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Title: Lord Peter views the body

Author: Dorothy L. Sayers

Release date: March 30, 2024 [eBook #73295]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Victor Gollancz Limited, 1928

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LORD PETER VIEWS THE BODY ***





                       LORD PETER VIEWS THE BODY

                         By DOROTHY L. SAYERS

                                LONDON
                        VICTOR GOLLANCZ LIMITED
                 14 Henrietta Street     Covent Garden

                    _First published November 1928_
                   _Second impression December 1928_
         _Third impression (first cheap edition) October 1929_
                   _Fourth impression February 1930_
                     _Fifth impression April 1933_
                   _Sixth impression November 1933_
                  _Seventh impression September 1934_
                  _Eighth impression September 1935_
                    _Ninth impression January 1936_
                   _Tenth impression September 1936_
                    _Eleventh impression July 1937_
                   _Twelfth impression August 1938_
       _Thirteenth impression (two shilling edition) July 1939_
                  _Fourteenth impression March 1940_
                 _Fifteenth impression November 1940_
                   _Sixteenth impression July 1941_
             _Seventeenth impression (reset) January 1948_
                  _Eighteenth impression April 1949_

                 PRINTED AND BOUND IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
         WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES




                              THE STORIES

          I. The Abominable History of the Man with Copper Fingers

         II. The Entertaining Episode of the Article in Question

        III. The Fascinating Problem of Uncle Meleager's Will

         IV. The Fantastic Horror of the Cat in the Bag

          V. The Unprincipled Affair of the Practical Joker

         VI. The Undignified Melodrama of the Bone of Contention

        VII. The Vindictive Story of the Footsteps that Ran

       VIII. The Bibulous Business of a Matter of Taste

         IX. The Learned Adventure of the Dragon's Head

          X. The Piscatorial Farce of the Stolen Stomach

         XI. The Unsolved Puzzle of the Man with No Face

        XII. The Adventurous Exploit of the Cave of Ali Baba




         THE ABOMINABLE HISTORY OF THE MAN WITH COPPER FINGERS


The Egotists' Club is one of the most genial places in London. It is a
place to which you may go when you want to tell that odd dream you had
last night, or to announce what a good dentist you have discovered.
You can write letters there if you like, and have the temperament of a
Jane Austen, for there is no silence room, and it would be a breach of
club manners to appear busy or absorbed when another member addresses
you. You must not mention golf or fish, however, and, if the Hon.
Freddy Arbuthnot's motion is carried at the next committee meeting
(and opinion so far appears very favourable), you will not be allowed
to mention wireless either. As Lord Peter Wimsey said when the matter
was mooted the other day in the smoking-room, those are things you can
talk about anywhere. Otherwise the club is not specially exclusive.
Nobody is ineligible _per se_, except strong, silent men. Nominees are,
however, required to pass certain tests, whose nature is sufficiently
indicated by the fact that a certain distinguished explorer came to
grief through accepting, and smoking, a powerful Trichinopoly cigar as
an accompaniment to a '63 port. On the other hand, dear old Sir Roger
Bunt (the coster millionaire who won the £20,000 ballot offered by the
_Sunday Shriek_, and used it to found his immense catering business
in the Midlands) was highly commended and unanimously elected after
declaring frankly that beer and a pipe were all he really cared for in
that way. As Lord Peter said again: "Nobody minds coarseness but one
must draw the line at cruelty."

On this particular evening, Masterman (the cubist poet) had brought
a guest with him, a man named Varden. Varden had started life as a
professional athlete, but a strained heart had obliged him to cut
short a brilliant career, and turn his handsome face and remarkably
beautiful body to account in the service of the cinema screen. He had
come to London from Los Angeles to stimulate publicity for his great
new film, _Marathon_, and turned out to be quite a pleasant, unspoiled
person--greatly to the relief of the club, since Masterman's guests
were apt to be something of a toss-up.

There were only eight men, including Varden, in the brown room that
evening. This, with its panelled walls, shaded lamps, and heavy
blue curtains was perhaps the cosiest and pleasantest of the small
smoking-rooms, of which the club possessed half a dozen or so. The
conversation had begun quite casually by Armstrong's relating a curious
little incident which he had witnessed that afternoon at the Temple
Station, and Bayes had gone on to say that that was nothing to the
really very odd thing which had happened to him, personally, in a
thick fog one night in the Euston Road.

Masterman said that the more secluded London squares teemed with
subjects for a writer, and instanced his own singular encounter with a
weeping woman and a dead monkey, and then Judson took up the tale and
narrated how, in a lonely suburb, late at night, he had come upon the
dead body of a woman stretched on the pavement with a knife in her side
and a policeman standing motionless near by. He had asked if he could
do anything, but the policeman had only said, "I wouldn't interfere
if I was you, sir; she deserved what she got." Judson said he had
not been able to get the incident out of his mind, and then Pettifer
told them of a queer case in his own medical practice, when a totally
unknown man had led him to a house in Bloomsbury where there was a
woman suffering from strychnine poisoning. This man had helped him in
the most intelligent manner all night, and, when the patient was out
of danger, had walked straight out of the house and never reappeared;
the odd thing being that, when he (Pettifer) questioned the woman, she
answered in great surprise that she had never seen the man in her life
and had taken him to be Pettifer's assistant.

"That reminds me," said Varden, "of something still stranger that
happened to me once in New York--I've never been able to make out
whether it was a madman or a practical joke, or whether I really had a
very narrow shave."

This sounded promising, and the guest was urged to go on with his story.

"Well, it really started ages ago," said the actor, "seven years
it must have been--just before America came into the war. I was
twenty-five at the time, and had been in the film business a little
over two years. There was a man called Eric P. Loder, pretty well known
in New York at that period, who would have been a very fine sculptor if
he hadn't had more money than was good for him, or so I understood from
the people who go in for that kind of thing. He used to exhibit a good
deal and had a lot of one-man shows of his stuff to which the highbrow
people went--he did a good many bronzes, I believe. Perhaps you know
about him, Masterman?"

"I've never seen any of his things," said the poet, "but I remember
some photographs in _The Art of To-Morrow_. Clever, but rather
overripe. Didn't he go in for a lot of that chryselephantine stuff?
Just to show he could afford to pay for the materials, I suppose."

"Yes, that sounds very like him."

"Of course--and he did a very slick and very ugly realistic group
called Lucina, and had the impudence to have it cast in solid gold and
stood in his front hall."

"Oh, that thing! Yes--simply beastly I thought it, but then I never
could see anything artistic in the idea. Realism, I suppose you'd call
it. I like a picture or a statue to make you feel good, or what's it
there for? Still, there was something very attractive about Loder."

"How did you come across him?"

"Oh, yes. Well, he saw me in that little picture of mine, _Apollo comes
to New York_--perhaps you remember it. It was my first star part. About
a statue that's brought to life--one of the old gods, you know--and how
he gets on in a modern city. Dear old Reubenssohn produced it. Now,
there was a man who could put a thing through with consummate artistry.
You couldn't find an atom of offence from beginning to end, it was all
so tasteful, though in the first part one didn't have anything to wear
except a sort of scarf--taken from the classical statue, you know."

"The Belvedere?"

"I dare say. Well. Loder wrote to me, and said as a sculptor he was
interested in me, because I was a good shape and so on, and would
I come and pay him a visit in New York when I was free. So I found
out about Loder, and decided it would be good publicity, and when my
contract was up, and I had a bit of time to fill in, I went up east and
called on him. He was very decent to me, and asked me to stay a few
weeks with him while I was looking around.

"He had a magnificent great house about five miles out of the city,
crammed full of pictures and antiques and so on. He was somewhere
between thirty-five and forty, I should think, dark and smooth, and
very quick and lively in his movements. He talked very well; seemed
to have been everywhere and have seen everything and not to have any
too good an opinion of anybody. You could sit and listen to him for
hours; he'd got anecdotes about everybody, from the Pope to old Phineas
E. Groot of the Chicago Ring. The only kind of story I didn't care
about hearing from him was the improper sort. Not that I don't enjoy
an after-dinner story--no, sir, I wouldn't like you to think I was a
prig--but he'd tell it with his eye upon you as if he suspected you of
having something to do with it. I've known women do that, and I've seen
men do it to women and seen the women squirm, but he was the only man
that's ever given me that feeling. Still, apart from that, Loder was
the most fascinating fellow I've ever known. And, as I say, his house
surely was beautiful, and he kept a first-class table.

"He liked to have everything of the best. There was his mistress, Maria
Morano. I don't think I've ever seen anything to touch her, and when
you work for the screen you're apt to have a pretty exacting standard
of female beauty. She was one of those big, slow, beautifully moving
creatures, very placid, with a slow, wide smile. We don't grow them in
the States. She'd come from the South--had been a cabaret dancer he
said, and she didn't contradict him. He was very proud of her, and she
seemed to be devoted to him in her own fashion. He'd show her off in
the studio with nothing on but a fig-leaf or so--stand her up beside
one of the figures he was always doing of her, and compare them point
by point. There was literally only one half inch of her, it seemed,
that wasn't absolutely perfect from the sculptor's point of view--the
second toe of her left foot was shorter than the big toe. He used to
correct it, of course, in the statues. She'd listen to it all with
a good-natured smile, sort of vaguely flattered, you know. Though I
think the poor girl sometimes got tired of being gloated over that way.
She'd sometimes hunt me out and confide to me that what she had always
hoped for was to run a restaurant of her own, with a cabaret show and
a great many cooks with white aprons, and lots of polished electric
cookers. 'And then I would marry,' she'd say, 'and have four sons and
one daughter,' and she told me all the names she had chosen for the
family. I thought it was rather pathetic. Loder came in at the end of
one of these conversations. He had a sort of a grin on, so I dare say
he'd overheard. I don't suppose he attached much importance to it,
which shows that he never really understood the girl. I don't think he
ever imagined any woman would chuck up the sort of life he'd accustomed
her to, and if he was a bit possessive in his manner, at least he never
gave her a rival. For all his talk and his ugly statues, she'd got him,
and she knew it.

"I stayed there getting on for a month altogether, having a thundering
good time. On two occasions Loder had an art spasm, and shut himself up
in his studio to work and wouldn't let anybody in for several days on
end. He was rather given to that sort of stunt, and when it was over we
would have a party, and all Loder's friends and hangers-on would come
to have a look at the work of art. He was doing a figure of some nymph
or goddess, I fancy, to be cast in silver, and Maria used to go along
and sit for him. Apart from those times, he went about everywhere, and
we saw all there was to be seen.

"I was fairly annoyed, I admit, when it came to an end. War was
declared, and I'd made up my mind to join up when that happened. My
heart put me out of the running for trench service, but I counted on
getting some sort of a job, with perseverance, so I packed up and went
off.

"I wouldn't have believed Loder would have been so genuinely sorry to
say good-bye to me. He said over and over again that we'd meet again
soon. However, I did get a job with the hospital people, and was sent
over to Europe, and it wasn't till 1920 that I saw Loder again.

"He'd written to me before, but I'd had two big pictures to make in
'19, and it couldn't be done. However, in '20 I found myself back in
New York, doing publicity for _The Passion Streak_, and got a note from
Loder begging me to stay with him, and saying he wanted me to sit for
him. Well, that was advertisement that he'd pay for himself, you know,
so I agreed. I had accepted an engagement to go out with Mystofilms
Ltd. in _Jake of Dead Man's Bush_--the dwarfmen picture, you know,
taken on the spot among the Australian bushmen. I wired them that I
would join them at Sydney the third week in April, and took my bags out
to Loder's.

"Loder greeted me very cordially, though I thought he looked older than
when I last saw him. He had certainly grown more nervous in his manner.
He was--how shall I describe it?--more _intense_--more real, in a way.
He brought out his pet cynicisms as if he thoroughly meant them, and
more and more with that air of getting at you personally. I used to
think his disbelief in everything was a kind of artistic pose, but I
began to feel I had done him an injustice. He was really unhappy, I
could see that quite well, and soon I discovered the reason. As we were
driving out in the car I asked after Maria.

"'She has left me,' he said.

"Well, now, you know, that really surprised me. Honestly, I hadn't
thought the girl had that much initiative. 'Why,' I said, 'has she gone
and set up in that restaurant of her own she wanted so much?'

"'Oh! she talked to you about restaurants, did she?' said Loder. 'I
suppose you are one of the men that women tell things to. No. She made
a fool of herself. She's gone.'

"I didn't quite know what to say. He was so obviously hurt in his
vanity, you know, as well as in his feelings. I muttered the usual
things, and added that it must be a great loss to his work as well as
in other ways. He said it was.

"I asked him when it had happened and whether he'd finished the nymph
he was working on before I left. He said, 'Oh, yes, he'd finished that
and done another--something pretty original, which I should like.'

"Well, we got to the house and dined, and Loder told me he was going
to Europe shortly, a few days after I left myself, in fact. The nymph
stood in the dining-room, in a special niche let into the wall. It
really was a beautiful thing, not so showy as most of Loder's work,
and a wonderful likeness of Maria. Loder put me opposite it, so that I
could see it during dinner, and, really, I could hardly take my eyes
off it. He seemed very proud of it, and kept on telling me over and
over again how glad he was that I liked it. It struck me that he was
falling into a trick of repeating himself.

"We went into the smoking-room after dinner. He'd had it rearranged,
and the first thing that caught one's eye was a big settee drawn
before the fire. It stood about a couple of feet from the ground,
and consisted of a base made like a Roman couch, with cushions and
a highish back, all made of oak with a silver inlay, and on top of
this, forming the actual seat one sat on, if you follow me, there was
a great silver figure of a nude woman, fully life-size, lying with
her head back and her arms extended along the sides of the couch. A
few big loose cushions made it possible to use the thing as an actual
settee, though I must say it never was really comfortable to sit on
respectably. As a stage prop. for registering dissipation it would
have been excellent, but to see Loder sprawling over it by his own
fireside gave me a kind of shock. He seemed very much attached to it,
though.

"'I told you,' he said, 'that it was something original.'

"Then I looked more closely at it, and saw that the figure actually was
Maria's, though the face was rather sketchily done, if you understand
what I mean. I suppose he thought a bolder treatment more suited to a
piece of furniture.

"But I did begin to think Loder a trifle degenerate when I saw that
couch. And in the fortnight that followed I grew more and more
uncomfortable with him. That personal manner of his grew more marked
every day, and sometimes, while I was giving him sittings, he would
sit there and tell one of the most beastly things, with his eyes fixed
on one in the nastiest way, just to see how one would take it. Upon my
word, though he certainly did me uncommonly well, I began to feel I'd
be more at ease among the bushmen.

"Well, now I come to the odd thing."

Everybody sat up and listened a little more eagerly.

"It was the evening before I had to leave New York," went on Varden. "I
was sitting----"

Here somebody opened the door of the brown room, to be greeted by a
warning sign from Bayes. The intruder sank obscurely into a large chair
and mixed himself a whisky with extreme care not to disturb the speaker.

"I was sitting in the smoking-room," continued Varden, "waiting for
Loder to come in. I had the house to myself, for Loder had given the
servants leave to go to some show or lecture or other, and he himself
was getting his things together for his European trip and had had to
keep an appointment with his man of business. I must have been very
nearly asleep, because it was dusk when I came to with a start and saw
a young man quite close to me.

"He wasn't at all like a housebreaker, and still less like a ghost. He
was, I might almost say, exceptionally ordinary-looking. He was dressed
in a grey English suit, with a fawn overcoat on his arm, and his soft
hat and stick in his hand. He had sleek, pale hair, and one of those
rather stupid faces, with a long nose and a monocle. I stared at him,
for I knew the front door was locked, but before I could get my wits
together he spoke. He had a curious, hesitating, husky voice and a
strong English accent. He said, surprisingly:

"'Are you Mr. Varden?'

"'You have the advantage of me,' I said.

"He said, 'Please excuse my butting in; I know it looks like bad
manners, but you'd better clear out of this place very quickly, don't
you know.'

"'What the hell do you mean?' I said.

"He said, 'I don't mean it in any impertinent way, but you must realise
that Loder's never forgiven you, and I'm afraid he means to make you
into a hat-stand or an electric-light fitting, or something of that
sort.'

"My God! I can tell you I felt queer. It was such a quiet voice, and
his manners were perfect, and yet the words were quite meaningless!
I remembered that madmen are supposed to be extra strong, and edged
towards the bell--and then it came over me with rather a chill that I
was alone in the house.

"'How did you get here?' I asked, putting a bold face on it.

"'I'm afraid I picked the lock,' he said, as casually as though he
were apologising for not having a card about him. 'I couldn't be sure
Loder hadn't come back. But I do really think you had better get out as
quickly as possible.'

"'See here,' I said, 'who are you and what the hell are you driving at?
What do you mean about Loder never forgiving me? Forgiving me what?'

"'Why,' he said, 'about--you _will_ pardon me prancing in on your
private affairs, won't you--about Maria Morano.'

"'_What_ about her, in the devil's name?' I cried. 'What do you know
about her, anyway? She went off while I was at the war. What's it to do
with me?'

"'Oh!' said the very odd young man, 'I beg your pardon. Perhaps I have
been relying too much on Loder's judgment. Damned foolish; but the
possibility of his being mistaken did not occur to me. He fancies you
were Maria Morano's lover when you were here last time.'

"'Maria's lover?' I said. 'Preposterous! She went off with her man,
whoever he was. He must know she didn't go with me.'

"'Maria never left the house,' said the young man, 'and if you don't
get out of it this moment, I won't answer for _your_ ever leaving,
either.'

"'In God's name,' I cried, exasperated, 'what do you mean?'

"The man turned and threw the blue cushions off the foot of the silver
couch.

"'Have you ever examined the toes of this?' he asked.

"'Not particularly,' I said, more and more astonished. 'Why should I?'

"'Did you ever know Loder make any figure of her but this with that
short toe on the left foot?' he went on.

"Well, I did take a look at it then, and saw it was as he said--the
left foot had a short second toe.

"'So it is,' I said, 'but, after all, why not?'

"'Why not, indeed?' said the young man. 'Wouldn't you like to see why,
of all the figures Loder made of Maria Morano, this is the only one
that has the feet of the living woman?'

"He picked up the poker.

"'Look!' he said.

"With a lot more strength than I should have expected from him,
he brought the head of the poker down with a heavy crack on the
silver couch. It struck one of the arms of the figure neatly at the
elbow-joint, smashing a jagged hole in the silver. He wrenched at the
arm and brought it away. It was hollow, and, as I am alive, I tell you
there was a long, dry arm-bone inside it!"

Varden paused, and put away a good mouthful of whisky.

"Well?" cried several breathless voices.

"Well," said Varden, "I'm not ashamed to say I went out of that house
like an old buck-rabbit that hears the man with the gun. There was a
car standing just outside, and the driver opened the door. I tumbled
in, and then it came over me that the whole thing might be a trap, and
I tumbled out again and ran till I reached the trolley-cars. But I
found my bags at the station next day, duly registered for Vancouver.

"When I pulled myself together I did rather wonder what Loder was
thinking about my disappearance, but I could no more have gone back
into that horrible house than I could have taken poison. I left for
Vancouver next morning, and from that day to this I never saw either of
those men again. I've still not the faintest idea who the fair man was,
or what became of him, but I heard in a round-about way that Loder was
dead--in some kind of an accident, I fancy."

There was a pause. Then:

"It's a damned good story, Mr. Varden," said Armstrong--he was a
dabbler in various kinds of handiwork, and was, indeed, chiefly
responsible for Mr. Arbuthnot's motion to ban wireless--"but are you
suggesting there was a complete skeleton inside that silver casting?
Do you mean Loder put it into the core of the mould when the casting
was done? It would be awfully difficult and dangerous--the slightest
accident would have put him at the mercy of his workmen. And that
statue must have been considerably over life-size to allow of the
skeleton being well covered."

"Mr. Varden has unintentionally misled you, Armstrong," said a quiet,
husky voice suddenly from the shadow behind Varden's chair. "The figure
was not silver, but electro-plated on a copper base deposited direct
on the body. The lady was Sheffield-plated, in fact. I fancy the
soft parts of her must have been digested away with pepsin, or some
preparation of the kind, after the process was complete, but I can't be
positive about that."

"Hullo, Wimsey," said Armstrong, "was that you came in just now? And
why this confident pronouncement?"

The effect of Wimsey's voice on Varden had been extraordinary. He had
leapt to his feet, and turned the lamp so as to light up Wimsey's face.

"Good evening, Mr. Varden," said Lord Peter. "I'm delighted to meet you
again and to apologise for my unceremonious behaviour on the occasion
of our last encounter."

Varden took the proffered hand, but was speechless.

"D'you mean to say, you mad mystery-monger, that _you_ were Varden's
Great Unknown?" demanded Bayes. "Ah, well," he added rudely, "we might
have guessed it from his vivid description."

"Well, since you're here," said Smith-Hartington, the _Morning Yell_
man, "I think you ought to come across with the rest of the story."

"Was it just a joke?" asked Judson.

"Of course not," interrupted Pettifer, before Lord Peter had time to
reply. "Why should it be? Wimsey's seen enough queer things not to have
to waste his time inventing them."

"That's true enough," said Bayes. "Comes of having deductive powers and
all that sort of thing, and always sticking one's nose into things that
are better not investigated."

"That's all very well, Bayes," said his lordship, "but if I hadn't just
mentioned the matter to Mr. Varden that evening, where would he be?"

"Ah, where? That's exactly what we want to know," demanded
Smith-Hartington. "Come on, Wimsey, no shirking; we must have the tale."

"And the whole tale," added Pettifer.

"And nothing but the tale," said Armstrong, dexterously whisking away
the whisky-bottle and the cigars from under Lord Peter's nose. "Get on
with it, old son. Not a smoke do you smoke and not a sup do you sip
till Burd Ellen is set free."

"Brute!" said his lordship plaintively. "As a matter of fact,"
he went on, with a change of tone, "it's not really a story I
want to get about. It might land me in a very unpleasant sort of
position--manslaughter probably, and murder possibly."

"Gosh!" said Bayes.

"That's all right," said Armstrong, "nobody's going to talk. We can't
afford to lose you from the club, you know. Smith-Hartington will have
to control his passion for copy, that's all."

Pledges of discretion having been given all round, Lord Peter settled
himself back and began his tale.

       *       *       *       *       *

"The curious case of Eric P. Loder affords one more instance of the
strange manner in which some power beyond our puny human wills arranges
the affairs of men. Call it Providence--call it Destiny----"

"We'll call it off," said Bayes; "you can leave out that part."

Lord Peter groaned and began again.

"Well, the first thing that made me feel a bit inquisitive about Loder
was a casual remark by a man at the Emigration Office in New York
where I happened to go about that silly affair of Mrs. Bilt's. He said,
'What on earth is Eric Loder going to do in Australia? I should have
thought Europe was more in his line.'

"'Australia?' I said, 'you're wandering, dear old thing. He told me the
other day he was off to Italy in three weeks' time.'

"'Italy, nothing,' he said, 'he was all over our place to-day, asking
about how you got to Sydney and what were the necessary formalities,
and so on.'

"'Oh,' I said, 'I suppose he's going by the Pacific route, and calling
at Sydney on his way.' But I wondered why he hadn't said so when I'd
met him the day before. He had distinctly talked about sailing for
Europe and doing Paris before he went on to Rome.

"I felt so darned inquisitive that I went and called on Loder two
nights later.

"He seemed quite pleased to see me, and was full of his forthcoming
trip. I asked him again about his route, and he told me quite
distinctly he was going via Paris.

"Well, that was that, and it wasn't really any of my business, and we
chatted about other things. He told me that Mr. Varden was coming to
stay with him before he went, and that he hoped to get him to pose for
a figure before he left. He said he'd never seen a man so perfectly
formed. 'I meant to get him to do it before,' he said, 'but war broke
out, and he went and joined the army before I had time to start.'

"He was lolling on that beastly couch of his at the time, and,
happening to look round at him, I caught such a nasty sort of glitter
in his eye that it gave me quite a turn. He was stroking the figure
over the neck and grinning at it.

"'None of your efforts in Sheffield-plate, I hope,' said I.

"'Well,' he said, 'I thought of making a kind of companion to this,
_The Sleeping Athlete_, you know, or something of that sort.'

"'You'd much better cast it,' I said. 'Why did you put the stuff on so
thick? It destroys the fine detail.'

"That annoyed him. He never liked to hear any objection made to that
work of art.

"'This was experimental,' he said. 'I mean the next to be a real
masterpiece. You'll see.'

"We'd got to about that point when the butler came in to ask should he
make up a bed for me, as it was such a bad night. We hadn't noticed
the weather particularly, though it had looked a bit threatening when
I started from New York. However, we now looked out, and saw that it
was coming down in sheets and torrents. It wouldn't have mattered, only
that I'd only brought a little open racing car and no overcoat, and
certainly the prospect of five miles in that downpour wasn't altogether
attractive. Loder urged me to stay, and I said I would.

"I was feeling a bit fagged, so I went to bed right off. Loder said he
wanted to do a bit of work in the studio first, and I saw him depart
along the corridor.

"You won't allow me to mention Providence, so I'll only say it was a
very remarkable thing that I should have woken up at two in the morning
to find myself lying in a pool of water. The man had stuck a hot-water
bottle into the bed, because it hadn't been used just lately, and the
beastly thing had gone and unstoppered itself. I lay awake for ten
minutes in the deeps of damp misery before I had sufficient strength of
mind to investigate. Then I found it was hopeless--sheets, blankets,
mattress, all soaked. I looked at the arm-chair, and then I had a
brilliant idea. I remembered there was a lovely great divan in the
studio, with a big skin rug and a pile of cushions. Why not finish the
night there? I took the little electric torch which always goes about
with me, and started off.

"The studio was empty, so I supposed Loder had finished and trotted off
to roost. The divan was there, all right, with a screen drawn partly
across it, so I rolled myself up under the rug and prepared to snooze
off.

"I was just getting beautifully sleepy again when I heard footsteps,
not in the passage, but apparently on the other side of the room. I
was surprised, because I didn't know there was any way out in that
direction. I lay low, and presently I saw a streak of light appear from
the cupboard where Loder kept his tools and things. The streak widened,
and Loder emerged, carrying an electric torch. He closed the cupboard
door very gently after him, and padded across the studio. He stopped
before the easel and uncovered it; I could see him through a crack in
the screen. He stood for some minutes gazing at a sketch on the easel,
and then gave one of the nastiest gurgly laughs I've ever had the
pleasure of hearing. If I'd ever seriously thought of announcing my
unauthorised presence, I abandoned all idea of it then. Presently he
covered the easel again, and went out by the door at which I had come
in.

"I waited till I was sure he had gone, and then got up--uncommonly
quietly, I may say. I tiptoed over to the easel to see what the
fascinating work of art was. I saw at once it was the design for the
figure of _The Sleeping Athlete_, and as I looked at it I felt a sort
of horrid conviction stealing over me. It was an idea which seemed to
begin in my stomach, and work its way up to the roots of my hair.

"My family say I'm too inquisitive. I can only say that wild horses
wouldn't have kept me from investigating that cupboard. With the
feeling that something absolutely vile might hop out at me--I was a bit
wrought up, and it was a rotten time of night--I put a heroic hand on
the door knob.

"To my astonishment, the thing wasn't even locked. It opened at once,
to show a range of perfectly innocent and orderly shelves, which
couldn't possibly have held Loder.

"My blood was up, you know, by this time, so I hunted round for
the spring-lock which I knew must exist, and found it without much
difficulty. The back of the cupboard swung noiselessly inwards, and I
found myself at the top of a narrow flight of stairs.

"I had the sense to stop and see that the door could be opened from
the inside before I went any farther, and I also selected a good stout
pestle which I found on the shelves as a weapon in case of accident.
Then I closed the door and tripped with elf-like lightness down that
jolly old staircase.

"There was another door at the bottom, but it didn't take me long to
fathom the secret of that. Feeling frightfully excited, I threw it
boldly open, with the pestle ready for action.

"However, the room seemed to be empty. My torch caught the gleam of
something liquid, and then I found the wall-switch.

"I saw a biggish square room, fitted up as a workshop. On the
right-hand wall was a big switchboard, with a bench beneath it. From
the middle of the ceiling hung a great flood-light, illuminating a
glass vat, fully seven feet long by about three wide. I turned on the
flood-light, and looked down into the vat. It was filled with a dark
brown liquid which I recognised as the usual compound of cyanide and
copper-sulphate which they use for copper-plating.

"The rods hung over it with their hooks all empty, but there was a
packing-case half-opened at one side of the room, and, pulling the
covering aside, I could see rows of copper anodes--enough of them to
put a plating over a quarter of an inch thick on a life-size figure.
There was a smaller case, still nailed up, which from its weight and
appearance I guessed to contain the silver for the rest of the process.
There was something else I was looking for, and I soon found it--a
considerable quantity of prepared graphite and a big jar of varnish.

"Of course, there was no evidence, really, of anything being on the
cross. There was no reason why Loder shouldn't make a plaster cast and
Sheffield-plate it if he had a fancy for that kind of thing. But then I
found something that _couldn't_ have come there legitimately.

"On the bench was an oval slab of copper about an inch and a half
long--Loder's night's work, I guessed. It was an electrotype of
the American Consular seal, the thing they stamp on your passport
photograph to keep you from hiking it off and substituting the picture
of your friend Mr. Jiggs, who would like to get out of the country
because he is so popular with Scotland Yard.

"I sat down on Loder's stool, and worked out that pretty little plot in
all its details. I could see it all turned on three things. First of
all, I must find out if Varden was proposing to make tracks shortly for
Australia, because, if he wasn't, it threw all my beautiful theories
out. And, secondly, it would help matters greatly if he happened to
have dark hair like Loder's, as he has, you see--near enough, anyway,
to fit the description on a passport. I'd only seen him in that Apollo
Belvedere thing, with a fair wig on. But I knew if I hung about I
should see him presently when he came to stay with Loder. And, thirdly,
of course, I had to discover if Loder was likely to have any grounds
for a grudge against Varden.

"Well, I figured out I'd stayed down in that room about as long as
was healthy. Loder might come back at any moment, and I didn't forget
that a vatful of copper sulphate and cyanide of potassium would be
a highly handy means of getting rid of a too-inquisitive guest. And
I can't say I had any great fancy for figuring as part of Loder's
domestic furniture. I've always hated things made in the shape of
things--volumes of Dickens that turn out to be a biscuit-tin, and
dodges like that; and, though I take no overwhelming interest in my own
funeral, I should like it to be in good taste. I went so far as to wipe
away any finger-marks I might have left behind me, and then I went back
to the studio and rearranged that divan. I didn't feel Loder would care
to think I'd been down there.

"There was just one other thing I felt inquisitive about. I tiptoed
back through the hall and into the smoking-room. The silver couch
glimmered in the light of the torch. I felt I disliked it fifty times
more than ever before. However, I pulled myself together and took a
careful look at the feet of the figure. I'd heard all about that second
toe of Maria Morano's.

"I passed the rest of the night in the arm-chair after all.

"What with Mrs. Bilt's job and one thing and another, and the enquiries
I had to make, I had to put off my interference in Loder's little game
till rather late. I found out that Varden had been staying with Loder a
few months before the beautiful Maria Morano had vanished. I'm afraid I
was rather stupid about that, Mr. Varden. I thought perhaps there _had_
been something."

"Don't apologise," said Varden, with a little laugh. "Cinema actors are
notoriously immoral."

"Why rub it in?" said Wimsey, a trifle hurt. "I apologise. Anyway,
it came to the same thing as far as Loder was concerned. Then there
was one bit of evidence I had to get to be absolutely certain.
Electro-plating--especially such a ticklish job as the one I had in
mind--wasn't a job that could be finished in a night; on the other
hand, it seemed necessary that Mr. Varden should be seen alive in New
York up to the day he was scheduled to depart. It was also clear that
Loder meant to be able to prove that a Mr. Varden had left New York
all right, according to plan, and had actually arrived in Sydney.
Accordingly, a false Mr. Varden was to depart with Varden's papers
and Varden's passport, furnished with a new photograph duly stamped
with the Consular stamp, and to disappear quietly at Sydney and be
retransformed into Mr. Eric Loder, travelling with a perfectly regular
passport of his own. Well, then, in that case, obviously a cablegram
would have to be sent off to Mystofilms Ltd., warning them to expect
Varden by a later boat than he had arranged. I handed over this part
of the job to my man, Bunter, who is uncommonly capable. The devoted
fellow shadowed Loder faithfully for getting on for three weeks, and at
length, the very day before Mr. Varden was due to depart, the cablegram
was sent from an office in Broadway, where, by a happy providence (once
more) they supply extremely hard pencils."

"By Jove!" cried Varden, "I remember now being told something about
a cablegram when I got out, but I never connected it with Loder. I
thought it was just some stupidity of the Western Electric people."

"Quite so. Well, as soon as I'd got that, I popped along to Loder's
with a picklock in one pocket and an automatic in the other. The good
Bunter went with me, and, if I didn't return by a certain time, had
orders to telephone for the police. So you see everything was pretty
well covered. Bunter was the chauffeur who was waiting for you, Mr.
Varden, but you turned suspicious--I don't blame you altogether--so all
we could do was to forward your luggage along to the train.

"On the way out we met the Loder servants _en route_ for New York in a
car, which showed us that we were on the right track, and also that I
was going to have a fairly simple job of it.

"You've heard all about my interview with Mr. Varden. I really don't
think I could improve upon his account. When I'd seen him and his traps
safely off the premises, I made for the studio. It was empty, so I
opened the secret door, and, as I expected, saw a line of light under
the workshop door at the far end of the passage."

"So Loder was there all the time?"

"Of course he was. I took my little pop-gun tight in my fist and
opened the door very gently. Loder was standing between the tank and
the switchboard, very busy indeed--so busy he didn't hear me come in.
His hands were black with graphite, a big heap of which was spread on
a sheet on the floor, and he was engaged with a long, springy coil
of copper wire, running to the output of the transformer. The big
packing-case had been opened, and all the hooks were occupied.

"'Loder!' I said.

"He turned on me with a face like nothing human. 'Wimsey!' he shouted,
'what the hell are you doing here?'

"'I have come,' I said, 'to tell you that I know how the apple gets
into the dumpling.' And I showed him the automatic.

"He gave a great yell and dashed at the switchboard, turning out the
light, so that I could not see to aim. I heard him leap at me--and then
there came in the darkness a crash and a splash--and a shriek such as I
never heard--not in five years of war--and never want to hear again.

"I groped forward for the switchboard. Of course, I turned on
everything before I could lay my hand on the light, but I got it at
last--a great white glare from the flood-light over the vat.

"He lay there, still twitching faintly. Cyanide, you see, is about the
swiftest and painfullest thing out. Before I could move to do anything,
I knew he was dead--poisoned and drowned and dead. The coil of wire
that had tripped him had gone into the vat with him. Without thinking,
I touched it, and got a shock that pretty well staggered me. Then I
realised that I must have turned on the current when I was hunting for
the light. I looked into the vat again. As he fell, his dying hands
had clutched at the wire. The coils were tight round his fingers, and
the current was methodically depositing a film of copper all over his
hands, which were blackened with the graphite.

"I had just sense enough to realise that Loder was dead, and that it
might be a nasty sort of look-out for me if the thing came out, for I'd
certainly gone along to threaten him with a pistol.

"I searched about till I found some solder and an iron. Then I went
upstairs and called in Bunter, who had done his ten miles in record
time. We went into the smoking-room and soldered the arm of that
cursed figure into place again, as well as we could, and then we took
everything back into the workshop. We cleaned off every finger-print
and removed every trace of our presence. We left the light and the
switchboard as they were, and returned to New York by an extremely
round-about route. The only thing we brought away with us was the
facsimile of the Consular seal, and that we threw into the river.

"Loder was found by the butler next morning. We read in the papers
how he had fallen into the vat when engaged on some experiments in
electro-plating. The ghastly fact was commented upon that the dead
man's hands were thickly coppered over. They couldn't get it off
without irreverent violence, so he was buried like that.

"That's all. Please, Armstrong, may I have my whisky-and-soda now?"

"What happened to the couch?" enquired Smith-Hartington presently.

"I bought it in at the sale of Loder's things," said Wimsey, "and got
hold of a dear old Catholic priest I knew, to whom I told the whole
story under strict vow of secrecy. He was a very sensible and feeling
old bird; so one moonlight night Bunter and I carried the thing out in
the car to his own little church, some miles out of the city, and gave
it Christian burial in a corner of the graveyard. It seemed the best
thing to do."




          THE ENTERTAINING EPISODE OF THE ARTICLE IN QUESTION


The unprofessional detective career of Lord Peter Wimsey was regulated
(though the word has no particular propriety in this connection) by a
persistent and undignified inquisitiveness. The habit of asking silly
questions--natural, though irritating, in the immature male--remained
with him long after his immaculate man, Bunter, had become attached
to his service to shave the bristles from his chin and see to the due
purchase and housing of Napoleon brandies and Villar y Villar cigars.
At the age of thirty-two his sister Mary christened him Elephant's
Child. It was his idiotic enquiries (before his brother, the Duke of
Denver, who grew scarlet with mortification) as to what the Woolsack
was really stuffed with that led the then Lord Chancellor idly to
investigate the article in question, and to discover, tucked deep
within its recesses, that famous diamond necklace of the Marchioness
of Writtle, which had disappeared on the day Parliament was opened and
been safely secreted by one of the cleaners. It was by a continual and
personal badgering of the Chief Engineer at 2LO on the question of "Why
is Oscillation and How is it Done?" that his lordship incidentally
unmasked the great Ploffsky gang of Anarchist conspirators, who were
accustomed to converse in code by a methodical system of howls,
superimposed (to the great annoyance of listeners in British and
European stations) upon the London wave-length and duly relayed by 5XX
over a radius of some five or six hundred miles. He annoyed persons of
more leisure than decorum by suddenly taking into his head to descend
to the Underground by way of the stairs, though the only exciting
things he ever actually found there were the bloodstained boots of the
Sloane Square murderer; on the other hand, when the drains were taken
up at Glegg's Folly, it was by hanging about and hindering the plumbers
at their job that he accidentally made the discovery which hanged that
detestable poisoner, William Girdlestone Chitty.

Accordingly, it was with no surprise at all that the reliable Bunter,
one April morning, received the announcement of an abrupt change of
plan.

They had arrived at the Gare St. Lazare in good time to register
the luggage. Their three months' trip to Italy had been purely for
enjoyment, and had been followed by a pleasant fortnight in Paris. They
were now intending to pay a short visit to the Duc de Sainte-Croix in
Rouen on their way back to England. Lord Peter paced the Salle des Pas
Perdus for some time, buying an illustrated paper or two and eyeing
the crowd. He bent an appreciative eye on a slim, shingled creature
with the face of a Paris _gamin_, but was forced to admit to himself
that her ankles were a trifle on the thick side; he assisted an elderly
lady who was explaining to the bookstall clerk that she wanted a map of
Paris and not a _carte postale_, consumed a quick cognac at one of the
little green tables at the far end, and then decided he had better go
down and see how Bunter was getting on.

In half an hour Bunter and his porter had worked themselves up to
the second place in the enormous queue--for, as usual, one of the
weighing-machines was out of order. In front of them stood an agitated
little group--the young woman Lord Peter had noticed in the Salle des
Pas Perdus, a sallow-faced man of about thirty, their porter, and the
registration official, who was peering eagerly through his little
_guichet_.

"Mais je te répète que je ne les ai pas," said the sallow man heatedly.
"Voyons, voyons. C'est bien toi qui les as pris, n'est-ce-pas? Eh bien,
alors, comment veux-tu que je les aie, moi?"

"Mais non, mais non, je te les ai bien donnés là-haut, avant d'aller
chercher les journaux."

"Je t'assure que non. Enfin, c'est évident! J'ai cherché partout, que
diable! Tu ne m'as rien donné, du tout, du tout."

"Mais puisque je t'ai dit d'aller faire enrégistrer les bagages! Ne
faut-il pas que je t'aie bien remis les billets? Me prends-tu pour un
imbécile? Va! On n'est pas dépourvu de sens! Mais regarde l'heure! Le
train part à 11 h. 20 m. Cherche un peu, au moins."

"Mais puisque j'ai cherché partout--le gilet, rien! Le jacquet rien,
rien! Le pardessus--rien! rien! rien! C'est toi----"

Here the porter, urged by the frantic cries and stamping of the queue,
and the repeated insults of Lord Peter's porter, flung himself into the
discussion.

"P't-être qu' m'sieur a bouté les billets dans son pantalon," he
suggested.

"Triple idiot!" snapped the traveller, "je vous le demande--est-ce
qu'on a jamais entendu parler de mettre des billets dans son pantalon?
Jamais----"

The French porter is a Republican, and, moreover, extremely ill-paid.
The large tolerance of his English colleague is not for him.

"Ah!" said he, dropping two heavy bags and looking round for moral
support. "Vous dîtes? En voila du joli! Allons, mon p'tit, ce n'est pas
parce qu'on porte un faux col qu'on a le droit d'insulter les gens."

The discussion might have become a full-blown row, had not the young
man suddenly discovered the missing tickets--incidentally, they were in
his trousers-pocket after all--and continued the registration of his
luggage, to the undisguised satisfaction of the crowd.

"Bunter," said his lordship, who had turned his back on the group and
was lighting a cigarette, "I am going to change the tickets. We shall
go straight on to London. Have you got that snapshot affair of yours
with you?"

"Yes, my lord."

"The one you can work from your pocket without anyone noticing?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Get me a picture of those two."

"Yes, my lord."

"I will see to the luggage. Wire to the Duc that I am unexpectedly
called home."

"Very good, my lord."

Lord Peter did not allude to the matter again till Bunter was putting
his trousers in the press in their cabin on board the _Normannia_.
Beyond ascertaining that the young man and woman who had aroused
his curiosity were on the boat as second-class passengers, he had
sedulously avoided contact with them.

"Did you get that photograph?"

"I hope so, my lord. As your lordship knows, the aim from the
breast-pocket tends to be unreliable. I have made three attempts, and
trust that one at least may prove to be not unsuccessful."

"How soon can you develop them?"

"At once, if your lordship pleases. I have all the materials in my suit
case."

"What fun!" said Lord Peter, eagerly tying himself into a pair of mauve
silk pyjamas. "May I hold the bottles and things?"

Mr. Bunter poured 3 ounces of water into an 8-ounce measure, and handed
his master a glass rod and a minute packet.

"If your lordship would be so good as to stir the contents of the white
packet slowly into the water," he said, bolting the door, "and, when
dissolved, add the contents of the blue packet."

"Just like a Seidlitz powder," said his lordship happily. "Does it
fizz?"

"Not much, my lord," replied the expert, shaking a quantity of hypo
crystals into the hand-basin.

"That's a pity," said Lord Peter. "I say, Bunter, it's no end of a bore
to dissolve."

"Yes, my lord," returned Bunter sedately. "I have always found that
part of the process exceptionally tedious, my lord."

Lord Peter jabbed viciously with the glass rod.

"Just you wait," he said, in a vindictive tone, "till we get to
Waterloo."

       *       *       *       *       *

Three days later Lord Peter Wimsey sat in his book-lined sitting-room
at 110A Piccadilly. The tall bunches of daffodils on the table
smiled in the spring sunshine, and nodded to the breeze which danced
in from the open window. The door opened, and his lordship glanced up
from a handsome edition of the Contes de la Fontaine, whose handsome
hand-coloured Fragonard plates he was examining with the aid of a lens.

"Morning, Bunter. Anything doing?"

