at the inquest--yes--Lady Levy--remarkably clear
evidence--yes--most shocking case--ah, here's Mr. Parker--you
and Lord Peter Wimsey entirely justified--do I really understand----?
Really? I can hardly believe it--so distinguished a man--as you say,
when a great brain turns to crime--yes--look here! Marvellous
work--marvellous--somewhat obscured by this time, of course--but the
most beautiful sections--here, you see, the left hemisphere--and
here--through the corpus striatum--here again--the very track of the
damage done by the blow--wonderful--guessed it--saw the effect of the
blow as he struck it, you know--ah, I should like to see _his_ brain,
Mr. Parker--and to think that--heavens, Lord Peter, you don't know what
a blow you have struck at the whole profession--the whole civilised
world! Oh, my dear sir! Can you ask me? My lips are sealed of
course--all our lips are sealed."

The way back through the burial ground. Fog again, and the squeal of wet
gravel.

"Are your men ready, Charles?"

"They have gone. I sent them off when I saw Lady Levy to the car."

"Who is with them?"

"Sugg."

"Sugg?"

"Yes--poor devil. They've had him up on the mat at headquarters for
bungling the case. All that evidence of Thipps's about the night club
was corroborated, you know. That girl he gave the gin-and-bitters to was
caught, and came and identified him, and they decided their case wasn't
good enough, and let Thipps and the Horrocks girl go. Then they told
Sugg he had overstepped his duty and ought to have been more careful. So
he ought, but he can't help being a fool. I was sorry for him. It may do
him some good to be in at the death. After all, Peter, you and I had
special advantages."

"Yes. Well, it doesn't matter. Whoever goes won't get there in time.
Sugg's as good as another."

But Sugg--an experience rare in his career--was in time.

       *       *       *       *       *

Parker and Lord Peter were at 110A Piccadilly. Lord Peter was playing
Bach and Parker was reading Origen when Sugg was announced.

"We've got our man, sir," said he.

"Good God!" said Peter. "Alive?"

"We were just in time, my lord. We rang the bell and marched straight up
past his man to the library. He was sitting there doing some writing.
When we came in, he made a grab for his hypodermic, but we were too
quick for him, my lord. We didn't mean to let him slip through our
hands, having got so far. We searched him thoroughly and marched him
off."

"He is actually in gaol, then?"

"Oh, yes--safe enough--with two warders to see he doesn't make away with
himself."

"You surprise me, Inspector. Have a drink."

"Thank you, my lord. I may say that I'm very grateful to you--this case
was turning out a pretty bad egg for me. If I was rude to your
lordship----"

"Oh, it's all right, Inspector," said Lord Peter, hastily. "I don't see
how you could possibly have worked it out. I had the good luck to know
something about it from other sources."

"That's what Freke says." Already the great surgeon was a common
criminal in the inspector's eyes--a mere surname. "He was writing a full
confession when we got hold of him, addressed to your lordship. The
police will have to have it, of course, but seeing it's written for you,
I brought it along for you to see first. Here it is."

He handed Lord Peter a bulky document.

"Thanks," said Peter. "Like to hear it, Charles?"

"Rather."

Accordingly Lord Peter read it aloud.




CHAPTER XIII


Dear Lord Peter,--When I was a young man I used to play chess with an
old friend of my father's. He was a very bad, and a very slow, player,
and he could never see when a checkmate was inevitable, but insisted on
playing every move out. I never had any patience with that kind of
attitude, and I will freely admit now that the game is yours. I must
either stay at home and be hanged or escape abroad and live in an idle
and insecure obscurity. I prefer to acknowledge defeat.

