Whose Body (8 page)

“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:

“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.

“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 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:

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.”