"I have ascertained, my lord, that the young person in question has
entered the service of the elder Duchess of Medway. Her name is
Célestine Berger."

"You are less accurate than usual, Bunter. Nobody off the stage is
called Célestine. You should say 'under the name of Célestine Berger.'
And the man?"

"He is domiciled at this address in Guilford Street, Bloomsbury, my
lord."

"Excellent, my Bunter. Now give me _Who's Who_. Was it a very tiresome
job?"

"Not exceptionally so, my lord."

"One of these days I suppose I shall give you something to do which you
_will_ jib at," said his lordship, "and you will leave me and I shall
cut my throat. Thanks. Run away and play. I shall lunch at the club."

The book which Bunter had handed his employer indeed bore the words
_Who's Who_ engrossed upon its cover, but it was to be found in no
public library and in no bookseller's shop. It was a bulky manuscript,
closely filled, in part with the small print-like handwriting of Mr.
Bunter, in part with Lord Peter's neat and altogether illegible hand.
It contained biographies of the most unexpected people, and the most
unexpected facts about the most obvious people. Lord Peter turned to
a very long entry under the name of the Dowager Duchess of Medway. It
appeared to make satisfactory reading, for after a time he smiled,
closed the book, and went to the telephone.

"Yes--this is the Duchess of Medway. Who is it?"

The deep, harsh old voice pleased Lord Peter. He could see the
imperious face and upright figure of what had been the most famous
beauty in the London of the 'sixties.

"It's Peter Wimsey, duchess."

"Indeed, and how do you do, young man? Back from your Continental
jaunting?"

"Just home--and longing to lay my devotion at the feet of the most
fascinating lady in England."

"God bless my soul, child, what do you want?" demanded the duchess.
"Boys like you don't flatter an old woman for nothing."

"I want to tell you my sins, duchess."

"You should have lived in the great days," said the voice
appreciatively. "Your talents are wasted on the young fry."

"That is why I want to talk to you, duchess."

"Well, my dear, if you've committed any sins worth hearing I shall
enjoy your visit."

"You are as exquisite in kindness as in charm. I am coming this
afternoon."

"I will be at home to you and to no one else. There."

"Dear lady, I kiss your hands," said Lord Peter, and he heard a deep
chuckle as the duchess rang off.

       *       *       *       *       *

"You may say what you like, duchess," said Lord Peter from his
reverential position on the fender-stool, "but you are the youngest
grandmother in London, not excepting my own mother."

"Dear Honoria is the merest child," said the duchess. "I have twenty
years more experience of life, and have arrived at the age when we
boast of them. I have every intention of being a great-grandmother
before I die. Sylvia is being married in a fortnight's time, to that
stupid son of Attenbury's."

"Abcock?"

"Yes. He keeps the worst hunters I ever saw, and doesn't know still
champagne from sauterne. But Sylvia is stupid, too, poor child, so I
dare say they will get on charmingly. In my day one had to have either
brains or beauty to get on--preferably both. Nowadays nothing seems to
be required but a total lack of figure. But all the sense went out of
society with the House of Lords' veto. I except you, Peter. You have
talents. It is a pity you do not employ them in politics."

"Dear lady, God forbid."

"Perhaps you are right, as things are. There were giants in my day.
Dear Dizzy. I remember so well, when his wife died, how hard we all
tried to get him--Medway had died the year before--but he was wrapped
up in that stupid Bradford woman, who had never even read a line of one
of his books, and couldn't have understood 'em if she had. And now we
have Abcock standing for Midhurst, and married to Sylvia!"

"You haven't invited me to the wedding, duchess dear. I'm so hurt,"
sighed his lordship.

"Bless you, child, _I_ didn't send out the invitations, but I suppose
your brother and that tiresome wife of his will be there. You must
come, of course, if you want to. I had no idea you had a passion for
weddings."

"Hadn't you?" said Peter. "I have a passion for this one. I want to see
Lady Sylvia wearing white satin and the family lace and diamonds, and
to sentimentalise over the days when my fox-terrier bit the stuffing
out of her doll."

"Very well, my dear, you shall. Come early and give me your support.
As for the diamonds, if it weren't a family tradition, Sylvia shouldn't
wear them. She has the impudence to complain of them."

"I thought they were some of the finest in existence."

"So they are. But she says the settings are ugly and old-fashioned,
and she doesn't like diamonds, and they won't go with her dress. Such
nonsense. Whoever heard of a girl not liking diamonds? She wants to be
something romantic and moonshiny in pearls. I have no patience with
her."

"I'll promise to admire them," said Peter--"use the privilege of early
acquaintance and tell her she's an ass and so on. I'd love to have a
view of them. When do they come out of cold storage?"

"Mr. Whitehead will bring them up from the Bank the night before," said
the duchess, "and they'll go into the safe in my room. Come round at
twelve o'clock and you shall have a private view of them."

"That would be delightful. Mind they don't disappear in the night,
won't you?"

"Oh, my dear, the house is going to be over-run with policemen. Such a
nuisance. I suppose it can't be helped."

"Oh, I think it's a good thing," said Peter. "I have rather an
unwholesome weakness for policemen."

       *       *       *       *       *

On the morning of the wedding-day, Lord Peter emerged from Bunter's
hands a marvel of sleek brilliance. His primrose-coloured hair was
so exquisite a work of art that to eclipse it with his glossy hat
was like shutting up the sun in a shrine of polished jet; his spats,
light trousers, and exquisitely polished shoes formed a tone-symphony
in monochrome. It was only by the most impassioned pleading that he
persuaded his tyrant to allow him to place two small photographs and
a thin, foreign letter in his breast-pocket. Mr. Bunter, likewise
immaculately attired, stepped into the taxi after him. At noon
precisely they were deposited beneath the striped awning which adorned
the door of the Duchess of Medway's house in Park Lane. Bunter promptly
disappeared in the direction of the back entrance, while his lordship
mounted the steps and asked to see the dowager.

The majority of the guests had not yet arrived, but the house was
full of agitated people, flitting hither and thither, with flowers
and prayer-books, while a clatter of dishes and cutlery from the
dining-room proclaimed the laying of a sumptuous breakfast. Lord Peter
was shown into the morning-room while the footman went to announce
him, and here he found a very close friend and devoted colleague,
Detective-Inspector Parker, mounting guard in plain clothes over a
costly collection of white elephants. Lord Peter greeted him with an
affectionate hand-grip.

"All serene so far?" he enquired.

"Perfectly O.K."

"You got my note?"

"Sure thing. I've got three of our men shadowing your friend in
Guilford Street. The girl is very much in evidence here. Does the old
lady's wig and that sort of thing. Bit of a coming-on disposition,
isn't she?"

"You surprise me," said Lord Peter. "No"--as his friend grinned
sardonically--"you really do. Not seriously? That would throw all my
calculations out."

"Oh, no! Saucy with her eyes and her tongue, that's all."

"Do her job well?"

"I've heard no complaints. What put you on to this?"

"Pure accident. Of course I may be quite mistaken."

"Did you receive any information from Paris?"

"I wish you wouldn't use that phrase," said Lord Peter peevishly. "It's
so of the Yard--yardy. One of these days it'll give you away."

"Sorry," said Parker. "Second nature, I suppose."

"Those are the things to beware of," returned his lordship, with an
earnestness that seemed a little out of place. "One can keep guard on
everything but just those second-nature tricks." He moved across to the
window, which overlooked the tradesmen's entrance. "Hullo!" he said,
"here's our bird."

Parker joined him, and saw the neat, shingled head of the French girl
from the Gare St. Lazare, topped by a neat black bandeau and bow. A man
with a basket full of white narcissi had rung the bell, and appeared
to be trying to make a sale. Parker gently opened the window, and they
heard Célestine say with a marked French accent, "No, nossing to-day,
sank you." The man insisted in the monotonous whine of his type,
thrusting a big bunch of the white flowers upon her, but she pushed
them back into the basket with an angry exclamation and flirted away,
tossing her head and slapping the door smartly to. The man moved off
muttering. As he did so a thin, unhealthy-looking lounger in a check
cap detached himself from a lamp-post opposite and mouched along the
street after him, at the same time casting a glance up at the window.
Mr. Parker looked at Lord Peter, nodded, and made a slight sign with
his hand. At once the man in the check cap removed his cigarette from
his mouth, extinguished it, and, tucking the stub behind his ear, moved
off without a second glance.

"Very interesting," said Lord Peter, when both were out of sight.
"Hark!"

There was a sound of running feet overhead--a cry--and a general
commotion. The two men dashed to the door as the bride, rushing
frantically downstairs with her bevy of bridesmaids after her,
proclaimed in a hysterical shriek: "The diamonds! They're stolen!
They're gone!"

Instantly the house was in an uproar. The servants and the caterers'
men crowded into the hall; the bride's father burst out from his room
in a magnificent white waistcoat and no coat; the Duchess of Medway
descended upon Mr. Parker, demanding that something should be done;
while the butler, who never to the day of his death got over the
disgrace, ran out of the pantry with a corkscrew in one hand and a
priceless bottle of crusted port in the other, which he shook with all
the vehemence of a town-crier ringing a bell. The only dignified entry
was made by the dowager duchess, who came down like a ship in sail,
dragging Célestine with her, and admonishing her not to be so silly.

"Be quiet, girl," said the dowager. "Anyone would think you were going
to be murdered."

"Allow me, your grace," said Mr. Bunter, appearing suddenly from
nowhere in his usual unperturbed manner, and taking the agitated
Célestine firmly by the arm. "Young woman, calm yourself."

"But what is to be _done_?" cried the bride's mother. "How did it
happen?"

It was at this moment that Detective-Inspector Parker took the floor.
It was the most impressive and dramatic moment in his whole career. His
magnificent calm rebuked the clamorous nobility surrounding him.

"Your grace," he said, "there is no cause for alarm. Our measures have
been taken. We have the criminals and the gems, thanks to Lord Peter
Wimsey, from whom we received inf----"

"Charles!" said Lord Peter in an awful voice.

"Warning of the attempt. One of our men is just bringing in the
male criminal at the front door, taken red-handed with your grace's
diamonds in his possession." (All gazed round, and perceived indeed
the check-capped lounger and a uniformed constable entering with the
flower-seller between them.) "The female criminal, who picked the lock
of your grace's safe, is--here! No, you don't," he added, as Célestine,
amid a torrent of apache language which nobody, fortunately, had French
enough to understand, attempted to whip out a revolver from the bosom
of her demure black dress. "Célestine Berger," he continued, pocketing
the weapon, "I arrest you in the name of the law, and I warn you that
anything you say will be taken down and used as evidence against you."

"Heaven help us," said Lord Peter; "the roof would fly off the court.
And you've got the name wrong, Charles. Ladies and gentlemen, allow
me to introduce to you Jacques Lerouge, known as Sans-culotte--the
youngest and cleverest thief, safe-breaker, and female impersonator
that ever occupied a dossier in the Palais de Justice."

There was a gasp. Jacques Sans-culotte gave vent to a low oath and
cocked a _gamin_ grimace at Peter.

"C'est parfait," said he; "toutes mes félicitations, milord, what you
call a fair cop, hein? And now I know him," he added, grinning at
Bunter, "the so-patient Englishman who stand behind us in the queue at
St. Lazare. But tell me, please, how you know me, that I may correct
it, _next time_."

"I have mentioned to you before, Charles," said Lord Peter, "the
unwisdom of falling into habits of speech. They give you away. Now,
in France, every male child is brought up to use masculine adjectives
about himself. He says: Que je suis beau! But a little girl has it
rammed home to her that she is female; she must say: Que je suis belle!
It must make it beastly hard to be a female impersonator. When I am at
a station and I hear an excited young woman say to her companion, 'Me
prends-tu pour _un_ imbécile'--the masculine article arouses curiosity.
And that's that!" he concluded briskly. "The rest was merely a matter
of getting Bunter to take a photograph and communicating with our
friends of the Sureté and Scotland Yard."

Jacques Sans-culotte bowed again.

"Once more I congratulate milord. He is the only Englishman I have ever
met who is capable of appreciating our beautiful language. I will pay
great attention in future to the article in question."

With an awful look, the Dowager Duchess of Medway advanced upon Lord
Peter.

"Peter," she said, "do you mean to say you _knew_ about this, and
that for the last three weeks you have allowed me to be dressed and
undressed and put to bed by a _young man_?"

His lordship had the grace to blush.

"Duchess," he said humbly, "on my honour I didn't know absolutely for
certain till this morning. And the police were so anxious to have these
people caught red-handed. What can I do to show my penitence? Shall I
cut the privileged beast in pieces?"

The grim old mouth relaxed a little.

"After all," said the dowager duchess, with the delightful
consciousness that she was going to shock her daughter-in-law, "there
are very few women of my age who could make the same boast. It seems
that we die as we have lived, my dear."

For indeed the Dowager Duchess of Medway had been notable in her day.




           THE FASCINATING PROBLEM OF UNCLE MELEAGER'S WILL


"You look a little worried, Bunter," said his lordship kindly to his
manservant. "Is there anything I can do?"

The valet's face brightened as he released his employer's grey trousers
from the press.

"Perhaps your lordship could be so good as to think," he said
hopefully, "of a word in seven letters with S in the middle, meaning
two."

"Also," suggested Lord Peter thoughtlessly.

"I beg your lordship's pardon. T-w-o. And seven letters."

"Nonsense!" said Lord Peter. "How about that bath?"

"It should be just about ready, my lord."

Lord Peter Wimsey swung his mauve silk legs lightly over the edge
of the bed and stretched appreciatively. It was a beautiful June
that year. Through the open door he saw the delicate coils of steam
wreathing across a shaft of yellow sunlight. Every step he took into
the bathroom was a conscious act of enjoyment. In a husky light tenor
he carolled a few bars of "_Maman, dites-moi_." Then a thought struck
him, and he turned back.

"Bunter!"

"My lord?"

"No bacon this morning. Quite the wrong smell."

"I was thinking of buttered eggs, my lord."

"Excellent. Like primroses. The Beaconsfield touch," said his lordship
approvingly.

His song died into a rapturous crooning as he settled into the
verbena-scented water. His eyes roamed vaguely over the pale
blue-and-white tiles of the bathroom walls.

Mr. Bunter had retired to the kitchen to put the coffee on the stove
when the bell rang. Surprised, he hastened back to the bedroom. It was
empty. With increased surprise, he realised that it must have been the
bathroom bell. The words "heart-attack" formed swiftly in his mind, to
be displaced by the still more alarming thought, "No soap." He opened
the door almost nervously.

"Did you ring, my lord?" he demanded of Lord Peter's head, alone
visible.

"Yes," said his lordship abruptly; "Ambsace."

"I beg your lordship's pardon?"

"Ambsace. Word of seven letters. Meaning two. With S in the middle. Two
aces. Ambsace."

Bunter's expression became beatified.

"Undoubtedly correct," he said, pulling a small sheet of paper from
his pocket, and entering the word upon it in pencil. "I am extremely
obliged to your lordship. In that case the 'indifferent cook in six
letters ending with _red_' must be Alfred."

Lord Peter waved a dismissive hand.

       *       *       *       *       *

On re-entering his bedroom, Lord Peter was astonished to see his sister
Mary seated in his own particular chair and consuming his buttered
eggs. He greeted her with a friendly acerbity, demanding why she should
look him up at that unearthly hour.

"I'm riding with Freddy Arbuthnot," said her ladyship, "as you might
see by my legs, if you were really as big a Sherlock as you make out."

"Riding," replied her brother; "I had already deduced, though I admit
that Freddy's name was not writ large, to my before-breakfast eye, upon
the knees of your breeches. But why this visit?"

"Well, because you were on the way," said Lady Mary, "and I'm booked
up all day, and I want you to come and dine at the Soviet Club with me
to-night."

"Good God, Mary, why? You know I hate the place. Cooking's beastly, the
men don't shave, and the conversation gets my goat. Besides, last time
I went there, your friend Goyles plugged me in the shoulder. I thought
you'd chucked the Soviet Club."

"It isn't me. It's Hannah Marryat."

"What, the intense young woman with the badly bobbed hair and the
brogues?"

"Well, she's never been able to afford a good hairdresser. That's just
what I want your help about."

"My dear child, I can't cut her hair for her. Bunter might. He can do
most things."

"Silly. No. But she's got--that is, she used to have--an uncle, the
very rich, curmudgeony sort, you know, who never gave anyone a penny.
Well, he's dead, and they can't find his will."

"Perhaps he didn't make one."

"Oh, yes, he did. He wrote and told her so. But the nasty old thing hid
it, and it can't be found."

"Is the will in her favour?"

"Yes."

"Who's the next-of-kin?"

"She and her mother are the only members of the family left."

"Well, then, she's only got to sit tight and she'll get the goods."

"No--because the horrid old man left two wills, and, if she can't find
the latest one, they'll prove the first one. He explained that to her
carefully."

"Oh, I see. H'm. By the way, I thought the young woman was a Socialist."

"Oh, she is. Terrifically so. One really can't help admiring her. She
has done some wonderful work----"

"Yes, I dare say. But in that case I don't see why she need be so keen
on getting uncle's dollars."

Mary began to chuckle.

"Ah! but that's where Uncle Meleager----"

"Uncle _what_?"

"Meleager. That's his name. Meleager Finch."

"Oh!"

"Yes--well, that's where he's been so clever. Unless she finds the new
will, the old will comes into force and hands over every penny of the
money to the funds of the Primrose League."

Lord Peter gave a little yelp of joy.

"Good for Uncle Meleager! But, look here, Polly, I'm a Tory, if
anything. I'm certainly not a Red. Why should I help to snatch the
good gold from the Primrose Leaguers and hand it over to the Third
International? Uncle Meleager's a sport. I take to Uncle Meleager."

"Oh, but Peter, I really don't think she'll do that with it. Not at
present, anyway. They're awfully poor, and her mother ought to have
some frightfully difficult operation or something, and go and live
abroad, so it really is ever so important they should get the money.
And perhaps Hannah wouldn't be quite so Red if she'd ever had a bean of
her own. Besides, you could make it a condition of helping her that she
should go and get properly shingled at Bresil's."

"You are a very cynically-minded person," said his lordship. "However,
it would be fun to have a go at Uncle M. Was he obliging enough to give
any clues for finding the will?"

"He wrote a funny sort of letter, which we can't make head or tail of.
Come to the club to-night and she'll show it to you."

"Right-ho! Seven o'clock do? And we could go on and see a show
afterwards. Do you mind clearing out now? I'm going to get dressed."

       *       *       *       *       *

Amid a deafening babble of voices in a low-pitched cellar, the Soviet
Club meets and dines. Ethics and sociology, the latest vortices of
the Whirligig school of verse, combine with the smoke of countless
cigarettes to produce an inspissated atmosphere, through which flat,
angular mural paintings dimly lower upon the revellers. There is
painfully little room for the elbows, or indeed for any part of one's
body. Lord Peter--his feet curled under his chair to avoid the stray
kicks of the heavy brogues opposite him--was acutely conscious of an
unbecoming attitude and an overheated feeling about the head. He found
it difficult to get any response from Hannah Marryat. Under her heavy,
ill-cut fringe her dark eyes gloomed sombrely at him. At the same time
he received a strong impression of something enormously vital. He had
a sudden fancy that if she were set free from self-defensiveness and
the importance of being earnest, she would exhibit unexpected powers of
enjoyment. He was interested, but oppressed. Mary, to his great relief,
suggested that they should have their coffee upstairs.

They found a quiet corner with comfortable chairs.

"Well, now," said Mary encouragingly.

"Of course you understand," said Miss Marryat mournfully, "that if it
were not for the monstrous injustice of Uncle Meleager's other will,
and mother being so ill, I shouldn't take any steps. But when there is
£250,000, and the prospect of doing real good with it----"

"Naturally," said Lord Peter, "it isn't the money you care about, as
the dear old bromide says, it's the principle of the thing. Right you
are! Now supposin' we have a look at Uncle Meleager's letter."

Miss Marryat rummaged in a very large hand-bag and passed the paper
over.

This was Uncle Meleager's letter, dated from Siena twelve months
previously.

    "My dear Hannah,--When I die--which I propose to do at my own
    convenience and not at that of my family--you will at last discover
    my monetary worth. It is, of course, considerably less than you
    had hoped, and quite fails, I assure you, adequately to represent
    my actual worth in the eyes of the discerning. I made my will
    yesterday, leaving the entire sum, such as it is, to the Primrose
    League--a body quite as fatuous as any other in our preposterous
    state, but which has the advantage of being peculiarly obnoxious to
    yourself. This will will be found in the safe in the library.

    "I am not, however, unmindful of the fact that your mother is
    my sister, and you and she my only surviving relatives. I shall
    accordingly amuse myself by drawing up to-day a second will,
    superseding the other and leaving the money to you.

    "I have always held that woman is a frivolous animal. A woman
    who pretends to be serious is wasting her time and spoiling her
    appearance. I consider that you have wasted your time to a really
    shocking extent. Accordingly, I intend to conceal this will, and
    that in such a manner that you will certainly never find it unless
    by the exercise of a sustained frivolity.

    "I hope you will contrive to be frivolous enough to become the
    heiress of your affectionate

                                                      "UNCLE MELEAGER."

"Couldn't we use that letter as proof of the testator's intention, and
fight the will?" asked Mary anxiously.

"'Fraid not," said Lord Peter. "You see, there's no evidence here that
the will was ever actually drawn up. Though I suppose we could find the
witnesses."

"We've tried," said Miss Marryat, "but, as you see, Uncle Meleager was
travelling abroad at the time, and he probably got some obscure people
in some obscure Italian town to witness it for him. We advertised, but
got no answer."

"H'm. Uncle Meleager doesn't seem to have left things to chance. And,
anyhow, wills are queer things, and so are the probate and divorce
wallahs. Obviously the thing to do is to find the other will. Did the
clues he speaks of turn up among his papers?"

"We hunted through everything. And, of course, we had the whole house
searched from top to bottom for the will. But it was quite useless."

"You've not destroyed anything, of course. Who were the executors of
the Primrose League will?"

"Mother and Mr. Sands, Uncle Meleager's solicitor. The will left mother
a silver tea-pot for her trouble."

"I like Uncle Meleager more and more. Anyhow, he did the sporting
thing. I'm beginnin' to enjoy this case like anything. Where did Uncle
Meleager hang out?"

"It's an old house down at Dorking. It's rather quaint. Somebody
had a fancy to build a little Roman villa sort of thing there, with
a verandah behind, with columns and a pond in the front hall, and
statues. It's very decent there just now, though it's awfully cold
in the winter, with all those stone floors and stone stairs and the
skylight over the hall! Mother said perhaps you would be very kind and
come down and have a look at it."

"I'd simply love to. Can we start to-morrow? I promise you we'll be
frivolous enough to please even Uncle Meleager, if you'll do your bit,
Miss Marryat. Won't we, Mary?"

"Rather! And, I say, hadn't we better be moving if we're going to the
Pallambra?"

"I never go to music halls," said Miss Marryat ungraciously.

"Oh, but you must come to-night," said his lordship persuasively. "It's
so frivolous. Just think how it would please Uncle Meleager."

       *       *       *       *       *

Accordingly, the next day found the party, including the indispensable
Mr. Bunter, assembled at Uncle Meleager's house. Pending the settlement
of the will question, there had seemed every reason why Mr. Finch's
executrix and next-of-kin should live in the house, thus providing
every facility for what Lord Peter called the "Treasure hunt." After
being introduced to Mrs. Marryat, who was an invalid and remained
in her room, Lady Mary and her brother were shown over the house by
Miss Marryat, who explained to them how carefully the search had
been conducted. Every paper had been examined, every book in the
library scrutinised page by page, the walls and chimneys tapped for
hiding-places, the boards taken up, and so forth, but with no result.

"Y'know," said his lordship, "I'm sure you've been going the wrong way
to work. My idea is, old Uncle Meleager was a man of his word. If he
said frivolous, he meant really frivolous. Something beastly silly. I
wonder what it was."

He was still wondering when he went up to dress. Bunter was putting
studs in his shirt. Lord Peter gazed thoughtfully at him, and then
enquired:

"Are any of Mr. Finch's old staff still here?"

"Yes, my lord. The cook and the housekeeper. Wonderful old gentleman
they say he was, too. Eighty-three, but as up to date as you please.
Had his wireless in his bedroom, and enjoyed the Savoy bands every
night of his life. Followed his politics, and was always ready with
the details of the latest big law-cases. If a young lady came to see
him, he'd like to see she had her hair shingled and the latest style in
fashions. They say he took up cross-words as soon as they came in, and
was remarkably quick at solving them, my lord, and inventing them. Took
a £10 prize in the _Daily Yell_ for one, and was wonderfully pleased to
get it, they say, my lord, rich as he was."

"Indeed."

"Yes, my lord. He was a great man for acrostics before that, I
understood them to say, but, when cross-words came in, he threw away
his acrostics and said he liked the new game better. Wonderfully
adaptable, if I may say so, he seems to have been for an old gentleman."

"Was he, by Jove?" said his lordship absently, and then, with sudden
energy:

"Bunter, I'd like to double your salary, but I suppose you'd take it as
an insult."

The conversation bore fruit at dinner.

"What," enquired his lordship, "happened to Uncle Meleager's
cross-words?"

"Cross-words?" said Hannah Marryat, knitting her heavy brows. "Oh,
those puzzle things! Poor old man, he went mad over them. He had every
newspaper sent him, and in his last illness he'd be trying to fill the
wretched things in. It was worse than his acrostics and his jig-saw
puzzles. Poor old creature, he must have been senile, I'm afraid. Of
course, we looked through them, but there wasn't anything there. We put
them all in the attic."

"The attic for me," said Lord Peter.

"And for me," said Mary. "I don't believe there was anything senile
about Uncle Meleager."

The evening was warm, and they had dined in the little viridarium at
the back of the house, with its tall vases and hanging baskets of
flowers and little marble statues.

"Is there an attic here?" said Peter. "It seems such a--well, such an
un-attic thing to have in a house like this."

"It's just a horrid, poky little hole over the porch," said Miss
Marryat, rising and leading the way. "Don't tumble into the pond, will
you? It's a great nuisance having it there, especially at night. I
always tell them to leave a light on."

Lord Peter glanced into the miniature impluvium, with its tiling of
red, white and black marble.

"That's not a very classic design," he observed.

"No. Uncle Meleager used to complain about it and say he must have it
altered. There was a proper one once, I believe, but it got damaged,
and the man before Uncle Meleager had it replaced by some local idiot.
He built three bay windows out of the dining-room at the same time,
which made it very much lighter and pleasanter, of course, but it looks
awful. Now, this tiling is all right; uncle put that in himself."

She pointed to a mosaic dog at the threshold, with the motto, "Cave
canem," and Lord Peter recognised it as a copy of a Pompeian original.

A narrow stair brought them to the "attic," where the Wimseys flung
themselves with enthusiasm upon a huge heap of dusty old newspapers
and manuscripts. The latter seemed the likelier field, so they
started with them. They consisted of a quantity of cross-words in
manuscript--presumably the children of Uncle Meleager's own brain. The
square, the list of definitions, and the solution were in every case
neatly pinned together. Some (early efforts, no doubt) were childishly
simple, but others were difficult, with allusive or punning clues; some
of the ordinary newspaper type, others in the form of rhymed distichs.
They scrutinised the solutions closely, and searched the definitions
for acrostics or hidden words, unsuccessfully for a long time.

"This one's a funny one," said Mary, "nothing seems to fit. Oh! it's
two pinned together. No, it isn't--yes, it is--it's only been pinned
up wrong. Peter, have you seen the puzzle belonging to these clues
anywhere?"

"What one's that?"

"Well, it's numbered rather funnily, with Roman and Arabic numerals,
and it starts off with a thing that hasn't got any numbers at all:

    "Truth, poor girl, was nobody's daughter;
    She took off her clothes and jumped into the water."

"Frivolous old wretch!" said Miss Marryat.

"Friv--here, gimme that!" cried Lord Peter. "Look here, I say, Miss
Marryat, you oughtn't to have overlooked this."

"I thought it just belonged to that other square."

"Not it. It's different. I believe it's our thing. Listen:

    "Your expectation to be rich
    Here will reach its highest pitch.

That's one for you, Miss Marryat. Mary, hunt about. We _must_ find the
square that belongs to this."

But, though they turned everything upside-down, they could find no
square with Roman and Arabic numerals.

"Hang it all!" said Peter, "it must be made to fit one of these others.
Look! I know what he's done. He's just taken a fifteen-letter square,
and numbered it with Roman figures one way and Arabic the other. I bet
it fits into that one it was pinned up with."

But the one it was pinned up with turned out to have only thirteen
squares.

"Dash it all," said his lordship, "we'll have to carry the whole lot
down, and work away at it till we find the one it _does_ fit."

He snatched up a great bundle of newspapers, and led the way out. The
others followed, each with an armful. The search had taken some time,
and the atrium was in semi-darkness.

"Where shall I take them?" asked Lord Peter, calling back over his
shoulder.

"Hi!" cried Mary; and, "Look where you're going!" cried her friend.

They were too late. A splash and a flounder proclaimed that Lord Peter
had walked, like Johnny Head-in-Air over the edge of the impluvium,
papers and all.

"You ass!" said Mary.

His lordship scrambled out, spluttering, and Hannah Marryat suddenly
burst out into the first laugh Peter had ever heard her give.

    "Truth, they say, was nobody's daughter;
    She took off her clothes and fell into the water,"

she proclaimed.

"Well, I couldn't take my clothes off with you here, could I?" grumbled
Lord Peter. "We'll have to fish out the papers. I'm afraid they've got
a bit damp."

Miss Marryat turned on the lights, and they started to clear the basin.

"Truth, poor girl----" began Lord Peter, and suddenly, with a little
shriek, began to dance on the marble edge of the impluvium.

"One, two, three, four, five, six----"

"Quite, quite demented," said Mary. "How shall I break it to mother?"

"Thirteen, fourteen, _fifteen_!" cried his lordship, and sat down,
suddenly and damply, exhausted by his own excitement.

"Feeling better?" asked his sister acidly.

"I'm well. I'm all right. Everything's all right. I _love_ Uncle
Meleager. Fifteen squares each way. Look at it. _Look_ at it. The
truth's in the water. Didn't he say so. Oh, frabjous day! Calloo!
callay! I chortle. Mary, what became of those definitions?"

"They're in your pocket, all damp," said Mary.

Lord Peter snatched them out hurriedly.

"It's all right, they haven't run," he said. "Oh, _darling_ Uncle
Meleager. Can you drain the impluvium, Miss Marryat, and find a bit of
charcoal. Then I'll get some dry clothes on and we'll get down to it.
Don't you see? _There's_ your missing cross-word square--on the floor
of the impluvium!"

It took, however, some time to get the basin emptied, and it was not
till next morning that the party, armed with sticks of charcoal,
squatted down in the empty impluvium to fill in Uncle Meleager's
cross-word on the marble tiles. Their first difficulty was to decide
whether the red squares counted as stops or had to be filled in, but,
after a few definitions had been solved, the construction of the puzzle
grew apace. The investigators grew steadily hotter and more thickly
covered with charcoal, while the attentive Mr. Bunter hurried to and
fro between the atrium and the library, and the dictionaries piled upon
the edge of the impluvium.

[Illustration: blank puzzle]

Here was Uncle Meleager's cross-word square:

    "Truth, poor girl, was nobody's daughter;
    She took off her clothes and jumped into the water."

_Across._

    I.1. Foolish or wise, yet one remains alone,
    'Twixt Strength and Justice on a heavenly throne.

    XI.1. O to what ears the chink of gold was sweet;
    The greed for treasure brought him but defeat.

"That's a hint to us," said Lord Peter.

    I.2. One drop of vinegar to two of oil
    Dresses this curly head sprung from the soil.

    X.2. Nothing itself, it needs but little more
    To be that nothingness the Preacher saw.

    I.3. Dusty though my fellows be,
    We are a kingly company.

    IV.3. Have your own will, though here, I hold,
    The new is _not_ a patch upon the old.

    XIV.3. Any loud cry would do as well,
    Or so the poet's verses tell.

    I.4. This is the most unkindest cut of all,
    Except your skill be mathematical.

    X.4. Little and hid from mortal sight,
    I darkly work to make all light.

    I.5. The need for this (like that it's cut off short)
    The building of a tower to humans taught.

    XI.5. "More than a mind discloses and more than men believe"
    (A definition by a man whom Pussyfoot doth grieve).

    II.6. Backward observe her turn her way,
    The way of wisdom, wise men say.

    VII.6. Grew long ago by river's edge
    Where grows to-day the common sedge.

    XII.6. One of three by which, they say,
    You'll know the Cornishmen alway.

    VI.7. Blow upon blow; five more the vanquished Roman shows;
    And if the foot slip one, on crippled feet one goes.

    I.8. By this Jew's work the whole we find,
    In a glass clearly, darkly in the mind.

    IX.8. Little by little see it grow
    Till cut off short by hammer-blow.

    VI.9. Watch him go, heel and toe,
    Across the wide Karroo!

    II.10. In expectation to be rich
    Here you reach the highest pitch.

    VII.10. Of this, concerning nothing, much--
    Too often do we hear of such!

    XII.10. O'er land and sea, passing on deadly wings,
    Pain to the strong, to weaklings death it brings.

    I.11. Requests like these, however long they be,
    Stop just too soon for common courtesy.

    XI.11. Cæsar, the living dead salute thee here,
    Facing for thy delight tooth, claw, and spear.

    I.12. One word had served, but he in ranting vein
    "Lend me your ears" must mouth o'er Cæsar slain.

    X.12. Helical circumvolution
    Adumbrates correct solution.

    I.13. One that works for Irish men
    Both by word and deed and pen.

"That's an easy one," said Miss Marryat.

    IV.13. Seven out of twelve this number makes complete
    As the sun journeys on from seat to seat.

    XIV.13. My brothers play with planets; Cicero,
    Master of words, my master is below.

    I.14. Free of her jesses let the falcon fly,
    With sight undimmed into the azure sky.

    X.14. And so you dine with Borgia? Let me lend
    You this as a precaution, my poor friend.

    I.15. Friendship carried to excess
    Got him in a horrid mess.

    XI.15. Smooth and elastic and, I guess,
    The dearest treasure you possess.

_Down._

    1.I. If step by step the Steppes you wander through
    Many of those in this, of these in those you'll view.

"Bunter," said Lord Peter, "bring me a whisky-and-soda!"

    11.I. If me without my head you do,
    Then generously my head renew,
    Or put it to my hinder end--
    Your cheer it shall nor mar nor mend.

    1.II. Quietly, quietly, 'twixt edge and edge,
    Do this unto the thin end of the wedge.

    10.II. "Something that hath a reference to my state?"
    Just as you like, it shall be written straight.

    1.III. When all is read, then give the world its due,
    And never need the world read this of you.

"That's a comfort," said Lady Mary. "It shows we're on the right lines."

    4.III. Sing Nunc Dimittis and Magnificat--
    But look a little farther back than that.

    14.III. Here in brief epitome
    Attribute of royalty.

    1.IV. Lo! at a glance
    The Spanish gipsy and her dance.

    10.IV. Bring me skin and a needle or a stick--
    A needle does it slowly, a stick does it quick.

    1.V. It was a brazen business when
    King Phalaris made these for men.

    11.V. This king (of whom not much is known),
    By Heaven's mercy was o'erthrown.

    2.VI. "Bid [Greek:'on kai mê 'on] farewell?" Nay, in this
    The sterner Roman stands by that which is.

    7.VI. This the termination is
    Of many minds' activities.

    12.VI. I mingle on Norwegian shore,
    With ebbing water's backward roar.

    6.VII. I stand, a ladder to renown,
    Set 'twixt the stars and Milan town.

    1.VIII. Highest and lowliest both to me lay claim,
    The little hyssop and the king of fame.

"That makes that point about the squares clear," said Mary.

"I think it's even more significant," said her brother.

    9.VIII. This sensible old man refused to tread
    The path to Hades in a youngster's stead.

    6.IX. Long since, at Nature's call, they let it drop,
    Thoughtlessly thoughtful for our next year's crop.

    2.X. To smallest words great speakers greatness give;
    Here Rome propounded her alternative.

    7.X. We heap up many with toil and trouble,
    And find that the whole of our gain is a bubble.

    12.X. Add it among the hidden things--
    A fishy tale to light it brings.

    1.XI. "Lions," said a Gallic critic, "are not these."
    Benevolent souls--they'd make your heart's blood freeze.

    11.XI. An epithet for husky fellows,
    That stand, all robed in greens and yellows.

    1.XII. Whole without holes behold me here,
    My meaning should be wholly clear.

    10.XII. Running all around, never setting foot to floor,
    If there isn't one in this room, there may be one next door.

    1.XIII. Ye gods! think also of that goddess' name
    Whose might two hours on end the mob proclaim.

    4.XIII. The Priest uplifts his voice on high,
    The choristers make their reply.

    14.XIII. When you've guessed it, with one voice
    You'll say it was a golden choice.

    1.XIV. Shall learning die amid a war's alarms?
    I, at my birth, was clasped in iron arms.

    10.XIV. At sunset see the labourer now
    Loose all his oxen from the plough.

    1.XV. Without a miracle it cannot be--
    At this point, Solver, bid him pray for thee!

    11.XV. Two thousand years ago and more
    (Just as we do to-day),
    The Romans saw these distant lights--
    But, oh! how hard the way!

       *       *       *       *       *

The most remarkable part of the search--or so Lord Peter thought--was
its effect on Miss Marryat. At first she hovered disconsolately on the
margin, aching with wounded dignity, yet ashamed to dissociate herself
from people who were toiling so hard and so cheerfully in her cause.

"I think that's so-and-so," Mary would say hopefully.

And her brother would reply enthusiastically, "Holed it in one, old
lady. Good for you! We've got it this time, Miss Marryat"--and explain
it.

And Hannah Marryat would say with a snort:

"That's just the childish kind of joke Uncle Meleager _would_ make."

Gradually, however, the fascination of seeing the squares fit together
caught her, and, when the first word appeared which showed that the
searchers were definitely on the right track, she lay down flat on the
floor and peered over Lord Peter's shoulder as he grovelled below,
writing letters in charcoal, rubbing them out with his handkerchief and
mopping his heated face, till the Moor of Venice had nothing on him in
the matter of blackness. Once, half scornfully, half timidly, she made
a suggestion; twice, she made a suggestion; the third time she had an
inspiration. The next minute she was down in the mêlée, crawling over
the tiles flushed and excited, wiping important letters out with her
knees as fast as Peter could write them in, poring over the pages of
Roget, her eyes gleaming under her tumbled black fringe.

Hurried meals of cold meat and tea sustained the exhausted party, and
towards sunset Peter, with a shout of triumph, added the last letter to
the square.

They crawled out and looked at it.

"All the words can't be clues," said Mary. "I think it must be just
those four."

"Yes, undoubtedly. It's quite clear. We've only got to look it up.
Where's a Bible?"

Miss Marryat hunted it out from the pile of reference books. "But that
isn't the name of a Bible book," she said. "It's those things they have
at evening service."

"That's all you know," said Lord Peter. "I was brought up religious, I
was. It's Vulgate, that's what that is. You're quite right, of course,
but, as Uncle Meleager says, we must 'look a little farther back than
that.' Here you are. Now, then."

"But it doesn't say what chapter."

"So it doesn't. I mean, nor it does."

"And, anyhow, all the chapters are too short."

"Damn! Oh! Here, suppose we just count right on from the
beginning--one, two, three----"

"Seventeen in chapter one, eighteen, nineteen--this must be it."

Two fair heads and one dark one peered excitedly at the small print,
Bunter hovering decorously on the outskirts.

    "O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the covert of
    the steep place."

"Oh, dear!" said Mary, disappointed, "that does sound rather hopeless.
Are you sure you've counted right? It might mean _anything_."

Lord Peter scratched his head.

"This is a bit of a blow," he said. "I don't like Uncle Meleager half
as much as I did. Old beast!"

"After all our work!" moaned Mary.

"It must be right," cried Miss Marryat. "Perhaps there's some kind of
an anagram in it. We can't give up now!"

"Bravo!" said Lord Peter. "That's the spirit. 'Fraid we're in for
another outburst of frivolity, Miss Marryat."

"Well, it's been great fun," said Hannah Marryat.

"If you will excuse me," began the deferential voice of Bunter.

"I'd forgotten you, Bunter," said his lordship. "Of course you can put
us right--you always can. Where have we gone wrong?"

"I was about to observe, my lord, that the words you mention do not
appear to agree with my recollection of the passage in question. In my
mother's Bible, my lord, it ran, I fancy, somewhat differently."

Lord Peter closed the volume and looked at the back of it.

"Naturally," he said, "you are right again, of course. This is a
Revised Version. It's your fault, Miss Marryat. You _would_ have a
Revised Version. But can we imagine Uncle Meleager with one? No. Bring
me Uncle Meleager's Bible."

"Come and look in the library," cried Miss Marryat, snatching him by
the hand and running. "Don't be so dreadfully calm."

On the centre of the library table lay a huge and venerable
Bible--reverend in age and tooled leather binding. Lord Peter's hands
caressed it, for a noble old book was like a song to his soul. Sobered
by its beauty, they turned the yellow pages over:

    "In the clefts of the rocks, in the secret places of the stairs."

"Miss Marryat," said his lordship, "if your Uncle's will is not
concealed in the staircase, then--well, all I can say is, he's played a
rotten trick on us," he concluded lamely.

"Shall we try the main staircase, or the little one up to the porch?"

"Oh, the main one, I think. I hope it won't mean pulling it down. No.
Somebody would have noticed if Uncle Meleager had done anything drastic
in that way. It's probably quite a simple hiding-place. Wait a minute.
Let's ask the housekeeper."

Mrs. Meakers was called, and perfectly remembered that about nine
months previously Mr. Finch had pointed out to her a "kind of a crack
like" on the under surface of the staircase, and had had a man in to
fill it up. Certainly, she could point out the exact place. There was
the mark of the plaster filling quite clear.

"Hurray!" cried Lord Peter. "Bunter--a chisel or something. Uncle
Meleager, Uncle Meleager, we've _got_ you! Miss Marryat, I think
yours should be the hand to strike the blow. It's your staircase, you
know--at least, if we find the will, so if any destruction has to be
done it's up to you."

Breathless they stood round, while with a few blows the new plaster
flaked off, disclosing a wide chink in the stonework. Hannah Marryat
flung down hammer and chisel and groped in the gap.

"There's something," she gasped. "Lift me up; I can't reach. Oh, it
is! it is! it is it!" And she withdrew her hand, grasping a long,
sealed envelope, bearing the superscription:

       POSITIVELY THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF MELEAGER FINCH.

Miss Marryat gave a yodel of joy and flung her arms round Lord Peter's
neck.

Mary executed a joy-dance. "I'll tell the world," she proclaimed.

"Come and tell mother!" cried Miss Marryat.

Mr. Bunter interposed,

"Your lordship will excuse me," he said firmly, "but your lordship's
face is all over charcoal."

"Black but comely," said Lord Peter, "but I submit to your reproof.
How clever we've all been. How topping everything is. How rich you are
going to be. How late it is and how hungry I am. Yes, Bunter, I will
wash my face. Is there anything else I can do for anybody while I feel
in the mood?"

"If your lordship would be so kind," said Mr. Bunter, producing a small
paper from his pocket, "I should be grateful if you could favour me
with a South African quadruped in six letters, beginning with Q."