If you have read my book on _Criminal Lunacy_, you will remember that I
wrote: "In the majority of cases, the criminal betrays himself by some
abnormality attendant upon this pathological condition of the nervous
tissues. His mental instability shows itself in various forms: an
overweening vanity, leading him to brag of his achievement; a
disproportionate sense of the importance of the offence, resulting from
the hallucination of religion, and driving him to confession; egomania,
producing the sense of horror or conviction of sin, and driving him to
headlong flight without covering his tracks; a reckless confidence,
resulting in the neglect of the most ordinary precautions, as in the
case of Henry Wainwright, who left a boy in charge of the murdered
woman's remains while he went to call a cab, or on the other hand, a
nervous distrust of apperceptions in the past, causing him to revisit
the scene of the crime to assure himself that all traces have been as
safely removed _as his own judgment knows them to be_. I will not
hesitate to assert that a perfectly sane man, not intimidated by
religious or other delusions, could always render himself perfectly
secure from detection, provided, that is, that the crime were
sufficiently premeditated and that he were not pressed for time or
thrown out in his calculations by purely fortuitous coincidence."

You know as well as I do how far I have made this assertion good in
practice. The two accidents which betrayed me I could not by any
possibility have foreseen. The first was the chance recognition of Levy
by the girl in the Battersea Park Road, which suggested a connection
between the two problems. The second was that Thipps should have
arranged to go down to Denver on the Tuesday morning, thus enabling your
mother to get word of the matter through to you before the body was
removed by the police and to suggest a motive for the murder out of what
she knew of my previous personal history. If I had been able to destroy
these two accidentally forged links of circumstance, I will venture to
say that you would never have so much as suspected me, still less
obtained sufficient evidence to convict.

Of all human emotions, except perhaps those of hunger and fear, the
sexual appetite produces the most violent, and, under some
circumstances, the most persistent reactions; I think, however, I am
right in saying that at the time when I wrote my book, my original
sensual impulse to kill Sir Reuben Levy had already become profoundly
modified by my habits of thought. To the animal lust to slay and the
primitive human desire for revenge, there was added the rational
intention of substantiating my own theories for the satisfaction of
myself and the world. If all had turned out as I had planned, I should
have deposited a sealed account of my experiment with the Bank of
England, instructing my executors to publish it after my death. Now that
accident has spoiled the completeness of my demonstration, I entrust the
account to you, whom it cannot fail to interest, with the request that
you will make it known among scientific men, in justice to my
professional reputation.

The really essential factors of success in any undertaking are money and
opportunity, and as a rule, the man who can make the first can make the
second. During my early career, though I was fairly well-off, I had not
absolute command of circumstance. Accordingly I devoted myself to my
profession, and contented myself with keeping up a friendly connection
with Reuben Levy and his family. This enabled me to remain in touch with
his fortunes and interests, so that, when the moment for action should
arrive, I might know what weapons to use.

Meanwhile, I carefully studied criminology in fiction and fact--my work
on _Criminal Lunacy_ was a side-product of this activity--and saw how,
in every murder, the real crux of the problem was the disposal of the
body. As a doctor, the means of death were always ready to my hand, and
I was not likely to make any error in that connection. Nor was I likely
to betray myself on account of any illusory sense of wrong-doing. The
sole difficulty would be that of destroying all connection between my
personality and that of the corpse. You will remember that Michael
Finsbury, in Stevenson's entertaining romance, observes: "What hangs
people is the unfortunate circumstance of guilt." It became clear to me
that the mere leaving about of a superfluous corpse could convict
nobody, provided that nobody was guilty in connection _with that
particular corpse_. Thus the idea of substituting the one body for the
other was early arrived at, though it was not till I obtained the
practical direction of St. Luke's Hospital that I found myself perfectly
unfettered in the choice and handling of dead bodies. From this period
on, I kept a careful watch on all the material brought in for
dissection.

