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—110 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[A] 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.[B] 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 eyebrow, 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 tears 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 the police had the other, but 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 back-yards 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.”