    NOTE.--_The solution of the cross-word will be found at the end of
    the book._




              THE FANTASTIC HORROR OF THE CAT IN THE BAG


The Great North Road wound away like a flat, steel-grey ribbon. Up it,
with the sun and wind behind them, two black specks moved swiftly.
To the yokel in charge of the hay-wagon they were only two of "they
dratted motor-cyclists," as they barked and zoomed past him in rapid
succession. A little farther on, a family man, driving delicately with
a two-seater side-car, grinned as the sharp rattle of the o.h.v. Norton
was succeeded by the feline shriek of an angry Scott Flying-Squirrel.
He, too, in bachelor days, had taken a side in that perennial feud.
He sighed regretfully as he watched the racing machines dwindle away
northwards.

At that abominable and unexpected S-bend across the bridge above
Hatfield, the Norton man, in the pride of his heart, turned to wave a
defiant hand at his pursuer. In that second, the enormous bulk of a
loaded charabanc loomed down upon him from the bridgehead. He wrenched
himself away from it in a fierce wobble, and the Scott, cornering
melodramatically, with left and right foot-rests alternately skimming
the tarmac, gained a few triumphant yards. The Norton leapt forward
with wide-open throttle. A party of children, seized with sudden panic,
rushed helter-skelter across the road. The Scott lurched through them
in drunken swerves. The road was clear, and the chase settled down once
more.

It is not known why motorists, who sing the joys of the open road,
spend so much petrol every week-end grinding their way to Southend and
Brighton and Margate, in the stench of each other's exhausts, one hand
on the horn and one foot on the brake, their eyes starting from their
orbits in the nerve-racking search for cops, corners, blind turnings,
and cross-road suicides. They ride in a baffled fury, hating each
other. They arrive with shattered nerves and fight for parking places.
They return, blinded by the headlights of fresh arrivals, whom they
hate even worse than they hate each other. And all the time the Great
North Road winds away like a long, flat, steel-grey ribbon--a surface
like a race-track, without traps, without hedges, without side-roads,
and without traffic. True, it leads to nowhere in particular; but,
after all, one pub is very much like another.

The tarmac reeled away, mile after mile. The sharp turn to the
right at Baldock, the involute intricacies of Biggleswade, with its
multiplication of sign-posts, gave temporary check, but brought the
pursuer no nearer. Through Tempsford at full speed, with bellowing horn
and exhaust, then, screaming like a hurricane past the R.A.C. post
where the road forks in from Bedford. The Norton rider again glanced
back; the Scott rider again sounded his horn ferociously. Flat as a
chessboard, dyke and field revolved about the horizon.

The constable at Eaton Socon was by no means an anti-motor fiend. In
fact, he had just alighted from his push-bike to pass the time of day
with the A.A. man on point duty at the cross-roads. But he was just
and God-fearing. The sight of two maniacs careering at seventy miles
an hour into his protectorate was more than he could be expected to
countenance--the more, that the local magistrate happened to be passing
at that very moment in a pony-trap. He advanced to the middle of the
road, spreading his arms in a majestic manner. The Norton rider looked,
saw the road beyond complicated by the pony-trap and a traction-engine,
and resigned himself to the inevitable. He flung the throttle-lever
back, stamped on his squealing brakes, and skidded to a standstill.
The Scott, having had notice, came up mincingly, with a voice like a
pleased kitten.

"Now, then," said the constable, in a tone of reproof, "ain't you got
no more sense than to come drivin' into the town at a 'undred mile
an hour. This ain't Brooklands, you know. I never see anything like
it. 'Ave to take your names and numbers, if _you_ please. You'll bear
witness, Mr. Nadgett, as they was doin' over eighty."

The A.A. man, after a swift glance over the two sets of handle-bars to
assure himself that the black sheep were not of his flock, said, with
an air of impartial accuracy, "About sixty-six and a half, I should
say, if you was to ask me in court."

"Look here, you blighter," said the Scott man indignantly to the Norton
man, "why the hell couldn't you stop when you heard me hoot? I've been
chasing you with your beastly bag nearly thirty miles. Why can't you
look after your own rotten luggage?"

He indicated a small, stout bag, tied with string to his own carrier.

"That?" said the Norton man, with scorn. "What do you mean? It's not
mine. Never saw it in my life."

This bare-faced denial threatened to render the Scott rider speechless.

"Of all the----" he gasped. "Why, you crimson idiot, I saw it fall off,
just the other side of Hatfield. I yelled and blew like fury. I suppose
that overhead gear of yours makes so much noise you can't hear anything
else. I take the trouble to pick the thing up, and go after you, and
all you do is to race off like a lunatic and run me into a cop. Fat lot
of thanks one gets for trying to be decent to fools on the road."

"That ain't neither here nor there," said the policeman. "Your licence,
please, sir."

"Here you are," said the Scott man, ferociously flapping out his
pocket-book. "My name's Walters, and it's the last time I'll try to do
anybody a good turn, you can lay your shirt."

"Walters," said the constable, entering the particulars laboriously in
his notebook, "and Simpkins. You'll 'ave your summonses in doo course.
It'll be for about a week 'ence, on Monday or thereabouts, I shouldn't
wonder."

"Another forty bob gone west," growled Mr. Simpkins, toying with his
throttle. "Oh, well, can't be helped, I suppose."

"Forty bob?" snorted the constable. "What do _you_ think? Furious
driving to the common danger, that's wot it is. You'll be lucky to get
off with five quid apiece."

"Oh, blast!" said the other, stamping furiously on the kick-starter.
The engine roared into life, but Mr. Walters dexterously swung his
machine across the Norton's path.

"Oh, no, you don't," he said viciously. "You jolly well take your
bleeding bag, and no nonsense. I tell you, I _saw_ it fall off."

"Now, no language," began the constable, when he suddenly became aware
that the A.A. man was staring in a very odd manner at the bag and
making signs to him.

"'Ullo," he demanded, "wot's the matter with the--bleedin' bag, did you
say? 'Ere, I'd like to 'ave a look at that 'ere bag, sir, if you don't
mind."

"It's nothing to do with me," said Mr. Walters, handing it over. "I
saw it fall off and----" His voice died away in his throat, and his
eyes became fixed upon one corner of the bag, where something damp and
horrible was seeping darkly through.

"Did you notice this 'ere corner when you picked it up?" asked the
constable. He prodded it gingerly and looked at his fingers.

"I don't know--no--not particularly," stammered Walters. "I didn't
notice anything. I--I expect it burst when it hit the road."

The constable probed the split seam in silence, and then turned
hurriedly round to wave away a couple of young women who had stopped
to stare. The A.A. man peered curiously, and then started back with a
sensation of sickness.

"Ow, Gawd!" he gasped. "It's curly--it's a woman's."

"It's not me," screamed Simpkins. "I swear to heaven it's not mine.
This man's trying to put it across me."

"Me?" gasped Walters. "Me? Why, you filthy, murdering brute, I tell you
I saw it fall off your carrier. No wonder you blinded off when you saw
me coming. Arrest him, constable. Take him away to prison----"

"Hullo, officer!" said a voice behind them. "What's all the excitement?
You haven't seen a motor-cyclist go by with a little bag on his
carrier, I suppose?"

A big open car with an unnaturally long bonnet had slipped up to them,
silent as an owl. The whole agitated party with one accord turned upon
the driver.

"Would this be it, sir?"

The motorist pushed off his goggles, disclosing a long, narrow nose and
a pair of rather cynical-looking grey eyes.

"It looks rather----" he began; and then, catching sight of the horrid
relic protruding from one corner, "In God's name," he enquired, "what's
that?"

"That's what we'd like to know, sir," said the constable grimly.

"H'm," said the motorist, "I seem to have chosen an uncommonly suitable
moment for enquirin' after my bag. Tactless. To say now that it is not
my bag is simple, though in no way convincing. As a matter of fact, it
is not mine, and I may say that, if it had been, I should not have been
at any pains to pursue it."

The constable scratched his head.

"Both these gentlemen----" he began.

The two cyclists burst into simultaneous and heated disclaimers. By
this time a small crowd had collected, which the A.A. scout helpfully
tried to shoo away.

"You'll all 'ave to come with me to the station," said the harassed
constable. "Can't stand 'ere 'oldin' up the traffic. No tricks, now.
You wheel them bikes, and I'll come in the car with you, sir."

"But supposing I was to let her rip and kidnap you," said the motorist,
with a grin. "Where'd you be? Here," he added, turning to the A.A. man,
"can you handle this outfit?"

"You bet," said the scout, his eye running lovingly over the long sweep
of the exhaust and the rakish lines of the car.

"Right. Hop in. Now, officer, you can toddle along with the other
suspects and keep an eye on them. Wonderful head I've got for detail.
By the way, that foot-brake's on the fierce side. Don't bully it, or
you'll surprise yourself."

The lock of the bag was forced at the police-station in the midst of
an excitement unparalleled in the calm annals of Eaton Socon, and the
dreadful contents laid reverently upon a table. Beyond a quantity of
cheese-cloth in which they had been wrapped, there was nothing to
supply any clue to the mystery.

"Now," said the superintendent, "what do you gentlemen know about this?"

"Nothing whatever," said Mr. Simpkins, with a ghastly countenance,
"except that this man tried to palm it off on me."

"I saw it fall off this man's carrier just the other side of Hatfield,"
repeated Mr. Walters firmly, "and I rode after him for thirty miles
trying to stop him. That's all I know about it, and I wish to God I'd
never touched the beastly thing."

"Nor do I know anything about it personally," said the car-owner, "but
I fancy I know what it is."

"What's that?" asked the superintendent sharply.

"I rather imagine it's the head of the Finsbury Park murder--though,
mind you, that's only a guess."

"That's just what I've been thinking myself," agreed the
superintendent, glancing at a daily paper which lay on his desk, its
headlines lurid with the details of that very horrid crime, "and,
if so, you are to be congratulated, constable, on a very important
capture."

"Thank you, sir," said the gratified officer, saluting.

"Now I'd better take all your statements," said the superintendent.
"No, no; I'll hear the constable first. Yes, Briggs?"

The constable, the A.A. man, and the two motor-cyclists having given
their versions of the story, the superintendent turned to the motorist.

"And what have you got to say about it?" he enquired. "First of all,
your name and address."

The other produced a card, which the superintendent copied out and
returned to him respectfully.

"A bag of mine, containing some valuable jewellery, was stolen from
my car yesterday, in Piccadilly," began the motorist. "It is very
much like this, but has a cipher lock. I made enquiries through
Scotland Yard, and was informed to-day that a bag of precisely similar
appearance had been cloak-roomed yesterday afternoon at Paddington,
main line. I hurried round there, and was told by the clerk that just
before the police warning came through the bag had been claimed by
a man in motor-cycling kit. A porter said he saw the man leave the
station, and a loiterer observed him riding off on a motor-bicycle.
That was about an hour before. It seemed pretty hopeless, as, of
course, nobody had noticed even the make of the bike, let alone the
number. Fortunately, however, there was a smart little girl. The smart
little girl had been dawdling round outside the station, and had heard
a motor-cyclist ask a taxi-driver the quickest route to Finchley. I
left the police hunting for the taxi-driver, and started off, and in
Finchley I found an intelligent boy-scout. He had seen a motor-cyclist
with a bag on the carrier, and had waved and shouted to him that the
strap was loose. The cyclist had got off and tightened the strap, and
gone straight on up the road towards Chipping Barnet. The boy hadn't
been near enough to identify the machine--the only thing he knew for
certain was that it wasn't a Douglas, his brother having one of that
sort. At Barnet I got an odd little story of a man in a motor-coat who
had staggered into a pub with a ghastly white face and drunk two double
brandies and gone out and ridden off furiously. Number?--of course not.
The barmaid told me. _She_ didn't notice the number. After that it was
a tale of furious driving all along the road. After Hatfield, I got the
story of a road-race. And here we are."

"It seems to me, my lord," said the superintendent, "that the furious
driving can't have been all on one side."

"I admit it," said the other, "though I do plead in extenuation that I
spared the women and children and hit up the miles in the wide, open
spaces. The point at the moment is----"

"Well, my lord," said the superintendent, "I've got your story, and,
if it's all right, it can be verified by enquiry at Paddington and
Finchley and so on. Now, as for these two gentlemen----"

"It's perfectly obvious," broke in Mr. Walters, "the bag dropped off
this man's carrier, and, when he saw me coming after him with it, he
thought it was a good opportunity to saddle me with the cursed thing.
Nothing could be clearer."

"It's a lie," said Mr. Simpkins. "Here's this fellow has got hold of
the bag--I don't say how, but I can guess--and he has the bright idea
of shoving the blame on me. It's easy enough to _say_ a thing's fallen
off a man's carrier. Where's the proof? Where's the strap? If his
story's true, you'd find the broken strap on my 'bus. The bag _was_ on
_his_ machine--tied on, tight."

"Yes, with string," retorted the other. "If I'd gone and murdered
someone and run off with their head, do you think I'd be such an ass as
to tie it on with a bit of twopenny twine? The strap's worked loose and
fallen off on the road somewhere; that's what's happened to that."

"Well, look here," said the man addressed as "my lord," "I've got an
idea for what it's worth. Suppose, superintendent, you turn out as many
of your men as you think adequate to keep an eye on three desperate
criminals, and we all tool down to Hatfield together. I can take two in
my 'bus at a pinch, and no doubt you have a police car. If this thing
_did_ fall off the carrier, somebody beside Mr. Walters may have seen
it fall."

"They didn't," said Mr. Simpkins.

"There wasn't a soul," said Mr. Walters, "but how do _you_ know there
wasn't, eh? I thought you didn't know anything about it."

"I mean, it didn't fall off, so nobody _could_ have seen it," gasped
the other.

"Well, my lord," said the superintendent, "I'm inclined to accept your
suggestion, as it gives us a chance of enquiring into your story at
the same time. Mind you, I'm not saying I doubt it, you being who you
are. I've read about some of your detective work, my lord, and very
smart I considered it. But, still, it wouldn't be my duty not to get
corroborative evidence if possible."

"Good egg! Quite right," said his lordship. "Forward the light brigade.
We can do it easily in--that is to say, at the legal rate of progress
it needn't take us much over an hour and a half."

       *       *       *       *       *

About three-quarters of an hour later, the racing car and the police
car loped quietly side by side into Hatfield. Henceforward, the
four-seater, in which Walters and Simpkins sat glaring at each other,
took the lead, and presently Walters waved his hand and both cars came
to a stop.

"It was just about here, as near as I can remember, that it fell off,"
he said. "Of course, there's no trace of it now."

"You're quite sure as there wasn't a strap fell off with it?" suggested
the superintendent, "because, you see, there must 'a' been something
holding it on."

"Of course there wasn't a strap," said Simpkins, white with passion.
"You haven't any business to ask him leading questions like that."

"Wait a minute," said Walters slowly. "No, there was no strap. But I've
got a sort of a recollection of seeing something on the road about a
quarter of a mile farther up."

"It's a lie!" screamed Simpkins. "He's inventing it."

"Just about where we passed that man with the side-car a minute or two
ago," said his lordship. "I told you we ought to have stopped and asked
if we could help him, superintendent. Courtesy of the road, you know,
and all that."

"He couldn't have told us anything," said the superintendent. "He'd
probably only just stopped."

"I'm not so sure," said the other. "Didn't you notice what he was
doing? Oh, dear, dear, where were your eyes? Hullo! here he comes."

He sprang out into the road and waved to the rider, who, seeing four
policemen, thought it better to pull up.

"Excuse me," said his lordship. "Thought we'd just like to stop you and
ask if you were all right, and all that sort of thing, you know. Wanted
to stop in passing, throttle jammed open, couldn't shut the confounded
thing. Little trouble, what?"

"Oh, yes, perfectly all right, thanks, except that I would be glad if
you could spare a gallon of petrol. Tank came adrift. Beastly nuisance.
Had a bit of a struggle. Happily, Providence placed a broken strap in
my way and I've fixed it. Split a bit, though, where that bolt came
off. Lucky not to have an explosion, but there's a special cherub for
motor-cyclists."

"Strap, eh?" said the superintendent. "Afraid I'll have to trouble you
to let me have a look at that."

"What?" said the other. "And just as I've got the damned thing fixed?
What the----? All right, dear, all right"--to his passenger. "Is it
something serious, officer?"

"Afraid so, sir. Sorry to trouble you."

"Hi!" yelled one of the policemen, neatly fielding Mr. Simpkins as he
was taking a dive over the back of the car. "No use doin' that. You're
for it, my lad."

"No doubt about it," said the superintendent triumphantly, snatching at
the strap which the side-car rider held out to him. "Here's his name on
it, 'J. SIMPKINS,' written on in ink as large as life. Very
much obliged to _you_, sir, I'm sure. You've helped us effect a very
important capture."

"No! _Who_ is it?" cried the girl in the side-car. "How frightfully
thrilling! Is it a murder?"

"Look in your paper to-morrow, miss," said the superintendent, "and you
may see something. Here, Briggs, better put the handcuffs on him."

"And how about my tank?" said the man mournfully. "It's all right for
you to be excited, Babs, but you'll have to get out and help push."

"Oh, no," said his lordship. "Here's a strap. A _much_ nicer strap. A
really superior strap. And petrol. _And_ a pocket-flask. Everything a
young man ought to know. And, when you're in town, mind you both look
me up. Lord Peter Wimsey, 110A Piccadilly. Delighted to see
you any time. Chin, chin!"

"Cheerio!" said the other, wiping his lips and much mollified. "Only
too charmed to be of use. Remember it in my favour, officer, next time
you catch me speeding."

"Very fortunate we spotted him," said the superintendent complacently,
as they continued their way into Hatfield. "Quite providential, as you
might say."

       *       *       *       *       *

"I'll come across with it," said the wretched Simpkins, sitting
hand-cuffed in the Hatfield police-station. "I swear to God I know
nothing whatever about it--about the murder, I mean. There's a man
I know who has a jewellery business in Birmingham. I don't know him
very well. In fact, I only met him at Southend last Easter, and we got
pally. His name's Owen--Thomas Owen. He wrote me yesterday and said
he'd accidentally left a bag in the cloakroom at Paddington and asked
if I'd take it out--he enclosed the ticket--and bring it up next time
I came that way. I'm in transport service, you see--you've got my
card--and I'm always up and down the country. As it happened, I was
just going up in that direction with this Norton, so I fetched the
thing out at lunch-time and started off with it. I didn't notice the
date on the cloakroom ticket. I know there wasn't anything to pay on
it, so it can't have been there long. Well, it all went just as you
said up to Finchley, and there that boy told me my strap was loose and
I went to tighten it up. And then I noticed that the corner of the
bag was split, and it was damp--and--well, I saw what you saw. That
sort of turned me over, and I lost my head. The only thing I could
think of was to get rid of it, quick. I remembered there were a lot of
lonely stretches on the Great North Road, so I cut the strap nearly
through--that was when I stopped for that drink at Barnet--and then,
when I thought there wasn't anybody in sight, I just reached back and
gave it a tug, and it went--strap and all; I hadn't put it through the
slots. It fell off, just like a great weight dropping off my mind. I
suppose Walters must just have come round into sight as it fell. I
had to slow down a mile or two farther on for some sheep going into a
field, and then I heard him hooting at me--and--oh, my God!"

He groaned, and buried his head in his hands.

"I see," said the Eaton Socon superintendent. "Well, that's your
statement. Now, about this Thomas Owen----"

"Oh," cried Lord Peter Wimsey, "never mind Thomas Owen. He's not the
man you want. You can't suppose that a bloke who'd committed a murder
would want a fellow tailin' after him to Birmingham with the head. It
stands to reason that was intended to stay in Paddington cloakroom till
the ingenious perpetrator had skipped, or till it was unrecognisable,
or both. Which, by the way, is where we'll find those family heirlooms
of mine, which your engaging friend Mr. Owen lifted out of my car. Now,
Mr. Simpkins, just pull yourself together and tell us who was standing
next to you at the cloakroom when you took out that bag. Try hard to
remember, because this jolly little island is no place for him, and
he'll be taking the next boat while we stand talking."

"I can't remember," moaned Simpkins. "I didn't notice. My head's all in
a whirl."

"Never mind. Go back. Think quietly. Make a picture of yourself getting
off your machine--leaning it up against something----"

"No, I put it on the stand."

"Good! That's the way. Now, think--you're taking the cloakroom ticket
out of your pocket and going up--trying to attract the man's attention."

"I couldn't at first. There was an old lady trying to cloakroom a
canary, and a very bustling man in a hurry with some golf-clubs. He
was quite rude to a quiet little man with a--by Jove! yes, a hand-bag
like that one. Yes, that's it. The timid man had had it on the counter
quite a long time, and the big man pushed him aside. I don't know what
happened, quite, because mine was handed out to me just then. The big
man pushed his luggage in front of both of us and I had to reach over
it--and I suppose--yes, I must have taken the wrong one. Good God! Do
you mean to say that that timid little insignificant-looking man was a
murderer?"

"Lots of 'em like that," put in the Hatfield superintendent. "But what
was he like--come!"

"He was only about five foot five, and he wore a soft hat and
a long, dust-coloured coat. He was very ordinary, with rather
weak, prominent eyes, I think, but I'm not sure I should know him
again. Oh, wait a minute! I do remember one thing. He had an odd
scar--crescent-shaped--under his left eye."

"That settles it," said Lord Peter. "I thought as much. Did you
recognise the--the face when we took it out, superintendent? No? I did.
It was Dahlia Dallmeyer, the actress, who is supposed to have sailed
for America last week. And the short man with the crescent-shaped scar
is her husband, Philip Storey. Sordid tale and all that. She ruined
him, treated him like dirt, and was unfaithful to him, but it looks as
though he had had the last word in the argument. And now, I imagine,
the Law will have the last word with him. Get busy on the wires,
superintendent, and you might ring up the Paddington people and tell
'em to let me have my bag, before Mr. Thomas Owen tumbles to it that
there's been a slight mistake."

"Well, anyhow," said Mr. Walters, extending a magnanimous hand to the
abashed Mr. Simpkins, "it was a top-hole race--well worth a summons. We
must have a return match one of these days."

       *       *       *       *       *

Early the following morning a little, insignificant-looking man stepped
aboard the trans-Atlantic liner _Volucria_. At the head of the gangway
two men blundered into him. The younger of the two, who carried a small
bag, was turning to apologise, when a light of recognition flashed
across his face.

"Why, if it isn't Mr. Storey!" he exclaimed loudly. "Where are you off
to? I haven't seen you for an age."

"I'm afraid," said Philip Storey, "I haven't the pleasure----"

"Cut it out," said the other, laughing. "I'd know that scar of yours
anywhere. Going out to the States?"

"Well, yes," said the other, seeing that his acquaintance's boisterous
manner was attracting attention. "I beg your pardon. It's Lord Peter
Wimsey, isn't it? Yes. I'm joining the wife out there."

"And how is she?" enquired Wimsey, steering the way into the bar and
sitting down at a table. "Left last week didn't she? I saw it in the
papers."

"Yes. She's just cabled me to join her. We're--er--taking a holiday
in--er--the lakes. Very pleasant there in summer."

"Cabled you, did she? And so here we are on the same boat. Odd how
things turn out, what? I only got my sailing orders at the last minute.
Chasing criminals--my hobby, you know."

"Oh, really?" Mr. Storey licked his lips.

"Yes. This is Detective-Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard--great pal
of mine. Yes. Very unpleasant matter, annoying and all that. Bag that
ought to have been reposin' peacefully at Paddington Station turns up
at Eaton Socon. No business there, what?"

He smacked the bag on the table so violently that the lock sprang open.

Storey leapt to his feet with a shriek, flinging his arms across the
opening of the bag as though to hide its contents.

"How did you get that?" he screamed. "Eaton Socon? It--I never----"

"It's mine," said Wimsey quietly, as the wretched man sank back,
realising that he had betrayed himself. "Some jewellery of my mother's.
What did you think it was?"

Detective Parker touched his charge gently on the shoulder.

"You needn't answer that," he said. "I arrest you, Philip Storey, for
the murder of your wife. Anything that you say may be used against you."




            THE UNPRINCIPLED AFFAIR OF THE PRACTICAL JOKER


The _Zambesi_, they said, was expected to dock at six in the morning.
Mrs. Ruyslaender booked a bedroom at the Magnifical, with despair in
her heart. A bare nine hours and she would be greeting her husband.
After that would begin the sickening period of waiting--it might be
days, it might be weeks, possibly even months--for the inevitable
discovery.

The reception-clerk twirled the register towards her. Mechanically, as
she signed it, she glanced at the preceding entry:

"Lord Peter Wimsey and valet--London--Suite 24."

Mrs. Ruyslaender's heart seemed to stop for a second. Was it possible
that, even now, God had left a loophole? She expected little from
Him--all her life He had shown Himself a sufficiently stern creditor.
It was fantastic to base the frailest hope on this signature of a man
she had never even seen.

Yet the name remained in her mind while she dined in her own room. She
dismissed her maid presently, and sat for a long time looking at her
own haggard reflection in the mirror. Twice she rose and went to the
door--then turned back, calling herself a fool. The third time she
turned the handle quickly and hurried down the corridor, without giving
herself time to think.

A large golden arrow at the corner directed her to Suite 24. It was
11 o'clock, and nobody was within view. Mrs. Ruyslaender gave a sharp
knock on Lord Peter Wimsey's door and stood back, waiting, with the
sort of desperate relief one experiences after hearing a dangerous
letter thump the bottom of the pillar-box. Whatever the adventure, she
was committed to it.

The manservant was of the imperturbable sort. He neither invited nor
rejected, but stood respectfully upon the threshold.

"Lord Peter Wimsey?" murmured Mrs. Ruyslaender.

"Yes, madam."

"Could I speak to him for a moment?"

"His Lordship has just retired, madam. If you will step in, I will
enquire."

Mrs. Ruyslaender followed him into one of those palatial sitting-rooms
which the Magnifical provides for the wealthy pilgrim.

"Will you take a seat, madam?"

The man stepped noiselessly to the bedroom door and passed in, shutting
it behind him. The lock, however, failed to catch, and Mrs. Ruyslaender
caught the conversation.

"Pardon me, my lord, a lady has called. She mentioned no appointment,
so I considered it better to acquaint your lordship."

"Excellent discretion," said a voice. It had a slow, sarcastic
intonation, which brought a painful flush to Mrs. Ruyslaender's cheek.
"I never make appointments. Do I know the lady?"

"No, my lord. But--hem--I know her by sight, my lord. It is Mrs.
Ruyslaender."

"Oh, the diamond-merchant's wife. Well, find out tactfully what it's
all about, and, unless it's urgent, ask her to call to-morrow."

The valet's next remark was inaudible, but the reply was:

"Don't be coarse, Bunter."

The valet returned.

"His lordship desires me to ask you, madam, in what way he can be of
service to you?"

"Will you say to him that I have heard of him in connection with the
Attenbury diamond case, and am anxious to ask his advice."

"Certainly, madam. May I suggest that, as his lordship is greatly
fatigued, he would be better able to assist you after he has slept."

"If to-morrow would have done, I would not have thought of disturbing
him to-night. Tell him, I am aware of the trouble I am giving----"

"Excuse me one moment, madam."

This time the door shut properly. After a short interval Bunter
returned to say, "His lordship will be with you immediately, madam,"
and to place a decanter of wine and a box of Sobranies beside her.

Mrs. Ruyslaender lit a cigarette, but had barely sampled its flavour
when she was aware of a soft step beside her. Looking round, she
perceived a young man, attired in a mauve dressing-gown of great
splendour, from beneath the hem of which peeped coyly a pair of
primrose silk pyjamas.

"You must think it very strange of me, thrusting myself on you at this
hour," she said, with a nervous laugh.

Lord Peter put his head on one side.

"Don't know the answer to that," he said. "If I say, 'Not at all,' it
sounds abandoned. If I say, 'Yes, very,' it's rude. Supposin' we give
it a miss, what? and you tell me what I can do for you."

Mrs. Ruyslaender hesitated. Lord Peter was not what she had expected.
She noted the sleek, straw-coloured hair, brushed flat back from a
rather sloping forehead, the ugly, lean, arched nose, and the faintly
foolish smile, and her heart sank within her.

"I--I'm afraid it's ridiculous of me to suppose you can help me," she
began.

"Always my unfortunate appearance," moaned Lord Peter, with such
alarming acumen as to double her discomfort. "Would it invite
confidence more, d'you suppose, if I dyed my hair black an' grew a
Newgate fringe? It's very tryin', you can't think, always to look as if
one's name was Algy."

"I only meant," said Mrs. Ruyslaender, "that I don't think _anybody_
could possibly help. But I saw your name in the hotel book, and it
seemed just a chance."

Lord Peter filled the glasses and sat down.

"Carry on," he said cheerfully; "it sounds interestin'."

Mrs. Ruyslaender took the plunge.

"My husband," she explained, "is Henry Ruyslaender, the diamond
merchant. We came over from Kimberley ten years ago, and settled in
England. He spends several months in Africa every year on business, and
I am expecting him back on the _Zambesi_ to-morrow morning. Now, this
is the trouble. Last year he gave me a magnificent diamond necklace of
a hundred and fifteen stones----"

"The Light of Africa--I know," said Wimsey.

She looked a little surprised, but assented. "The necklace has been
stolen from me, and I can't hope to conceal the loss from him. No
duplicate would deceive him for an instant."

She paused, and Lord Peter prompted gently:

"You have come to me, I presume, because it is not to be a police
matter. Will you tell me quite frankly why?"

"The police would be useless. I know who took it."

"Yes?"

"There is a man we both know slightly--a man called Paul Melville."

Lord Peter's eyes narrowed. "M'm, yes, I fancy I've seen him about
the clubs. New Army, but transferred himself into the Regulars. Dark.
Showy. Bit of an ampelopsis, what?"

"Ampelopsis?"

"Surburban plant that climbs by suction. _You_ know--first year, tender
little shoots--second year, fine show--next year, all over the shop.
Now tell me I am rude."

Mrs. Ruyslaender giggled. "Now you mention it, he is _exactly_ like
an ampelopsis. What a relief to be able to think of him as that....
Well, he is some sort of distant relation of my husband's. He called
one evening when I was alone. We talked about jewels, and I brought
down my jewel-box and showed him the Light of Africa. He knows a good
deal about stones. I was in and out of the room two or three times,
but didn't think to lock up the box. After he left, I was putting the
things away, and I opened the jeweller's case the diamonds were in--and
they had gone!"

"H'm--pretty bare-faced. Look here, Mrs. Ruyslaender, you agree he's an
ampelopsis, but you won't call in the police. Honestly, now--forgive
me; you're askin' my advice, you know--is he worth botherin' about?"

"It's not that," said the woman, in a low tone. "Oh, no! But he took
something else as well. He took--a portrait--a small painting set with
diamonds."

"Oh!"

"Yes. It was in a secret drawer in the jewel-box. I can't imagine how
he knew it was there, but the box was an old casket, belonging to my
husband's family, and I fancy he must have known about the drawer
and--well, thought that investigation might prove profitable. Anyway,
the evening the diamonds went the portrait went too, and he knows I
daren't try to get the necklace back because they'd both be found
together."

"Was there something more than just the portrait, then? A portrait in
itself isn't necessarily hopeless of explanation. It was given you to
take care of, say."

"The names were on it--and--and an inscription which nothing, _nothing_
could ever explain away. A--a passage from Petronius."

"Oh, dear!" said Lord Peter, "dear me, yes. Rather a lively author."

"I was married very young," said Mrs. Ruyslaender, "and my husband and
I have never got on well. Then one year, when he was in Africa, it all
happened. We were wonderful--and shameless. It came to an end. I was
bitter. I wish I had not been. He left me, you see, and I couldn't
forgive it. I prayed day and night for revenge. Only now--I don't want
it to be through me!"

"Wait a moment," said Wimsey, "you mean that, if the diamonds are found
and the portrait is found too, all this story is bound to come out."

"My husband would get a divorce. He would never forgive me--or him. It
is not so much that I mind paying the price myself, but----"

She clenched her hands.

"I have cursed him again and again, and the clever girl who married
him. She played her cards so well. This would ruin them both."

"But if _you_ were the instrument of vengeance," said Wimsey gently,
"you would hate yourself. And it would be terrible to you because he
would hate you. A woman like you couldn't stoop to get your own back. I
see that. If God makes a thunderbolt, how awful and satisfying--if you
help to make a beastly row, what a rotten business it would be."

"You seem to understand," said Mrs. Ruyslaender. "How unusual."

"I understand perfectly. Though let me tell you," said Wimsey, with
a wry little twist of the lips, "that it's sheer foolishness for a
woman to have a sense of honour in such matters. It only gives her
excruciating pain, and nobody expects it, anyway. Look here, don't
let's get all worked up. You certainly shan't have your vengeance
thrust upon you by an ampelopsis. Why should you? Nasty fellow. We'll
have him up--root, branch, and little suckers. Don't worry. Let's see.
My business here will only take a day. Then I've got to get to know
Melville--say a week. Then I've got to get the doings--say another
week, provided he hasn't sold them yet, which isn't likely. Can you
hold your husband off 'em for a fortnight, d'you think?"

"Oh, yes. I'll say they're in the country, or being cleaned, or
something. But do you really think you can----?"

"I'll have a jolly good try, anyhow, Mrs. Ruyslaender. Is the fellow
hard up, to start stealing diamonds?"

"I fancy he has got into debt over horses lately. And possibly poker."

"Oh! Poker player, is he? That makes an excellent excuse for gettin' to
know him. Well, cheer up--we'll get the goods, even if we have to buy
'em. But we won't, if we can help it. Bunter!"

"My lord?" The valet appeared from the inner room.

"Just go an' give the 'All Clear,' will you?"

Mr. Bunter accordingly stepped into the passage, and, having seen an
old gentleman safely away to the bathroom and a young lady in a pink
kimono pop her head out of an adjacent door and hurriedly pop it back
on beholding him, blew his nose with a loud, trumpeting sound.

"Good night," said Mrs. Ruyslaender, "and thank you."

She slipped back to her room unobserved.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Whatever has induced you, my dear boy," said Colonel Marchbanks, "to
take up with that very objectionable fellow Melville?"

"Diamonds," said Lord Peter. "Do you find him so, really?"

"Perfectly dreadful man," said the Hon. Frederick Arbuthnot. "Hearts.
What did you want to go and get him a room here for? This used to be a
quite decent club."

"Two clubs?" said Sir Impey Biggs, who had been ordering a whisky, and
had only caught the last word.

"No, no, one heart."

"I beg your pardon. Well, partner, how about spades? Perfectly good
suit."

"Pass," said the Colonel. "I don't know what the Army's coming to
nowadays."

"No trumps," said Wimsey. "It's all right, children. Trust your Uncle
Pete. Come on, Freddy, how many of those hearts are you going to shout
for?"

"None, the Colonel havin' let me down so 'orrid," said the Hon. Freddy.

"Cautious blighter. All content? Righty-ho! Bring out your dead,
partner. Oh, very pretty indeed. We'll make it a slam this time. I'm
rather glad to hear that expression of opinion from you, Colonel,
because I particularly want you and Biggy to hang on this evening and
take a hand with Melville and me."

"What happens to me?" enquired the Hon. Freddy.

"You have an engagement and go home early, dear old thing. I've
specially invited friend Melville to meet the redoubtable Colonel
Marchbanks and our greatest criminal lawyer. Which hand am I supposed
to be playin' this from? Oh, yes. Come on, Colonel--you've got to hike
that old king out some time, why not now?"

"It's a plot," said Mr. Arbuthnot, with an exaggerated expression of
mystery. "Carry on, don't mind me."

"I take it you have your own reasons for cultivating the man," said Sir
Impey.

"The rest are mine, I fancy. Well, yes, I have. You and the Colonel
would really do me a favour by letting Melville cut in to-night."

"If you wish it," growled the Colonel, "but I hope the impudent young
beggar won't presume on the acquaintance."

"I'll see to that," said his lordship. "Your cards, Freddy. Who had
the ace of hearts? Oh! I had it myself, of course. Our honours....
Hullo! Evenin', Melville."

The ampelopsis was rather a good-looking creature in his own way. Tall
and bronzed, with a fine row of very persuasive teeth. He greeted
Wimsey and Arbuthnot heartily, the Colonel with a shade too much
familiarity, and expressed himself delighted to be introduced to Sir
Impey Biggs.

"You're just in time to hold Freddy's hand," said Wimsey; "he's got a
date. Not his little paddy-paw, I don't mean--but the dam' rotten hand
he generally gets dealt him. Joke."

"Oh, well," said the obedient Freddy, rising, "I s'pose I'd better make
a noise like a hoop and roll away. Night, night, everybody."

Melville took his place, and the game continued with varying fortunes
for two hours, at the end of which time Colonel Marchbanks, who had
suffered much under his partner's eloquent theory of the game, was
beginning to wilt visibly.

Wimsey yawned.

"Gettin' a bit bored, Colonel? Wish they'd invent somethin' to liven
this game up a bit."

"Oh, Bridge is a one-horse show, anyway," said Melville. "Why not have
a little flutter at poker, Colonel? Do you all the good in the world.
What d'you say, Biggs?"

Sir Impey turned on Wimsey a thoughtful eye, accustomed to the
sizing-up of witnesses. Then he replied:

"I'm quite willing, if the others are."

"Damn good idea," said Lord Peter. "Come now, Colonel, be a sport.
You'll find the chips in that drawer, I think. I always lose money at
poker, but what's the odds so long as you're happy. Let's have a new
pack."

"Any limit?"

"What do _you_ say, Colonel?"

The Colonel proposed a twenty-shilling limit. Melville, with a grimace,
amended this to one-tenth of the pool. The amendment was carried and
the cards cut, the deal falling to the Colonel.

Contrary to his own prophecy, Wimsey began by winning considerably, and
grew so garrulously imbecile in the process that even the experienced
Melville began to wonder whether this indescribable fatuity was the
cloak of ignorance or the mask of the hardened poker-player. Soon,
however, he was reassured. The luck came over to his side, and he found
himself winning hands down, steadily from Sir Impey and the Colonel,
who played cautiously and took little risk--heavily from Wimsey, who
appeared reckless and slightly drunk, and was staking foolishly on
quite impossible cards.

"I never knew such luck as yours, Melville," said Sir Impey, when that
young man had scooped in the proceeds from a handsome straight-flush.

"My turn to-night, yours to-morrow," said Melville, pushing the cards
across to Biggs, whose deal it was.

Colonel Marchbanks required one card. Wimsey laughed vacantly and
demanded an entirely fresh hand; Biggs asked for three; and Melville,
after a pause for consideration, took one.

It seemed as though everybody had something respectable this
time--though Wimsey was not to be depended upon, frequently going the
limit upon a pair of jacks in order, as he expressed it, to keep the
pot a-boiling. He became peculiarly obstinate now, throwing his chips
in with a flushed face, in spite of Melville's confident air.

The Colonel got out, and after a short time Biggs followed his example.
Melville held on till the pool mounted to something under a hundred
pounds, when Wimsey suddenly turned restive and demanded to see him.

"Four kings," said Melville.

"Blast you!" said Lord Peter, laying down four queens. "No holdin' this
feller to-night, is there? Here, take the ruddy cards, Melville, and
give somebody else a look in, will you."

He shuffled them as he spoke, and handed them over. Melville dealt,
satisfied the demands of the other three players, and was in the act
of taking three new cards for himself, when Wimsey gave a sudden
exclamation, and shot a swift hand across the table.

"Hullo! Melville," he said, in a chill tone which bore no resemblance
to his ordinary speech, "what exactly does this mean?"

He lifted Melville's left arm clear of the table and, with a sharp
gesture, shook it. From the sleeve something fluttered to the table and
glided away to the floor. Colonel Marchbanks picked it up, and in a
dreadful silence laid the joker on the table.

"Good God!" said Sir Impey.

"You young blackguard!" gasped the Colonel, recovering speech.

"What the hell do you mean by this?" gasped Melville, with a face like
chalk. "How dare you! This is a trick--a plant----" A horrible fury
gripped him. "You dare to say that I have been cheating. You liar! You
filthy sharper. You put it there. I tell you, gentlemen," he cried,
looking desperately round the table, "he must have put it there."

"Come, come," said Colonel Marchbanks, "no good carryin' on that way,
Melville. Dear me, no good at all. Only makes matters worse. We all saw
it, you know. Dear, dear, I don't know what the Army's coming to."

"Do you mean you believe it?" shrieked Melville. "For God's sake,
Wimsey, is this a joke or what? Biggs--you've got a head on your
shoulders--are you going to believe this half-drunk fool and this
doddering old idiot who ought to be in his grave?"

"That language won't do you any good, Melville," said Sir Impey. "I'm
afraid we all saw it clearly enough."

"I've been suspectin' this some time, y'know," said Wimsey. "That's
why I asked you two to stay to-night. We don't want to make a public
row, but----"

"Gentlemen," said Melville more soberly, "I swear to you that I am
absolutely innocent of this ghastly thing. Can't you believe me?"

"I can believe the evidence of my own eyes, sir," said the Colonel,
with some heat.

"For the good of the club," said Wimsey, "this couldn't go on,
but--also for the good of the club--I think we should all prefer the
matter to be quietly arranged. In the face of what Sir Impey and the
Colonel can witness, Melville, I'm afraid your protestations are not
likely to be credited."

Melville looked from the soldier's face to that of the great criminal
lawyer.

"I don't know what your game is," he said sullenly to Wimsey, "but I
can see you've laid a trap and pulled it off all right."

"I think, gentlemen," said Wimsey, "that, if I might have a word in
private with Melville in his own room, I could get the thing settled
satisfactorily, without undue fuss."

"He'll have to resign his commission," growled the Colonel.

"I'll put it to him in that light," said Peter. "May we go to your room
for a minute, Melville?"

With a lowering brow, the young soldier led the way. Once alone with
Wimsey, he turned furiously on him.

"What do you want? What do you mean by making this monstrous charge?
I'll take action for libel!"

"Do," said Wimsey coolly, "if you think anybody is likely to believe
your story."

He lit a cigarette, and smiled lazily at the angry young man.

"Well, what's the meaning of it, anyway?"

"The meaning," said Wimsey, "is simply that you, an officer and a
member of this club, have been caught red-handed cheating at cards
while playing for money, the witnesses being Sir Impey Biggs, Colonel
Marchbanks, and myself. Now, I suggest to you, Captain Melville, that
your best plan is to let me take charge of Mrs. Ruyslaender's diamond
necklace and portrait, and then just to trickle away quiet-like from
these halls of dazzlin' light--without any questions asked."

Melville leapt to his feet.

"My God!" he cried. "I can see it now. It's blackmail."

"You may certainly call it blackmail, and theft too," said Lord Peter,
with a shrug. "But why use ugly names? I hold five aces, you see.
Better chuck in your hand."

"Suppose I say I never heard of the diamonds?"

"It's a bit late now, isn't it?" said Wimsey affably. "But, in that
case, I'm beastly sorry and all that, of course, but we shall have to
make to-night's business public."

"Damn you!" muttered Melville, "you sneering devil."

He showed all his white teeth, half springing, with crouched shoulders.
Wimsey waited quietly, his hands in his pockets.

The rush did not come. With a furious gesture, Melville pulled out his
keys and unlocked his dressing-case.

"Take them," he growled, flinging a small parcel on the table; "you've
got me. Take 'em and go to hell."

"Eventually--why not now?" murmured his lordship. "Thanks frightfully.
Man of peace myself, you know--hate unpleasantness and all that." He
scrutinised his booty carefully, running the stones expertly between
his fingers. Over the portrait he pursed up his lips. "Yes," he
murmured, "that _would_ have made a row." He replaced the wrapping and
slipped the parcel into his pocket.