My opportunity did not present itself until the week before Sir Reuben's
disappearance, when the medical officer at the Chelsea workhouse sent
word to me that an unknown vagrant had been injured that morning by the
fall of a piece of scaffolding, and was exhibiting some very interesting
nervous and cerebral reactions. I went round and saw the case, and was
immediately struck by the man's strong superficial resemblance to Sir
Reuben. He had been heavily struck on the back of the neck, dislocating
the fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae and heavily bruising the spinal
cord. It seemed highly unlikely that he could ever recover, either
mentally or physically, and in any case there appeared to me to be no
object in indefinitely prolonging so unprofitable an existence. He had
obviously been able to support life until recently, as he was fairly
well nourished, but the state of his feet and clothing showed that he
was unemployed, and under present conditions he was likely to remain so.
I decided that he would suit my purpose very well, and immediately put
in train certain transactions in the City which I had already sketched
out in my own mind. In the meantime, the reactions mentioned by the
workhouse doctor were interesting, and I made careful studies of them,
and arranged for the delivery of the body to the hospital when I should
have completed my preparations.

On the Thursday and Friday of that week I made private arrangements with
various brokers to buy the stock of certain Peruvian Oilfields, which
had gone down almost to waste-paper. This part of my experiment did not
cost me very much, but I contrived to arouse considerable curiosity, and
even a mild excitement. At this point I was of course careful not to let
my name appear. The incidence of Saturday and Sunday gave me some
anxiety lest my man should after all die before I was ready for him, but
by the use of saline injections I contrived to keep him alive and, late
on Sunday night, he even manifested disquieting symptoms of at any rate
a partial recovery.

On Monday morning the market in Peruvians opened briskly. Rumours had
evidently got about that somebody knew something, and this day I was not
the only buyer in the market. I bought a couple of hundred more shares
in my own name, and left the matter to take care of itself. At lunch
time I made my arrangements to run into Levy accidentally at the corner
of the Mansion House. He expressed (as I expected) his surprise at
seeing me in that part of London. I simulated some embarrassment and
suggested that we should lunch together. I dragged him to a place a bit
off the usual beat, and there ordered a good wine and drank of it as
much as he might suppose sufficient to induce a confidential mood. I
asked him how things were going on 'Change. He said, "Oh, all right,"
but appeared a little doubtful, and asked me whether I did anything in
that way. I said I had a little flutter occasionally, and that, as a
matter of fact, I'd been put on to rather a good thing. I glanced round
apprehensively at this point, and shifted my chair nearer to his.

"I suppose you don't know anything about Peruvian Oil do you?" he said.

I started and looked round again, and leaning across to him, said,
dropping my voice.

"Well, I do, as a matter of fact, but I don't want it to get about. I
stand to make a good bit on it."

"But I thought the thing was hollow," he said; "it hasn't paid a
dividend for umpteen years."

"No," I said, "it hasn't, but it's going to. I've got inside
information." He looked a bit unconvinced, and I emptied off my glass,
and edged right up to his ear.

"Look here," I said, "I'm not giving this away to everyone, but I don't
mind doing you and Christine a good turn. You know, I've always kept a
soft place in my heart for her, ever since the old days. You got in
ahead of me that time, and now it's up to me to heap coals of fire on
you both."

I was a little excited by this time, and he thought I was drunk.

"It's very kind of you, old man," he said, "but I'm a cautious bird, you
know, always was. I'd like a bit of proof."

And he shrugged up his shoulders and looked like a pawnbroker.

"I'll give it to you," I said, "but it isn't safe here. Come round to my
place to-night after dinner, and I'll show you the report."

"How d'you get hold of it?" said he.

"I'll tell you to-night," said I. "Come round after dinner--any time
after nine, say."

"To Harley Street?" he asked, and I saw that he meant coming.

"No," I said, "to Battersea--Prince of Wales Road; I've got some work to
do at the hospital. And look here," I said, "don't you let on to a soul
that you're coming. I bought a couple of hundred shares to-day, in my
own name, and people are sure to get wind of it. If we're known to be
about together, someone'll twig something. In fact, it's anything but
safe talking about it in this place."

"All right," he said, "I won't say a word to anybody. I'll turn up about
nine o'clock. You're sure it's a sound thing?"

"It can't go wrong," I assured him. And I meant it.

We parted after that, and I went round to the workhouse. My man had died
at about eleven o'clock. I had seen him just after breakfast, and was
not surprised. I completed the usual formalities with the workhouse
authorities, and arranged for his delivery at the hospital about seven
o'clock.

