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 have been 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 pocketbook 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 scrutinized 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 110,

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 to 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 eye 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 “Letters 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 kitchen-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

lamp-black 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 pocketbook.

“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 focussing 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 your 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 rooftraps, 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 psyo-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 around

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.

“Consommé 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 gov’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 the way 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

godfathers 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 realize 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 temporized.

“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

reasons. 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 redheaded 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?”