"Well, good night, Melville--and thanks for a pleasant game."

       *       *       *       *       *

"I say, Biggs," said Wimsey, when he had returned to the card-room.
"You've had a lot of experience. What tactics d'you think one's
justified in usin' with a blackmailer?"

"Ah!" said the K.C. "There you've put your finger on Society's sore
place, where the Law is helpless. Speaking as a man, I'd say nothing
could be too bad for the brute. It's a crime crueller and infinitely
worse in its results than murder. As a lawyer, I can only say that I
have consistently refused to defend a blackmailer or to prosecute any
poor devil who does away with his tormentor."

"H'm," replied Wimsey. "What do you say, Colonel?"

"A man like that's a filthy pest," said the little warrior stoutly.
"Shootin's too good for him. I knew a man--close personal friend, in
fact--hounded to death--blew his brains out--one of the best. Don't
like to talk about it."

"I want to show you something," said Wimsey.

He picked up the pack which still lay scattered on the table, and
shuffled it together.

"Catch hold of these, Colonel, and lay 'em out face downwards. That's
right. First of all you cut 'em at the twentieth card--you'll see the
seven of diamonds at the bottom. Correct? Now I'll call 'em. Ten of
hearts, ace of spades, three of clubs, five of clubs, king of diamonds,
nine, jack, two of hearts. Right? I could pick 'em all out, you see,
except the ace of hearts, and that's here."

He leaned forward and produced it dexterously from Sir Impey's
breast-pocket.

"I learnt it from a man who shared my dug-out near Ypres," he said.
"You needn't mention to-night's business, you two. There are crimes
which the Law cannot reach."




          THE UNDIGNIFIED MELODRAMA OF THE BONE OF CONTENTION


"I am afraid you have brought shocking weather with you, Lord Peter,"
said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym, with playful reproof. "If it goes on like this
they will have a bad day for the funeral."

Lord Peter Wimsey glanced out of the morning-room window to the
soaked green lawn and the shrubbery, where the rain streamed down
remorselessly over the laurel leaves, stiff and shiny like mackintoshes.

"Nasty exposed business, standing round at funerals," he agreed.

"Yes, I always think it's such a shame for the old people. In a tiny
village like this it's about the only pleasure they get during the
winter. It makes something for them to talk about for weeks."

"Is it anybody's funeral in particular?"

"My dear Wimsey," said his host, "it is plain that you, coming from
your little village of London, are quite out of the swim. There has
never been a funeral like it in Little Doddering before. It's an event."

"Really?"

"Oh dear, yes. You may possibly remember old Burdock?"

"Burdock? Let me see. Isn't he a sort of local squire, or something?"

"He was," corrected Mr. Frobisher-Pym. "He's dead--died in New York
about three weeks ago, and they're sending him over to be buried. The
Burdocks have lived in the big house for hundreds of years, and they're
all buried in the churchyard, except, of course, the one who was killed
in the War. Burdock's secretary cabled the news of his death across,
and said the body was following as soon as the embalmers had finished
with it. The boat gets in to Southampton this morning, I believe. At
any rate, the body will arrive here by the 6.30 from Town."

"Are you going down to meet it, Tom?"

"No, my dear. I don't think that is called for. There will be a grand
turn-out of the village, of course. Joliffe's people are having the
time of their lives; they borrowed an extra pair of horses from young
Mortimer for the occasion. I only hope they don't kick over the traces
and upset the hearse. Mortimer's horseflesh is generally on the
spirited side."

"But, Tom, we must show some respect to the Burdocks."

"We're attending the funeral to-morrow, and that's quite enough. We
must do that, I suppose, out of consideration for the family, though,
as far as the old man himself goes, respect is the very last thing
anybody would think of paying him."

"Oh, Tom, he's dead."

"And quite time too. No, Agatha, it's no use pretending that old
Burdock was anything but a spiteful, bad-tempered, dirty-living old
blackguard that the world's well rid of. The last scandal he stirred
up made the place too hot to hold him. He had to leave the country and
go to the States, and, even so, if he hadn't had the money to pay the
people off, he'd probably have been put in gaol. That's why I'm so
annoyed with Hancock. I don't mind his calling himself a priest, though
clergyman was always good enough for dear old Weeks--who, after all,
was a canon--and I don't mind his vestments. He can wrap himself up in
a Union Jack if he likes--it doesn't worry _me_. But when it comes to
having old Burdock put on trestles in the south aisle, with candles
round him, and Hubbard from the 'Red Cow' and Duggins's boy praying
over him half the night, I think it's time to draw the line. The people
don't like it, you know--as least, the older generation don't. It's all
right for the young ones, I dare say; they must have their amusement;
but it gives offence to a lot of the farmers. After all, they knew
Burdock a bit too well. Simpson--he's people's warden, you know--came
up quite in distress to speak to me about it last night. You couldn't
have a sounder man than Simpson. I said I would speak to Hancock. I did
speak to him this morning, as a matter of fact, but you might as well
talk to the west door of the church."

"Mr. Hancock is one of those young men who fancy they know everything,"
said his wife. "A sensible man would have listened to you, Tom. You're
a magistrate and have lived here all your life, and it stands to reason
you know considerably more about the parish than he does."

"He took up the ridiculous position," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "that
the more sinful the old man had been the more he needed praying for.
I said, 'I think it would need more praying than you or I could do to
help old Burdock out of the place he's in now.' Ha, ha! So he said,
'I agree with you, Mr. Frobisher-Pym; that is why I am having eight
watchers to pray all through the night for him.' I admit he had me
there."

"Eight people?" exclaimed Mrs. Frobisher-Pym.

"Not all at once, I understand; in relays, two at a time. 'Well,' I
said, 'I think you ought to consider that you will be giving a handle
to the Nonconformists.' Of course, he couldn't deny that."

Wimsey helped himself to marmalade. Nonconformists, it seemed, were
always searching for handles. Though what kind--whether door-handles,
tea-pot handles, pump-handles, or starting-handles--was never
explained, nor what the handles were to be used for when found.
However, having been brought up in the odour of the Establishment, he
was familiar with this odd dissenting peculiarity, and merely said:

"Pity to be extreme in a small parish like this. Disturbs the ideas of
the simple fathers of the hamlet and the village blacksmith, with his
daughter singin' in the choir and the Old Hundredth and all the rest
of it. Don't Burdock's family have anything to say to it? There are
some sons, aren't there?"

"Only the two, now. Aldine was the one that was killed, of course, and
Martin is somewhere abroad. He went off after that row with his father,
and I don't think he has been back in England since."

"What was the row about?"

"Oh, that was a disgraceful business. Martin got a girl into trouble--a
film actress or a typist or somebody of that sort--and insisted on
marrying her."

"Oh?"

"Yes, so dreadful of him," said the lady, taking up the tale, "when he
was practically engaged to the Delaprime girl--the one with glasses,
you know. It made a terrible scandal. Some horribly vulgar people came
down and pushed their way into the house and insisted on seeing old Mr.
Burdock. I will say for him he stood up to them--he wasn't the sort of
person you could intimidate. He told them the girl had only herself
to blame, and they could sue Martin if they liked--_he_ wouldn't be
blackmailed on his son's account. The butler was listening at the door,
naturally, and told the whole village about it. And then Martin Burdock
came home and had a quarrel with his father you could have heard for
miles. He said that the whole thing was a lie, and that he meant to
marry the girl, anyway. I cannot understand how anybody could marry
into a blackmailing family like that."

"My dear," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym gently, "I don't think you're
being quite fair to Martin, or his wife's parents, either. From what
Martin told me, they were quite decent people, only not his class, of
course, and they came in a well-meaning way to find out what Martin's
'intentions' were. You would want to do the same yourself, if it were a
daughter of ours. Old Burdock, naturally, thought they meant blackmail.
He was the kind of man who thinks everything can be paid for; and he
considered a son of his had a perfect right to seduce a young woman who
worked for a living. I don't say Martin was altogether in the right----"

"Martin is a chip off the old block, I'm afraid," retorted the lady.
"He married the girl, anyway, and why should he do that, unless he had
to?"

"Well, they've never had any children, you know," said Mr.
Frobisher-Pym.

"That's as may be. I've no doubt the girl was in league with her
parents. And you know the Martin Burdocks have lived in Paris ever
since."

"That's true," admitted her husband. "It was an unfortunate affair
altogether. They've had some difficulty in tracing Martin's address,
too, but no doubt he'll be coming back shortly. He is engaged in
producing some film play, they tell me, so possibly he can't get away
in time for the funeral."

"If he had any natural feeling, he would not let a film play stand in
his way," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym.

"My dear, there are such things as contracts, with very heavy monetary
penalties for breaking them. And I don't suppose Martin could afford to
lose a big sum of money. It's not likely that his father will have left
him anything."

"Martin is the younger son, then?" asked Wimsey, politely showing more
interest than he felt in the rather well-worn plot of this village
melodrama.

"No, he is the eldest of the lot. The house is entailed, of course,
and so is the estate, such as it is. But there's no money in the land.
Old Burdock made his fortune in rubber shares during the boom, and the
money will go as he leaves it--wherever that may be, for they haven't
found any will yet. He's probably left it all to Haviland."

"The younger son?"

"Yes. He's something in the City--a director of a company--connected
with silk stockings, I believe. Nobody has seen very much of him. He
came down as soon as he heard of his father's death. He's staying with
the Hancocks. The big house has been shut up since old Burdock went to
the States four years ago. I suppose Haviland thought it wasn't worth
while opening it up till they knew what Martin was going to do about
it. That's why the body is being taken to the church."

"Much less trouble, certainly," said Wimsey.

"Oh, yes--though, mind you, I think Haviland ought to take a more
neighbourly view of it. Considering the position the Burdocks have
always held in the place, the people had a right to expect a proper
reception after the funeral. It's usual. But these business people
think less of tradition than we do down here. And, naturally, since the
Hancocks are putting Haviland up, he can't raise much objection to the
candles and the prayers and things."

"Perhaps not," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym, "but it would have been more
suitable if Haviland had come to us, rather than to the Hancocks, whom
he doesn't even know."

"My dear, you forget the very unpleasant dispute I had with Haviland
Burdock about shooting over my land. After the correspondence that
passed between us, last time he was down here, I could scarcely offer
him hospitality. His father took a perfectly proper view of it, I will
say that for him, but Haviland was exceedingly discourteous to me,
and things were said which I could not possibly overlook. However, we
mustn't bore you, Lord Peter, with our local small-talk. If you've
finished your breakfast, what do you say to a walk round the place?
It's a pity it's raining so hard--and you don't see the garden at
its best this time of the year, of course--but I've got some cocker
span'els you might like to have a look at."

Lord Peter expressed eager anxiety to see the spaniels, and in a few
minutes' time found himself squelching down the gravel path which led
to the kennels.

"Nothing like a healthy country life," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym. "I
always think London is so depressing in the winter. Nothing to do with
one's self. All right to run up for a day or two and see a theatre now
and again, but how you people stick it week in and week out beats me. I
must speak to Plunkett about this archway," he added. "It's getting out
of trim."

He broke off a dangling branch of ivy as he spoke. The plant shuddered
revengefully, tipping a small shower of water down Wimsey's neck.

The cocker spaniel and her family occupied a comfortable and airy
stall in the stable buildings. A youngish man in breeches and leggings
emerged to greet the visitors, and produced the little bundles of
puppy-hood for their inspection. Wimsey sat down on an upturned bucket
and examined them gravely one by one. The bitch, after cautiously
reviewing his boots and grumbling a little, decided that he was
trustworthy and slobbered genially over his knees.

"Let me see," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "how old are they?"

"Thirteen days, sir."

"Is she feeding them all right?"

"Fine, sir. She's having some of the malt food. Seems to suit her very
well, sir."

"Ah, yes. Plunkett was a little doubtful about it, but I heard it
spoken very well of. Plunkett doesn't care for experiments, and, in a
general way, I agree with him. Where is Plunkett, by the way?"

"He's not very well this morning, sir."

"Sorry to hear that, Merridew. The rheumatics again?"

"No, sir. From what Mrs. Plunkett tells me, he's had a bit of a shock."

"A shock? What sort of a shock? Nothing wrong with Alf or Elsie, I
hope?"

"No, sir. The fact is--I understand he's seen something, sir."

"What do you mean, seen something?"

"Well, sir--something in the nature of a warning, from what he says."

"A warning? Good heavens, Merridew, he mustn't get those sort of ideas
in his head. I'm surprised at Plunkett; I always thought he was a very
level-headed man. What sort of warning did he say it was?"

"I couldn't say, sir."

"Surely he mentioned what he thought he'd seen."

Merridew's face took on a slightly obstinate look.

"I can't say, I'm sure, sir."

"This will never do. I must go and see Plunkett. Is he at the cottage?"

"Yes, sir."

"We'll go down there at once. You don't mind, do you, Wimsey? I can't
allow Plunkett to make himself ill. If he's had a shock he'd better see
a doctor. Well, carry on, Merridew, and be sure you keep her warm and
comfortable. The damp is apt to come up through these brick floors.
I'm thinking of having the whole place re-set with concrete, but it
takes money, of course. I can't imagine," he went on, as he led the way
past the greenhouse towards a trim cottage set in its own square of
kitchen-garden, "what can have happened to have upset Plunkett. I hope
it's nothing serious. He's getting elderly, of course, but he ought to
be above believing in warnings. You wouldn't believe the extraordinary
ideas these people get hold of. Fact is, I expect he's been round at
the 'Weary Traveller,' and caught sight of somebody's washing hung out
on the way home."

"Not washing," corrected Wimsey mechanically. He had a deductive turn
of mind which exposed the folly of the suggestion even while irritably
admitting that the matter was of no importance. "It poured with rain
last night, and, besides, it's Thursday. But Tuesday and Wednesday were
fine, so the drying would have all been done then. No washing."

"Well, well--something else then--a post, or old Mrs. Giddens's white
donkey. Plunkett does occasionally take a drop too much, I'm sorry to
say, but he's a very good kennel-man, so one overlooks it. They're
superstitious round about these parts, and they can tell some queer
tales if once you get into their confidence. You'd be surprised how
far off the main track we are as regards civilisation. Why, not here,
but at Abbotts Bolton, fifteen miles off, it's as much as one's life's
worth to shoot a hare. Witches, you know, and that sort of thing."

"I shouldn't be a bit surprised. They'll still tell you about
werewolves in some parts of Germany."

"Yes, I dare say. Well, here we are." Mr. Frobisher-Pym rapped loudly
with his walking-stick on the door of the cottage and turned the handle
without waiting for permission.

"You there, Mrs. Plunkett? May we come in? Ah! good morning. Hope we're
not disturbing you, but Merridew told me Plunkett was not so well. This
is Lord Peter Wimsey--a very old friend of mine; that is to say, I'm a
very old friend of _his_; ha, ha!"

"Good morning, sir; good morning, your lordship. I'm sure Plunkett will
be very pleased to see you. Please step in. Plunkett, here's Mr. Pym to
see you."

The elderly man who sat crouching over the fire turned a mournful face
towards them, and half rose, touching his forehead.

"Well, now, Plunkett, what's the trouble?" enquired Mr. Frobisher-Pym,
with the hearty bedside manner adopted by country gentlefolk visiting
their dependants. "Sorry not to see you out and about. Touch of the old
complaint, eh?"

"No, sir; no, sir. Thank you, sir. I'm well enough in myself. But I've
had a warning, and I'm not long for this world."

"Not long for this world? Oh, nonsense, Plunkett. You mustn't talk like
that. A touch of indigestion, that's what you've got, I expect. Gives
one the blues, I know. I'm sure I often feel like nothing on earth when
I've got one of my bilious attacks. Try a dose of castor-oil, or a good
old-fashioned blue pill and black draught. Nothing like it. Then you
won't talk about warnings and dying."

"No medicine won't do no good to _my_ complaint, sir. Nobody as see
what I've seed ever got the better of it. But as you and the gentleman
are here, sir, I'm wondering if you'll do me a favour."

"Of course, Plunkett, anything you like. What is it?"

"Why, just to draw up my will, sir. Old Parson, he used to do it. But I
don't fancy this new young man, with his candles and bits of things. It
don't seem as if he'd make it good and legal, sir, and I wouldn't like
it if there was any dispute after I was gone. So as there ain't much
time left me, I'd be grateful if you'd put it down clear for me in pen
and ink that I wants my little bit all to go to Sarah here, and after
her to Alf and Elsie, divided up equal."

"Of course I'll do that for you, Plunkett, any time you like. But it's
all nonsense to be talking about wills. Bless my soul, I shouldn't be
surprised if you were to see us all underground."

"No, sir. I've been a hale and hearty man, I'm not denying. But I've
been called, sir, and I've got to go. It must come to all of us, I know
that. But it's a fearful thing to see the death-coach come for one, and
know that the dead are in it, that cannot rest in the grave."

"Come now, Plunkett, you don't mean to tell me you believe in that old
foolishness about the death-coach. I thought you were an educated man.
What would Alf say if he heard you talking such nonsense?"

"Ah, sir, young people don't know everything, and there's many more
things in God's creation than what you'll find in the printed books."

"Oh, well," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, finding this opening irresistible,
"we know there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than
are dreamt of in your philosophy. Quite so. But that doesn't apply
nowadays," he added contradictorily. "There are no ghosts in the
twentieth century. Just you think the matter out quietly, and you'll
find you've made a mistake. There's probably some quite simple
explanation. Dear me! I remember Mrs. Frobisher-Pym waking up one night
and having a terrible fright, because she thought somebody'd been and
hanged himself on our bedroom door. Such a silly idea, because I was
safe in bed beside her--snoring, _she_ said, ha, ha!--and, if anybody
was feeling like hanging himself, he wouldn't come into our bedroom
to do it. Well, she clutched my arm in a great state of mind, and
when I went to see what had alarmed her, what do you think it was? My
trousers, which I'd hung up by the braces, with the socks still in the
legs! My word! and didn't I get a wigging for not having put my things
away tidy!"

Mr. Frobisher-Pym laughed, and Mrs. Plunkett said dutifully, "There
now!" Her husband shook his head.

"That may be, sir, but I see the death-coach last night with my own
eyes. Just striking midnight it was, by the church clock, and I see it
come up the lane by the old priory wall."

"And what were you doing out of bed at midnight, eh?"

"Well, sir, I'd been round to my sister's, that's got her boy home on
leaf off of his ship."

"And you'd been drinking his health, I dare say, Plunkett." Mr.
Frobisher-Pym wagged an admonitory forefinger.

"No, sir, I don't deny I'd had a glass or two of ale, but not to fuddle
me. My wife can tell you I was sober enough when I got home."

"That's right, sir. Plunkett hadn't taken too much last night, that
I'll swear to."

"Well, what was it you saw, Plunkett?"

"I see the death-coach, same as I'm telling you, sir. It come up the
lane, all ghostly white, sir, and never making no more sound than the
dead--which it were, sir."

"A wagon or something going through to Lymptree or Herriotting."

"No, sir--tweren't a wagon. I counted the horses--four white horses,
and they went by with never a sound of hoof or bridle. And that
weren't----"

"Four horses! Come, Plunkett, you must have been seeing double. There's
nobody about here would be driving four horses, unless it was Mr.
Mortimer from Abbotts Bolton, and he wouldn't be taking his horseflesh
out at midnight."

"Four horses they was, sir. I see them plain. And it weren't Mr.
Mortimer, neither, for he drives a drag, and this were a big, heavy
coach, with no lights on it, but shinin' all of itself, with a colour
like moonshine."

"Oh, nonsense, man! You couldn't see the moon last night. It was
pitch-dark."

"No, sir, but the coach shone all moony-like, all the same."

"And no lights? I wonder what the police would say to that."

"No mortal police could stop that coach," said Plunkett contemptuously,
"nor no mortal man could abide the sight on it. I tell you, sir, that
ain't the worst of it. The horses----"

"Was it going slowly?"

"No, sir. It were going at a gallop, only the hoofs didn't touch the
ground. There weren't no sound, and I see the black road and the white
hoofs half a foot off of it. And the horses had no heads."

"No heads?"

"No, sir."

Mr. Frobisher-Pym laughed.

"Come, come, Plunkett, you don't expect us to swallow that. No heads?
How could even a ghost drive horses with no heads? How about the reins,
eh?"

"You may laugh, sir, but we know that with God all things are possible.
Four white horses they was. I see them clearly, but there was neither
head nor neck beyond the collar, sir. I see the reins, shining like
silver, and they ran up to the rings of the hames, and they didn't go
no further. If I was to drop down dead this minute, sir, that's what I
see."

"Was there a driver to this wonderful turn-out?"

"Yes, sir, there was a driver."

"Headless too, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir, headless too. At least, I couldn't see nothing of him beyond
his coat, which had them old-fashioned capes at the shoulders."

"Well, I must say, Plunkett, you're very circumstantial. How far off
was this--er--apparition when you saw it?"

"I was passing by the War Memorial, sir, when I see it come up the
lane. It wouldn't be above twenty or thirty yards from where I stood.
It went by at a gallop, and turned off to the left round the churchyard
wall."

"Well, well, it sounds odd, certainly, but it was a dark night, and at
that distance your eyes may have deceived you. Now, if you'll take my
advice you'll think no more about it."

"Ah, sir, it's all very well saying that, but everybody knows the man
who sees the death-coach of the Burdocks is doomed to die within the
week. There's no use rebelling against it, sir; it is so. And if you'll
be so good as to oblige me over that matter of a will, I'd die happier
for knowing as Sarah and the children was sure of their bit of money."

Mr. Frobisher-Pym obliged over the will, though much against the grain,
exhorting and scolding as he wrote. Wimsey added his own signature as
one of the witnesses, and contributed his own bit of comfort.

"I shouldn't worry too much about the coach, if I were you," he said.
"Depend upon it, if it's the Burdock coach it'll just have come for the
soul of the old squire. It couldn't be expected to go to New York for
him, don't you see? It's just gettin' ready for the funeral to-morrow."

"That's likely enough," agreed Plunkett. "Often and often it's been
seen in these parts when one of the Burdocks was taken. But it's
terrible unlucky to see it."

The thought of the funeral seemed, however, to cheer him a little.
The visitors again begged him not to think about it, and took their
departure.

"Isn't it wonderful," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "what imagination will
do with these people? And they're obstinate. You could argue with them
till you were black in the face."

"Yes. I say, let's go down to the church and have a look at the place.
I'd like to know how much he could really have seen from where he was
standing."

[Illustration: Map of Little Doddering]

The parish church of Little Doddering stands, like so many country
churches, at some distance from the houses. The main road from
Herriotting, Abbotts Bolton, and Frimpton runs past the west gate of
the churchyard--a wide God's acre, crowded with ancient stones. On
the south side is a narrow and gloomy lane, heavily overhung with old
elm-trees, dividing the church from the still more ancient ruins of
Doddering Priory. On the main road, a little beyond the point where Old
Priory Lane enters, stands the War Memorial, and from here the road
runs straight on into Little Doddering. Round the remaining two sides
of the churchyard winds another lane, known to the village simply as
the Back Lane. This branches out from the Herriotting road about a
hundred yards north of the church, connects with the far end of Priory
Lane, and thence proceeds deviously to Shootering Underwood, Hamsey,
Thripsey, and Wyck.

"Whatever it was Plunkett thinks he saw," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "it
must have come from Shootering. The Back Lane only leads round by some
fields and a cottage or two, and it stands to reason anybody coming
from Frimpton would have taken the main road, going and coming. The
lane is in a very bad state with all this rain. I'm afraid even your
detective ability, my dear Wimsey, would not avail to find wheel-marks
on this modern tarmac."

"Hardly," said Wimsey, "especially in the case of a ghostly chariot
which gets along without touching the ground. But your reasoning seems
perfectly sound, sir."

"It was probably a couple of belated wagons going to market," pursued
Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "and the rest of it is superstition and, I am
afraid, the local beer. Plunkett couldn't have seen all those details
about drivers and hames and so on at this distance. And, if it was
making no noise, how did he come to notice it at all, since he'd got
past the turn and was walking in the other direction? Depend upon it,
he heard the wheels and imagined the rest."

"Probably," said Wimsey.

"Of course," went on his host, "if the wagons really were going about
without lights, it ought to be looked into. It is a very dangerous
thing, with all these motor vehicles about, and I've had to speak
severely about it before now. I fined a man only the other day for the
very same thing. Do you care to see the church while we're here?"

Knowing that in country places it is always considered proper to see
the church, Lord Peter expressed his eagerness to do so.

"It's always open nowadays," said the magistrate, leading the way to
the west entrance. "The vicar has an idea that churches should be
always open for private prayer. He comes from a town living, of course.
Round about here the people are always out on the land, and you can't
expect them to come into church in their working clothes and muddy
boots. They wouldn't think it respectful, and they've other things
to do. Besides, I said to him, consider the opportunity it gives for
undesirable conduct. But he's a young man, and he'll have to learn by
experience."

He pushed the door open. A curious, stuffy waft of stale incense, damp,
and stoves rushed out at them as they entered--a kind of concentrated
extract of Church of England. The two altars, bright with flowers and
gilding, and showing as garish splashes among the heavy shadows and
oppressive architecture of the little Norman building, sounded the same
note of contradiction; it was the warm and human that seemed exotic and
unfamiliar; the cold and unwelcoming that seemed native to the place
and people.

"This Lady-chapel, as Hancock calls it, in the south aisle, is new, of
course," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym. "It aroused a good deal of opposition,
but the Bishop is lenient with the High Church party--too lenient, some
people think--but, after all, what does it matter? I'm sure I can say
my prayers just as well with two communion-tables as with one. And, I
will say for Hancock, he is very good with the young men and the girls.
In these days of motor-cycles, it's something to get them interested
in religion at all. Those trestles in the chapel are for old Burdock's
coffin, I suppose. Ah! Here is the vicar."

A thin man in a cassock emerged from a door beside the high altar and
came down towards them, carrying a tall, oaken candlestick in his hand.
He greeted them with a slightly professional smile of welcome. Wimsey
diagnosed him promptly as earnest, nervous, and not highly intellectual.

"The candlesticks have only just come," he observed after the usual
introductions had been made. "I was afraid they would not be here in
time. However, all is now well."

He set the candlestick beside the coffin-trestles, and proceeded to
decorate its brass spike with a long candle of unbleached wax, which he
took from a parcel in a neighbouring pew.

Mr. Frobisher-Pym said nothing. Wimsey felt it incumbent on him to
express his interest, and did so.

"It is very gratifying," said Mr. Hancock, thus encouraged, "to see the
people beginning to take a real interest in their church. I have really
had very little difficulty in finding watchers for to-night. We are
having eight watchers, two by two, from 10 o'clock this evening--till
which time I shall be myself on duty--till six in the morning, when I
come in to say Mass. The men will carry on till 2 o'clock, then my wife
and daughter will relieve them, and Mr. Hubbard and young Rawlinson
have kindly consented to take the hours from four till six."

"What Rawlinson is that?" demanded Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"Mr. Graham's clerk from Herriotting. It is true he is not a member of
the parish, but he was born here, and was good enough to wish to take
his turn in watching. He is coming over on his motor-cycle. After all,
Mr. Graham has had charge of Burdock's family affairs for very many
years, and no doubt they wished to show their respect in some way."

"Well, I only hope he'll be awake enough to do his work in the morning,
after gadding about all night," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym gruffly. "As for
Hubbard, that's his own look-out, though I must say it seems an odd
occupation for a publican. Still, if he's pleased, and you're pleased,
there's no more to be said about it."

"You've got a very beautiful old church here, Mr. Hancock," said
Wimsey, seeing that controversy seemed imminent.

"Very beautiful indeed," said the vicar. "Have you noticed that apse?
It is rare for a village church to possess such a perfect Norman apse.
Perhaps you would like to come and look at it." He genuflected as they
passed a hanging lamp which burned before a niche. "You see, we are
permitted Reservation. The Bishop----" He prattled cheerfully as they
wandered up the chancel, digressing from time to time to draw attention
to the handsome miserere seats ("Of course, this was the original
Priory Church"), and a beautifully carved piscina and aumbry ("It is
rare to find them so well preserved"). Wimsey assisted him to carry
down the remaining candlesticks from the vestry, and, when these had
been put in position, joined Mr. Frobisher-Pym at the door.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I think you said you were dining with the Lumsdens to-night," said the
magistrate, as they sat smoking after lunch. "How are you going? Will
you have the car?"

"I'd rather you'd lend me one of the saddle-horses," said Wimsey. "I
get few opportunities of riding in town."

"Certainly, my dear boy, certainly. Only I'm afraid you'll have rather
a wet ride. Take Polly Flinders; it will do her good to get some
exercise. You are quite sure you would prefer it? Have you got your kit
with you?"

"Yes--I brought an old pair of bags down with me, and, with this
raincoat, I shan't come to any harm. They won't expect me to dress. How
far is it to Frimpton, by the way?"

"Nine miles by the main road, and tarmac all the way, I'm afraid, but
there's a good wide piece of grass each side. And, of course, you can
cut off a mile or so by going across the common. What time will you
want to start?"

"Oh, about seven o'clock, I should think. And, I say, sir--will Mrs.
Frobisher-Pym think it very rude if I'm rather late back? Old Lumsden
and I went through the war together, and if we get yarning over old
times we may go on into the small hours. I don't want to feel I'm
treating your house like a hotel, but----"

"Of course not, of course not! That's absolutely all right. My wife
won't mind in the very least. We want you to enjoy your visit and do
exactly what you like. I'll give you the key, and I'll remember not to
put the chain up. Perhaps you wouldn't mind doing that yourself when
you come in?"

"Rather not. And how about the mare?"

"I'll tell Merridew to look out for you; he sleeps over the stables.
I only wish it were going to be a better night for you. I'm afraid
the glass is going back. Yes. Dear, dear! It's a bad look-out for
to-morrow. By the way, you'll probably pass the funeral procession at
the church. It should be along by about then, if the train is punctual."

The train, presumably, was punctual, for as Lord Peter cantered up
to the west gate of the church he saw a hearse of great funereal
pomp drawn up before it, surrounded by a little crowd of people. Two
mourning coaches were in attendance; the driver of the second seemed
to be having some difficulty with the horses, and Wimsey rightly
inferred that this was the pair which had been borrowed from Mr.
Mortimer. Restraining Polly Flinders as best he might, he sidled into
a respectful position on the edge of the crowd, and watched the coffin
taken from the hearse and carried through the gate, where it was met
by Mr. Hancock, in full pontificals, attended by a thurifer and two
torch-bearers. The effect was a little marred by the rain, which had
extinguished the candles, but the village seemed to look upon it as
an excellent show nevertheless. A massive man, dressed with great
correctness in a black frock coat and tall hat, and accompanied by a
woman in handsome mourning and furs, was sympathetically commented on.
This was Haviland Burdock of silk-stocking fame, the younger son of
the deceased. A vast number of white wreaths were then handed out, and
greeted with murmurs of admiration and approval. The choir struck up a
hymn, rather raggedly, and the procession filed away into the church.
Polly Flinders shook her head vigorously, and Wimsey, taking this as
a signal to be gone, replaced his hat and ambled gently away towards
Frimpton.

He followed the main road for about four miles, winding up through
finely wooded country to the edge of Frimpton Common. Here the road
made a wide sweep, skirting the common and curving gently down into
Frimpton village. Wimsey hesitated for a moment, considering that it
was growing dark and that both the way and the animal he rode were
strange to him. There seemed, however, to be a well-defined bridle-path
across the common, and eventually he decided to take it. Polly Flinders
seemed to know it well enough, and cantered along without hesitation. A
ride of about a mile and a half brought them without adventure into the
main road again. Here a fork in the road presented itself confusingly;
an electric torch, however, and a sign-post solved the problem; after
which ten minutes' ride brought the traveller to his goal.

Major Lumsden was a large, cheerful man--none the less cheerful for
having lost a leg in the War. He had a large, cheerful wife, a large,
cheerful house, and a large, cheerful family. Wimsey soon found
himself seated before a fire as large and cheerful as the rest of the
establishment, exchanging gossip with his hosts over a whisky-and-soda.
He described the Burdock funeral with irreverent gusto, and went on to
tell the story of the phantom coach. Major Lumsden laughed.

"It's a quaint part of the country," he said. "The policeman is just as
bad as the rest of them. Do you remember, dear, the time I had to go
out and lay a ghost, down at Pogson's farm?"

"I do, indeed," said his wife emphatically. "The maids had a wonderful
time. Trivett--that's our local constable--came rushing in here and
fainted in the kitchen, and they all sat round howling and sustaining
him with our best brandy, while Dan went down and investigated."

"Did you find the ghost?"

"Well, not the ghost, exactly, but we found a pair of boots and half a
pork-pie in the empty house, so we put it all down to a tramp. Still, I
must say odd things do happen about here. There were those fires on the
common last year. They were never explained."

"Gipsies, Dan."

"Maybe; but nobody ever saw them, and the fires would start in the most
unexpected way, sometimes in the pouring rain; and, before you could
get near one, it would be out, and only a sodden wet black mark left
behind it. And there's another bit of the common that animals don't
like--near what they call the Dead Man's Post. My dogs won't go near
it. Funny brutes. I've never seen anything there, but even in broad
daylight they don't seem to fancy it. The common's not got a good
reputation. It used to be a great place for highwaymen."

"Is the Burdock coach anything to do with highwaymen?"

"No. I fancy it was some rakehelly dead-and-gone Burdock. Belonged
to the Hell-fire Club or something. The usual sort of story. All the
people round here believe in it, of course. It's rather a good thing.
Keeps the servants indoors at night. Well, let's go and have some grub,
shall we?"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Do you remember," said Major Lumsden, "that damned old mill, and the
three elms by the pig-sty?"

"Good Lord, yes! You very obligingly blew them out of the landscape for
us, I remember. They made us a damned sight too conspicuous."

"We rather missed them when they were gone."

"Thank heaven you didn't miss them when they were there. I'll tell you
what you did miss, though."

"What's that?"

"The old sow."

"By Jove, yes. Do you remember old Piper fetching her in?"

"I'll say I do. That reminds me. You knew Bunthorne...."

"I'll say good night," said Mrs. Lumsden, "and leave you people to it."

"Do you remember," said Lord Peter Wimsey, "that awkward moment when
Popham went off his rocker?"

"No. I'd been sent back with a batch of prisoners. I heard about it
though. I never knew what became of him."

"I got him sent home. He's married now and living in Lincolnshire."

"Is he? Well, he couldn't help himself, I suppose. He was only a kid.
What's happened to Philpotts?"

"Oh, Philpotts...."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Where's your glass, old man?"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Oh, rot, old man. The night is still young...."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Really? Well, but look here, why not stay the night? My wife will be
delighted. I can fix you up in no time."

"No, thanks most awfully. I must be rolling off home. I said I'd be
back; and I'm booked to put the chain on the door."

"As you like, of course, but it's still raining. Not a good night for a
ride on an open horse."

"I'll bring a saloon next time. We shan't hurt. Rain's good for the
complexion--makes the roses grow. Don't wake your man up. I can saddle
her myself."

"My dear man, it's no trouble."

"No, really, old man."

"Well, I'll come along and lend you a hand."

A gust of rain and wind blew in through the hall door as they struggled
out into the night. It was past one in the morning and pitch-dark.
Major Lumsden again pressed Wimsey to stay.

"No, thanks, really. The old lady's feelings might be hurt. It's not so
bad, really--wet, but not cold. Come up, Polly, stand over, old lady."

He put the saddle on and girthed it, while Lumsden held the lantern.
The mare, fed and rested, came delicately dancing out of the warm
loose-box, head well stretched forward, and nostrils snuffing at the
rain.

"Well, so long, old lad. Come and look us up again. It's been great."

"Rather! By Jove, yes. Best respects to madame. Is the gate open?"

"Yes."

"Well, cheerio!"

"Cheerio!"

Polly Flinders, with her nose turned homewards, settled down to make
short work of the nine miles of high-road. Once outside the gates, the
night seemed lighter, though the rain poured heavily. Somewhere buried
behind the thronging clouds there was a moon, which now and again
showed as a pale stain on the sky, a paler reflection on the black
road. Wimsey, with a mind full of memories and a skin full of whisky,
hummed to himself as he rode.

As he passed the fork, he hesitated for a moment. Should he take the
path over the common or stick to the road? On consideration, he decided
to give the common a miss--not because of its sinister reputation, but
because of ruts and rabbit-holes. He shook the reins, bestowed a word
of encouragement on his mount, and continued by the road, having the
common on his right hand, and, on the left, fields bounded by high
hedges, which gave some shelter from the driving rain.

He had topped the rise, and passed the spot where the bridle-path
again joined the high-road, when a slight start and stumble drew his
attention unpleasantly to Polly Flinders.

"Hold up, mare," he said disapprovingly.

Polly shook her head, moved forward, tried to pick up her easy pace
again. "Hullo!" said Wimsey, alarmed. He pulled her to a standstill.

"Lame in the near fore," he said, dismounting. "If you've been and gone
and strained anything, my girl, four miles from home, father _will_ be
pleased." It occurred to him for the first time how curiously lonely
the road was. He had not seen a single car. They might have been in the
wilds of Africa.

He ran an exploratory hand down the near foreleg. The mare stood
quietly enough, without shrinking or wincing. Wimsey was puzzled.

"If these had been the good old days," he said, "I'd have thought she'd
picked up a stone. But what----"

He lifted the mare's foot, and explored it carefully with fingers and
pocket-torch. His diagnosis had been right, after all. A steel nut,
evidently dropped from a passing car, had wedged itself firmly between
the shoe and the frog. He grunted and felt for his knife. Happily, it
was one of that excellent old-fashioned kind which includes, besides
blades and corkscrews, an ingenious apparatus for removing foreign
bodies from horses' feet.

The mare nuzzled him gently as he stooped over his task. It was a
little awkward getting to work; he had to wedge the torch under his
arm, so as to leave one hand free for the tool and the other to hold
the hoof. He was swearing gently at these difficulties when, happening
to glance down the road ahead, he fancied he caught the gleam of
something moving. It was not easy to see, for at this point the tall
trees stood up on both sides of the road, which dipped abruptly from
the edge of the common. It was not a car; the light was too faint. A
wagon, probably, with a dim lantern. Yet it seemed to move fast. He
puzzled for a moment, then bent to work again.

The nut resisted his efforts, and the mare, touched in a tender spot,
pulled away, trying to get her foot down. He soothed her with his
voice and patted her neck. The torch slipped from his arm. He cursed
it impatiently, set down the hoof, and picked up the torch from the
edge of the grass, into which it had rolled. As he straightened himself
again, he looked along the road and saw.

Up from under the dripping dark of the trees it came, shining with
a thin, moony radiance. There was no clatter of hoofs, no rumble
of wheels, no ringing of bit or bridle. He saw the white, sleek,
shining shoulders with the collar that lay on each, like a faint fiery
ring, enclosing nothing. He saw the gleaming reins, their cut ends
slipping back and forward unsupported through the ring of the hames.
The feet, that never touched earth, ran swiftly--four times four
noiseless hoofs, bearing the pale bodies by like smoke. The driver
leaned forward, brandishing his whip. He was faceless and headless,
but his whole attitude bespoke desperate haste. The coach was barely
visible through the driving rain, but Wimsey saw the dimly spinning
wheels and a faint whiteness, still and stiff, at the window. It
went past at a gallop--headless driver and headless horses and silent
coach. Its passing left a stir, a sound that was less a sound than a
vibration--and the wind roared suddenly after it, with a great sheet of
water blown up out of the south.

"Good God!" said Wimsey. And then: "How many whiskies did we have?"

He turned and looked back along the road, straining his eyes. Then
suddenly he remembered the mare, and, without troubling further about
the torch, picked up her foot and went to work by touch. The nut gave
no more trouble, but dropped out into his hand almost immediately.
Polly Flinders sighed gratefully and blew into his ear.

Wimsey led her forward a few steps. She put her feet down firmly and
strongly. The nut, removed without delay, had left no tenderness.
Wimsey mounted, let her go--then pulled her head round suddenly.

"I'm going to see," he said resolutely. "Come up, mare! We won't let
any headless horses get the better of _us_. Perfectly indecent, goin'
about without heads. Get on, old lady. Over the common with you. We'll
catch 'em at the cross-roads."

Without the slightest consideration for his host or his host's
property, he put the mare to the bridle-path again, and urged her into
a gallop.

At first he thought he could make out a pale, fluttering whiteness,
moving away ahead of him on the road. Presently, as high-road and
bridle-path diverged, he lost it altogether. But he knew there was no
side-road. Bar any accident to his mount, he was bound to catch it
before it came to the fork. Polly Flinders, answering easily to the
touch of his heel, skimmed over the rough track with the indifference
born of familiarity. In less than ten minutes her feet rang out again
on the tarmac. He pulled her up, faced round in the direction of
Little Doddering, and stared down the road. He could see nothing yet.
Either he was well ahead of the coach, or it had already passed at
unbelievable speed, or else----

He waited. Nothing. The violent rain had ceased, and the moon was
struggling out again. The road appeared completely deserted. He glanced
over his shoulder. A small beam of light near the ground moved,
turned, flashed green, and red, and white again, and came towards him.
Presently he made out that it was a policeman wheeling a bicycle.

"A bad night, sir," said the man civilly, but with a faint note of
enquiry in his voice.

"Rotten," said Wimsey.

"Just had to mend a puncture, to make it all the pleasanter," added the
policeman.

Wimsey expressed sympathy. "Have you been here long?" he added.

"Best part o' twenty minutes."

"Did you see anything pass along this way from Little Doddering?"

"Ain't been nothing along while I've been here. What sort of thing did
you mean, sir?"

"I thought I saw----" Wimsey hesitated. He did not care about the idea
of making a fool of himself. "A carriage with four horses," he said
hesitatingly. "It passed me on this road not a quarter of an hour
ago--down at the other end of the common. I--I came back to see. It
seemed unusual----" He became aware that his story sounded very lame.

The policeman spoke rather sharply and rapidly.

"There ain't been nothing past here."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, sir; and, if you don't mind me sayin' so, you'd best be getting
home. It's a lonesome bit o' road."

"Yes, isn't it?" said Wimsey. "Well, good night, sergeant."

He turned the mare's head back along the Little Doddering road, going
very quietly. He saw nothing, heard nothing, and passed nothing. The
night was brighter now, and, as he rode back, he verified the entire
absence of side-roads. Whatever the thing was which he had seen, it had
vanished somewhere along the edge of the common; it had not gone by the
main road, nor by any other.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wimsey came down rather late for breakfast in the morning, to find his
hosts in a state of some excitement.

"The most extraordinary thing has happened," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym.

"Outrageous!" added her husband. "I warned Hancock--he can't say
I didn't warn him. Still, however much one may disapprove of his
goings-on, there is no excuse whatever for such abominable conduct.
Once let me get hold of the beggars, whoever they are----"

"What's up?" said Wimsey, helping himself to broiled kidneys at the
sideboard.

"A most scandalous thing," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym. "The vicar came up
to Tom at once--I hope we didn't disturb you, by the way, with all the
excitement. It appears that when Mr. Hancock got to the church this
morning at 6 o'clock to take the early service----"

"No, no, my dear, you've got it wrong. Let _me_ tell it. When Joe
Grinch--that's the sexton, you know, and he has to get there first to
ring the bell--when he arrived, he found the south door wide open and
nobody in the chapel, where they should have been, beside the coffin.
He was very much perplexed, of course, but he supposed that Hubbard and
young Rawlinson had got sick of it and gone off home. So he went on to
the vestry to get the vestments and things ready, and to his amazement
he heard women's voices, calling out to him from inside. He was so
astonished, didn't know where he was, but he went on and unlocked the
door----"

"With his own key?" put in Wimsey.