In the afternoon, as it was not one of my days to be in Harley Street, I
looked up an old friend who lives close to Hyde Park, and found that he
was just off to Brighton on some business or other. I had tea with him,
and saw him off by the 5.35 from Victoria. On issuing from the barrier
it occurred to me to purchase an evening paper, and I thoughtlessly
turned my steps to the bookstall. The usual crowds were rushing to catch
suburban trains home, and on moving away I found myself involved in a
contrary stream of travellers coming up out of the Underground, or
bolting from all sides for the 5.45 to Battersea Park and Wandsworth
Common. I disengaged myself after some buffeting and went home in a taxi
and it was not till I was safely seated there that I discovered
somebody's gold-rimmed pince-nez involved in the astrakhan collar of my
overcoat. The time from 6.15 to seven I spent concocting something to
look like a bogus report for Sir Reuben.

At seven I went through to the hospital, and found the workhouse van
just delivering my subject at the side door. I had him taken straight up
to the theatre, and told the attendant, William Watts, that I intended
to work there that night. I told him I would prepare the body
myself--the injection of a preservative would have been a most
regrettable complication. I sent him about his business, and then went
home and had dinner. I told my man that I should be working in the
hospital that evening, and that he could go to bed at 10.30 as usual, as
I could not tell whether I should be late or not. He is used to my
erratic ways. I only keep two servants in the Battersea house--the
man-servant and his wife, who cooks for me. The rougher domestic work is
done by a charwoman, who sleeps out. The servants' bedroom is at the top
of the house, overlooking Prince of Wales Road.

As soon as I had dined I established myself in the hall with some
papers. My man had cleared dinner by a quarter past eight, and I told
him to give me the syphon and tantalus; and sent him downstairs. Levy
rang the bell at twenty minutes past nine, and I opened the door to him
myself. My man appeared at the other end of the hall, but I called to
him that it was all right, and he went away. Levy wore an overcoat with
evening dress and carried an umbrella. "Why, how wet you are!" I said.
"How did you come?" "By 'bus," he said, "and the fool of a conductor
forgot to put me down at the end of the road. It's pouring cats and dogs
and pitch-dark--I couldn't see where I was." I was glad he hadn't taken
a taxi, but I had rather reckoned on his not doing so. "Your little
economies will be the death of you one of these days," I said. I was
right there, but I hadn't reckoned on their being the death of me as
well. I say again, I could not have foreseen it.

I sat him down by the fire, and gave him a whiskey. He was in high
spirits about some deal in Argentines he was bringing off the next day.
We talked money for about a quarter of an hour and then he said:

"Well, how about this Peruvian mare's-nest of yours?"

"It's no mare's-nest," I said; "come and have a look at it."