"The key was in the door. As a rule it's kept hanging up on a nail
under a curtain near the organ, but it was in the lock--where it ought
not to have been. And inside the vestry he found Mrs. Hancock and her
daughter, nearly dead with fright and annoyance."

"Great Scott!"

"Yes, indeed. They had a most extraordinary story to tell. They'd taken
over at 2 o'clock from the other pair of watchers, and had knelt down
by the coffin in the Lady-chapel, according to plan, to say the proper
sort of prayers, whatever they are. They'd been there, to the best
of their calculation, about ten minutes, when they heard a noise up
by the High Altar, as though somebody was creeping stealthily about.
Miss Hancock is a very plucky girl, and she got up and walked up the
aisle in the dark, with Mrs. Hancock following on behind because, as
she said, she didn't want to be left alone. When they'd got as far
as the rood-screen, Miss Hancock called out aloud, 'Who's there?' At
that they heard a sort of rustling sound, and a noise like something
being knocked over. Miss Hancock most courageously snatched up one of
the churchwarden's staffs, which was clipped on to the choir-stalls,
and ran forward, thinking, she says, that somebody was trying to steal
the ornaments off the altar. There's a very fine fifteenth-century
cross----"

"Never mind the cross, Tom. That hasn't been taken, at any rate."

"No, it hasn't, but she thought it might be. Anyhow, just as she got
up to the sanctuary steps, with Mrs. Hancock coming close after her
and begging her to be careful, somebody seemed to rush out of the
choir-stalls, and caught her by the arms and frog's-marched her--that's
her expression--into the vestry. And before she could get breath even
to shriek, Mrs. Hancock was pushed in beside her, and the door locked
on them."

"By Jove! You do have exciting times in your village."

"Well," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "of course they were dreadfully
frightened, because they didn't know but what these wretches would come
back and murder them, and, in any case, they thought the church was
being robbed. But the vestry windows are very narrow and barred, and
they couldn't do anything except wait. They tried to listen, but they
couldn't hear much. Their only hope was that the four-o'clock watchers
might come early and catch the thieves at work. But they waited and
they waited, and they heard four strike, and five, and nobody came."

"What had happened to what's-his-name and Rawlinson then?"

"They couldn't make out, and nor could Grinch. However, they had a good
look round the church, and nothing seemed to be taken or disturbed in
any way. Just then the vicar came along, and they told him all about
it. He was very much shocked, naturally, and his first thought--when he
found the ornaments were safe and the poor-box all right--was that some
Kensitite people had been stealing the wafers from the what d'you call
it."

"The tabernacle," suggested Wimsey.

"Yes, that's his name for it. That worried him very much, and he
unlocked it and had a look, but the wafers were all there all right,
and, as there's only one key, and that was on his own watch-chain,
it wasn't a case of anyone substituting unconsecrated wafers for
consecrated ones, or any practical joke of that kind. So he sent Mrs.
and Miss Hancock home, and had a look round the church outside, and the
first thing he saw, lying in the bushes near the south door, was young
Rawlinson's motor-cycle."

"Oho!"

"So his next idea was to hunt for Rawlinson and Hubbard. However,
he didn't have to look far. He'd got round the church as far as the
furnace-house on the north side, when he heard a terrific hullabaloo
going on, and people shouting and thumping on the door. So he called
Grinch, and they looked in through the little window, and there, if
you please, were Hubbard and young Rawlinson, bawling and going on and
using the most shocking language. It seems they were set on in exactly
the same way, only before they got inside the church. Rawlinson had
been passing the evening with Hubbard, I understand, and they had a
bit of a sleep downstairs in the back bar, to avoid disturbing the
house early--or so they say, though I dare say if the truth was known
they were having drinks; and if that's Hancock's idea of a suitable
preparation for going to church and saying prayers, all I can say is,
it isn't mine. Anyway, they started off just before four, Hubbard going
down on the carrier of Rawlinson's bicycle. They had to get off at the
south gate, which was pushed to, and while Rawlinson was wheeling the
machine up the path two or three men--they couldn't see exactly--jumped
out from the trees. There was a bit of a scuffle, but what with the
bicycle, and its being so unexpected, they couldn't put up a very good
fight, and the men dropped blankets over their heads, or something. I
don't know all the details. At any rate, they were bundled into the
furnace-house and left there. They may be there still, for all I know,
if they haven't found the key. There should be a spare key, but I don't
know what's become of it. They sent up for it this morning, but I
haven't seen it about for a long time."

"It wasn't left in the lock this time, then?"

"No, it wasn't. They've had to send for the locksmith. I'm going down
now to see what's to be done about it. Like to come, if you're ready?"

Wimsey said he would. Anything in the nature of a problem always
fascinated him.

"You were back pretty late, by the way," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym
jovially, as they left the house. "Yarning over old times, I suppose."

"We were, indeed," said Wimsey.

"Hope the old girl carried you all right. Lonely bit of road, isn't
it? I don't suppose you saw anybody worse than yourself, as the saying
goes?"

"Only a policeman," said Wimsey untruthfully. He had not yet quite
decided about the phantom coach. No doubt Plunkett would be relieved to
know that he was not the only person to whom the "warning" had come.
But, then, had it really been the phantom coach, or merely a delusion,
begotten by whisky upon reminiscence? Wimsey, in the cold light of day,
was none too certain.

On arriving at the church, the magistrate and his guest found quite
a little crowd collected, conspicuous among whom were the vicar, in
cassock and biretta, gesticulating freely, and the local policeman,
his tunic buttoned awry and his dignity much impaired by the small fry
of the village, who clustered round his legs. He had just finished
taking down the statements of the two men who had been released from
the stoke-hole. The younger of these, a fresh-faced, impudent-looking
fellow of twenty-five or so, was in the act of starting up his
motor-cycle. He greeted Mr. Frobisher-Pym pleasantly. "Afraid they've
made us look a bit small, sir. You'll excuse me, won't you? I'll have
to be getting back to Herriotting. Mr. Graham won't be any too pleased
if I'm late for the office. I think some of the bright lads have been
having a joke with us." He grinned as he pushed the throttle-lever
over and departed in a smother of unnecessary smoke that made Mr.
Frobisher-Pym sneeze. His fellow-victim, a large, fat man, who looked
the sporting publican that he was, grinned shamefacedly at the
magistrate.

"Well, Hubbard," said the latter, "I hope you've enjoyed your
experience. I must say I'm surprised at a man of your size letting
himself be shut up in a coal-hole like a naughty urchin."

"Yes, sir, I was surprised myself at the time," retorted the publican,
good-humouredly enough. "When that there blanket came down on my head,
I was the most surprised man in this here country. I gave 'em a hack
or two on the shins, though, to remember me by," he added, with a
reminiscent chuckle.

"How many of them were there?" asked Wimsey.

"Three or four, I should say, sir. But not 'avin' seen 'em, I can only
tell from 'earin' 'em talk. There was two laid 'old of me, I'm pretty
sure, and young Rawlinson thinks there was only one 'ad 'old of 'im,
but 'e was a wonderful strong 'un."

"We must leave no stone unturned to find out who these people were,"
said the vicar excitedly. "Ah, Mr. Frobisher-Pym, come and see what
they have done in the church. It is as I thought--an anti-Catholic
protest. We must be most thankful that they have done no more than they
have."

He led the way in. Someone had lit two or three hanging lamps in
the gloomy little chancel. By their light Wimsey was able to see
that the neck of the eagle lectern was decorated with an enormous
red-white-and-blue bow, and bore a large placard--obviously pinched
from the local newspaper offices--"VATICAN BANS IMMODEST
DRESS." In each of the choir-stalls a teddy-bear sat, lumpishly
amiable, apparently absorbed in reading the choir-books upside-down,
while on the ledge before them copies of the _Pink 'Un_ were
obstrusively displayed. In the pulpit, a waggish hand had set up a
pantomime ass's head, elegantly arrayed in a nightgown, and crowned
with a handsome nimbus, cut from gold paper.

"Disgraceful, isn't it?" said the vicar.

"Well, Hancock," replied Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "I must say I think you
have brought it upon yourself--though I quite agree, of course, that
this sort of thing cannot possibly be allowed, and the offenders must
be discovered and severely punished. But you must see that many of your
practices appear to these people to be papistical nonsense at best, and
while that is no excuse...."

His reprimanding voice barked on.

"... what I really can only look upon as this sacrilegious business
with old Burdock--a man whose life...."

The policeman had by this time shoved away the attendant villagers and
was standing beside Lord Peter at the entrance of the rood-screen.

"Was that you was out on the road this morning, sir? Ah! I thought I
reckernised your voice. Did you get home all right, sir? Didn't meet
nothing?"

There seemed to be a shade more than idle questioning in the tone of
his voice. Wimsey turned quickly.

"No, I met nothing--more. Who is it drives a coach with four white
horses about this village of a night, sergeant?"

"Not sergeant, sir--I ain't due for promotion yet awhile. Well, sir, as
to white horses, I don't altogether like to say. Mr. Mortimer over at
Abbotts Bolton has some nice greys, and he's the biggest horse-breeder
about these parts--but, well, there, sir, he wouldn't be driving out in
all that rain, sir, would he?"

"It doesn't seem a sensible thing to do, certainly."

"No, sir. And"--the constable leaned close to Wimsey and spoke
into his ear--"and Mr. Mortimer is a man that's got a head on his
shoulders--_and, what's more, so have his horses_."

"Why," said Wimsey, a little startled by the aptness of this remark,
"did you ever know a horse that hadn't?"

"No, sir," said the policeman, with emphasis, "I never knew no _livin'_
horse that hadn't. But that's neether here nor there, as the sayin'
goes. But as to this church business, that's just a bit of a lark got
up among the boys, that's what that is. They don't mean no harm, you
know, sir; they likes to be up to their tricks. It's all very well for
the vicar to talk, sir, but this ain't no Kensitites nor anythink of
that, as you can see with half an eye. Just a bit of fun, that's all it
is."

"I'd come to the same conclusion myself," said Wimsey, interested, "but
I'd rather like to know what makes you think so."

"Lord bless you, sir, ain't it plain as the nose on your face? If it
had a-bin these Kensitites, wouldn't they have gone for the crosses
and the images and the lights and--that there?" He extended a horny
finger in the direction of the tabernacle. "No, sir, these lads what
did this ain't laid a finger on the things what you might call sacred
images--and they ain't done no harm neether to the communion-table. So
I says as it ain't a case of con_trou_versy, but more a bit of fun,
like. And they've treated Mr. Burdock's corpse respectful, sir, you
see, too. That shows they wasn't meaning anything wrong at heart, don't
you see?"

"I agree absolutely," said Wimsey. "In fact, they've taken particular
care not to touch anything that a churchman holds really sacred. How
long have you been on this job, officer?"

"Three years, sir, come February."

"Ever had any idea of going to town or taking up the detective side of
the business?"

"Well, sir--I have--but it isn't just ask and have, as you might say."

Wimsey took a card from his note-case.

"If you ever think seriously about it," he said, "give this card to
Chief Inspector Parker, and have a chat with him. Tell him I think you
haven't got opportunities enough down here. He's a great friend of
mine, and he'll give you a good chance, I know."

"I've heard of you, my lord," said the constable, gratified, "and I'm
sure it's very kind of your lordship. Well, I suppose I'd best be
getting along now. You leave it to me, Mr. Frobisher-Pym, sir; we'll
soon get at the bottom of this here."

"I hope you do," said the magistrate. "Meanwhile, Mr. Hancock, I trust
you will realise the inadvisability of leaving the church doors open
at night. Well, come along, Wimsey; we'll leave them to get the church
straight for the funeral. What have you found there?"

"Nothing," said Wimsey, who had been peering at the floor of the
Lady-chapel. "I was afraid you'd got the worm in here, but I see it's
only sawdust." He dusted his fingers as he spoke, and followed Mr.
Frobisher-Pym out of the building.

       *       *       *       *       *

When you are staying in a village, you are expected to take part in the
interests and amusements of the community. Accordingly, Lord Peter duly
attended the funeral of Squire Burdock, and beheld the coffin safely
committed to the ground, in a drizzle, certainly, but not without the
attendance of a large and reverent congregation. After this ceremony,
he was formally introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Haviland Burdock, and was
able to confirm his previous impression that the lady was well, not to
say too well, dressed, as might be expected from one whose wardrobe was
based upon silk stockings. She was a handsome woman, in a large, bold
style, and the hand that clasped Wimsey's was quite painfully encrusted
with diamonds. Haviland was disposed to be friendly--and, indeed, silk
manufacturers have no reason to be otherwise to rich men of noble
birth. He seemed to be aware of Wimsey's reputation as an antiquarian
and book-collector, and extended a hearty invitation to him to come and
see the old house.

"My brother Martin is still abroad," he said, "but I'm sure he would be
delighted to have you come and look at the place. I'm told there are
some very fine old books in the library. We shall be staying here till
Monday--if Mrs. Hancock will be good enough to have us. Suppose you
come along to-morrow afternoon."

Wimsey said he would be delighted.

Mrs. Hancock interposed and said, wouldn't Lord Peter come to tea at
the vicarage first.

Wimsey said it was very good of her.

"Then that's settled," said Mrs. Burdock. "You and Mr. Pym come to tea,
and then we'll all go over the house together. I've hardly seen it
myself yet."

"It's very well worth seeing," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym. "Fine old place,
but takes some money to keep up. Has nothing been seen of the will yet,
Mr. Burdock?"

"Nothing whatever," said Haviland. "It's curious, because Mr.
Graham--the solicitor, you know, Lord Peter--certainly drew one up,
just after poor Martin's unfortunate difference with our father. He
remembers it perfectly."

"Can't he remember what's in it?"

"He could, of course, but he doesn't think it etiquette to say. He's
one of the crusted old type. Poor Martin always called him an old
scoundrel--but then, of course, he never approved of Martin, so Martin
was not altogether unprejudiced. Besides, as Mr. Graham says, all that
was some years ago, and it's quite possible that the governor destroyed
the will later, or made a new one in America."

"'Poor Martin' doesn't seem to have been popular hereabouts," said
Wimsey to Mr. Frobisher-Pym, as they parted from the Burdocks and
turned homewards.

"N-no," said the magistrate. "Not with Graham, anyway. Personally, I
rather liked the lad, though he was a bit harum-scarum. I dare say he's
sobered up with time--and marriage. It's odd that they can't find the
will. But, if it was made at the time of the rumpus, it's bound to be
in Haviland's favour."

"I think Haviland thinks so," said Wimsey. "His manner seemed to convey
a chastened satisfaction. I expect the discreet Graham made it fairly
clear that the advantage was not with the unspeakable Martin."

The following morning turned out fine, and Wimsey, who was supposed to
be enjoying a rest-and-fresh-air cure in Little Doddering, petitioned
for a further loan of Polly Flinders. His host consented with pleasure,
and only regretted that he could not accompany his guest, being
booked to attend a Board of Guardians' meeting in connection with the
workhouse.

"But you could go up and get a good blow on the common," he suggested.
"Why not go round by Petering Friars, turn off across the common till
you get to Dead Man's Post, and come back by the Frimpton road? It
makes a very pleasant round--about nineteen miles. You'll be back in
nice time for lunch if you take it easy."

Wimsey fell in with the plan--the more readily that it exactly
coincided with his own inward purpose. He had a reason for wishing to
ride over the Frimpton road by daylight.

"You'll be careful about Dead Man's Post," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym a
little anxiously. "The horses have a way of shying at it. I don't know
why. People say, of course----"

"All nonsense," said her husband. "The villagers dislike the place and
that makes the horses nervous. It's remarkable how a rider's feelings
communicate themselves to his mount. _I've_ never had any trouble at
Dead Man's Post."

It was a quiet and pretty road, even on a November day, that led to
Petering Friars. Jogging down the winding Essex lanes in the wintry
sunshine, Wimsey felt soothed and happy. A good burst across the common
raised his spirits to exhilaration pitch. He had entirely forgotten
Dead Man's Post and its uncanny reputation, when a violent start and
swerve, so sudden that it nearly unseated him, recalled him to what
he was doing. With some difficulty, he controlled Polly Flinders, and
brought her to a standstill.

He was at the highest point of the common, following a bridle-path
which was bordered on each side by gorse and dead bracken. A little
way ahead of him another bridle-path seemed to run into it, and at the
junction of the two was something which he had vaguely imagined to be
a decayed sign-post. Certainly it was short and thick for a sign-post,
and had no arms. It appeared, however, to bear some sort of inscription
on the face that was turned towards him.

He soothed the mare, and urged her gently towards the post. She took a
few hesitating steps, and plunged sideways, snorting and shivering.

"Queer!" said Wimsey. "If this is my state of mind communicating itself
to my mount, I'd better see a doctor. My nerves must be in a rotten
state. Come up, old lady! What's the matter with you?"

Polly Flinders, apologetic but determined, refused to budge. He urged
her gently with his heel. She sidled away, with ears laid back, and he
saw the white of a protesting eye. He slipped from the saddle, and,
putting his hand through the bridle, endeavoured to lead her forward.
After a little persuasion, the mare followed him, with stretched neck
and treading as though on egg-shells. After a dozen hesitating paces,
she stopped again, trembling in all her limbs. He put his hand on her
neck and found it wet with sweat.

"Damn it all!" said Wimsey. "Look here, I'm jolly well going to read
what's on that post. If you won't come, will you stand still?"

He dropped the bridle. The mare stood quietly, with hanging head. He
left her and went forward, glancing back from time to time to see that
she showed no disposition to bolt. She stood quietly enough, however,
only shifting her feet uneasily.

Wimsey walked up to the post. It was a stout pillar of ancient oak,
newly painted white. The inscription, too, had been recently blacked
in. It read:

                             ON THIS SPOT
                             GEORGE WINTER
                         WAS FOULLY MURTHERED
                             IN DEFENSE OF
                          HIS MASTER'S GOODS
                            BY BLACK RALPH
                            OF HERRIOTTING
                           WHO WAS AFTERWARD
                           HANGED IN CHAINS
                       ON THE PLACE OF HIS CRIME
                            9 NOVEMBER 1674

                             FEAR JUSTICE

"And very nice, too," said Wimsey. "Dead Man's Post without a doubt.
Polly Flinders seems to share the local feeling about the place. Well,
Polly, if them's your sentiments, I won't do violence to them. But may
I ask why, if you're so sensitive about a mere post, you should swallow
a death-coach and four headless horses with such hardened equanimity?"

The mare took the shoulder of his jacket gently between her lips and
mumbled at it.

"Just so," said Wimsey. "I perfectly understand. You would if you
could, but you really can't. But those horses, Polly--did they bring
with them no brimstone blast from the nethermost pit? Can it be that
they really exuded nothing but an honest and familiar smell of stables?"

He mounted, and, turning Polly's head to the right, guided her in a
circle, so as to give Dead Man's Post a wide berth before striking the
path again.

"The supernatural explanation is, I think, excluded. Not on _a priori_
grounds, which would be unsound, but on the evidence of Polly's senses.
There remain the alternatives of whisky and jiggery-pokery. Further
investigation seems called for."

He continued to muse as the mare moved quietly forward.

"Supposing I wanted, for some reason, to scare the neighbourhood with
the apparition of a coach and headless horses, I should choose a dark,
rainy night. Good! It was that kind of night. Now, if I took black
horses and painted their bodies white--poor devils! what a state they'd
be in. No. How do they do these Maskelyne-and-Devant stunts where
they cut off people's heads? White horses, of course--and black felt
clothing over their heads. Right! And luminous paint on the harness,
with a touch here and there on their bodies, to make good contrast and
ensure that the whole show wasn't invisible. No difficulty about that.
But they must go silently. Well, why not? Four stout black cloth bags
filled with bran, drawn well up and tied round the fetlocks would make
any horse go quietly enough, especially if there was a bit of a wind
going. Rags round the bridle-rings to prevent clinking, and round the
ends of the traces to keep 'em from squeaking. Give 'em a coachman in
a white coat and a black mask, hitch 'em to a rubber-tyred fly, picked
out with phosphorus and well-oiled at the joints--and I swear I'd make
something quite ghostly enough to startle a rather well-irrigated
gentleman on a lonely road at half-past two in the morning."

He was pleased with this thought, and tapped his boot cheerfully with
his whip.

"But damn it all! They never passed me again. Where did they go to? A
coach-and-horses can't vanish into thin air, you know. There must be a
side-road after all--or else, Polly Flinders, you've been pulling my
leg all the time."

The bridle-path eventually debouched upon the highway at the now
familiar fork where Wimsey had met the policeman. As he slowly ambled
homewards, his lordship scanned the left-hand hedgerow, looking for the
lane which surely must exist. But nothing rewarded his search. Enclosed
fields with padlocked gates presented the only breaks in the hedge,
till he again found himself looking down the avenue of trees up which
the death-coach had come galloping two nights before.

"Damn!" said Wimsey.

It occurred to him for the first time that the coach might perhaps
have turned round and gone back through Little Doddering. Certainly
it had been seen by Little Doddering Church on Wednesday. But on that
occasion, also, it had galloped off in the direction of Frimpton. In
fact, thinking it over, Wimsey concluded that it had approached from
Frimpton, gone round the church--widdershins, naturally--by the Back
Lane, and returned by the high-road whence it came. But in that case----

"Turn again, Whittington," said Wimsey, and Polly Flinders rotated
obediently in the road. "Through one of those fields it went, or I'm a
Dutchman."

He pulled Polly into a slow walk, and passed along the strip of grass
at the right-hand side, staring at the ground as though he were an
Aberdonian who had lost a sixpence.

The first gate led into a ploughed field, harrowed smooth and sown with
autumn wheat. It was clear that no wheeled thing had been across it for
many weeks. The second gate looked more promising. It gave upon fallow
ground, and the entrance was seamed with innumerable wheel-ruts. On
further examination, however, it was clear that this was the one and
only gate. It seemed unlikely that the mysterious coach should have
been taken into a field from which there was no way out. Wimsey decided
to seek farther.

The third gate was in bad repair. It sagged heavily from its hinges;
the hasp was gone, and gate and post had been secured with elaborate
twists of wire. Wimsey dismounted and examined these, convincing
himself that their rusty surface had not been recently disturbed.

There remained only two more gates before he came to the cross-roads.
One led into plough again, where the dark ridge-and-furrow showed no
sign of disturbance, but at sight of the last gate Wimsey's heart gave
a leap.

There was plough-land here also, but round the edge of the field ran a
wide, beaten path, rutted and water-logged. The gate was not locked,
but opened simply with a spring catch. Wimsey examined the approach.
Among the wide ruts made by farm-wagons was the track of four narrow
wheels--the unmistakable prints of rubber tyres. He pushed the gate
open and passed through.

The path skirted two sides of the plough; then came another gate and
another field, containing a long barrow of mangold wurzels and a
couple of barns. At the sound of Polly's hoofs, a man emerged from
the nearest barn, with a paint-brush in his hand, and stood watching
Wimsey's approach.

"'Morning!" said the latter genially.

"'Morning, sir."

"Fine day after the rain."

"Yes, it is, sir."

"I hope I'm not trespassing?"

"Where was you wanting to go, sir?"

"I thought, as a matter of fact--hullo!"

"Anything wrong, sir?"

Wimsey shifted in the saddle.

"I fancy this girth's slipped a bit. It's a new one." (This was a
fact.) "Better have a look."

The man advanced to investigate, but Wimsey had dismounted and was
tugging at the strap, with his head under the mare's belly.

"Yes, it wants taking up a trifle. Oh! Thanks most awfully. Is this a
short cut to Abbotts Bolton, by the way?"

"Not to the village, sir, though you can get through this way. It comes
out by Mr. Mortimer's stables."

"Ah, yes. This his land?"

"No, sir, it's Mr. Topham's land, but Mr. Mortimer rents this field and
the next for fodder."

"Oh, yes." Wimsey peered across the hedge. "Lucerne, I suppose. Or
clover."

"Clover, sir. And the mangolds is for the cattle."

"Oh--Mr. Mortimer keeps cattle as well as horses?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very jolly. Have a gasper?" Wimsey had sidled across to the barn
in his interest, and was gazing absently into its dark interior. It
contained a number of farm implements and a black fly of antique
construction, which seemed to be undergoing renovation with black
varnish. Wimsey pulled some vestas from his pocket. The box was
apparently damp, for, after one or two vain attempts he abandoned it,
and struck a match on the wall of the barn. The flame, lighting up the
ancient fly, showed it to be incongruously fitted with rubber tyres.

"Very fine stud, Mr. Mortimer's, I understand," said Wimsey carelessly.

"Yes, sir, very fine indeed."

"I suppose he hasn't any greys, by any chance. My mother--queenly
woman, Victorian ideas, and all that--is rather keen on greys. Sports a
carriage and pay-ah, don't you know."

"Yes, sir? Well, Mr. Mortimer would be able to suit the lady, I think,
sir. He has several greys."

"No? has he though? I must really go over and see him. Is it far?"

"Matter of five or six mile by the fields, sir."

Wimsey looked at his watch.

"Oh, dear! I'm really afraid it's too far for this morning. I
absolutely promised to get back to lunch. I must come over another day.
Thanks _so_ much. Is that girth right now? Oh, really, I'm immensely
obliged. Get yourself a drink, won't you--and tell Mr. Mortimer not
to sell his greys till I've seen them. Well, _good_ morning, and many
thanks."

He set Polly Flinders on the homeward path and trotted gently away.
Not till he was out of sight of the barn did he pull up and, stooping
from the saddle, thoughtfully examine his boots. They were liberally
plastered with bran.

"I must have picked it up in the barn," said Wimsey. "Curious, if true.
Why should Mr. Mortimer be lashing the stuffing out of his greys in an
old fly at dead of night--and with muffled hoofs and no heads to boot?
It's not a kind thing to do. It frightened Plunkett very much. It made
me think I was drunk--a thought I hate to think. Ought I to tell the
police? Are Mr. Mortimer's jokes any business of mine? What do _you_
think, Polly?"

The mare, hearing her name, energetically shook her head.

"You think not? Perhaps you are right. Let us say that Mr. Mortimer
did it for a wager. Who am I to interfere with his amusements? All
the same," added his lordship, "I'm glad to know it wasn't Lumsden's
whisky."

       *       *       *       *       *

"This is the library," said Haviland, ushering in his guests. "A fine
room--and a fine collection of books, I'm told, though literature isn't
much in my line. It wasn't much in the governor's line, either, I'm
afraid. The place wants doing up, as you see. I don't know whether
Martin will take it in hand. It's a job that'll cost money, of course."

Wimsey shivered a little as he gazed round--more from sympathy than
from cold, though a white November fog lay curled against the tall
windows and filtered damply through the frames.

A long, mouldering room, in the frigid neo-classical style, the library
was melancholy enough in the sunless grey afternoon, even without the
signs of neglect which wrung the book-collector's heart. The walls,
panelled to half their height with book-cases, ran up in plaster to
the moulded ceiling. Damp had blotched them into grotesque shapes, and
here and there were ugly cracks and squamous patches, from which the
plaster had fallen in yellowish flakes. A wet chill seemed to ooze
from the books, from the calf bindings peeling and perishing, from the
stains of greenish mildew which spread horridly from volume to volume.
The curious musty odour of decayed leather and damp paper added to the
general cheerlessness of the atmosphere.

"Oh, dear, dear!" said Wimsey, peering dismally into this sepulchre of
forgotten learning. With his shoulders hunched like the neck-feathers
of a chilly bird, with his long nose and half-shut eyes, he resembled a
dilapidated heron, brooding over the stagnation of a wintry pool.

"What a freezing-cold place!" exclaimed Mrs. Hancock. "You really
ought to scold Mrs. Lovall, Mr. Burdock. When she was put in here as
caretaker, I said to my husband--didn't I, Philip?--that your father
had chosen the laziest woman in Little Doddering. She ought to have
kept up big fires here, _at least_ twice a week! It's really shameful,
the way she has let things go."

"Yes, isn't it?" agreed Haviland.

Wimsey said nothing. He was nosing along the shelves, every now and
then taking a volume down and glancing at it.

"It was always rather a depressing room," went on Haviland. "I
remember, when I was a kid, it used to overawe me rather. Martin and
I used to browse about among the books, you know, but I think we were
always afraid that something or somebody would stalk out upon us from
the dark corners. What's that you've got there, Lord Peter? Oh, _Foxe's
Book of Martyrs_. Dear me! How those pictures did terrify me in the
old days! And there was a _Pilgrim's Progress_, with a most alarming
picture of Apollyon straddling over the whole breadth of the way, which
gave me many nightmares. Let me see. It used to live over in this bay,
I think. Yes, here it is. How it does bring it all back, to be sure! Is
it valuable, by the way?"

"No, not really. But this first edition of Burton is worth money; badly
spotted, though--you'd better send it to be cleaned. And this is an
extremely fine Boccaccio; take care of it."

"John Boccace--_The Dance of Machabree_. It's a good title, anyhow. Is
that the same Boccaccio that wrote the naughty stories?"

"Yes," said Wimsey, a little shortly. He resented this attitude towards
Boccaccio.

"Never read them," said Haviland, with a wink at his wife, "but I've
seen 'em in the windows of those surgical shops--so I suppose they're
naughty, eh? The vicar's looking shocked."

"Oh, not at all," said Mr. Hancock, with a conscientious assumption of
broad-mindedness. "_Et ego in Arcadia_--that is to say, one doesn't
enter the Church without undergoing a classical education, and making
the acquaintance of much more worldly authors even than Boccaccio.
Those wood-cuts are very fine, to my uninstructed eye."

"Very fine indeed," said Wimsey.

"There's another old book I remember, with jolly pictures," said
Haviland. "A chronicle of some sort--what's 'is name--place in
Germany--_you_ know--where that hangman came from. They published his
diary the other day. I read it, but it wasn't really exciting; not half
as gruesome as old Harrison Ainsworth. What's the name of the place?"

"Nüremberg?" suggested Wimsey.

"That's it, of course--the _Nüremberg Chronicle_. I wonder if that's
still in its old place. It was over here by the window, if I remember
rightly."

He led the way to the end of one of the bays, which ran up close
against a window. Here the damp seemed to have done its worst. A pane
of glass was broken, and rain had blown in.

"Now where has it gone to? A big book, it was, with a stamped leather
binding. I'd like to see the old _Chronicle_ again. I haven't set eyes
on it for donkey's years."

His glance roamed vaguely over the shelves. Wimsey, with the
book-lover's instinct, was the first to spot the _Chronicle_, wedged at
the extreme end of the shelf, against the outer wall. He hitched his
finger into the top edge of the spine, but finding that the rotting
leather was ready to crumble at a touch, he dislodged a neighbouring
book and drew the _Chronicle_ gently out, using his whole hand.

"Here he is--in pretty bad condition, I'm afraid. Hullo!"

As he drew the book away from the wall, a piece of folded parchment
came away with it and fell at his feet. He stooped and picked it up.

"I say, Burdock--isn't this what you've been looking for?"

Haviland Burdock, who had been rooting about on one of the lower
shelves, straightened himself quickly, his face red from stooping.

"By Jove!" he said, turning first redder and then pale with excitement.
"Look at this, Winnie. It's the governor's will. What an extraordinary
thing! Whoever would have thought of looking for it here, of all
places?"

"Is it really the will?" cried Mrs. Hancock.

"No doubt about it, I should say," observed Wimsey coolly. "Last Will
and Testament of Simon Burdock." He stood, turning the grimy document
over and over in his hands, looking from the endorsement to the plain
side of the folded parchment.

"Well, well!" said Mr. Hancock. "How strange! It seems almost
providential that you should have taken that book down."

"What does the will say?" demanded Mrs. Burdock, in some excitement.

"I beg your pardon," said Wimsey, handing it over to her. "Yes, as
you say, Mr. Hancock, it does almost seem as if I was meant to find
it." He glanced down again at the _Chronicle_, mournfully tracing with
his finger the outline of a damp stain which had rotted the cover and
spread to the inner pages, almost obliterating the colophon.

Haviland Burdock meanwhile had spread the will out on the nearest
table. His wife leaned over his shoulder. The Hancocks, barely
controlling their curiosity, stood near, awaiting the result. Wimsey,
with an elaborate pretence of non-interference in this family matter,
examined the wall against which the _Chronicle_ had stood, feeling its
moist surface and examining the damp-stains. They had assumed the
appearance of a grinning face. He compared them with the corresponding
mark on the book, and shook his head desolately over the damage.

Mr. Frobisher-Pym, who had wandered away some time before and was
absorbed in an ancient book of Farriery, now approached, and enquired
what the excitement was about.

"Listen to this!" cried Haviland. His voice was quiet, but a suppressed
triumph throbbed in it and glittered from his eyes.

"'I bequeath everything of which I die possessed'--there's a lot of
enumeration of properties here, which doesn't matter--'to my eldest
son, Martin'----"

Mr. Frobisher-Pym whistled.

"Listen! 'To my eldest son Martin, for so long as my body shall remain
above ground. But so soon as I am buried, I direct that the whole of
this property shall revert to my younger son Haviland absolutely'----"

"Good God!" said Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"There's a lot more," said Haviland, "but that's the gist of it."

"Let me see," said the magistrate.

He took the will from Haviland, and read it through with a frowning
face.

"That's right," he said. "No possible doubt about it. Martin has had
his property and lost it again. How very curious. Up till yesterday
everything belonged to him, though nobody knew it. Now it is all yours,
Burdock. This certainly is the strangest will I ever saw. Just fancy
that. Martin the heir, up to the time of the funeral. And now--well,
Burdock, I must congratulate you."

"Thank you," said Haviland. "It is very unexpected." He laughed
unsteadily.

"But what a queer idea!" cried Mrs. Burdock. "Suppose Martin had been
at home. It almost seems a mercy that he wasn't, doesn't it? I mean,
it would all have been so awkward. What would have happened if he had
tried to stop the funeral, for instance?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Hancock. "Could he have done anything? Who decides
about funerals?"

"The executors, as a rule," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"Who are the executors in this case?" enquired Wimsey.

"I don't know. Let me see." Mr. Frobisher-Pym examined the document
again. "Ah, yes! Here we are. 'I appoint my two sons, Martin and
Haviland, joint executors of this my will.' What an extraordinary
arrangement."

"I call it a wicked, un-Christian arrangement," cried Mrs. Hancock.
"It might have caused dreadful mischief if the will hadn't been--quite
providentially--lost!"

"Hush, my dear!" said her husband.

"I'm afraid," said Haviland grimly, "that that was my father's idea.
It's no use my pretending he wasn't spiteful; he was, and I believe he
hated both Martin and me like poison."

"Don't say that," pleaded the vicar.

"I do say it. He made our lives a burden to us, and he obviously wanted
to go on making them a burden after he was dead. If he'd seen us
cutting each other's throats, he'd only have been too pleased. Come,
vicar, it's no use pretending. He hated our mother and was jealous of
us. Everybody knows that. It probably pleased his unpleasant sense
of humour to think of us squabbling over his body. Fortunately, he
over-reached himself when he hid the will here. He's buried now, and
the problem settles itself."

"Are you quite sure of that?" said Wimsey.

"Why, of course," said the magistrate. "The property goes to Mr.
Haviland Burdock as soon as his father's body is underground. Well, his
father was buried yesterday."

"But are you sure of _that_?" repeated Wimsey. He looked from one to
the other quizzically, his long lips curling into something like a grin.

"Sure of that?" exclaimed the vicar. "My dear Lord Peter, you were
present at the funeral. You saw him buried yourself."

"I saw his coffin buried," said Wimsey mildly. "That the body was in it
is merely an unverified inference."

"I think," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "this is rather an unseemly kind
of jest. There is no reason to imagine that the body was not in the
coffin."

"I saw it in the coffin," said Haviland, "and so did my wife."

"And so did I," said the vicar. "I was present when it was transferred
from the temporary shell in which it crossed over from the States to
a permanent lead-and-oak coffin provided by Joliffe. And, if further
witnesses are necessary, you can easily get Joliffe himself and his
men, who put the body in and screwed it down."

"Just so," said Wimsey. "I'm not denying that the body was in the
coffin when the coffin was placed in the chapel. I only doubt whether
it was there when it was put in the ground."

"That is a most unheard-of suggestion to make, Lord Peter," said Mr.
Frobisher-Pym, with severity. "May I ask if you have anything to go
upon? And, if the body is not in the grave, perhaps you wouldn't mind
telling us where you imagine it to be?"

"Not at all," said Wimsey. He perched himself on the edge of the table
and sat, swinging his legs and looking down at his own hands, as he
ticked his points off on his fingers.

"I think," he said, "that this story begins with young Rawlinson. He
is a clerk in the office of Mr. Graham, who drew up this will, and I
fancy he knows something about its conditions. So, of course, does
Mr. Graham, but I don't somehow suspect _him_ of being mixed up in
this. From what I can hear, he is not a man to take sides--or not Mr.
Martin's side, at any rate.

"When the news of Mr. Burdock's death was cabled over from the
States, I think young Rawlinson remembered the terms of the will, and
considered that Mr. Martin--being abroad and all that--would be rather
at a disadvantage. Rawlinson must be rather attached to your brother,
by the way----"

"Martin always had a way of picking up good-for-nothing youths and
wasting his time with them," agreed Haviland sulkily.

The vicar seemed to feel that this statement needed some amendment, and
murmured that he had always heard how good Martin was with the village
lads.

"Quite so," said Wimsey. "Well, I think young Rawlinson wanted to give
Martin an equal chance of securing the legacy, don't you see. He didn't
like to say anything about the will--which might or might not turn
up--and possibly he thought that even if it did turn up there might be
difficulties. Well, anyway, he decided that the best thing to do was to
steal the body and keep it above-ground till Martin came home to see to
things himself."

"This is an extraordinary accusation," began Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"I dare say I'm mistaken," said Wimsey, "but it's just my idea. It
makes a damn good story, anyhow--you see! Well, then, young Rawlinson
saw that this was too big a job to carry out alone, so he looked round
for somebody to help him. And he pitched on Mr. Mortimer."

"Mortimer?"

"I don't know Mr. Mortimer personally, but he seems to be a sportin'
sort of customer from what I can hear, with certain facilities which
everybody hasn't got. Young Rawlinson and Mortimer put their heads
together and worked out a plan of action. Of course, Mr. Hancock, you
helped them enormously with this lying-in-state idea of yours. Without
that, I don't know if they could have worked it."

Mr. Hancock made an embarrassed clucking sound.

"The idea was this. Mortimer was to provide an antique fly and four
white horses, made up with luminous paint and black cloth to represent
the Burdock death-coach. The advantage of that idea was that nobody
would feel inclined to inspect the turn-out too closely if they saw
it hangin' round the churchyard at unearthly hours. Meanwhile, young
Rawlinson had to get himself accepted as a watcher for the chapel, and
to find a sporting companion to watch with him and take a hand in the
game. He fixed things up with the publican-fellow, and spun a tale for
Mr. Hancock, so as to get the vigil from four to six. Didn't it strike
you as odd, Mr. Hancock, that he should be so keen to come all the way
from Herriotting?"

"I am accustomed to find keenness in my congregation," said Mr. Hancock
stiffly.

"Yes, but Rawlinson didn't belong to your congregation. Anyway it was
all worked out, and there was a dress-rehearsal on the Wednesday night,
which frightened your man Plunkett into fits, sir."

"If I thought this was true----" said Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"On Thursday night," pursued Wimsey, "the conspirators were ready,
hidden in the chancel at two in the morning. They waited till Mrs. and
Miss Hancock had taken their places, and then made a row to attract
their attention. When the ladies courageously advanced to find out what
was up, they popped out and bundled 'em into the vestry."

"Good gracious!" said Mrs. Hancock.

"That was when the death-coach affair was timed to drive up to the
south door. It came round the Back Lane, I fancy, though I can't be
sure. Then Mortimer and the other two took the embalmed body out of
the coffin and filled its place up with bags of sawdust. I know it was
sawdust, because I found the remains of it on the Lady-chapel floor
in the morning. They put the body in the fly, and Mortimer drove off
with it. They passed me on the Herriotting Road at half-past two, so
they can't have wasted much time over the job. Mortimer may have been
alone, or possibly he had someone with him to see to the body while he
himself did the headless coachman business in a black mask. I'm not
certain about that. They drove through the last gate before you come to
the fork at Frimpton, and went across the fields to Mortimer's barn.
They left the fly there--I know that, because I saw it, and I saw the
bran they used to muffle the horses' hoofs, too. I expect they took it
on from there in a car, and fetched the horses up next day--but that's
a detail. I don't know, either, where they took the body to, but I
expect, if you went and asked Mortimer about it, he would be able to
assure you that it was still above ground."

Wimsey paused. Mr. Frobisher-Pym and the Hancocks were looking only
puzzled and angry, but Haviland's face was green. Mrs. Haviland
showed a red, painted spot on each cheek, and her mouth was haggard.
Wimsey picked up the _Nüremberg Chronicle_ and caressed its covers
thoughtfully as he went on.

"Meanwhile, of course, young Rawlinson and his companion were doing the
camouflage in the church, to give the idea of a Protestant outrage.
Having fixed everything up neat and pretty, all they had to do was to
lock themselves up in the furnace-house and chuck the key through the
window. You'll probably find it there, Mr. Hancock, if you care to
look. Didn't you think that story of an assault by two or three men was
a bit thin? Hubbard is a hefty great fellow, and Rawlinson's a sturdy
lad--and yet, on their own showing, they were bundled into a coal-hole
like helpless infants, without a scratch on either of 'em. Look for the
men in buckram, my dear sir, look for the men in buckram!"

"Look here, Wimsey, are you sure you're not romancing?" said Mr.
Frobisher-Pym. "One would need some very clear proof before----"

"Certainly," said Wimsey. "Get a Home Office order. Open the grave.
You'll soon see whether it's true or whether it's just my diseased
imagination."

"I think this whole conversation is disgusting," cried Mrs. Burdock.
"Don't listen to it, Haviland. Anything more heartless on the day after
father's funeral than sitting here and inventing such a revolting story
I simply can't imagine. It is not worth paying a moment's attention to.
You will certainly not permit your father's body to be disturbed. It's
horrible. It's a desecration."

"It is very unpleasant indeed," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym gravely, "but if
Lord Peter is seriously putting forward this astonishing theory, which
I can scarcely credit----"

Wimsey shrugged his shoulders.

"--then I feel bound to remind you, Mr. Burdock, that your brother,
when he returns, may insist on having the matter investigated."

"But he can't, can he?" said Mrs. Burdock.

"Of course he can, Winnie," snapped her husband savagely. "He's an
executor. He has as much right to have the governor dug up as I have to
forbid it. Don't be a fool."

"If Martin had any decency, he would forbid it, too," said Mrs. Burdock.

"Oh, well!" said Mrs. Hancock, "shocking as it may seem, there's the
money to be considered. Mr. Martin might think it a duty to his wife,
and his family, if he should ever have any----"

"The whole thing is preposterous," said Haviland decidedly. "I don't
believe a word of it. If I did, naturally I should be the first person
to take action in the matter--not only in justice to Martin, but on my
own account. But if you ask me to believe that a responsible man like
Mortimer would purloin a corpse and desecrate a church--the thing only
has to be put into plain words to show how absurd and unthinkable it
is. I suppose Lord Peter Wimsey, who consorts, as I understand, with
criminals and police officers, finds the idea conceivable. I can only
say that I do not. I am sorry that his mind should have become so
blunted to all decent feeling. That's all. Good afternoon."

Mr. Frobisher-Pym jumped up.

"Come, come, Burdock, don't take that attitude. I am sure Lord Peter
intended no discourtesy. I must say I think he's all wrong, but, 'pon
my soul, things have been so disturbed in the village these last few
days, I'm not surprised anybody should think there was something behind
it. Now, let's forget about it--and hadn't we better be moving out of
this terribly cold room? It's nearly dinner-time. Bless me, what will
Agatha think of us?"

Wimsey held out his hand to Burdock, who took it reluctantly.

"I'm sorry," said Wimsey. "I suffer from hypertrophy of the
imagination, y'know. Over-stimulation of the thyroid probably. Don't
mind me. I apologise, and all that."

"I don't think, Lord Peter," said Mrs. Burdock acidly, "you ought to
exercise your imagination at the expense of good taste."

Wimsey followed her from the room in some confusion. Indeed, he was so
disturbed that he carried away the _Nüremberg Chronicle_ beneath his
arm, which was an odd thing for him to do under the circumstances.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I am gravely distressed," said Mr. Hancock.

He had come over, after Sunday evening service, to call upon the
Frobisher-Pyms. He sat upright on his chair, his thin face flushed with
anxiety.

"I could never have believed such a thing of Hubbard. It has been a
grievous shock to me. It is not only the great wickedness of stealing a
dead body from the very precincts of the church, though that is grave
enough. It is the sad hypocrisy of his behaviour--the mockery of sacred
things--the making use of the holy services of his religion to further
worldly ends. He actually attended the funeral, Mr. Frobisher-Pym, and
exhibited every sign of grief and respect. Even now he hardly seems to
realise the sinfulness of his conduct. I feel it very much, as a priest
and as a pastor--very much indeed."

"Oh, well, Hancock," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "you must make allowances,
you know. Hubbard's not a bad fellow, but you can't expect refinement
of feeling from a man of his class. The point is, what are we to do
about it? Mr. Burdock must be told, of course. It's a most awkward
situation. Dear me! Hubbard confessed the whole conspiracy, you say?
How did he come to do that?"

"I taxed him with it," said the parson. "When I came to think over
Lord Peter Wimsey's remarks, I was troubled in my mind. It seemed to
me--I cannot say why--that there might be some truth in the story,
wild as it appeared. I was so worried about it that I swept the floor
of the Lady-chapel myself last night, and I found quite a quantity
of sawdust among the sweepings. That led me to search for the key of
the furnace-house, and I discovered it in some bushes at a little
distance--in fact, within a stone's throw--of the furnace-house window.
I sought guidance in prayer--and from my wife, whose judgment I greatly
respect--and I made up my mind to speak to Hubbard after Mass. It
was a great relief to me that he did not present himself at Early
Celebration. Feeling as I did, I should have had scruples."

"Just so, just so," said the magistrate, a little impatiently. "Well,
you taxed him with it, and he confessed?"

"He did. I am sorry to say he showed no remorse at all. He even
laughed. It was a most painful interview."

"I am sure it must have been," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym sympathetically.

"We must go and see Mr. Burdock," said the magistrate, rising.
"Whatever old Burdock may or may not have intended by that iniquitous
will of his, it's quite evident that Hubbard and Mortimer and Rawlinson
were entirely in the wrong. Upon my word, I've no idea whether it's an
indictable offence to steal a body. I must look it up. But I should
say it was. If there is any property in a corpse, it must belong to
the family or the executors. And in any case, it's sacrilege, to say
nothing of the scandal in the parish. I must say, Hancock, it won't do
us any good in the eyes of the Nonconformists. However, no doubt you
realise that. Well, it's an unpleasant job, and the sooner we tackle
it the better. I'll run over to the vicarage with you and help you to
break it to the Burdocks. How about you, Wimsey? You were right, after
all, and I think Burdock owes you an apology."

"Oh, I'll keep out of it," said Wimsey. "I shan't be exactly _persona
grata_, don't you know. It's going to mean a deuce of a big financial
loss to the Haviland Burdocks."

"So it is. Most unpleasant. Well, perhaps you're right. Come along,
vicar."

Wimsey and his hostess sat discussing the matter by the fire for half
an hour or so, when Mr. Frobisher-Pym suddenly put his head in and said:

"I say, Wimsey--we're all going over to Mortimer's. I wish you'd come
and drive the car. Merridew always has the day off on Sunday, and I
don't care about driving at night, particularly in this fog."

"Right you are," said Wimsey. He ran upstairs, and came down in a
few moments wearing a heavy leather flying-coat, and with a parcel
under his arm. He greeted the Burdocks briefly, climbed into the
driving-seat, and was soon steering cautiously through the mist along
the Herriotting Road.

He smiled a little grimly to himself as they came up under the trees
to the spot where the phantom coach had passed him. As they passed the
gate through which the ingenious apparition had vanished, he indulged
himself by pointing it out, and was rewarded by hearing a snarl from
Haviland. At the well-remembered fork, he took the right-hand turning
into Frimpton and drove steadily for six miles or so, till a warning
shout from Mr. Frobisher-Pym summoned him to look out for the turning
up to Mortimer's.

Mr. Mortimer's house, with its extensive stabling and farm buildings,
stood about two miles back from the main road. In the darkness Wimsey
could see little of it; but he noticed that the ground-floor windows
were all lit up, and, when the door opened to the magistrate's
imperative ring, a loud burst of laughter from the interior gave
evidence that Mr. Mortimer was not taking his misdoings too seriously.

"Is Mr. Mortimer at home?" demanded Mr. Frobisher-Pym, in the tone of a
man not to be trifled with.

"Yes, sir. Will you come in, please?"

They stepped into a large, old-fashioned hall, brilliantly lit, and
made cosy with a heavy oak screen across the door. As Wimsey advanced,
blinking, from the darkness, he saw a large, thick-set man, with a
ruddy face, advancing with hand outstretched in welcome.

"Frobisher-Pym! By Jove! how decent of you to come over! We've got some
old friends of yours here. Oh!" (in a slightly altered tone) "Burdock!
Well, well----"

"Damn you!" said Haviland Burdock, thrusting furiously past the
magistrate, who was trying to hold him back. "Damn you, you swine!
Chuck this bloody farce. What have you done with the body?"

"The body, eh?" said Mr. Mortimer, retreating in some confusion.

"Yes, curse you! Your friend Hubbard's split. It's no good denying it.
What the devil do you mean by it? You've got the body here somewhere.
Where is it? Hand it over!"

He strode threateningly round the screen into the lamplight. A tall,
thin man rose up unexpectedly from the depths of an arm-chair and
confronted him.

"Hold hard, old man!"

"Good God!" said Haviland, stepping heavily back on Wimsey's toes.
"Martin!"

"Sure," said the other. "Here I am. Come back like a bad half-penny.
How are you?"

"So _you're_ at the bottom of this!" stormed Haviland. "I might have
known it. You damned, dirty hound! I suppose you think it's decent to
drag your father out of his coffin and tote him about the country like
a circus. It's degrading. It's disgusting. It's abominable. You must be
perfectly dead to all decent feeling. You don't deny it, I suppose?"

"I say, Burdock!" expostulated Mortimer.

"Shut up, curse you!" said Haviland. "I'll deal with you in a minute.
Now, look here, Martin, I'm not going to stand any more of this
disgraceful behaviour. You'll give up that body, and----"

"Just a moment, just a moment," said Martin. He stood, smiling a
little, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dinner-jacket. "This
_éclaircissement_ seems to be rather public. Who are all these people?
Oh, it's the vicar, I see. I'm afraid we owe you a little explanation,
vicar. And, er----"

"This is Lord Peter Wimsey," put in Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "who discovered
your--I'm afraid, Burdock, I must agree with your brother in calling it
your disgraceful plot."

"Oh, Lord!" said Martin. "I say, Mortimer, you didn't know you were up
against Lord Peter Wimsey, did you? No wonder the cat got out of the
bag. The man's known to be a perfect Sherlock. However, I seem to have
got home at the crucial moment, so there's no harm done. Diana, this is
Lord Peter Wimsey--my wife."

A young and pretty woman in a black evening dress greeted Wimsey with a
shy smile, and turned deprecatingly to her brother-in-law.

"Haviland, we want to explain----"

He paid no attention to her.

"Now then, Martin, the game's up."

"I think it is, Haviland. But why make all this racket?"

"Racket! I like that. You take your own father's body out of its
coffin----"

"No, no, Haviland. I knew nothing about it. I swear that. I only got
the news of his death a few days ago. We were right out in the wilds,
filming a show in the Pyrenees, and I came straight back as soon as I
could get away. Mortimer here, with Rawlinson and Hubbard, staged the
whole show by themselves. I never heard a word about it till yesterday
morning in Paris, when I found his letter waiting at my old digs.
Honestly, Haviland, I had nothing to do with it. Why should I? I didn't
need to."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if I'd been here, I should only have had to speak to stop the
funeral altogether. Why on earth should I have gone to the trouble of
stealing the body? Quite apart from the irreverence and all that. As it
is, when Mortimer told me about it, I must say I was a bit revolted at
the idea, though I appreciated the kindness and the trouble they'd been
to on my account. I think Mr. Hancock has most cause for wrath, really.
But Mortimer has been as careful as possible, sir--really he has. He
has placed the old governor quite reverently and decently in what used
to be the chapel, and put flowers round him and so on. You will be
quite satisfied, I'm sure."

"Yes, yes," said Mortimer. "No disrespect intended, don't you know.
Come and see him."

"This is dreadful," said the vicar helplessly.

"They had to do the best they could, don't you see, in my absence,"
said Martin. "As soon as I can, I'll make proper arrangements for a
suitable tomb--above ground, of course. Or possibly cremation would fit
the case."

"What!" gasped Haviland. "Do you mean to say you imagine I'm going to
let my father stay unburied, simply because of your disgusting greed
about money?"

"My dear chap, do you think I'm going to let you put him underground,
simply to enable you to grab my property?"

"I'm the executor of his will, and I say he shall be buried, whether
you like it or not!"

"And _I'm_ an executor too--and I say he shan't be buried. He can be
kept absolutely decently above ground, and he shall be."

"But hear me," said the vicar, distracted between these two
disagreeable and angry young men.

"I'll see what Graham says about you," bawled Haviland.

"Oh, yes--the honest lawyer, Graham," sneered Martin. "_He_ knew what
was in the will, didn't he? I suppose he didn't mention it to _you_, by
any chance?"

"He did not," retorted Haviland. "He knew too well the sort of skunk
_you_ were to say anything about it. Not content with disgracing us
with your miserable, blackmailing marriage----"

"Mr. Burdock, Mr. Burdock----"

"Take care, Haviland!"

"You have no more decency----"

"Stop it!"

"Than to steal your father's body and my money so that you and your
damned wife can carry on your loose-living, beastly ways with a parcel
of film-actors and chorus-girls----"

"Now then, Haviland. Keep your tongue off my wife and my friends. How
about your own? Somebody told me Winnie'd been going the pace pretty
well--next door to bankruptcy, aren't you, with the gees and the tables
and God knows what! No wonder you want to do your brother out of his
money. I never thought much of you, Haviland, but by God----"

"One moment!"

Mr. Frobisher-Pym at last succeeded in asserting himself, partly
through the habit of authority, and partly because the brothers had
shouted themselves breathless.

"One moment, Martin. I will call you so, because I have known you a
long time, and your father too. I understand your anger at the things
Haviland has said. They were unpardonable, as I am sure he will realise
when he comes to his right mind. But you must remember that he has
been greatly shocked and upset--as we all have been--by this very very
painful business. And it is not fair to say that Haviland has tried to
'do you out' of anything. He knew nothing about this iniquitous will,
and he naturally saw to it that the funeral arrangements were carried
out in the usual way. You must settle the future amicably between you,
just as you would have done had the will not been accidentally mislaid.
Now, Martin--and Haviland too--think it over. My dear boys, this scene
is simply appalling. It really must not happen. Surely the estate can
be divided up in a friendly manner between you. It is horrible that an
old man's body should be a bone of contention between his own sons,
just over a matter of money."

"I'm sorry," said Martin. "I forgot myself. You're quite right, sir.
Look here, Haviland, forget it. I'll let you have half the money----"

"Half the money! But it's all mine. _You'll_ let me have half? How
damned generous! My own money!"

"No, old man. It's mine at the moment. The governor's not buried yet,
you know. That's right, isn't it, Mr. Frobisher-Pym?"

"Yes; the money is yours, legally, at this moment. You must see that,
Haviland. But your brother offers you half, and----"

"Half! I'm damned if I'll take half. The man's tried to swindle me out
of it. I'll send for the police, and have him put in gaol for robbing
the Church. You see if I don't. Give me the telephone."

"Excuse me," said Wimsey. "I don't want to butt in on your family
affairs any more than I have already, but I really don't advise you to
send for the police."

"_You_ don't, eh? What the hell's it got to do with you?"

"Well," said Wimsey deprecatingly, "if this will business comes into
court, I shall probably have to give evidence, because I was the bird
who found the thing, don't you see?"

"Well, then?"

"Well, then. They might ask how long the will was supposed to have been
where I found it."

Haviland appeared to swallow something which obstructed his speech.

"What about it, curse you!"

"Yes. Well, you see, it's rather odd when you come to think of it.
I mean, your late father must have hidden that will in the bookcase
before he went abroad. That was--how long ago? Three years? Five years?"

"About four years."

"Quite. And since then your bright caretaker has let the damp get into
the library, hasn't she? No fires, and the window getting broken,
and so on. Ruinous to the books. Very distressin' to anybody like
myself, you know. Yes. Well, supposin' they asked that question about
the will--and you said it had been there in the damp for four years.
Wouldn't they think it a bit funny if I told 'em that there was a big
damp stain like a grinning face on the end of the bookshelf, and a
big, damp, grinning face on the jolly old _Nüremberg Chronicle_ to
correspond with it, and no stain on the will which had been sittin' for
four years between the two?"

Mrs. Haviland screamed suddenly. "Haviland! You fool! You utter fool!"

"Shut up!"

Haviland snapped round at his wife with a cry of rage, and she
collapsed into a chair, with her hand snatched to her mouth.

"Thank you, Winnie," said Martin. "No, Haviland--don't trouble to
explain. Winnie's given the show away. So you knew--you _knew_ about
the will, and you deliberately hid it away and let the funeral go
on. I'm immensely obliged to you--nearly as obliged as I am to the
discreet Graham. Is it fraud or conspiracy or what, to conceal wills?
Mr. Frobisher-Pym will know."

"Dear, dear!" said the magistrate. "Are you certain of your facts,
Wimsey?"

"Positive," said Wimsey, producing the _Nüremberg Chronicle_ from
under his arm. "Here's the stain--you can see it yourself. Forgive me
for having borrowed your property, Mr. Burdock. I was rather afraid
Mr. Haviland might think this little discrepancy over in the still
watches of the night, and decide to sell the _Chronicle_, or give it
away, or even think it looked better without its back pages and cover.
Allow me to return it to you, Mr. Martin--intact. You will perhaps
excuse my saying that I don't very much admire any of the rôles in this
melodrama. It throws, as Mr. Pecksniff would say, a sad light on human
nature. But I resent extremely the way in which I was wangled up to
that bookshelf and made to be the bright little independent witness who
found the will. I may be an ass, Mr. Haviland Burdock, but I'm not a
bloody ass. Good night. I will wait in the car till you are all ready."

Wimsey stalked out with some dignity.

Presently he was followed by the vicar and by Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"Mortimer's taking Haviland and his wife to the station," said the
magistrate. "They're going back to town at once. You can send their
traps off in the morning, Hancock. We'd better make ourselves scarce."

Wimsey pressed the self-starter.

As he did so, a man ran hastily down the steps and came up to him. It
was Martin.

"I say," he muttered. "You've done me a good turn--more than I deserve,
I'm afraid. You must think I'm a damned swine. But I'll see the old man
decently put away, and I'll share with Haviland. You mustn't judge him
too hardly, either. That wife of his is an awful woman. Run him over
head and ears in debt. Bust up his business. I'll see it's all squared
up. See? Don't want you to think us too awful."

"Oh, right-ho!" said Wimsey.

He slipped in the clutch, and faded away into the wet, white fog.




            THE VINDICTIVE STORY OF THE FOOTSTEPS THAT RAN


Mr. Bunter withdrew his head from beneath the focusing cloth.

"I fancy that will be quite adequate, sir," he said deferentially,
"unless there are any further patients, if I may call them so, which
you would wish put on record."

"Not to-day," replied the doctor. He took the last stricken rat
gently from the table, and replaced it in its cage with an air of
satisfaction. "Perhaps on Wednesday, if Lord Peter can kindly spare
your services once again----"

"What's that?" murmured his lordship, withdrawing his long nose from
the investigation of a number of unattractive-looking glass jars. "Nice
old dog," he added vaguely. "Wags his tail when you mention his name,
what? Are these monkey-glands, Hartman, or a south-west elevation of
Cleopatra's duodenum?"

"You don't know anything, do you?" said the young physician, laughing.
"No use playing your bally-fool-with-an-eyeglass tricks on me, Wimsey.
I'm up to them. I was saying to Bunter that I'd be no end grateful if
you'd let him turn up again three days hence to register the progress
of the specimens--always supposing they do progress, that is."

"Why ask, dear old thing?" said his lordship. "Always a pleasure to
assist a fellow-sleuth, don't you know. Trackin' down murderers--all
in the same way of business and all that. All finished? Good egg! By
the way, if you don't have that cage mended you'll lose one of your
patients--Number 5. The last wire but one is workin' loose--assisted by
the intelligent occupant. Jolly little beasts, ain't they? No need of
dentists--wish I was a rat--wire much better for the nerves than that
fizzlin' drill."

Dr. Hartman uttered a little exclamation.

"How in the world did you notice that, Wimsey? I didn't think you'd
even looked at the cage."

"Built noticin'--improved by practice," said Lord Peter quietly.
"Anythin' wrong leaves a kind of impression on the eye; brain trots
along afterwards with the warnin'. I saw that when we came in. Only
just grasped it. Can't say my mind was glued on the matter. Shows the
victim's improvin', anyhow. All serene, Bunter?"

"Everything perfectly satisfactory, I trust, my lord," replied the
manservant. He had packed up his camera and plates, and was quietly
restoring order in the little laboratory, whose fittings--compact as
those of an ocean liner--had been disarranged for the experiment.

"Well," said the doctor, "I am enormously obliged to you, Lord
Peter, and to Bunter too. I am hoping for a great result from these
experiments, and you cannot imagine how valuable an assistance it will
be to me to have a really good series of photographs. I can't afford
this sort of thing--yet," he added, his rather haggard young face
wistful as he looked at the great camera, "and I can't do the work at
the hospital. There's no time; I've got to be here. A struggling G.P.
can't afford to let his practice go, even in Bloomsbury. There are
times when even a half-crown visit makes all the difference between
making both ends meet and having an ugly hiatus."

"As Mr. Micawber said," replied Wimsey, "'Income twenty pounds,
expenditure nineteen, nineteen, six--result: happiness; expenditure
twenty pounds, ought, six--result: misery.' Don't prostrate
yourself in gratitude, old bean; nothin' Bunter loves like messin'
round with pyro and hyposulphite. Keeps his hand in. All kinds of
practice welcome. Finger-prints and process plates spell seventh
what-you-may-call-it of bliss, but focal-plane work on scurvy-ridden
rodents (good phrase!) acceptable if no crime forthcoming. Crimes
have been rather short lately. Been eatin' our heads off, haven't we,
Bunter? Don't know what's come over London. I've taken to prying into
my neighbour's affairs to keep from goin' stale. Frightened the postman
into a fit the other day by askin' him how his young lady at Croydon
was. He's a married man, livin' in Great Ormond Street."

"How did you know?"

"Well, I didn't really. But he lives just opposite to a friend of
mine--Inspector Parker; and his wife--not Parker's; he's unmarried;
the postman's, I mean--asked Parker the other day whether the flyin'
shows at Croydon went on all night. Parker, bein' flummoxed, said
'No,' without thinkin'. Bit of a give-away, what? Thought I'd give the
poor devil a word in season, don't you know. Uncommonly thoughtless of
Parker."

The doctor laughed. "You'll stay to lunch, won't you?" he said. "Only
cold meat and salad, I'm afraid. My woman won't come Sundays. Have to
answer my own door. Deuced unprofessional, I'm afraid, but it can't be
helped."

"Pleasure," said Wimsey, as they emerged from the laboratory and
entered the dark little flat by the back door. "Did you build this
place on?"

"No," said Hartman; "the last tenant did that. He was an artist. That's
why I took the place. It comes in very useful, ramshackle as it is,
though this glass roof is a bit sweltering on a hot day like this.
Still, I had to have something on the ground-floor, cheap, and it'll do
till times get better."

"Till your vitamin experiments make you famous, eh?" said Peter
cheerfully. "You're goin' to be the comin' man, you know. Feel it in my
bones. Uncommonly neat little kitchen you've got, anyhow."

"It does," said the doctor. "The lab. makes it a bit gloomy, but the
woman's only here in the daytime."

He led the way into a narrow little dining-room, where the table
was laid for a cold lunch. The one window at the end farthest from
the kitchen looked out into Great James Street. The room was little
more than a passage, and full of doors--the kitchen door, a door in
the adjacent wall leading into the entrance-hall, and a third on
the opposite side, through which his visitor caught a glimpse of a
moderate-sized consulting-room.

Lord Peter Wimsey and his host sat down to table, and the doctor
expressed a hope that Mr. Bunter would sit down with them. That correct
person, however, deprecated any such suggestion.

"If I might venture to indicate my own preference, sir," he said, "it
would be to wait upon you and his lordship in the usual manner."

"It's no use," said Wimsey. "Bunter likes me to know my place.
Terrorisin' sort of man, Bunter. Can't call my soul my own. Carry on,
Bunter; we wouldn't presume for the world."

Mr. Bunter handed the salad, and poured out the water with a grave
decency appropriate to a crusted old tawny port.

It was a Sunday afternoon in that halcyon summer of 1921. The sordid
little street was almost empty. The ice-cream man alone seemed thriving
and active. He leaned luxuriously on the green post at the corner,
in the intervals of driving a busy trade. Bloomsbury's swarm of
able-bodied and able-voiced infants was still presumably within-doors,
eating steamy Sunday dinners inappropriate to the tropical weather. The
only disturbing sounds came from the flat above, where heavy footsteps
passed rapidly to and fro.

"Who's the merry-and-bright bloke above?" enquired Lord Peter
presently. "Not an early riser, I take it. Not that anybody is on a
Sunday mornin'. Why an inscrutable Providence ever inflicted such a
ghastly day on people livin' in town I can't imagine. I ought to be in
the country, but I've got to meet a friend at Victoria this afternoon.
Such a day to choose.... Who's the lady? Wife or accomplished friend?
Gather she takes a properly submissive view of woman's duties in the
home, either way. That's the bedroom overhead, I take it."

Hartman looked at Lord Peter in some surprise.

"'Scuse my beastly inquisitiveness, old thing," said Wimsey. "Bad
habit. Not my business."

"How did you----"

"Guesswork," said Lord Peter, with disarming frankness. "I heard the
squawk of an iron bedstead on the ceiling and a heavy fellow get out
with a bump, but it may quite well be a couch or something. Anyway,
he's been potterin' about in his stocking feet over these few feet of
floor for the last half-hour, while the woman has been clatterin' to
and fro, in and out of the kitchen and away into the sittin'-room, with
her high heels on, ever since we've been here. Hence deduction as to
domestic habits of the first-floor tenants."

"I thought," said the doctor, with an aggrieved expression, "you'd
been listening to my valuable exposition of the beneficial effects of
Vitamin B, and Lind's treatment of scurvy with fresh lemons in 1755."

"I was listenin'" agreed Lord Peter hastily, "but I heard the footsteps
as well. Fellow's toddled into the kitchen--only wanted the matches,
though; he's gone off into the sittin'-room and left her to carry on
the good work. What was I sayin'? Oh, yes! You see, as I was sayin'
before, one hears a thing or sees it without knowin' or thinkin' about
it. Then afterwards one starts meditatin', and it all comes back,
and one sorts out one's impressions. Like those plates of Bunter's.
Picture's all there, l--la--what's the word I want, Bunter?"

"Latent, my lord."

"That's it. My right-hand man, Bunter; couldn't do a thing without
him. The picture's latent till you put the developer on. Same with the
brain. No mystery. Little grey books all my respected grandmother!
Little grey matter's all you want to remember things with. As a matter
of curiosity, was I right about those people above?"

"Perfectly. The man's a gas-company's inspector. A bit surly, but
devoted (after his own fashion) to his wife. I mean, he doesn't mind
hulking in bed on a Sunday morning and letting her do the chores, but
he spends all the money he can spare on giving her pretty hats and fur
coats and what not. They've only been married about six months. I was
called in to her when she had a touch of 'flu in the spring, and he was
almost off his head with anxiety. She's a lovely little woman, I must
say--Italian. He picked her up in some eating-place in Soho, I believe.
Glorious dark hair and eyes; Venus sort of figure; proper contours in
all the right places; good skin--all that sort of thing. She was a bit
of a draw to that restaurant while she was there, I fancy. Lively. She
had an old admirer round here one day--awkward little Italian fellow,
with a knife--active as a monkey. Might have been unpleasant, but I
happened to be on the spot, and her husband came along. People are
always laying one another out in these streets. Good for business, of
course, but one gets tired of tying up broken heads and slits in the
jugular. Still, I suppose the girl can't help being attractive, though
I don't say she's what you might call stand-offish in her manner. She's
sincerely fond of Brotherton, I think, though--that's his name."

Wimsey nodded inattentively. "I suppose life is a bit monotonous here,"
he said.

"Professionally, yes. Births and drunks and wife-beatings are pretty
common. And all the usual ailments, of course. Just at present I'm
living on infant diarrhœa chiefly--bound to, this hot weather, you
know. With the autumn, 'flu and bronchitis set in. I may get an
occasional pneumonia. Legs, of course, and varicose veins----God!"
cried the doctor explosively, "if only I could get away, and do my
experiments!"

"Ah!" said Peter, "where's that eccentric old millionaire with a
mysterious disease, who always figures in the novels? A lightning
diagnosis--a miraculous cure--'God bless you, doctor; here are five
thousand pounds'--Harley Street----"

"That sort doesn't live in Bloomsbury," said the doctor.

"It must be fascinatin', diagnosin' things," said Peter thoughtfully.
"How d'you do it? I mean, is there a regular set of symptoms for each
disease, like callin' a club to show you want your partner to go no
trumps? You don't just say: 'This fellow's got a pimple on his nose,
therefore he has fatty degeneration of the heart----'"

"I hope not," said the doctor drily.

"Or is it more like gettin' a clue to a crime?" went on Peter. "You
see somethin'--a room, or a body, say, all knocked about anyhow, and
there's a damn sight of symptoms of somethin' wrong, and you've got
just to pick out the ones which tell the story?"

"That's more like it," said Dr. Hartman. "Some symptoms are significant
in themselves--like the condition of the gums in scurvy, let us
say--others in conjunction with----"

He broke off, and both sprang to their feet as a shrill scream sounded
suddenly from the flat above, followed by a heavy thud. A man's voice
cried out lamentably; feet ran violently to and fro; then, as the
doctor and his guests stood frozen in consternation, came the man
himself--falling down the stairs in his haste, hammering at Hartman's
door.

"Help! Help! Let me in! My wife! He's murdered her!"

       *       *       *       *       *

They ran hastily to the door and let him in. He was a big, fair man, in
his shirt-sleeves and stockings. His hair stood up, and his face was
set in bewildered misery.

"She is dead--dead. He was her lover," he groaned. "Come and look--take
her away----Doctor! I have lost my wife! My Maddalena----" He paused,
looked wildly for a moment, and then said hoarsely, "Someone's been
in--somehow--stabbed her--murdered her. I'll have the law on him,
doctor. Come quickly--she was cooking the chicken for my dinner.
Ah-h-h!"

He gave a long, hysterical shriek, which ended in a hiccupping laugh.
The doctor took him roughly by the arm and shook him. "Pull yourself
together, Mr. Brotherton," he said sharply. "Perhaps she is only hurt.
Stand out of the way!"

"Only hurt?" said the man, sitting heavily down on the nearest chair.
"No--no--she is dead--little Maddalena----Oh, my God!"

Dr. Hartman snatched a roll of bandages and a few surgical appliances
from the consulting-room, and he ran upstairs, followed closely by Lord
Peter. Bunter remained for a few moments to combat hysterics with cold
water. Then he stepped across to the dining-room window and shouted.

"Well, wot is it?" cried a voice from the street.

"Would you be so kind as to step in here a minute, officer?" said Mr.
Bunter. "There's been murder done."

       *       *       *       *       *

When Brotherton and Bunter arrived upstairs with the constable, they
found Dr. Hartman and Lord Peter in the little kitchen. The doctor was
kneeling beside the woman's body. At their entrance he looked up, and
shook his head.

"Death instantaneous," he said. "Clean through the heart. Poor child.
She cannot have suffered at all. Oh, constable, it is very fortunate
you are here. Murder appears to have been done--though I'm afraid the
man has escaped. Probably Mr. Brotherton can give us some help. He was
in the flat at the time."

The man had sunk down on a chair, and was gazing at the body with
a face from which all meaning seemed to have been struck out. The
policeman produced a notebook.

"Now, sir," he said, "don't let's waste any time. Sooner we can get to
work the more likely we are to catch our man. Now, you was 'ere at the
time, was you?"

Brotherton stared a moment, then, making a violent effort, he answered
steadily:

"I was in the sitting-room, smoking and reading the paper.
My--_she_--was getting the dinner ready in here. I heard her give a
scream, and I rushed in and found her lying on the floor. She didn't
have time to say anything. When I found she was dead, I rushed to the
window, and saw the fellow scrambling away over the glass roof there. I
yelled at him, but he disappeared. Then I ran down----"

"'Arf a mo'," said the policeman. "Now, see 'ere, sir, didn't you think
to go after 'im at once?"

"My first thought was for her," said the man. "I thought maybe she
wasn't dead. I tried to bring her round----" His speech ended in a
groan.

"You say he came in through the window," said the policeman.

"I beg your pardon, officer," interrupted Lord Peter, who had been
apparently making a mental inventory of the contents of the kitchen.
"Mr. Brotherton suggested that the man went _out_ through the window.
It's better to be accurate."

"It's the same thing," said the doctor. "It's the only way he could
have come in. These flats are all alike. The staircase door leads into
the sitting-room, and Mr. Brotherton was there, so the man couldn't
have come that way."

"And," said Peter, "he didn't get in through the bedroom window, or we
should have seen him. We were in the room below. Unless, indeed, he let
himself down from the roof. Was the door between the bedroom and the
sitting-room open?" he asked suddenly, turning to Brotherton.

The man hesitated a moment. "Yes," he said finally. "Yes, I'm sure it
was."

"Could you have seen the man if he had come through the bedroom window?"

"I couldn't have helped seeing him."

"Come, come, sir," said the policeman, with some irritation, "better
let _me_ ask the questions. Stands to reason the fellow wouldn't get in
through the bedroom window in full view of the street."

"How clever of you to think of that," said Wimsey. "Of course not.
Never occurred to me. Then it must have been this window, as you say."

"And, what's more, here's his marks on the window-sill," said the
constable triumphantly, pointing to some blurred traces among the
London soot. "That's right. Down he goes by that drain-pipe, over the
glass roof down there--what's that the roof of?"

"My laboratory," said the doctor. "Heavens! to think that while we were
there at dinner this murdering villain----"

"Quite so, sir," agreed the constable. "Well, he'd get away over
the wall into the court be'ind. 'E'll 'ave been seen there, no
fear; you needn't anticipate much trouble in layin' 'ands on 'im,
sir. I'll go round there in 'arf a tick. Now then, sir"--turning to
Brotherton--"'ave you any idea wot this party might have looked like?"

Brotherton lifted a wild face, and the doctor interposed.

"I think you ought to know, constable," he said, "that there was--well,
not a murderous attack, but what might have been one, made on this
woman before--about eight weeks ago--by a man named Marincetti--an
Italian waiter--with a knife."

"Ah!" The policeman licked his pencil eagerly. "Do you know this party
as 'as been mentioned?" he enquired of Brotherton.

"That's the man," said Brotherton, with concentrated fury. "Coming here
after my wife--God curse him! I wish to God I had him dead here beside
her!"

"Quite so," said the policeman. "Now, sir"--to the doctor--"'ave you
got the weapon wot the crime was committed with?"

"No," said Hartman, "there was no weapon in the body when I arrived."

"Did _you_ take it out?" pursued the constable, to Brotherton.

"No," said Brotherton, "he took it with him."

"Took it with 'im," the constable entered the fact in his notes. "Phew!
Wonderful 'ot it is in 'ere, ain't it, sir?" he added, mopping his brow.

"It's the gas-oven, I think," said Peter mildly. "Uncommon hot thing, a
gas-oven, in the middle of July. D'you mind if I turn it out? There's
the chicken inside, but I don't suppose you want----"

Brotherton groaned, and the constable said: "Quite right, sir. A man
wouldn't 'ardly fancy 'is dinner after a thing like this. Thank you,
sir. Well now, doctor, wot kind of weapon do you take this to 'ave
been?"

"It was a long, narrow weapon--something like an Italian stiletto,
I imagine," said the doctor, "about six inches long. It was thrust
in with great force under the fifth rib, and I should say it had
pierced the heart centrally. As you see, there has been practically no
bleeding. Such a wound would cause instant death. Was she lying just as
she is now when you first saw her, Mr. Brotherton?"

"On her back, just as she is," replied the husband.

"Well, that seems clear enough," said the policeman. "This 'ere
Marinetti, or wotever 'is name is, 'as a grudge against the poor young
lady----"

"I believe he was an admirer," put in the doctor.

"Quite so," agreed the constable. "Of course, these foreigners are
like that--even the decentest of 'em. Stabbin' and such-like seems
to come nateral to them, as you might say. Well, this 'ere Marinetti
climbs in 'ere, sees the poor young lady standin' 'ere by the table all
alone, gettin' the dinner ready; 'e comes in be'ind, catches 'er round
the waist, stabs 'er--easy job, you see; no corsets nor nothink--she
shrieks out, 'e pulls 'is stiletty out of 'er an' makes tracks. Well,
now we've got to find 'im, and by your leave, sir, I'll be gettin'
along. We'll 'ave 'im by the 'eels before long, sir, don't you worry.
I'll 'ave to put a man in charge 'ere, sir, to keep folks out, but that
needn't worry you. Good mornin', gentlemen."

"May we move the poor girl now?" asked the doctor.

"Certainly. Like me to 'elp you, sir?"

"No. Don't lose any time. We can manage." Dr. Hartman turned to Peter
as the constable clattered downstairs. "Will you help me, Lord Peter?"

"Bunter's better at that sort of thing," said Wimsey, with a hard mouth.

The doctor looked at him in some surprise, but said nothing, and he and
Bunter carried the still form away. Brotherton did not follow them. He
sat in a grief-stricken heap, with his head buried in his hands. Lord
Peter walked about the little kitchen, turning over the various knives
and kitchen utensils, peering into the sink bucket, and apparently
taking an inventory of the bread, butter, condiments, vegetables, and
so forth which lay about in preparation for the Sunday meal. There were
potatoes in the sink, half peeled, a pathetic witness to the quiet
domestic life which had been so horribly interrupted. The colander was
filled with green peas. Lord Peter turned these things over with an
inquisitive finger, gazed into the smooth surface of a bowl of dripping
as though it were a divining-crystal, ran his hands several times right
through a bowl of flour--then drew his pipe from his pocket and filled
it slowly.

The doctor returned, and put his hand on Brotherton's shoulder.

"Come," he said gently, "we have laid her in the other bedroom. She
looks very peaceful. You must remember that, except for that moment of
terror when she saw the knife, she suffered nothing. It is terrible for
you, but you must try not to give way. The police----"

"The police can't bring her back to life," said the man savagely.
"She's dead. Leave me alone, curse you! Leave me alone, I say!"

He stood up, with a violent gesture.

"You must not sit here," said Hartman firmly. "I will give you
something to take, and you must try to keep calm. Then we will leave
you, but if you don't control yourself----"

After some further persuasion, Brotherton allowed himself to be led
away.

"Bunter," said Lord Peter, as the kitchen door closed behind them, "do
you know why I am doubtful about the success of those rat experiments?"

"Meaning Mr. Hartman's, my lord?"

"Yes. Dr. Hartman has a theory. In any investigations, my Bunter, it is
most damnably dangerous to have a theory."

"I have heard you say so, my lord."

"Confound you--you know it as well as I do! What is wrong with the
doctor's theories, Bunter?"

"You wish me to reply, my lord, that he only sees the facts which fit
in with the theory."

"Thought-reader!" exclaimed Lord Peter bitterly.

"And that he supplies them to the police, my lord."

"Hush!" said Peter, as the doctor returned.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I have got him to lie down," said Dr. Hartman, "and I think the best
thing we can do is to leave him to himself."

"D'you know," said Wimsey, "I don't cotton to that idea, somehow."

"Why? Do you think he's likely to destroy himself?"

"That's as good a reason to give as any other, I suppose," said Wimsey,
"when you haven't got any reason which can be put into words. But my
advice is, don't leave him for a moment."

"But why? Frequently, with a deep grief like this, the presence of
other people is merely an irritant. He begged me to leave him."

"Then for God's sake go back to him," said Peter.

"Really, Lord Peter," said the doctor, "I think I ought to know what is
best for my patient."

"Doctor," said Wimsey, "this is not a question of your patient. A crime
has been committed."

"But there is no mystery."

"There are twenty mysteries. For one thing, when was the window-cleaner
here last?"

"The window-cleaner?"

"Who shall fathom the ebony-black enigma of the window-cleaner?"
pursued Peter lightly, putting a match to his pipe. "You are quietly
in your bath, in a state of more or less innocent nature, when an
intrusive head appears at the window, like the ghost of Hamilton Tighe,
and a gruff voice, suspended between earth and heaven, says 'Good
morning, sir.' Where do window-cleaners go between visits? Do they
hibernate, like busy bees? Do they----?"

"Really, Lord Peter," said the doctor, "don't you think you're going a
bit beyond the limit?"

"Sorry you feel like that," said Peter, "but I really want to know
about the window-cleaner. Look how clear these panes are."

"He came yesterday, if you want to know," said Dr. Hartman, rather
stiffly.

"You are sure?"

"He did mine at the same time."

"I thought as much," said Lord Peter. "In the words of the song:

                "I thought as much,
    It was a little--window-cleaner,

In that case," he added, "it is absolutely imperative that Brotherton
should not be left alone for a moment. Bunter! Confound it all, where's
that fellow got to?"

The door into the bedroom opened.

"My lord?" Mr. Bunter unobtrusively appeared, as he had unobtrusively
stolen out to keep an unobtrusive eye upon the patient.

"Good," said Wimsey. "Stay where you are." His lackadaisical manner had
gone, and he looked at the doctor as four years previously he might
have looked at a refractory subaltern.

"Dr. Hartman," he said, "something is wrong. Cast your mind back. We
were talking about symptoms. Then came the scream. Then came the sound
of feet running. _Which direction did they run in?_"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"Don't you? Symptomatic, though, doctor. They have been troubling
me all the time, subconsciously. Now I know why. They ran _from the
kitchen_."

"Well?"

"Well! And now the window-cleaner----"

"What about him?"

"Could you swear that it wasn't the window-cleaner who made those marks
on the sill?"

"And the man Brotherton saw----?"

"Have we examined your laboratory roof for his footsteps?"

"But the weapon? Wimsey, this is madness! Someone took the weapon."

"I know. But did you think the edge of the wound was clean enough to
have been made by a smooth stiletto? It looked ragged to me."

"Wimsey, what are you driving at?"

"There's a clue here in the flat--and I'm damned if I can remember
it. I've seen it--I know I've seen it. It'll come to me presently.
Meanwhile, don't let Brotherton----"

"What?"

"Do whatever it is he's going to do."

"But what is it?"

"If I could tell you that I could show you the clue. Why couldn't he
make up his mind whether the bedroom door was open or shut? Very good
story, but not quite thought out. Anyhow--I say, doctor, make some
excuse, and strip him, and bring me his clothes. And send Bunter to me."

The doctor stared at him, puzzled. Then he made a gesture of
acquiescence and passed into the bedroom. Lord Peter followed him,
casting a ruminating glance at Brotherton as he went. Once in the
sitting-room, Lord Peter sat down on a red velvet arm-chair, fixed his
eyes on a gilt-framed oleograph, and became wrapped in contemplation.

Presently Bunter came in, with his arms full of clothing. Wimsey took
it, and began to search it, methodically enough, but listlessly.
Suddenly he dropped the garments, and turned to the manservant.

"No," he said, "this is a precaution, Bunter mine, but I'm on the wrong
track. It wasn't here I saw--whatever I did see. It was in the kitchen.
Now, what was it?"

"I could not say, my lord, but I entertain a conviction that I was
also, in a manner of speaking, conscious--not consciously conscious, my
lord, if you understand me, but still conscious of an incongruity."

"Hurray!" said Wimsey suddenly. "Cheer-oh! for the sub-conscious
what's-his-name! Now let's remember the kitchen. I cleared out of
it because I was gettin' obfuscated. Now then. Begin at the door.
Fryin'-pans and saucepans on the wall. Gas-stove--oven goin'--chicken
inside. Rack of wooden spoons on the wall, gas-lighter, pan-lifter.
Stop me when I'm gettin' hot. Mantelpiece. Spice-boxes and stuff.
Anything wrong with them? No. Dresser. Plates. Knives and forks--all
clean; flour dredger--milk-jug--sieve on the wall--nutmeg-grater.
Three-tier steamer. Looked inside--no grisly secrets in the steamer."

"Did you look in all the dresser drawers, my lord?"

"No. That could be done. But the point is, I _did_ notice somethin'.
What did I notice? That's the point. Never mind. On with the dance--let
joy be unconfined! Knife-board. Knife-powder. Kitchen table. Did you
speak?"

"No," said Bunter, who had moved from his attitude of wooden deference.

"Table stirs a chord. Very good. On table. Choppin'-board. Remains of
ham and herb stuffin'. Packet of suet. Another sieve. Several plates.
Butter in a glass dish. Bowl of drippin'----"

"Ah!"

"Drippin'----! Yes, there was----"

"Something unsatisfactory, my lord----"

"About the drippin'! Oh, my head! What's that they say in _Dear
Brutus_, Bunter? 'Hold on to the workbox.' That's right. Hold on to the
drippin'. Beastly slimy stuff to hold on to----Wait!"

There was a pause.

"When I was a kid," said Wimsey, "I used to love to go down into the
kitchen and talk to old cookie. Good old soul she was, too. I can see
her now, gettin' chicken ready, with me danglin' my legs on the table.
_She_ used to pluck an' draw 'em herself. I revelled in it. Little
beasts boys are, ain't they, Bunter? Pluck it, draw it, wash it, stuff
it, tuck its little tail through its little what-you-may-call-it, truss
it, grease the dish----Bunter?"

"My lord!"

"Hold on to the dripping!"

"The bowl, my lord----"

"The bowl--visualise it--what was wrong!"

"It was full, my lord!"

"Got it--got it--_got_ it! The bowl was full--smooth surface. Golly! I
knew there was something queer about it. Now why shouldn't it be full?
Hold on to the----"

"The bird was in the oven."