I took him upstairs into the library, and switched on the centre light
and the reading-lamp on the writing-table. I gave him a chair at the
table with his back to the fire, and fetched the papers I had been
faking, out of the safe. He took them, and began to read them, poking
over them in his short-sighted way, while I mended the fire. As soon as
I saw his head in a favourable position I struck him heavily with the
poker, just over the fourth cervical. It was delicate work calculating
the exact force necessary to kill him without breaking the skin, but my
professional experience was useful to me. He gave one loud gasp, and
tumbled forward on to the table quite noiselessly. I put the poker back,
and examined him. His neck was broken, and he was quite dead. I carried
him into my bedroom and undressed him. It was about ten minutes to ten
when I had finished. I put him away under my bed, which had been turned
down for the night, and cleared up the papers in the library. Then I
went downstairs, took Levy's umbrella, and let myself out at the hall
door, shouting "Good-night" loudly enough to be heard in the basement if
the servants should be listening. I walked briskly away down the street,
went in by the hospital side door, and returned to the house noiselessly
by way of the private passage. It would have been awkward if anybody had
seen me then, but I leaned over the back stairs and heard the cook and
her husband still talking in the kitchen. I slipped back into the hall,
replaced the umbrella in the stand, cleared up my papers there, went up
into the library and rang the bell. When the man appeared I told him to
lock up everything except the private door to the hospital. I waited in
the library until he had done so, and about 10.30 I heard both servants
go up to bed. I waited a quarter of an hour longer and then went through
to the dissecting-room. I wheeled one of the stretcher tables through
the passage to the house door, and then went to fetch Levy. It was a
nuisance having to get him downstairs, but I had not liked to make away
with him in any of the ground-floor rooms, in case my servant should
take a fancy to poke his head in during the few minutes that I was out
of the house, or while locking up. Besides, that was a flea-bite to what
I should have to do later. I put Levy on the table, wheeled him across
to the hospital and substituted him for my interesting pauper. I was
sorry to have to abandon the idea of getting a look at the latter's
brain, but I could not afford to incur suspicion. It was still rather
early, so I knocked down a few minutes getting Levy ready for
dissection. Then I put my pauper on the table and trundled him over to
the house. It was now five past eleven, and I thought I might conclude
that the servants were in bed. I carried the body into my bedroom. He
was rather heavy, but less so than Levy, and my Alpine experience had
taught me how to handle bodies. It is as much a matter of knack as of
strength, and I am, in any case, a powerful man for my height. I put the
body into the bed--not that I expected anyone to look in during my
absence, but if they should they might just as well see me apparently
asleep in bed. I drew the clothes a little over his head, stripped, and
put on Levy's clothes, which were fortunately a little big for me
everywhere, not forgetting to take his spectacles, watch and other
oddments. At a little before half-past eleven I was in the road looking
for a cab. People were just beginning to come home from the theatre, and
I easily secured one at the corner of Prince of Wales Road. I told the
man to drive me to Hyde Park Corner. There I got out, tipped him well,
and asked him to pick me up again at the same place in an hour's time.
He assented with an understanding grin, and I walked on up Park Lane. I
had my own clothes with me in a suitcase, and carried my own overcoat
and Levy's umbrella. When I got to No. 9A there were lights in some of
the top windows. I was very nearly too early, owing to the old man's
having sent the servants to the theatre. I waited about for a few
minutes, and heard it strike the quarter-past midnight. The lights were
extinguished shortly after, and I let myself in with Levy's key.

It had been my original intention, when I thought over this plan of
murder, to let Levy disappear from the study or the dining-room, leaving
only a heap of clothes on the hearthrug. The accident of my having been
able to secure Lady Levy's absence from London, however, made possible a
solution more misleading, though less pleasantly fantastic. I turned on
the hall light, hung up Levy's wet overcoat and placed his umbrella in
the stand. I walked up noisily and heavily to the bedroom and turned off
the light by the duplicate switch on the landing. I knew the house well
enough, of course. There was no chance of my running into the
man-servant. Old Levy was a simple old man, who liked doing things for
himself. He gave his valet little work, and never required any
attendance at night. In the bedroom I took off Levy's gloves and put on
a surgical pair, so as to leave no tell-tale finger-prints. As I wished
to convey the impression that Levy had gone to bed in the usual way, I
simply went to bed. The surest and simplest method of making a thing
appear to have been done is to do it. A bed that has been rumpled about
with one's hands, for instance, never looks like a bed that has been
slept in. I dared not use Levy's brush, of course, as my hair is not of
his colour, but I did everything else. I supposed that a thoughtful old
man like Levy would put his boots handy for his valet, and I ought to
have deduced that he would fold up his clothes. That was a mistake, but
not an important one. Remembering that well-thought-out little work of
Mr. Bentley's, I had examined Levy's mouth for false teeth, but he had
none. I did not forget, however, to wet his tooth-brush.