"Without dripping!"

"Very careless cookery, my lord."

"The bird--in the oven--no dripping, Bunter! Suppose it was never put
in till after she was dead? Thrust in hurriedly by someone who had
something to hide--horrible!"

"But with what object, my lord?"

"Yes, why? That's the point. One more mental association with the bird.
It's just coming. Wait a moment. Pluck, draw, wash, stuff, tuck up,
truss----By God!"

"My lord?"

"Come on, Bunter. Thank Heaven we turned off the gas!"

He dashed through the bedroom, disregarding the doctor and the patient,
who sat up with a smothered shriek. He flung open the oven door and
snatched out the baking-tin. The skin of the bird had just begun to
discolour. With a little gasp of triumph, Wimsey caught the iron ring
that protruded from the wing, and jerked out--the six-inch spiral
skewer.

The doctor was struggling with the excited Brotherton in the doorway.
Wimsey caught the man as he broke away, and shook him into the corner
with a jiu-jitsu twist.

"Here is the weapon," he said.

"Prove it, blast you!" said Brotherton savagely.

"I will," said Wimsey. "Bunter, call in the policeman whom you will
find at the door. Doctor, we shall need your microscope."

       *       *       *       *       *

In the laboratory the doctor bent over the microscope. A thin layer of
blood from the skewer had been spread upon the slide.

"Well?" said Wimsey impatiently.

"It's all right," said Hartman. "The roasting didn't get anywhere
near the middle. My God, Wimsey, yes, you're right--round corpuscles,
diameter 1/3621--mammalian blood--probably human----"

"Her blood," said Wimsey.

       *       *       *       *       *

"It was very clever, Bunter," said Lord Peter, as the taxi trundled
along on the way to his flat in Piccadilly. "If that fowl had gone
on roasting a bit longer the blood-corpuscles might easily have been
destroyed beyond all hope of recognition. It all goes to show that the
unpremeditated crime is usually the safest."

"And what does your lordship take the man's motive to have been?"

"In my youth," said Wimsey meditatively, "they used to make me read the
Bible. Trouble was, the only books I ever took to naturally were the
ones they weren't over and above keen on. But I got to know the Song of
Songs pretty well by heart. Look it up, Bunter; at your age it won't
hurt you; it talks sense about jealousy."

"I have perused the work in question, your lordship," replied Mr.
Bunter, with a sallow blush. "It says, if I remember rightly:
'_Jealousy is cruel as the grave_'."




              THE BIBULOUS BUSINESS OF A MATTER OF TASTE


"Halte-là!... Attention!... F----e!"

The young man in the grey suit pushed his way through the protesting
porters and leapt nimbly for the footboard of the guard's van as the
Paris-Evreux express steamed out of the Invalides. The guard, with an
eye to a tip, fielded him adroitly from among the detaining hands.

"It is happy for monsieur that he is so agile," he remarked. "Monsieur
is in a hurry?"

"Somewhat. Thank you. I can get through by the corridor?"

"But certainly. The _premières_ are two coaches away, beyond the
luggage-van."

The young man rewarded his rescuer, and made his way forward, mopping
his face. As he passed the piled-up luggage, something caught his eye,
and he stopped to investigate. It was a suit-case, nearly new, of
expensive-looking leather, labelled conspicuously:

    LORD PETER WIMSEY,
        Hôtel Saumon d'Or,
            Verneuil-sur-Eure

and bore witness to its itinerary thus:

    LONDON--PARIS
    (Waterloo) (Gare St. Lazare)
      via Southampton-Havre

    PARIS--VERNEUIL
    (Ch. de Fer de l'Ouest)

The young man whistled, and sat down on a trunk to think it out.

Somewhere there had been a leakage, and they were on his trail. Nor
did they care who knew it. There were hundreds of people in London and
Paris who would know the name of Wimsey, not counting the police of
both countries. In addition to belonging to one of the oldest ducal
families in England, Lord Peter had made himself conspicuous by his
meddling with crime detection. A label like this was a gratuitous
advertisement.

But the amazing thing was that the pursuers were not troubling to hide
themselves from the pursued. That argued very great confidence. That he
should have got into the guard's van was, of course, an accident, but,
even so, he might have seen it on the platform, or anywhere.

An accident? It occurred to him--not for the first time, but definitely
now, and without doubt--that it was indeed an accident for them that
he was here. The series of maddening delays that had held him up
between London and the Invalides presented itself to him with an air
of pre-arrangement. The preposterous accusation, for instance, of
the woman who had accosted him in Piccadilly, and the slow process
of extricating himself at Marlborough Street. It was easy to hold a
man up on some trumped-up charge till an important plan had matured.
Then there was the lavatory door at Waterloo, which had so ludicrously
locked itself upon him. Being athletic, he had climbed over the
partition, to find the attendant mysteriously absent. And, in Paris,
was it by chance that he had had a deaf taxi-driver, who mistook the
direction "Quai d'Orléans" for "Gare de Lyon," and drove a mile and a
half in the wrong direction before the shouts of his fare attracted
his attention? They were clever, the pursuers, and circumspect. They
had accurate information; they would delay him, but without taking any
overt step; they knew that, if only they could keep time on their side,
they needed no other ally.

Did they know he was on the train? If not, he still kept the advantage,
for they would travel in a false security, thinking him to be left,
raging and helpless, in the Invalides. He decided to make a cautious
reconnaissance.

The first step was to change his grey suit for another of inconspicuous
navy-blue cloth, which he had in his small black bag. This he did in
the privacy of the toilet, substituting for his grey soft hat a large
travelling-cap, which pulled well down over his eyes.

There was little difficulty in locating the man he was in search of.
He found him seated in the inner corner of a first-class compartment,
facing the engine, so that the watcher could approach unseen from
behind. On the rack was a handsome dressing-case, with the initials P.
D. B. W. The young man was familiar with Wimsey's narrow, beaky face,
flat yellow hair, and insolent dropped eyelids. He smiled a little
grimly.

"He is confident," he thought, "and has regrettably made the mistake of
underrating the enemy. Good! This is where I retire into a _seconde_
and keep my eyes open. The next act of this melodrama will take place,
I fancy, at Dreux."

       *       *       *       *       *

It is a rule on the Chemin de Fer de l'Ouest that all Paris-Evreux
trains, whether of Grande Vitesse or what Lord Peter Wimsey preferred
to call Grande Paresse, shall halt for an interminable period at Dreux.
The young man (now in navy-blue) watched his quarry safely into the
refreshment-room, and slipped unobtrusively out of the station. In a
quarter of an hour he was back--this time in a heavy motoring-coat,
helmet, and goggles, at the wheel of a powerful hired Peugeot. Coming
quietly on to the platform, he took up his station behind the wall of
the _lampisterie_, whence he could keep an eye on the train and the
buffet door. After fifteen minutes his patience was rewarded by the
sight of his man again boarding the express, dressing-case in hand. The
porters slammed the doors, crying: "Next stop Verneuil!" The engine
panted and groaned; the long train of grey-green carriages clanked
slowly away. The motorist drew a breath of satisfaction, and, hurrying
past the barrier, started up the car. He knew that he had a good eighty
miles an hour under his bonnet, and there is no speed-limit in France.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mon Souci, the seat of that eccentric and eremitical genius the
Comte de Rueil, is situated three kilometres from Verneuil. It is a
sorrowful and decayed château, desolate at the termination of its
neglected avenue of pines. The mournful state of a nobility without an
allegiance surrounds it. The stone nymphs droop greenly over their
dry and mouldering fountains. An occasional peasant creaks with a
single wagon-load of wood along the ill-forested glades. It has the
atmosphere of sunset at all hours of the day. The woodwork is dry and
gaping for lack of paint. Through the jalousies one sees the prim
_salon_, with its beautiful and faded furniture. Even the last of its
ill-dressed, ill-favoured women has withered away from Mon Souci, with
her inbred, exaggerated features and her long white gloves. But at the
rear of the château a chimney smokes incessantly. It is the furnace
of the laboratory, the only living and modern thing among the old and
dying; the only place tended and loved, petted and spoiled, heir to
the long solicitude which counts of a more light-hearted day had given
to stable and kennel, portrait-gallery and ballroom. And below, in the
cool cellar, lie row upon row the dusty bottles, each an enchanted
glass coffin in which the Sleeping Beauty of the vine grows ever more
ravishing in sleep.

As the Peugeot came to a standstill in the courtyard, the driver
observed with considerable surprise that he was not the count's only
visitor. An immense super-Renault, like a _merveilleuse_ of the
Directoire, all bonnet and no body, had been drawn so ostentatiously
across the entrance as to embarrass the approach of any new-comer. Its
glittering panels were embellished with a coat of arms, and the count's
elderly servant was at that moment staggering beneath the weight of two
large and elaborate suit-cases, bearing in silver letters that could be
read a mile away the legend: "LORD PETER WIMSEY."

The Peugeot driver gazed with astonishment at this display, and grinned
sardonically. "Lord Peter seems rather ubiquitous in this country," he
observed to himself. Then, taking pen and paper from his bag, he busied
himself with a little letter-writing. By the time that the suit-cases
had been carried in, and the Renault had purred its smooth way to the
outbuildings, the document was complete and enclosed in an envelope
addressed to the Comte de Rueil. "The hoist with his own petard touch,"
said the young man, and, stepping up to the door, presented the
envelope to the manservant.

"I am the bearer of a letter of introduction to monsieur le comte," he
said. "Will you have the obligingness to present it to him? My name is
Bredon--Death Bredon."

The man bowed, and begged him to enter.

"If monsieur will have the goodness to seat himself in the hall for a
few moments. Monsieur le comte is engaged with another gentleman, but I
will lose no time in making monsieur's arrival known."

The young man sat down and waited. The windows of the hall looked out
upon the entrance, and it was not long before the château's sleep was
disturbed by the hooting of yet another motor-horn. A station taxi-cab
came noisily up the avenue. The man from the first-class carriage and
the luggage labelled P. D. B. W. were deposited upon the doorstep.
Lord Peter Wimsey dismissed the driver and rang the bell.

"Now," said Mr. Bredon, "the fun is going to begin." He effaced himself
as far as possible in the shadow of a tall _armoire normande_.

"Good evening," said the new-comer to the manservant, in admirable
French, "I am Lord Peter Wimsey. I arrive upon the invitation of
Monsieur le comte de Rueil. Monsieur le comte is at liberty?"

"Milord Peter Wimsey? Pardon, monsieur, but I do not understand. Milord
de Wimsey is already arrived and is with monsieur le comte at this
moment."

"You surprise me," said the other, with complete imperturbability, "for
certainly no one but myself has any right to that name. It seems as
though some person more ingenious than honest has had the bright idea
of impersonating me."

The servant was clearly at a loss.

"Perhaps," he suggested, "monsieur can show his _papiers d'identité_."

"Although it is somewhat unusual to produce one's credentials on the
doorstep when paying a private visit," replied his lordship, with
unaltered good humour, "I have not the slightest objection. Here is my
passport, here is a _permis de séjour_ granted to me in Paris, here my
visiting-card, and here a quantity of correspondence addressed to me
at the Hôtel Meurice, Paris, at my flat in Piccadilly, London, at the
Marlborough Club, London, and at my brother's house at King's Denver.
Is that sufficiently in order?"

The servant perused the documents carefully, appearing particularly
impressed by the _permis de séjour_.

"It appears there is some mistake," he murmured dubiously; "if monsieur
will follow me, I will acquaint monsieur le comte."

They disappeared through the folding doors at the back of the hall, and
Bredon was left alone.

"Quite a little boom in Richmonds to-day," he observed, "each of us
more unscrupulous than the last. The occasion obviously calls for a
refined subtlety of method."

After what he judged to be a hectic ten minutes in the count's library,
the servant reappeared, searching for him.

"Monsieur le comte's compliments, and would monsieur step this way?"

Bredon entered the room with a jaunty step. He had created for
himself the mastery of this situation. The count, a thin, elderly
man, his fingers deeply stained with chemicals, sat, with a perturbed
expression, at his desk. In two arm-chairs sat the two Wimseys. Bredon
noted that, while the Wimsey he had seen in the train (whom he mentally
named Peter I) retained his unruffled smile, Peter II (he of the
Renault) had the flushed and indignant air of an Englishman affronted.
The two men were superficially alike--both fair, lean, and long-nosed,
with the nondescript, inelastic face which predominates in any assembly
of well bred Anglo-Saxons.

"Mr. Bredon," said the count, "I am charmed to have the pleasure of
making your acquaintance, and regret that I must at once call upon you
for a service as singular as it is important. You have presented to me
a letter of introduction from your cousin, Lord Peter Wimsey. Will you
now be good enough to inform me which of these gentlemen he is?"

Bredon let his glance pass slowly from the one claimant to the other,
meditating what answer would best serve his own ends. One, at any rate,
of the men in this room was a formidable intellect, trained in the
detection of imposture.

"Well?" said Peter II. "Are you going to acknowledge me, Bredon?"

Peter I extracted a cigarette from a silver case. "Your confederate
does not seem very well up in his part," he remarked, with a quiet
smile at Peter II.

"Monsieur le comte," said Bredon, "I regret extremely that I cannot
assist you in the matter. My acquaintance with my cousin, like your
own, has been made and maintained entirely through correspondence on
a subject of common interest. My profession," he added, "has made me
unpopular with my family."

There was a very slight sigh of relief somewhere. The false
Wimsey--whichever he was--had gained a respite. Bredon smiled.

"An excellent move, Mr. Bredon," said Peter I, "but it will hardly
explain----Allow me." He took the letter from the count's hesitating
hand. "It will hardly explain the fact that the ink of this letter of
recommendation, dated three weeks ago, is even now scarcely dry--though
I congratulate you on the very plausible imitation of my handwriting."

"If _you_ can forge my handwriting," said Peter II, "so can this Mr.
Bredon." He read the letter aloud over his double's shoulder.

"'Monsieur le comte--I have the honour to present to you my friend
and cousin, Mr. Death Bredon, who, I understand, is to be travelling
in your part of France next month. He is very anxious to view your
interesting library. Although a journalist by profession, he really
knows something about books.' I am delighted to learn for the first
time that I have such a cousin. An interviewer's trick, I fancy,
monsieur le comte. Fleet Street appears well informed about our family
names. Possibly it is equally well informed about the object of my
visit to Mon Souci?"

"If," said Bredon boldly, "you refer to the acquisition of the de Rueil
formula for poison gas for the British Government, I can answer for
my own knowledge, though possibly the rest of Fleet Street is less
completely enlightened." He weighed his words carefully now, warned by
his slip. The sharp eyes and detective ability of Peter I alarmed him
far more than the caustic tongue of Peter II.

The count uttered an exclamation of dismay.

"Gentlemen," he said, "one thing is obvious--that there has been
somewhere a disastrous leakage of information. Which of you is the Lord
Peter Wimsey to whom I should entrust the formula I do not know. Both
of you are supplied with papers of identity; both appear completely
instructed in this matter; both of your handwritings correspond with
the letters I have previously received from Lord Peter, and both of
you have offered me the sum agreed upon in Bank of England notes. In
addition, this third gentleman arrives endowed with an equal facility
in handwritings, an introductory letter surrounded by most suspicious
circumstances, and a degree of acquaintance with this whole matter
which alarms me. I can see but one solution. All of you must remain
here at the château while I send to England for some elucidation of
this mystery. To the genuine Lord Peter I offer my apologies, and
assure him that I will endeavour to make his stay as agreeable as
possible. Will this satisfy you? It will? I am delighted to hear it.
My servants will show you to your bedrooms, and dinner will be at
half-past seven."

       *       *       *       *       *

"It is delightful to think," said Mr. Bredon, as he fingered his glass
and passed it before his nostrils with the air of a connoisseur, "that
whichever of these gentlemen has the right to the name which he assumes
is assured to-night of a truly Olympian satisfaction." His impudence
had returned to him, and he challenged the company with an air. "Your
cellars, monsieur le comte, are as well known among men endowed with
a palate as your talents among men of science. No eloquence could say
more."

The two Lord Peters murmured assent.

"I am the more pleased by your commendation," said the count, "that it
suggests to me a little test which, with your kind co-operation, will,
I think, assist us very much in determining which of you gentlemen
is Lord Peter Wimsey and which his talented impersonator. Is it not
matter of common notoriety that Lord Peter has a palate for wine almost
unequalled in Europe?"

"You flatter me, monsieur le comte," said Peter II modestly.

"I wouldn't like to say unequalled," said Peter I, chiming in like a
well-trained duet; "let's call it fair to middling. Less liable to
misconstruction and all that."

"Your lordship does yourself an injustice," said Bredon, addressing
both men with impartial deference. "The bet which you won from Mr.
Frederick Arbuthnot at the Egotists' Club, when he challenged you to
name the vintage years of seventeen wines blindfold, received its due
prominence in the _Evening Wire_."

"I was in extra form that night," said Peter I.

"A fluke," laughed Peter II.

"The test I propose, gentlemen, is on similar lines," pursued the
count, "though somewhat less strenuous. There are six courses ordered
for dinner to-night. With each we will drink a different wine, which
my butler shall bring in with the label concealed. You shall each in
turn give me your opinion upon the vintage. By this means we shall
perhaps arrive at something, since the most brilliant forger--of whom I
gather I have at least two at my table to-night--can scarcely forge a
palate for wine. If too hazardous a mixture of wines should produce a
temporary incommodity in the morning, you will, I feel sure, suffer it
gladly for this once in the cause of truth."

The two Wimseys bowed.

"_In vino veritas_," said Mr. Bredon, with a laugh. He at least was
well seasoned, and foresaw opportunities for himself.

"Accident, and my butler, having placed you at my right hand,
monsieur," went on the count, addressing Peter I, "I will ask you to
begin by pronouncing, as accurately as may be, upon the wine which you
have just drunk."

"That is scarcely a searching ordeal," said the other, with a smile. "I
can say definitely that it is a very pleasant and well-matured Chablis
Moutonne; and, since ten years is an excellent age for a Chablis--a
real Chablis--I should vote for 1916, which was perhaps the best of the
war vintages in that district."

"Have you anything to add to that opinion, monsieur?" enquired the
count, deferentially, of Peter II.

"I wouldn't like to be dogmatic to a year or so," said that gentleman
critically, "but if I must commit myself, don't you know, I should say
1915--decidedly 1915."

The count bowed, and turned to Bredon.

"Perhaps you, too, monsieur, would be interested to give an opinion,"
he suggested, with the exquisite courtesy always shown to the plain man
in the society of experts.

"I'd rather not set a standard which I might not be able to live up
to," replied Bredon, a little maliciously. "I know that it is 1915, for
I happened to see the label."

Peter II looked a little disconcerted.

"We will arrange matters better in future," said the count. "Pardon
me." He stepped apart for a few moments' conference with the butler,
who presently advanced to remove the oysters and bring in the soup.

The next candidate for attention arrived swathed to the lip in damask.

"It is your turn to speak first, monsieur," said the count to Peter II.
"Permit me to offer you an olive to cleanse the palate. No haste, I
beg. Even for the most excellent political ends, good wine must not be
used with disrespect."

The rebuke was not unnecessary, for, after a preliminary sip, Peter II
had taken a deep draught of the heady white richness. Under Peter I's
quizzical eye he wilted quite visibly.

"It is--it is Sauterne," he began, and stopped. Then, gathering
encouragement from Bredon's smile, he said, with more aplomb, "Château
Yquem, 1911--ah! the queen of white wines, sir, as what's-his-name
says." He drained his glass defiantly.

The count's face was a study as he slowly detached his fascinated gaze
from Peter II to fix it on Peter I.

"If I had to be impersonated by somebody," murmured the latter gently,
"it would have been more flattering to have had it undertaken by a
person to whom all white wines were _not_ alike. Well, now, sir, this
admirable vintage is, of course, a Montrachet of--let me see"--he
rolled the wine delicately upon his tongue--"of 1911. And a very
attractive wine it is, though, with all due deference to yourself,
monsieur le comte, I feel that it is perhaps slightly too sweet to
occupy its present place in the menu. True, with this excellent
_consommé marmite_, a sweetish wine is not altogether out of place,
but, in my own humble opinion, it would have shown to better advantage
with the _confitures_."

"There, now," said Bredon innocently, "it just shows how one may be
misled. Had not I had the advantage of Lord Peter's expert opinion--for
certainly nobody who could mistake Montrachet for Sauterne has any
claim to the name of Wimsey--I should have pronounced this to be,
not the Montrachet-Aîné, but the Chevalier-Montrachet of the same
year, which is a trifle sweeter. But no doubt, as your lordship says,
drinking it with the soup has caused it to appear sweeter to me than it
actually is."

The count looked sharply at him, but made no comment.

"Have another olive," said Peter I kindly. "You can't judge wine if
your mind is on other flavours."

"Thanks frightfully," said Bredon. "And that reminds me----" He
launched into a rather pointless story about olives, which lasted out
the soup and bridged the interval to the entrance of an exquisitely
cooked sole.

The count's eye followed the pale amber wine rather thoughtfully as
it trilled into the glasses. Bredon raised his in the approved manner
to his nostrils, and his face flushed a little. With the first sip he
turned excitedly to his host.

"Good God, sir----" he began.

The lifted hand cautioned him to silence.

Peter I sipped, inhaled, sipped again, and his brows clouded. Peter
II had by this time apparently abandoned his pretensions. He drank
thirstily, with a beaming smile and a lessening hold upon reality.

"Eh bien, monsieur?" enquired the count gently.

"This," said Peter I, "is certainly hock, and the noblest hock I have
ever tasted, but I must admit that for the moment I cannot precisely
place it."

"No?" said Bredon. His voice was like bean-honey now, sweet and harsh
together. "Nor the other gentleman? And yet I fancy I could place it
within a couple of miles, though it is a wine I had hardly looked to
find in a French cellar at this time. It is hock, as your lordship
says, and at that it is Johannisberger. Not the plebeian cousin, but
the _echter_ Schloss Johannisberger from the castle vineyard itself.
Your lordship must have missed it (to your great loss) during the war
years. My father laid some down the year before he died, but it appears
that the ducal cellars at Denver were less well furnished."

"I must set about remedying the omission," said the remaining Peter,
with determination.

The _poulet_ was served to the accompaniment of an argument over the
Lafitte, his lordship placing it at 1878, Bredon maintaining it to be a
relic of the glorious 'seventy-fives, slightly over-matured, but both
agreeing as to its great age and noble pedigree.

As to the Clos-Vougeôt, on the other hand, there was complete
agreement; after a tentative suggestion of 1915, it was pronounced
finally by Peter I to belong to the equally admirable though slightly
lighter 1911 crop. The _pré-salé_ was removed amid general applause,
and the dessert was brought in.

"Is it necessary," asked Peter I, with a slight smile in the direction
of Peter II--now happily murmuring, "Damn good wine, damn good dinner,
damn good show"--"is it necessary to prolong this farce any further?"

"Your lordship will not, surely, refuse to proceed with the
discussion?" cried the count.

"The point is sufficiently made, I fancy."

"But no one will surely ever refuse to discuss wine," said Bredon,
"least of all your lordship, who is so great an authority."

"Not on this," said the other. "Frankly, it is a wine I do not care
about. It is sweet and coarse, qualities that would damn any wine in
the eyes--the mouth, rather--of a connoisseur. Did your excellent
father have this laid down also, Mr. Bredon?"

Bredon shook his head.

"No," he said, "no. Genuine Imperial Tokay is beyond the opportunities
of Grub Street, I fear. Though I agree with you that it is horribly
overrated--with all due deference to yourself, monsieur le comte."

"In that case," said the count, "we will pass at once to the liqueur.
I admit that I had thought of puzzling these gentlemen with the local
product, but, since one competitor seems to have scratched, it shall be
brandy--the only fitting close to a good wine-list."

In a slightly embarrassing silence the huge, round-bellied balloon
glasses were set upon the table, and the few precious drops poured
gently into each and set lightly swinging to release the bouquet.

"This," said Peter I, charmed again into amiability, "is, indeed, a
wonderful old French brandy. Half a century old, I suppose."

"Your lordship's praise lacks warmth," replied Bredon. "This is _the_
brandy--the brandy of brandies--the superb--the incomparable--the true
Napoleon. It should be honoured like the emperor it is."

He rose to his feet, his napkin in his hand.

"Sir," said the count, turning to him, "I have on my right a most
admirable judge of wine, but you are unique." He motioned to Pierre,
who solemnly brought forward the empty bottles, unswathed now, from the
humble Chablis to the stately Napoleon, with the imperial seal blown
in the glass. "Every time you have been correct as to growth and year.
There cannot be six men in the world with such a palate as yours, and I
thought that but one of them was an Englishman. Will you not favour us,
this time, with your real name?"

"It doesn't matter what his name is," said Peter I. He rose. "Put up
your hands, all of you. Count, the formula!"

Bredon's hands came up with a jerk, still clutching the napkin. The
white folds spurted flame as his shot struck the other's revolver
cleanly between trigger and barrel, exploding the charge, to the
extreme detriment of the glass chandelier. Peter I stood shaking his
paralysed hand and cursing.

Bredon kept him covered while he cocked a wary eye at Peter II, who,
his rosy visions scattered by the report, seemed struggling back to
aggressiveness.

"Since the entertainment appears to be taking a lively turn," observed
Bredon, "perhaps you would be so good, count, as to search these
gentlemen for further firearms. Thank you. Now, why should we not all
sit down again and pass the bottle round?"

"You--_you_ are----" growled Peter I.

"Oh, my name is Bredon all right," said the young man cheerfully. "I
loathe aliases. Like another fellow's clothes, you know--never seem
quite to fit. Peter Death Bredon Wimsey--a bit lengthy and all that,
but handy when taken in instalments. I've got a passport and all those
things, too, but I didn't offer them, as their reputation here seems
a little blown upon, so to speak. As regards the formula, I think
I'd better give you my personal cheque for it--all sorts of people
seem able to go about flourishing Bank of England notes. Personally,
I think all this secret diplomacy work is a mistake, but that's the
War Office's pigeon. I suppose we all brought similar credentials.
Yes, I thought so. Some bright person seems to have sold himself very
successfully in two places at once. But you two must have been having a
lively time, each thinking the other was me."

"My lord," said the count heavily, "these two men are, or were,
Englishmen, I suppose. I do not care to know what Governments have
purchased their treachery. But where they stand, I, alas! stand too.
To our venal and corrupt Republic I, as a Royalist, acknowledge no
allegiance. But it is in my heart that I have agreed to sell my country
to England because of my poverty. Go back to your War Office and
say I will not give you the formula. If war should come between our
countries--which may God avert!--I will be found on the side of France.
That, my lord, is my last word."

Wimsey bowed.

"Sir," said he, "it appears that my mission has, after all, failed.
I am glad of it. This trafficking in destruction is a dirty kind of
business after all. Let us shut the door upon these two, who are
neither flesh nor fowl, and finish the brandy in the library."




              THE LEARNED ADVENTURE OF THE DRAGON'S HEAD


"Uncle Peter!"

"Half a jiff, Gherkins. No, I don't think I'll take the Catullus, Mr.
Ffolliott. After all, thirteen guineas is a bit steep without either
the title or the last folio, what? But you might send me round the
Vitruvius and the Satyricon when they come in; I'd like to have a look
at them, anyhow. Well, old man, what is it?"

"Do come and look at these pictures, Uncle Peter. I'm sure it's an
awfully old book."

Lord Peter Wimsey sighed as he picked his way out of Mr. Ffolliott's
dark back shop, strewn with the flotsam and jetsam of many libraries.
An unexpected outbreak of measles at Mr. Bultridge's excellent
preparatory school, coinciding with the absence of the Duke and
Duchess of Denver on the Continent, had saddled his lordship with his
ten-year-old nephew, Viscount St. George, more commonly known as Young
Jerry, Jerrykins, or Pickled Gherkins. Lord Peter was not one of those
born uncles who delight old nurses by their fascinating "way with"
children. He succeeded, however, in earning tolerance on honourable
terms by treating the young with the same scrupulous politeness
which he extended to their elders. He therefore prepared to receive
Gherkins's discovery with respect, though a child's taste was not to
be trusted, and the book might quite well be some horror of woolly
mezzotints or an inferior modern reprint adorned with leprous electros.
Nothing much better was really to be expected from the "cheap shelf"
exposed to the dust of the street.

"Uncle! there's such a funny man here, with a great long nose and
ears and a tail and dogs' heads all over his body. _Monstrum hoc
Cracoviæ_--that's a monster, isn't it? I should jolly well think it
was. What's _Cracoviæ_, Uncle Peter?"

"Oh," said Lord Peter, greatly relieved, "the Cracow monster?" A
portrait of that distressing infant certainly argued a respectable
antiquity. "Let's have a look. Quite right, it's a very old
book--Munster's _Cosmographia Universalis_. I'm glad you know good
stuff when you see it, Gherkins. What's the _Cosmographia_ doing out
here, Mr. Ffolliott, at five bob?"

"Well, my lord," said the bookseller, who had followed his customers to
the door, "it's in a very bad state, you see; covers loose and nearly
all the double-page maps missing. It came in a few weeks ago--dumped in
with a collection we bought from a gentleman in Norfolk--you'll find
his name in it--Dr. Conyers of Yelsall Manor. Of course, we might keep
it and try to make up a complete copy when we get another example. But
it's rather out of our line, as you know, classical authors being our
speciality. So we just put it out to go for what it would fetch in the
_status quo_, as you might say."

"Oh, look!" broke in Gherkins. "Here's a picture of a man being chopped
up in little bits. What does it say about it?"

"I thought you could read Latin."

"Well, but it's all full of sort of pothooks. What do they mean?"

"They're just contractions," said Lord Peter patiently. "'_Solent
quoque hujus insulæ cultores_'--It is the custom of the dwellers in
this island, when they see their parents stricken in years and of no
further use, to take them down into the market-place and sell them to
the cannibals, who kill them and eat them for food. This they do also
with younger persons when they fall into any desperate sickness."

"Ha, ha!" said Mr. Ffolliott. "Rather sharp practice on the poor
cannibals. They never got anything but tough old joints or diseased
meat, eh?"

"The inhabitants seem to have had thoroughly advanced notions of
business," agreed his lordship.

The viscount was enthralled.

"I _do_ like this book," he said; "could I buy it out of my
pocket-money, please?"

"Another problem for uncles," thought Lord Peter, rapidly ransacking
his recollections of the _Cosmographia_ to determine whether any of
its illustrations were indelicate; for he knew the duchess to be
strait-laced. On consideration, he could only remember one that was
dubious, and there was a sporting chance that the duchess might fail to
light upon it.

"Well," he said judicially, "in your place, Gherkins, I should
be inclined to buy it. It's in a bad state, as Mr. Ffolliott has
honourably told you--otherwise, of course, it would be exceedingly
valuable; but, apart from the lost pages, it's a very nice clean copy,
and certainly worth five shillings to you, if you think of starting a
collection."

Till that moment, the viscount had obviously been more impressed by the
cannibals than by the state of the margins, but the idea of figuring
next term at Mr. Bultridge's as a collector of rare editions had
undeniable charm.

"None of the other fellows collect books," he said; "they collect
stamps, mostly. I think stamps are rather ordinary, don't you, Uncle
Peter? I was rather thinking of giving up stamps. Mr. Porter, who takes
us for history, has got a lot of books like yours, and he is a splendid
man at footer."

Rightly interpreting this reference to Mr. Porter, Lord Peter gave it
as his opinion that book-collecting could be a perfectly manly pursuit.
Girls, he said, practically never took it up, because it meant so much
learning about dates and type-faces and other technicalities which
called for a masculine brain.

"Besides," he added, "it's a very interesting book in itself, you know.
Well worth dipping into."

"I'll take it, please," said the viscount, blushing a little at
transacting so important and expensive a piece of business; for the
duchess did not encourage lavish spending by little boys, and was
strict in the matter of allowances.

Mr. Ffolliott bowed, and took the _Cosmographia_ away to wrap it up.

"Are you all right for cash?" enquired Lord Peter discreetly. "Or can I
be of temporary assistance?"

"No, thank you, uncle; I've got Aunt Mary's half-crown and four
shillings of my pocket-money, because, you see, with the measles
happening, we didn't have our dormitory spread, and I was saving up for
that."

The business being settled in this gentlemanly manner, and the budding
bibliophile taking personal and immediate charge of the stout, square
volume, a taxi was chartered which, in due course of traffic delays,
brought the _Cosmographia_ to 110A Piccadilly.

       *       *       *       *       *

"And who, Bunter, is Mr. Wilberforce Pope?"

"I do not think we know the gentleman, my lord. He is asking to see
your lordship for a few minutes on business."

"He probably wants me to find a lost dog for his maiden aunt. What it
is to have acquired a reputation as a sleuth! Show him in. Gherkins, if
this good gentleman's business turns out to be private, you'd better
retire into the dining-room."

"Yes, Uncle Peter," said the viscount dutifully. He was extended on
his stomach on the library hearthrug, laboriously picking his way
through the more exciting-looking bits of the _Cosmographia_, with
the aid of Messrs. Lewis & Short, whose monumental compilation he had
hitherto looked upon as a barbarous invention for the annoyance of
upper forms.

Mr. Wilberforce Pope turned out to be a rather plump, fair gentleman
in the late thirties, with a prematurely bald forehead, horn-rimmed
spectacles, and an engaging manner.

"You will excuse my intrusion, won't you?" he began. "I'm sure you must
think me a terrible nuisance. But I wormed your name and address out of
Mr. Ffolliott. Not his fault, really. You won't blame him, will you? I
positively badgered the poor man. Sat down on his doorstep and refused
to go, though the boy was putting up the shutters. I'm afraid you will
think me very silly when you know what it's all about. But you really
mustn't hold poor Mr. Ffolliott responsible, now, will you?"

"Not at all," said his lordship. "I mean, I'm charmed and all that sort
of thing. Something I can do for you about books? You're a collector,
perhaps? Will you have a drink or anything?"

"Well, no," said Mr. Pope, with a faint giggle. "No, not exactly a
collector. Thank you very much, just a spot--no, no, literally a spot.
Thank you; no"--he glanced round the bookshelves, with their rows of
rich old leather bindings--"certainly not a collector. But I happen
to be er, interested--sentimentally interested--in a purchase you
made yesterday. Really, such a very small matter. You will think it
foolish. But I am told you are the present owner of a copy of Munster's
_Cosmographia_, which used to belong to my uncle, Dr. Conyers."

Gherkins looked up suddenly, seeing that the conversation had a
personal interest for him.

"Well, that's not quite correct," said Wimsey. "I was there at the
time, but the actual purchaser is my nephew. Gerald, Mr. Pope is
interested in your _Cosmographia_. My nephew, Lord St. George."

"How do you do, young man," said Mr. Pope affably. "I see that the
collecting spirit runs in the family. A great Latin scholar, too, I
expect, eh? Ready to decline _jusjurandum_ with the best of us? Ha, ha!
And what are you going to do when you grow up? Be Lord Chancellor, eh?
Now, I bet you think you'd rather be an engine-driver, what, what?"

"No, thank you," said the viscount, with aloofness.

"What, not an engine-driver? Well, now, I want you to be a real
business man this time. Put through a book deal, you know. Your uncle
will see I offer you a fair price, what? Ha, ha! Now, you see, that
picture-book of yours has a great value for me that it wouldn't have
for anybody else. When _I_ was a little boy of your age it was one
of my very greatest joys. I used to have it to look at on Sundays.
Ah, dear! the happy hours I used to spend with those quaint old
engravings, and the funny old maps with the ships and salamanders and
'_Hic dracones_'--you know what _that_ means, I dare say. What does it
mean?"

"Here are dragons," said the viscount, unwillingly but still politely.

"Quite right. I _knew_ you were a scholar."

"It's a very attractive book," said Lord Peter. "My nephew was quite
entranced by the famous Cracow monster."

"Ah yes--a glorious monster, isn't it?" agreed Mr. Pope, with
enthusiasm. "Many's the time I've fancied myself as Sir Lancelot or
somebody on a white war horse, charging that monster, lance in rest,
with the captive princess cheering me on. Ah! childhood! You're living
the happiest days of your life, young man. You won't believe me, but
you are."

"Now what is it exactly you want my nephew to do?" enquired Lord Peter
a little sharply.

"Quite right, quite right. Well now, you know, my uncle, Dr. Conyers,
sold his library a few months ago. I was abroad at the time, and it
was only yesterday, when I went down to Yelsall on a visit, that I
learnt the dear old book had gone with the rest. I can't tell you how
distressed I was. I know it's not valuable--a great many pages missing
and all that--but I can't bear to think of its being gone. So, purely
from sentimental reasons, as I said, I hurried off to Ffolliott's to
see if I could get it back. I was quite upset to find I was too late,
and gave poor Mr. Ffolliott no peace till he told me the name of the
purchaser. Now, you see, Lord St. George, I'm here to make you an offer
for the book. Come, now, double what you gave for it. That's a good
offer, isn't it, Lord Peter? Ha, ha! And you will be doing me a very
great kindness as well."

Viscount St. George looked rather distressed, and turned appealingly to
his uncle.

"Well, Gerald," said Lord Peter, "it's your affair, you know. What do
you say?"

The viscount stood first on one leg and then on the other. The career
of a book-collector evidently had its problems, like other careers.

"If you please, Uncle Peter," he said, with embarrassment, "may I
whisper?"

"It's not usually considered the thing to whisper, Gherkins, but you
could ask Mr. Pope for time to consider his offer. Or you could say you
would prefer to consult me first. That would be quite in order."

"Then, if you don't mind, Mr. Pope, I should like to consult my uncle
first."

"Certainly, certainly; ha, ha!" said Mr. Pope. "Very prudent to consult
a collector of greater experience, what? Ah! the younger generation,
eh, Lord Peter? Regular little business men already."

"Excuse us, then, for one moment," said Lord Peter, and drew his nephew
into the dining-room.

"I say, Uncle Peter," said the collector breathlessly, when the door
was shut, "_need_ I give him my book? I don't think he's a very nice
man. I _hate_ people who ask you to decline nouns for them."

"Certainly you needn't, Gherkins, if you don't want to. The book is
yours, and you've a right to it."

"What would _you_ do, uncle?"

Before replying, Lord Peter, in the most surprising manner, tiptoed
gently to the door which communicated with the library and flung it
suddenly open, in time to catch Mr. Pope kneeling on the hearthrug
intently turning over the pages of the coveted volume, which lay as the
owner had left it. He started to his feet in a flurried manner as the
door opened.

"Do help yourself, Mr. Pope, won't you?" cried Lord Peter hospitably,
and closed the door again.

"What is it, Uncle Peter?"

"If you want my advice, Gherkins, I should be rather careful how
you had any dealings with Mr. Pope. I don't think he's telling the
truth. He called those wood-cuts engravings--though, of course, that
may be just his ignorance. But I can't believe that he spent all his
childhood's Sunday afternoons studying those maps and picking out
the dragons in them, because, as you may have noticed for yourself,
old Munster put very few dragons into his maps. They're mostly just
plain maps--a bit queer to our ideas of geography, but perfectly
straight-forward. That was why I brought in the Cracow monster, and,
you see, he thought it was some sort of dragon."

"Oh, I say, uncle! So you said that on purpose!"

"If Mr. Pope wants the _Cosmographia_, it's for some reason he doesn't
want to tell us about. And, that being so, I wouldn't be in too big a
hurry to sell, if the book were mine. See?"

"Do you mean there's something frightfully valuable about the book,
which we don't know?"

"Possibly."

"How exciting! It's just like a story in the _Boys' Friend Library_.
What am I to say to him, uncle?"

"Well, in your place I wouldn't be dramatic or anything. I'd just say
you've considered the matter, and you've taken a fancy to the book and
have decided not to sell. You thank him for his offer, of course."

"Yes--er, won't you say it for me, uncle?"

"I think it would look better if you did it yourself."

"Yes, perhaps it would. Will he be very cross?"

"Possibly," said Lord Peter, "but, if he is, he won't let on. Ready?"

The consulting committee accordingly returned to the library. Mr. Pope
had prudently retired from the hearthrug and was examining a distant
bookcase.

"Thank you very much for your offer, Mr. Pope," said the viscount,
striding stoutly up to him, "but I have considered it, and I have taken
a--a--a fancy for the book and decided not to sell."

"Sorry and all that," put in Lord Peter, "but my nephew's adamant about
it. No, it isn't the price; he wants the book. Wish I could oblige you,
but it isn't in my hands. Won't you take something else before you
go? Really? Ring the bell, Gherkins. My man will see you to the lift.
_Good_ evening."

When the visitor had gone, Lord Peter returned and thoughtfully picked
up the book.

"We were awful idiots to leave him with it, Gherkins, even for a
moment. Luckily, there's no harm done."

"You don't think he found out anything while we were away, do you,
uncle?" gasped Gherkins, open-eyed.

"I'm sure he didn't."

"Why?"

"He offered me fifty pounds for it on the way to the door. Gave the
game away. H'm! Bunter."

"My lord?"

"Put this book in the safe and bring me back the keys. And you'd better
set all the burglar alarms when you lock up."

"Oo--er!" said Viscount St. George.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the third morning after the visit of Mr. Wilberforce Pope, the
viscount was seated at a very late breakfast in his uncle's flat, after
the most glorious and soul-satisfying night that ever boy experienced.
He was almost too excited to eat the kidneys and bacon placed before
him by Bunter, whose usual impeccable manner was not in the least
impaired by a rapidly swelling and blackening eye.

It was about two in the morning that Gherkins--who had not slept very
well, owing to too lavish and grown-up a dinner and theatre the evening
before--became aware of a stealthy sound somewhere in the direction
of the fire-escape. He had got out of bed and crept very softly into
Lord Peter's room and woken him up. He had said: "Uncle Peter, I'm
sure there's burglars on the fire-escape." And Uncle Peter, instead of
saying, "Nonsense, Gherkins, hurry up and get back to bed," had sat up
and listened and said: "By Jove, Gherkins, I believe you're right." And
had sent Gherkins to call Bunter. And on his return, Gherkins, who had
always regarded his uncle as a very top-hatted sort of person, actually
saw him take from his handkerchief-drawer an undeniable automatic
pistol.

It was at this point that Lord Peter was apotheosed from the state of
Quite Decent Uncle to that of Glorified Uncle. He said:

"Look here, Gherkins, we don't know how many of these blighters
there'll be, so you must be jolly smart and do anything I say sharp, on
the word of command--even if I have to say 'Scoot.' Promise?"

Gherkins promised, with his heart thumping, and they sat waiting in the
dark, till suddenly a little electric bell rang sharply just over the
head of Lord Peter's bed and a green light shone out.

"The library window," said his lordship, promptly silencing the bell by
turning a switch. "If they heard, they may think better of it. We'll
give them a few minutes."

They gave them five minutes, and then crept very quietly down the
passage.

"Go round by the dining-room, Bunter," said his lordship; "they may
bolt that way."

With infinite precaution, he unlocked and opened the library door, and
Gherkins noticed how silently the locks moved.

A circle of light from an electric torch was moving slowly along
the bookshelves. The burglars had obviously heard nothing of the
counter-attack. Indeed, they seemed to have troubles enough of their
own to keep their attention occupied. As his eyes grew accustomed to
the dim light, Gherkins made out that one man was standing holding
the torch, while the other took down and examined the books. It was
fascinating to watch his apparently disembodied hands move along the
shelves in the torch-light.