At one o'clock I got up and dressed in my own clothes by the light of my
own pocket torch. I dared not turn on the bedroom lights, as there were
light blinds to the windows. I put on my own boots and an old pair of
galoshes outside the door. There was a thick Turkey carpet on the stairs
and hall-floor, and I was not afraid of leaving marks. I hesitated
whether to chance the banging of the front door, but decided it would
be safer to take the latchkey. (It is now in the Thames, I dropped it
over Battersea Bridge the next day.) I slipped quietly down, and
listened for a few minutes with my ear to the letter-box. I heard a
constable tramp past. As soon as his steps had died away in the distance
I stepped out and pulled the door gingerly to. It closed almost
soundlessly, and I walked away to pick up my cab. I had an overcoat of
much the same pattern as Levy's, and had taken the precaution to pack an
opera hat in my suitcase. I hoped the man would not notice that I had no
umbrella this time. Fortunately the rain had diminished for the moment
to a sort of drizzle, and if he noticed anything he made no observation.
I told him to stop at 50 Overstrand Mansions, and I paid him off there,
and stood under the porch till he had driven away. Then I hurried round
to my own side door and let myself in. It was about a quarter to two,
and the harder part of my task still lay before me.

My first step was to alter the appearance of my subject as to eliminate
any immediate suggestion either of Levy or of the workhouse vagrant. A
fairly superficial alteration was all I considered necessary, since
there was not likely to be any hue-and-cry after the pauper. He was
fairly accounted for, and his deputy was at hand to represent him. Nor,
if Levy was after all traced to my house, would it be difficult to show
that the body in evidence was, as a matter of fact, not his. A clean
shave and a little hair-oiling and manicuring seemed sufficient to
suggest a distinct personality for my silent accomplice. His hands had
been well washed in hospital and, though calloused, were not grimy. I
was not able to do the work as thoroughly as I should have liked,
because time was getting on. I was not sure how long it would take me to
dispose of him, and moreover, I feared the onset of _rigor mortis_,
which would make my task more difficult. When I had him barbered to my
satisfaction, I fetched a strong sheet and a couple of wide roller
bandages, and fastened him up carefully, padding him with cotton wool
wherever the bandages might chafe or leave a bruise.

Now came the really ticklish part of the business. I had already decided
in my own mind that the only way of conveying him from the house was by
the roof. To go through the garden at the back in this soft wet weather
was to leave a ruinous trail behind us. To carry a dead man down a
suburban street in the middle of the night seemed outside the range of
practical politics. On the roof, on the other hand, the rain, which
would have betrayed me on the ground, would stand my friend.

To reach the roof, it was necessary to carry my burden to the top of the
house, past my servants' room, and hoist him out through the trap-door
in the box-room roof. Had it merely been a question of going quietly up
there myself, I should have had no fear of waking the servants, but to
do so burdened by a heavy body was more difficult. It would be
possible, provided that the man and his wife were soundly asleep, but
if not, the lumbering tread on the narrow stair and the noise of opening
the trap-door would be only too plainly audible. I tiptoed delicately up
the stair and listened at their door. To my disgust I heard the man give
a grunt and mutter something as he moved in his bed.

I looked at my watch. My preparations had taken nearly an hour, first
and last, and I dared not be too late on the roof. I determined to take
a bold step and, as it were, bluff out an alibi. I went without
precaution against noise into the bathroom, turned on the hot and cold
water taps to the full and pulled out the plug.

My household had often had occasion to complain of my habit of using the
bath at irregular night hours. Not only does the rush of water into the
cistern disturb any sleepers on the Prince of Wales Road side of the
house, but my cistern is afflicted with peculiarly loud gurglings and
thumpings, while frequently the pipes emit a loud groaning sound. To my
delight, on this particular occasion, the cistern was in excellent form,
honking, whistling and booming like a railway terminus. I gave the noise
five minutes' start, and when I calculated that the sleepers would have
finished cursing me and put their heads under the clothes to shut out
the din, I reduced the flow of water to a small stream and left the
bathroom, taking good care to leave the light burning and lock the door
after me. Then I picked up my pauper and carried him upstairs as lightly
as possible.

The box-room is a small attic on the side of the landing opposite the
servants' bedroom and the cistern-room. It has a trap-door, reached by a
short, wooden ladder. I set this up, hoisted up my pauper and climbed up
after him. The water was still racing into the cistern, which was making
a noise as though it were trying to digest an iron chain, and with the
reduced flow in the bathroom the groaning of the pipes had risen almost
to a hoot. I was not afraid of anybody hearing other noises. I pulled
the ladder through on to the roof after me.

Between my house and the last house in Queen Caroline Mansions there is
a space of only a few feet. Indeed, when the Mansions were put up, I
believe there was some trouble about ancient lights, but I suppose the
parties compromised somehow. Anyhow, my seven foot ladder reached well
across. I tied the body firmly to the ladder, and pushed it over till
the far end was resting on the parapet of the opposite house. Then I
took a short run across the cistern-room and the box-room roof, and
landed easily on the other side, the parapet being happily both low and
narrow.

The rest was simple. I carried my pauper along the flat roofs, intending
to leave him, like the hunchback in the story, on someone's staircase or
down a chimney. I had got about half-way along when I suddenly thought,
"Why, this must be about little Thipps's place," and I remembered his
silly face, and his silly chatter about vivisection. It occurred to me
pleasantly how delightful it would be to deposit my parcel with him and
see what he made of it. I lay down and peered over the parapet at the
back. It was pitch-dark and pouring with rain again by this time, and I
risked using my torch. That was the only incautious thing I did, and the
odds against being seen from the houses opposite were long enough. One
second's flash showed me what I had hardly dared to hope--an open window
just below me.

I knew those flats well enough to be sure it was either the bathroom or
the kitchen. I made a noose in a third bandage that I had brought with
me, and made it fast under the arms of the corpse. I twisted it into a
double rope, and secured the end to the iron stanchion of a
chimney-stack. Then I dangled our friend over. I went down after him
myself with the aid of a drain-pipe and was soon hauling him in by
Thipps's bathroom window.

By that time I had got a little conceited with myself, and spared a few
minutes to lay him out prettily and make him shipshape. A sudden
inspiration suggested that I should give him the pair of pince-nez which
I had happened to pick up at Victoria. I came across them in my pocket
while I was looking for a penknife to loosen a knot, and I saw what
distinction they would lend his appearance, besides making it more
misleading. I fixed them on him, effaced all traces of my presence as
far as possible, and departed as I had come, going easily up between the
drain-pipe and the rope.

I walked quietly back, re-crossed my crevasse and carried in my ladder
and sheet. My discreet accomplice greeted me with a reassuring gurgle
and thump. I didn't make a sound on the stairs. Seeing that I had now
been having a bath for about three-quarters of an hour, I turned the
water off, and enabled my deserving domestics to get a little sleep. I
also felt it was time I had a little myself.

First, however, I had to go over to the hospital and make all safe
there. I took off Levy's head, and started to open up the face. In
twenty minutes his own wife could not have recognised him. I returned,
leaving my wet goloshes and mackintosh by the garden door. My trousers I
dried by the gas-stove in my bedroom, and brushed away all traces of mud
and brickdust. My pauper's beard I burned in the library.

I got a good two hours' sleep from five to seven, when my man called me
as usual. I apologised for having kept the water running so long and so
late, and added that I thought I would have the cistern seen to.

I was interested to note that I was rather extra hungry at breakfast,
showing that my night's work had caused a certain wear-and-tear of
tissue. I went over afterwards to continue my dissection. During the
morning a peculiarly thick-headed police inspector came to inquire
whether a body had escaped from the hospital. I had him brought to me
where I was and had the pleasure of showing him the work I was doing on
Sir Reuben Levy's head. Afterwards I went round with him to Thipps's and
was able to satisfy myself that my pauper looked very convincing.

As soon as the Stock Exchange opened I telephoned my various brokers,
and by exercising a little care, was able to sell out the greater part
of my Peruvian stock on a rising market. Towards the end of the day,
however, buyers became rather unsettled as a result of Levy's death, and
in the end I did not make more than a few hundreds by the transaction.

Trusting I have now made clear to you any point which you may have found
obscure, and with congratulations on the good fortune and perspicacity
which have enabled you to defeat me, I remain, with kind remembrances to
your mother,

Yours very truly,

JULIAN FREKE.

_Post-Scriptum:_ My will is made, leaving my money to St. Luke's
Hospital, and bequeathing my body to the same institution for
dissection. I feel sure that my brain will be of interest to the
scientific world. As I shall die by my own hand, I imagine that there
may be a little difficulty about this. Will you do me the favour, if you
can, of seeing the persons concerned in the inquest, and obtaining that
the brain is not damaged by an unskilful practitioner at the
post-mortem, and that the body is disposed of according to my wish?

By the way, it may be of interest to you to know that I appreciated your
motive in calling this afternoon. It conveyed a warning, and I am acting
upon it. In spite of the disastrous consequences to myself, I was
pleased to realise that you had not underestimated my nerve and
intelligence, and refused the injection. Had you submitted to it, you
would, of course, never have reached home alive. No trace would have
been left in your body of the injection, which consisted of a harmless
preparation of strychnine, mixed with an almost unknown poison, for
which there is at present no recognised test, a concentrated solution of
sn----

At this point the manuscript broke off.

"Well, that's all clear enough," said Parker.

"Isn't it queer?" said Lord Peter. "All that coolness, all those
brains--and then he couldn't resist writing a confession to show how
clever he was, even to keep his head out of the noose."

"And a very good thing for us," said Inspector Sugg, "but Lord bless
you, sir, these criminals are all alike."

"Freke's epitaph," said Parker, when the Inspector had departed. "What
next, Peter?"

"I shall now give a dinner party," said Lord Peter, "to Mr. John P.
Milligan and his secretary and to Messrs. Crimplesham and Wicks. I feel
they deserve it for not having murdered Levy."

"Well, don't forget the Thippses," said Mr. Parker.

"On no account," said Lord Peter, "would I deprive myself of the
pleasure of Mrs. Thipps's company. Bunter!"

"My lord?"

"The Napoleon brandy."

THE END


FOOTNOTES:

[1] This is the first Florence edition, 1481, by Niccolo di Lorenzo.
Lord Peter's collection of printed Dantes is worth inspection. It
includes, besides the famous Aldine 8vo of 1502, the Naples folio of
1477--"edizione rarissima," according to Colomb. This copy has no
history, and Mr. Parker's private belief is that its present owner
conveyed it away by stealth from somewhere or other. Lord Peter's own
account is that he "picked it up in a little place in the hills," when
making a walking-tour through Italy.

[2] Lord Peter's wits were wool-gathering. The book is in the possession
of Earl Spencer. The Brocklebury copy is incomplete, the last five
signatures being altogether missing, but is unique in possessing the
colophon.

[3] Apollonios Rhodios. Lorenzobodi Alopa. Firenze. 1496. (410.) The
excitement attendant on the solution of the Battersea Mystery did not
prevent Lord Peter from securing this rare work before his departure for
Corsica.

[4] Lord Peter was not without authority for his opinion: "With respect
to the alleged motive, it is of great importance to see whether there
was a motive for committing such a crime, or whether there was not, or
whether there is an improbability of its having been committed so strong
as not to be over-powered by positive evidence. But _if there be any
motive which can be assigned, I am bound to tell you that the inadequacy
of that motive is of little importance_. We know, from the experience of
criminal courts, that atrocious crimes of this sort have been committed
from very slight motives; _not merely from malice and revenge_, but to
gain a small pecuniary advantage, and to drive off for a time pressing
difficulties."--L. C. J. Campbell, summing up in Reg. _v._ Palmer,
Shorthand Report, p. 308, C.C.C., May 1856, Sess. Pa. 5. (Italics mine.
D. L. S.)


[Transcriber's Note: Old spellings have been retained, however obvious
printer errors have been silently corrected.]


[End of _Whose Body?_ by Dorothy L. Sayers]