The men muttered discontentedly. Obviously the job was proving a
harder one than they had bargained for. The habit of ancient authors
of abbreviating the titles on the backs of their volumes, or leaving
them completely untitled, made things extremely awkward. From time to
time the man with the torch extended his hand into the light. It held a
piece of paper, which they anxiously compared with the title-page of a
book. Then the volume was replaced and the tedious search went on.

Suddenly some slight noise--Gherkins was sure _he_ did not make it; it
may have been Bunter in the dining-room--seemed to catch the ear of the
kneeling man.

"Wot's that?" he gasped, and his startled face swung round into view.

"Hands up!" said Lord Peter, and switched the light on.

The second man made one leap for the dining-room door, where a smash
and an oath proclaimed that he had encountered Bunter. The kneeling man
shot his hands up like a marionette.

"Gherkins," said Lord Peter, "do you think you can go across to that
gentleman by the bookcase and relieve him of the article which is
so inelegantly distending the right-hand pocket of his coat? Wait a
minute. Don't on any account get between him and my pistol, and mind
you take the thing out _very_ carefully. There's no hurry. That's
splendid. Just point it at the floor while you bring it across, would
you? Thanks. Bunter has managed for himself, I see. Now run into my
bedroom, and in the bottom of my wardrobe you will find a bundle of
stout cord. Oh! I beg your pardon; yes, put your hands down by all
means. It must be very tiring exercise."

The arms of the intruders being secured behind their backs with a
neatness which Gherkins felt to be worthy of the best traditions
of Sexton Blake, Lord Peter motioned his captives to sit down and
despatched Bunter for whisky-and-soda.

"Before we send for the police," said Lord Peter, "you would do me a
great personal favour by telling me what you were looking for, and
who sent you. Ah! thanks, Bunter. As our guests are not at liberty to
use their hands, perhaps you would be kind enough to assist them to a
drink. Now then, say when."

"Well, you're a gentleman, guv'nor," said the First Burglar, wiping
his mouth politely on his shoulder, the back of his hand not being
available. "If we'd a known wot a job this wos goin' ter be, blow me
if we'd a touched it. The bloke said, ses 'e, 'It's takin' candy from
a baby,' 'e ses. 'The gentleman's a reg'lar softie,' 'e ses, 'one o'
these 'ere sersiety toffs wiv a maggot fer old books,' that's wot 'e
ses, 'an' ef yer can find this 'ere old book fer me,' 'e ses, 'there's
a pony fer yer.' Well! Sech a job! 'E didn't mention as 'ow there'd be
five 'undred fousand bleedin' ole books all as alike as a regiment o'
bleedin' dragoons. Nor as 'ow yer kept a nice little machine-gun like
that 'andy by the bedside, _nor_ yet as 'ow yer was so bleedin' good at
tyin' knots in a bit o' string. No--'e didn't think ter mention them
things."

"Deuced unsporting of him," said his lordship. "Do you happen to know
the gentleman's name?"

"No--that was another o' them things wot 'e didn't mention. 'E's a
stout, fair party, wiv 'orn rims to 'is goggles and a bald 'ead. One o'
these 'ere philanthropists, I reckon. A friend o' mine, wot got inter
trouble onct, got work froo 'im, and the gentleman comes round and ses
to 'im, 'e ses, 'Could yer find me a couple o' lads ter do a little
job?' 'e ses, an' my friend, finkin' no 'arm, you see, guv'nor, but wot
it might be a bit of a joke like, 'e gets 'old of my pal an' me, an'
we meets the gentleman in a pub dahn Whitechapel way. W'ich we was ter
meet 'im there again Friday night, us 'avin' allowed that time fer ter
git 'old of the book."

"The book being, if I may hazard a guess, the _Cosmographia
Universalis_?"

"Sumfink like that, guv'nor. I got its jaw-breakin' name wrote down on
a bit o' paper, wot my pal 'ad in 'is 'and. Wot did yer do wiv that
'ere bit o' paper, Bill?"

"Well, look here," said Lord Peter, "I'm afraid I must send for the
police, but I think it likely, if you give us your assistance to get
hold of your gentleman, whose name I strongly suspect to be Wilberforce
Pope, that you will get off pretty easily. Telephone the police,
Bunter, and then go and put something on that eye of yours. Gherkins,
we'll give these gentlemen another drink, and then I think perhaps
you'd better hop back to bed; the fun's over. No? Well, put a good
thick coat on, there's a good fellow, because what your mother will say
to me if you catch a cold I don't like to think."

So the police had come and taken the burglars away, and now
Detective-Inspector Parker, of Scotland Yard, a great personal friend
of Lord Peter's, sat toying with a cup of coffee and listening to the
story.

"But what's the matter with the jolly old book, anyhow, to make it so
popular?" he demanded.

"I don't know," replied Wimsey; "but after Mr. Pope's little visit
the other day I got kind of intrigued about it and had a look through
it. I've got a hunch it may turn out rather valuable, after all.
Unsuspected beauties and all that sort of thing. If only Mr. Pope had
been a trifle more accurate in his facts, he might have got away with
something to which I feel pretty sure he isn't entitled. Anyway, when
I'd seen--what I saw, I wrote off to Dr. Conyers of Yelsall Manor, the
late owner----"

"Conyers, the cancer man?"

"Yes. He's done some pretty important research in his time, I fancy.
Getting on now, though; about seventy-eight, I fancy. I hope he's more
honest than his nephew, with one foot in the grave like that. Anyway,
I wrote (with Gherkins's permission, naturally) to say we had the
book and had been specially interested by something we found there,
and would he be so obliging as to tell us something of its history. I
also----"

"But what did you find in it?"

"I don't think we'll tell him yet, Gherkins, shall we? I like to keep
policemen guessing. As I was saying, when you so rudely interrupted
me, I also asked him whether he knew anything about his good nephew's
offer to buy it back. His answer has just arrived. He says he knows
of nothing specially interesting about the book. It has been in the
library untold years, and the tearing out of the maps must have been
done a long time ago by some family vandal. He can't think why his
nephew should be so keen on it, as he certainly never pored over it
as a boy. In fact, the old man declares the engaging Wilberforce has
never even set foot in Yelsall Manor to his knowledge. So much for the
fire-breathing monsters and the pleasant Sunday afternoons."

"Naughty Wilberforce!"

"M'm. Yes. So, after last night's little dust-up, I wired the old boy
we were tooling down to Yelsall to have a heart-to-heart talk with him
about his picture-book and his nephew."

"Are you taking the book down with you?" asked Parker. "I can give you
a police escort for it if you like."

"That's not a bad idea," said Wimsey. "We don't know where the
insinuating Mr. Pope may be hanging out, and I wouldn't put it past him
to make another attempt."

"Better be on the safe side," said Parker. "I can't come myself, but
I'll send down a couple of men with you."

"Good egg," said Lord Peter. "Call up your myrmidons. We'll get a car
round at once. You're coming, Gherkins, I suppose? God knows what your
mother would say. Don't ever be an uncle, Charles; it's frightfully
difficult to be fair to all parties."

       *       *       *       *       *

Yelsall Manor was one of those large, decaying country mansions which
speak eloquently of times more spacious than our own. The original late
Tudor construction had been masked by the addition of a wide frontage
in the Italian manner, with a kind of classical portico surmounted
by a pediment and approached by a semi-circular flight of steps. The
grounds had originally been laid out in that formal manner in which
grove nods to grove and each half duly reflects the other. A late
owner, however, had burst out into the more eccentric sort of landscape
gardening which is associated with the name of Capability Brown. A
Chinese pagoda, somewhat resembling Sir William Chambers's erection in
Kew Gardens, but smaller, rose out of a grove of laurustinus towards
the eastern extremity of the house, while at the rear appeared a large
artificial lake, dotted with numerous islands, on which odd little
temples, grottos, tea-houses, and bridges peeped out from among clumps
of shrubs, once ornamental, but now sadly overgrown. A boat-house,
with wide eaves like the designs on a willow-pattern plate, stood at
one corner, its landing-stage fallen into decay and wreathed with
melancholy weeds.

"My disreputable old ancestor, Cuthbert Conyers, settled down here when
he retired from the sea in 1732," said Dr. Conyers, smiling faintly.
"His elder brother died childless, so the black sheep returned to the
fold with the determination to become respectable and found a family.
I fear he did not succeed altogether. There were very queer tales as
to where his money came from. He is said to have been a pirate, and
to have sailed with the notorious Captain Blackbeard. In the village,
to this day, he is remembered and spoken of as Cut-throat Conyers. It
used to make the old man very angry, and there is an unpleasant story
of his slicing the ears off a groom who had been heard to call him 'Old
Cut-throat.' He was not an uncultivated person, though. It was he who
did the landscape-gardening round at the back, and he built the pagoda
for his telescope. He was reputed to study the Black Art, and there
were certainly a number of astrological works in the library with his
name on the fly-leaf, but probably the telescope was only a remembrance
of his seafaring days.

"Anyhow, towards the end of his life he became more and more odd and
morose. He quarrelled with his family, and turned his younger son out
of doors with his wife and children. An unpleasant old fellow.

"On his deathbed he was attended by the parson--a good, earnest,
God-fearing sort of man, who must have put up with a deal of insult
in carrying out what he firmly believed to be the sacred duty of
reconciling the old man to this shamefully treated son. Eventually,
'Old Cut-throat' relented so far as to make a will, leaving to the
younger son 'My treasure which I have buried in Munster.' The parson
represented to him that it was useless to bequeath a treasure unless he
also bequeathed the information where to find it, but the horrid old
pirate only chuckled spitefully, and said that, as he had been at the
pains to collect the treasure, his son might well be at the pains of
looking for it. Further than that he would not go, and so he died, and
I dare say went to a very bad place.

"Since then the family has died out, and I am the sole representative
of the Conyers, and heir to the treasure, whatever and wherever it is,
for it was never discovered. I do not suppose it was very honestly come
by, but, since it would be useless now to try and find the original
owners, I imagine I have a better right to it than anybody living.

"You may think it very unseemly, Lord Peter, that an old, lonely man
like myself should be greedy for a hoard of pirate's gold. But my whole
life has been devoted to studying the disease of cancer, and I believe
myself to be very close to a solution of one part at least of the
terrible problem. Research costs money, and my limited means are very
nearly exhausted. The property is mortgaged up to the hilt, and I do
most urgently desire to complete my experiments before I die, and to
leave a sufficient sum to found a clinic where the work can be carried
on.

"During the last year I have made very great efforts to solve the
mystery of 'Old Cut-throat's' treasure. I have been able to leave much
of my experimental work in the most capable hands of my assistant, Dr.
Forbes, while I pursued my researches with the very slender clue I had
to go upon. It was the more expensive and difficult that Cuthbert had
left no indication in his will whether Münster in Germany or Munster in
Ireland was the hiding-place of the treasure. My journeys and my search
in both places cost money and brought me no further on my quest. I
returned, disheartened, in August, and found myself obliged to sell my
library, in order to defray my expenses and obtain a little money with
which to struggle on with my sadly delayed experiments."

"Ah!" said Lord Peter. "I begin to see light."

The old physician looked at him enquiringly. They had finished tea,
and were seated around the great fireplace in the study. Lord Peter's
interested questions about the beautiful, dilapidated old house and
estate had led the conversation naturally to Dr. Conyers's family,
shelving for the time the problem of the _Cosmographia_, which lay on a
table beside them.

"Everything you say fits into the puzzle," went on Wimsey, "and I think
there's not the smallest doubt what Mr. Wilberforce Pope was after,
though how he knew that you had the _Cosmographia_ here I couldn't say."

"When I disposed of the library, I sent him a catalogue," said Dr.
Conyers. "As a relative, I thought he ought to have the right to buy
anything he fancied. I can't think why he didn't secure the book then,
instead of behaving in this most shocking fashion."

Lord Peter hooted with laughter.

"Why, because he never tumbled to it till afterwards," he said. "And
oh, dear, how wild he must have been! I forgive him everything.
Although," he added, "I don't want to raise your hopes too high, sir,
for, even when we've solved old Cuthbert's riddle, I don't know that
we're very much nearer to the treasure."

"To the _treasure_?"

"Well, now, sir. I want you first to look at this page, where there's a
name scrawled in the margin. Our ancestors had an untidy way of signing
their possessions higgledy-piggledy in margins instead of in a decent,
Christian way in the fly-leaf. This is a handwriting of somewhere about
Charles I's reign: 'Jac: Coniers.' I take it that goes to prove that
the book was in the possession of your family at any rate as early as
the first half of the seventeenth century, and has remained there ever
since. Right. Now we turn to page 1099, where we find a description of
the discoveries of Christopher Columbus. It's headed, you see, by a
kind of map, with some of Mr. Pope's monsters swimming about in it, and
apparently representing the Canaries, or, as they used to be called,
the Fortunate Isles. It doesn't look much more accurate than old maps
usually are, but I take it the big island on the right is meant for
Lanzarote, and the two nearest to it may be Teneriffe and Gran Canaria."

"But what's that writing in the middle?"

"That's just the point. The writing is later than 'Jac: Coniers's'
signature; I should put it about 1700--but, of course, it may have
been written a good deal later still. I mean, a man who was elderly in
1730 would still use the style of writing he adopted as a young man,
especially if, like your ancestor the pirate, he had spent the early
part of his life in outdoor pursuits and hadn't done much writing."

"Do you mean to say, Uncle Peter," broke in the viscount excitedly,
"that that's 'Old Cut-throat's' writing?"

"I'd be ready to lay a sporting bet it is. Look here, sir, you've been
scouring round Münster in Germany and Munster in Ireland--but how about
good old Sebastian Munster here in the library at home?"

"God bless my soul! Is it possible?"

"It's pretty nearly certain, sir. Here's what he says, written, you
see, round the head of that sort of sea-dragon:

          "Hic in capite draconis ardet perpetuo Sol.
    Here the sun shines perpetually upon the Dragon's Head.

[Illustration: THE DRAGON'S HEAD

Liber V.

1099

DE NOVIS INSVLIS,

quomodo, quando, & per quem

illæ inuentæ sint.

    Christophorus Columbus natione Genuensis, cùm diu in aula regis
    Hispanorum deuersarus fuisset, animum induxit, ut hactenus
    inacceslias orbis partes peragraret. Pet à rege, utuoto suo non
    deesset, futurum sibi & toti Hisp
]

"Rather doggy Latin--sea-dog Latin, you might say, in fact."

"I'm afraid," said Dr. Conyers, "I must be very stupid, but I can't see
where that leads us."

"No; 'Old Cut-throat' was rather clever. No doubt he thought that,
if anybody read it, they'd think it was just an allusion to where
it says, further down, that 'the islands were called _Fortunatæ_
because of the wonderful temperature of the air and the clemency of
the skies.' But the cunning old astrologer up in his pagoda had a
meaning of his own. Here's a little book published in 1678--Middleton's
_Practical Astrology_--just the sort of popular handbook an amateur
like 'Old Cut-throat' would use. Here you are: 'If in your figure you
find Jupiter or Venus or _Dragon's head_, you may be confident there
is Treasure in the place supposed.... If you find _Sol_ to be the
significator of the hidden Treasure, you may conclude there is Gold, or
some jewels.' You know, sir, I think we may conclude it."

"Dear me!" said Dr. Conyers. "I believe, indeed, you must be right. And
I am ashamed to think that if anybody had suggested to me that it could
ever be profitable to me to learn the terms of astrology, I should have
replied in my vanity that my time was too valuable to waste on such
foolishness. I am deeply indebted to you."

"Yes," said Gherkins, "but where _is_ the treasure, uncle?"

"That's just it," said Lord Peter. "The map is very vague; there is no
latitude or longitude given; and the directions, such as they are, seem
not even to refer to any spot on the islands, but to some place in the
middle of the sea. Besides, it is nearly two hundred years since the
treasure was hidden, and it may already have been found by somebody or
other."

Dr. Conyers stood up.

"I am an old man," he said, "but I still have some strength. If I can
by any means get together the money for an expedition, I will not rest
till I have made every possible effort to find the treasure and to
endow my clinic."

"Then, sir, I hope you'll let me give a hand to the good work," said
Lord Peter.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Conyers had invited his guests to stay the night, and, after the
excited viscount had been packed off to bed, Wimsey and the old man
sat late, consulting maps and diligently reading Munster's chapter
"_De Novis Insulis_," in the hope of discovering some further clue.
At length, however, they separated, and Lord Peter went upstairs, the
book under his arm. He was restless, however, and, instead of going
to bed, sat for a long time at his window, which looked out upon the
lake. The moon, a few days past the full, was riding high among small,
windy clouds, and picked out the sharp eaves of the Chinese tea-houses
and the straggling tops of the unpruned shrubs. 'Old Cut-throat' and
his landscape-gardening! Wimsey could have fancied that the old pirate
was sitting now beside his telescope in the preposterous pagoda,
chuckling over his riddling testament and counting the craters of the
moon. "If _Luna_, there is silver." The water of the lake was silver
enough; there was a great smooth path across it, broken by the sinister
wedge of the boat-house, the black shadows of the islands, and, almost
in the middle of the lake, a decayed fountain, a writhing Celestial
dragon-shape, spiny-backed and ridiculous.

Wimsey rubbed his eyes. There was something strangely familiar about
the lake; from moment to moment it assumed the queer unreality of a
place which one recognises without having ever known it. It was like
one's first sight of the Leaning Tower of Pisa--too like its picture
to be quite believable. Surely, thought Wimsey, he knew that elongated
island on the right, shaped rather like a winged monster, with its two
little clumps of buildings. And the island to the left of it, like the
British Isles, but warped out of shape. And the third island, between
the others, and nearer. The three formed a triangle, with the Chinese
fountain in the centre, the moon shining steadily upon its dragon head.
"_Hic in capite draconis ardet perpetuo_----"

Lord Peter sprang up with a loud exclamation, and flung open the
door into the dressing-room. A small figure wrapped in an eiderdown
hurriedly uncoiled itself from the window-seat.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Peter," said Gherkins. "I was so _dreadfully_ wide
awake, it wasn't any good staying in bed."

"Come here," said Lord Peter, "and tell me if I'm mad or dreaming. Look
out of the window and compare it with the map--Old Cut-throat's 'New
Islands.' He made 'em, Gherkins; he put 'em here. Aren't they laid out
just like the Canaries? Those three islands in a triangle, and the
fourth down here in the corner? And the boat-house where the big ship
is in the picture? And the dragon fountain where the dragon's head is?
Well, my son, that's where your hidden treasure's gone to. Get your
things on, Gherkins, and damn the time when all good little boys should
be in bed! We're going for a row on the lake, if there's a tub in that
boat-house that'll float."

"Oh, Uncle Peter! This is a _real_ adventure!"

"All right," said Wimsey. "Fifteen men on the dead man's chest, and all
that! Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of Johnny Walker! Pirate expedition fitted
out in dead of night to seek hidden treasure and explore the Fortunate
Isles! Come on, crew!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Lord Peter hitched the leaky dinghy to the dragon's knobbly tail and
climbed out carefully, for the base of the fountain was green and weedy.

"I'm afraid it's your job to sit there and bail, Gherkins," he said.
"All the best captains bag the really interesting jobs for themselves.
We'd better start with the head. If the old blighter said head,
he probably meant it." He passed an arm affectionately round the
creature's neck for support, while he methodically pressed and pulled
the various knobs and bumps of its anatomy. "It seems beastly solid,
but I'm sure there's a spring somewhere. You won't forget to bail, will
you? I'd simply hate to turn round and find the boat gone. Pirate chief
marooned on island and all that. Well, it isn't its back hair, anyhow.
We'll try its eyes. I say, Gherkins, I'm sure I felt something move,
only it's frightfully stiff. We might have thought to bring some oil.
Never mind; it's dogged as does it. It's coming. It's coming. Booh!
Pah!"

A fierce effort thrust the rusted knob inwards, releasing a huge spout
of water into his face from the dragon's gaping throat. The fountain,
dry for many years, soared rejoicingly heavenwards, drenching the
treasure-hunters, and making rainbows in the moonlight.

"I suppose this is 'Old Cut-throat's' idea of humour," grumbled
Wimsey, retreating cautiously round the dragon's neck. "And now I can't
turn it off again. Well, dash it all, let's try the other eye."

He pressed for a few moments in vain. Then, with a grinding clang, the
bronze wings of the monster clapped down to its sides, revealing a deep
square hole, and the fountain ceased to play.

"Gherkins!" said Lord Peter, "we've done it. (But don't neglect bailing
on that account!) There's a box here. And it's beastly heavy. No;
all right, I can manage. Gimme the boat-hook. Now I do hope the old
sinner really did have a treasure. What a bore if it's only one of his
little jokes. Never mind--hold the boat steady. There. Always remember,
Gherkins, that you can make quite an effective crane with a boat-hook
and a stout pair of braces. Got it? That's right. Now for home and
beauty.... Hullo! what's all that?"

As he paddled the boat round, it was evident that something was
happening down by the boat-house. Lights were moving about, and a sound
of voices came across the lake.

"They think we're burglars, Gherkins. Always misunderstood. Give way,
my hearties--

    "A-roving, a-roving, since roving's been my ru-i-in,
    I'll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid."

"Is that you, my lord?" said a man's voice as they drew in to the
boat-house.

"Why, it's our faithful sleuths!" cried his lordship. "What's the
excitement?"

"We found this fellow sneaking round the boat-house," said the man from
Scotland Yard. "He says he's the old gentleman's nephew. Do you know
him, my lord?"

"I rather fancy I do," said Wimsey. "Mr. Pope, I think. Good evening.
Were you looking for anything? Not a treasure, by any chance? Because
we've just found one. Oh! don't say that. _Maxima reverentia_, you
know. Lord St. George is of tender years. And, by the way, thank you so
much for sending your delightful friends to call on me last night. Oh,
yes, Thompson, I'll charge him all right. You there, doctor? Splendid.
Now, if anybody's got a spanner or anything handy, we'll have a look at
Great-grandpapa Cuthbert. And if he turns out to be old iron, Mr. Pope,
you'll have had an uncommonly good joke for your money."

An iron bar was produced from the boat-house and thrust under the hasp
of the chest. It creaked and burst. Dr. Conyers knelt down tremulously
and threw open the lid.

There was a little pause.

"The drinks are on you, Mr. Pope," said Lord Peter. "I think, doctor,
it ought to be a jolly good hospital when it's finished."




              THE PISCATORIAL FARCE OF THE STOLEN STOMACH


"What in the world," said Lord Peter Wimsey, "is that?"

Thomas Macpherson disengaged the tall jar from its final swathings of
paper and straw and set it tenderly upright beside the coffee-pot.

"That," he said, "is Great-Uncle Joseph's legacy."

"And who is Great-Uncle Joseph?"

"He was my mother's uncle. Name of Ferguson. Eccentric old boy. I was
rather a favourite of his."

"It looks like it. Was that all he left you?"

"Imph'm. He said a good digestion was the most precious thing a man
could have."

"Well, he was right there. Is this his? Was it a good one?"

"Good enough. He lived to be ninety-five, and never had a day's
illness."

Wimsey looked at the jar with increased respect.

"What did he die of?"

"Chucked himself out of a sixth-story window. He had a stroke, and the
doctors told him--or he guessed for himself--that it was the beginning
of the end. He left a letter. Said he had never been ill in his life
and wasn't going to begin now. They brought it in temporary insanity,
of course, but I think he was thoroughly sensible."

"I should say so. What was he when he was functioning?"

"He used to be in business--something to do with ship-building, I
believe, but he retired long ago. He was what the papers call a
recluse. Lived all by himself in a little top flat in Glasgow, and saw
nobody. Used to go off by himself for days at a time, nobody knew where
or why. I used to look him up about once a year and take him a bottle
of whisky."

"Had he any money?"

"Nobody knew. He ought to have had--he was a rich man when he retired.
But, when we came to look into it, it turned out he only had a balance
of about five hundred pounds in the Glasgow Bank. Apparently he drew
out almost everything he had about twenty years ago. There were one or
two big bank failures round about that time, and they thought he must
have got the wind up. But what he did with it, goodness only knows."

"Kept it in an old stocking, I expect."

"I should think Cousin Robert devoutly hopes so."

"Cousin Robert?"

"He's the residuary legatee. Distant connection of mine, and the only
remaining Ferguson. He was awfully wild when he found he'd only got
five hundred. He's rather a bright lad, is Robert, and a few thousands
would have come in handy."

"I see. Well, how about a bit of brekker? You might stick Great-Uncle
Joseph out of the way somewhere. I don't care about the looks of him."

"I thought you were rather partial to anatomical specimens."

"So I am, but not on the breakfast-table. 'A place for everything and
everything in its place,' as my grandmother used to say. Besides, it
would give Maggie a shock if she saw it."

Macpherson laughed, and transferred the jar to a cupboard.

"Maggie's shock-proof. I brought a few odd bones and things with me, by
way of a holiday task. I'm getting near my final, you know. She'll just
think this is another of them. Ring the bell, old man, would you? We'll
see what the trout's like."

The door opened to admit the housekeeper, with a dish of grilled trout
and a plate of fried scones.

"These look good, Maggie," said Wimsey, drawing his chair up and
sniffing appreciatively.

"Aye, sir, they're gude, but they're awfu' wee fish."

"Don't grumble at them," said Macpherson. "They're the sole result of a
day's purgatory up on Loch Whyneon. What with the sun fit to roast you
and an east wind, I'm pretty well flayed alive. I very nearly didn't
shave at all this morning." He passed a reminiscent hand over his red
and excoriated face. "Ugh! It's a stiff pull up that hill, and the boat
was going wallop, wallop all the time, like being in the Bay of Biscay."

"Damnable, I should think. But there's a change coming. The glass is
going back. We'll be having some rain before we're many days older."

"Time, too," said Macpherson. "The burns are nearly dry, and there's
not much water in the Fleet." He glanced out of the window to where the
little river ran tinkling and skinkling over the stones at the bottom
of the garden. "If only we get a few days' rain now, there'll be some
grand fishing."

"It _would_ come just as I've got to go, naturally," remarked Wimsey.

"Yes; can't you stay a bit longer? I want to have a try for some
sea-trout."

"Sorry, old man, can't be done. I must be in Town on Wednesday. Never
mind. I've had a fine time in the fresh air and got in some good rounds
of golf."

"You must come up another time. I'm here for a month--getting my
strength up for the exams and all that. If you can't get away before
I go, we'll put it off till August and have a shot at the grouse. The
cottage is always at your service, you know, Wimsey."

"Many thanks. I may get my business over quicker than I think, and, if
I do, I'll turn up here again. When did you say your great-uncle died?"

Macpherson stared at him.

"Some time in April, as far as I can remember. Why?"

"Oh, nothing--I just wondered. You were a favourite of his, didn't you
say?"

"In a sense. I think the old boy liked my remembering him from time to
time. Old people are pleased by little attentions, you know."

"M'm. Well, it's a queer world. What did you say his name was?"

"Ferguson--Joseph Alexander Ferguson, to be exact. You seem
extraordinarily interested in Great-Uncle Joseph."

"I thought, while I was about it, I might look up a man I know in the
ship-building line, and see if he knows anything about where the money
went to."

"If you can do that, Cousin Robert will give you a medal. But, if you
really want to exercise your detective powers on the problem, you'd
better have a hunt through the flat in Glasgow."

"Yes--what is the address, by the way?"

Macpherson told him the address.

"I'll make a note of it, and, if anything occurs to me, I'll
communicate with Cousin Robert. Where does he hang out?"

"Oh, he's in London, in a solicitor's office. Crosbie & Plump,
somewhere in Bloomsbury. Robert was studying for the Scottish Bar, you
know, but he made rather a mess of things, so they pushed him off among
the Sassenachs. His father died a couple of years ago--he was a Writer
to the Signet in Edinburgh--and I fancy Robert has rather gone to the
bow-wows since then. Got among a cheerful crowd down there, don't you
know, and wasted his substance somewhat."

"Terrible! Scotsmen shouldn't be allowed to leave home. What are you
going to do with Great-Uncle?"

"Oh, I don't know. Keep him for a bit, I think. I liked the old
fellow, and I don't want to throw him away. He'll look rather well in
my consulting-room, don't you think, when I'm qualified and set up my
brass plate. I'll say he was presented by a grateful patient on whom I
performed a marvellous operation."

"That's a good idea. Stomach-grafting. Miracle of surgery never before
attempted. He'll bring sufferers to your door in flocks."

"Good old Great-Uncle--he may be worth a fortune to me after all."

"So he may. I don't suppose you've got such a thing as a photograph of
him, have you?"

"A photograph?" Macpherson stared again. "Great-Uncle seems to be
becoming a passion with you. I don't suppose the old man had a
photograph taken these thirty years. There was one done then--when he
retired from business. I expect Robert's got that."

"Och aye," said Wimsey, in the language of the country.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wimsey left Scotland that evening, and drove down through the night
towards London, thinking hard as he went. He handled the wheel
mechanically, swerving now and again to avoid the green eyes of rabbits
as they bolted from the roadside to squat fascinated in the glare of
his head-lamps. He was accustomed to say that his brain worked better
when his immediate attention was occupied by the incidents of the road.

Monday morning found him in town with his business finished and his
thinking done. A consultation with his ship-building friend had put
him in possession of some facts about Great-Uncle Joseph's money,
together with a copy of Great-Uncle Joseph's photograph, supplied by
the London representative of the Glasgow firm to which he had belonged.
It appeared that old Ferguson had been a man of mark in his day. The
portrait showed a fine, dour old face, long-lipped and high in the
cheek-bones--one of those faces which alter little in a lifetime.
Wimsey looked at the photograph with satisfaction as he slipped it into
his pocket and made a bee-line for Somerset House.

Here he wandered timidly about the wills department, till a uniformed
official took pity on him and enquired what he wanted.

"Oh, thank you," said Wimsey effusively, "thank you so much. Always
feel nervous in these places. All these big desks and things, don't you
know, so awe-inspiring and business-like. Yes, I just wanted to have a
squint at a will. I'm told you can see anybody's will for a shilling.
Is that really so?"

"Yes, sir, certainly. Anybody's will in particular, sir?"

"Oh, yes, of course--how silly of me. Yes. Curious, isn't it, that
when you're dead any stranger can come and snoop round your private
affairs--see how much you cut up for and who your lady friends were,
and all that. Yes. Not at all nice. Horrid lack of privacy, what?"

The attendant laughed.

"I expect it's all one when you're dead, sir."

"That's awfully true. Yes, naturally, you're dead by then and it
doesn't matter. May be a bit trying for your relations, of course, to
learn what a bad boy you've been. Great fun annoyin' one's relations.
Always do it myself. Now, what were we sayin'? Ah! yes--the will. (I'm
always so absent-minded.) Whose will, you said? Well, it's an old Scots
gentleman called Joseph Alexander Ferguson that died at Glasgow--you
know Glasgow, where the accent's so strong that even Scotsmen faint
when they hear it--in April, this last April as ever was. If it's not
troubling you too much, may I have a bob's-worth of Joseph Alexander
Ferguson?"

The attendant assured him that he might, adding the caution that he
must memorise the contents of the will and not on any account take
notes. Thus warned, Wimsey was conducted into a retired corner, where
in a short time the will was placed before him.

It was a commendably brief document, written in holograph, and was
dated the previous January. After the usual preamble and the bequest
of a few small sums and articles of personal ornament to friends, it
proceeded somewhat as follows:

    "And I direct that, after my death, the alimentary organs be
    removed entire with their contents from my body, commencing with
    the œsophagus and ending with the anal canal, and that they be
    properly secured at both ends with a suitable ligature, and be
    enclosed in a proper preservative medium in a glass vessel and
    given to my great-nephew Thomas Macpherson of the Stone Cottage,
    Gatehouse-of-the-Fleet, in Kirkcudbrightshire, now studying
    medicine in Aberdeen. And I bequeath him these my alimentary
    organs with their contents for his study and edification, they
    having served me for ninety-five years without failure or defect,
    because I wish him to understand that no riches in the world are
    comparable to the riches of a good digestion. And I desire of him
    that he will, in the exercise of his medical profession, use his
    best endeavours to preserve to his patients the blessing of good
    digestion unimpaired, not needlessly filling their stomachs with
    drugs out of concern for his own pocket, but exhorting them to
    a sober and temperate life agreeably to the design of Almighty
    Providence."

After this remarkable passage, the document went on to make Robert
Ferguson residuary legatee without particular specification of any
property, and to appoint a firm of lawyers in Glasgow executors of the
will.

Wimsey considered the bequest for some time. From the phraseology he
concluded that old Mr. Ferguson had drawn up his own will without legal
aid, and he was glad of it, for its wording thus afforded a valuable
clue to the testator's mood and intention. He mentally noted three
points: the "alimentary organs with their contents" were mentioned
twice over, with a certain emphasis; they were to be ligatured top and
bottom; and the legacy was accompanied by the expression of a wish that
the legatee should not allow his financial necessities to interfere
with the conscientious exercise of his professional duties. Wimsey
chuckled. He felt he rather liked Great-Uncle Joseph.

He got up, collected his hat, gloves, and stick, and advanced with the
will in his hand to return it to the attendant. The latter was engaged
in conversation with a young man, who seemed to be expostulating about
something.

"I'm sorry, sir," said the attendant, "but I don't suppose the other
gentleman will be very long. Ah!" He turned and saw Wimsey. "Here is
the gentleman."

The young man, whose reddish hair, long nose, and slightly sodden eyes
gave him the appearance of a dissipated fox, greeted Wimsey with a
disagreeable stare.

"What's up? Want me?" asked his lordship airily.

"Yes, sir. Very curious thing, sir; here's a gentleman enquiring for
that very same document as you've been studying, sir. I've been in this
department fifteen years, and I don't know as I ever remember such a
thing happening before."

"No," said Wimsey, "I don't suppose there's much of a run on any of
your lines as a rule."

"It's a very curious thing indeed," said the stranger, with marked
displeasure in his voice.

"Member of the family?" suggested Wimsey.

"I _am_ a member of the family," said the foxy-faced man. "May I ask
whether _you_ have any connection with us?"

"By all means," replied Wimsey graciously.

"I don't believe it. I don't know you."

"No, no--I meant you might ask, by all means."

The young man positively showed his teeth.

"Do you mind telling me who you are, anyhow, and why you're so damned
inquisitive about my great-uncle's will?"

Wimsey extracted a card from his case and presented it with a smile.
Mr. Robert Ferguson changed colour.

"If you would like a reference as to my respectability," went on
Wimsey affably, "Mr. Thomas Macpherson will, I am sure, be happy to
tell you about me. I am inquisitive," said his lordship--"a student of
humanity. Your cousin mentioned to me the curious clause relating to
your esteemed great-uncle's--er--stomach and appurtenances. Curious
clauses are a passion with me. I came to look it up and add it to my
collection of curious wills. I am engaged in writing a book on the
subject--_Clauses and Consequences_. My publishers tell me it should
enjoy a ready sale. I regret that my random jottings should have
encroached upon your doubtless far more serious studies. I wish you a
very good morning."

As he beamed his way out, Wimsey, who had quick ears, heard the
attendant informing the indignant Mr. Ferguson that he was "a very
funny gentleman--not quite all there, sir." It seemed that his
criminological fame had not penetrated to the quiet recesses of
Somerset House. "But," said Wimsey to himself, "I am sadly afraid that
Cousin Robert has been given food for thought."

       *       *       *       *       *

Under the spur of this alarming idea, Wimsey wasted no time, but took
a taxi down to Hatton Garden, to call upon a friend of his. This
gentleman, rather curly in the nose and fleshy about the eyelids,
nevertheless came under Mr. Chesterton's definition of a nice Jew, for
his name was neither Montagu nor McDonald, but Nathan Abrahams, and he
greeted Lord Peter with a hospitality amounting to enthusiasm.

"So pleased to see you. Sit down and have a drink. You have come at
last to select the diamonds for the future Lady Peter, eh?"

"Not yet," said Wimsey.

"No? That's too bad. You should make haste and settle down. It is
time you became a family man. Years ago we arranged I should have the
privilege of decking the bride for the happy day. That is a promise,
you know. I think of it when the fine stones pass through my hands. I
say, 'That would be the very thing for my friend Lord Peter.' But I
hear nothing, and I sell them to stupid Americans who think only of the
price and not of the beauty."

"Time enough to think of the diamonds when I've found the lady."

Mr. Abrahams threw up his hands.

"Oh, yes! And then everything will be done in a hurry! 'Quick, Mr.
Abrahams! I have fallen in love yesterday and I am being married
to-morrow.' But it may take months--years--to find and match perfect
stones. It can't be done between to-day and to-morrow. Your bride will
be married in something ready-made from the jeweller's."

"If three days are enough to choose a wife," said Wimsey, laughing,
"one day should surely be enough for a necklace."

"That is the way with Christians," replied the diamond-merchant
resignedly. "You are so casual. You do not think of the future. Three
days to choose a wife! No wonder the divorce-courts are busy. My son
Moses is being married next week. It has been arranged in the family
these ten years. Rachel Goldstein, it is. A good girl, and her father
is in a very good position. We are all very pleased, I can tell
you. Moses is a good son, a very good son, and I am taking him into
partnership."

"I congratulate you," said Wimsey heartily. "I hope they will be very
happy."

"Thank you, Lord Peter. They will be happy, I am sure. Rachel is
a sweet girl and very fond of children. And she is pretty, too.
Prettiness is not everything, but it is an advantage for a young man in
these days. It is easier for him to behave well to a pretty wife."

"True," said Wimsey. "I will bear it in mind when my time comes. To the
health of the happy pair, and may you soon be an ancestor. Talking of
ancestors, I've got an old bird here that you may be able to tell me
something about."

"Ah, yes! Always delighted to help you in any way, Lord Peter."

"This photograph was taken some thirty years ago, but you may possibly
recognise it."

Mr. Abrahams put on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, and examined the
portrait of Great-Uncle Joseph with serious attention.

"Oh, yes, I know him quite well. What do you want to know about him,
eh?" He shot a swift and cautious glance at Wimsey.

"Nothing to his disadvantage. He's dead, anyhow. I thought it just
possible he had been buying precious stones lately."

"It is not exactly business to give information about a customer," said
Mr. Abrahams.

"I'll tell you what I want it for," said Wimsey. He lightly sketched
the career of Great-Uncle Joseph, and went on: "You see, I looked at it
this way. When a man gets a distrust of banks, what does he do with his
money? He puts it into property of some kind. It may be land, it may
be houses--but that means rent, and more money to put into banks. He
is more likely to keep it in gold or notes, or to put it into precious
stones. Gold and notes are comparatively bulky; stones are small.
Circumstances in this case led me to think he might have chosen stones.
Unless we can discover what he did with the money, there will be a
great loss to his heirs."

"I see. Well, if it is as you say, there is no harm in telling you. I
know you to be an honourable man, and I will break my rule for you.
This gentleman, Mr. Wallace----"

"Wallace, did he call himself?"

"That was not his name? They are funny, these secretive old gentlemen.
But that is nothing unusual. Often, when they buy stones, they are
afraid of being robbed, so they give another name. Yes, yes. Well,
this Mr. Wallace used to come to see me from time to time, and I had
instructions to find diamonds for him. He was looking for twelve big
stones, all matching perfectly and of superb quality. It took a long
time to find them, you know."

"Of course."

"Yes. I supplied him with seven altogether, over a period of twenty
years or so. And other dealers supplied him also. He is well known
in this street. I found the last one for him--let me see--in last
December, I think. A beautiful stone--beautiful! He paid seven thousand
pounds for it."

"Some stone. If they were all as good as that, the collection must be
worth something."

"Worth anything. It is difficult to tell how much. As you know, the
twelve stones, all matched together, would be worth far more than the
sum of the twelve separate prices paid for the individual diamonds."

"Naturally they would. Do you mind telling me how he was accustomed to
pay for them?"

"In Bank of England notes--always--cash on the nail. He insisted on
discount for cash," added Mr. Abrahams, with a chuckle.

"He was a Scotsman," replied Wimsey. "Well, that's clear enough. He had
a safe-deposit somewhere, no doubt. And, having collected the stones,
he made his will. That's clear as daylight, too."

"But what has become of the stones?" enquired Mr. Abrahams, with
professional anxiety.

"I think I know that too," said Wimsey. "I'm enormously obliged to you,
and so, I fancy, will his heir be."

"If they should come into the market again----" suggested Mr. Abrahams.

"I'll see you have the handling of them," said Wimsey promptly.

"That is kind of you," said Mr. Abrahams. "Business is business. Always
delighted to oblige you. Beautiful stones--beautiful. If you thought
of being the purchaser, I would charge you a special commission, as my
friend."

"Thank you," said Wimsey, "but as yet I have no occasion for diamonds,
you know."

"Pity, pity," said Mr. Abrahams. "Well, very glad to have been of
service to you. You are not interested in rubies? No? Because I have
something very pretty here."

He thrust his hand casually into a pocket, and brought out a little
pool of crimson fire like a miniature sunset.

"Look nice in a ring, now, wouldn't it?" said Mr. Abrahams. "An
engagement ring, eh?"

Wimsey laughed, and made his escape.

He was strongly tempted to return to Scotland and attend personally
to the matter of Great-Uncle Joseph, but the thought of an important
book sale next day deterred him. There was a manuscript of Catullus
which he was passionately anxious to secure, and he never entrusted
his interests to dealers. He contented himself with sending a wire to
Thomas Macpherson:

    "Advise opening up Great-uncle Joseph immediately."

The girl at the post-office repeated the message aloud and rather
doubtfully. "Quite right," said Wimsey, and dismissed the affair from
his mind.

       *       *       *       *       *

He had great fun at the sale next day. He found a ring of dealers in
possession, happily engaged in conducting a knock-out. Having lain low
for an hour in a retired position behind a large piece of statuary, he
emerged, just as the hammer was falling upon the Catullus for a price
representing the tenth part of its value, with an overbid so large,
prompt, and sonorous that the ring gasped with a sense of outrage.
Skrymes--a dealer who had sworn an eternal enmity to Wimsey, on account
of a previous little encounter over a Justinian--pulled himself
together and offered a fifty-pound advance. Wimsey promptly doubled his
bid. Skrymes overbid him fifty again. Wimsey instantly jumped another
hundred, in the tone of a man prepared to go on till Doomsday. Skrymes
scowled and was silent. Somebody raised it fifty more; Wimsey made
it guineas and the hammer fell. Encouraged by this success, Wimsey,
feeling that his hand was in, romped happily into the bidding for the
next lot, a _Hypnerotomachia_ which he already possessed, and for which
he felt no desire whatever. Skrymes, annoyed by his defeat, set his
teeth, determining that, if Wimsey was in the bidding mood, he should
pay through the nose for his rashness. Wimsey, entering into the spirit
of the thing, skied the bidding with enthusiasm. The dealers, knowing
his reputation as a collector, and fancying that there must be some
special excellence about the book that they had failed to observe,
joined in whole-heartedly, and the fun became fast and furious.
Eventually they all dropped out again, leaving Skrymes and Wimsey in
together. At which point Wimsey, observing a note of hesitation in the
dealer's voice, neatly extricated himself and left Mr. Skrymes with the
baby. After this disaster, the ring became sulky and demoralised and
refused to bid at all, and a timid little outsider, suddenly flinging
himself into the arena, became the owner of a fine fourteenth-century
missal at bargain price. Crimson with excitement and surprise, he
paid for his purchase and ran out of the room like a rabbit, hugging
the missal as though he expected to have it snatched from him. Wimsey
thereupon set himself seriously to acquire a few fine early printed
books, and, having accomplished this, retired, covered with laurels and
hatred.

After this delightful and satisfying day, he felt vaguely hurt at
receiving no ecstatic telegram from Macpherson. He refused to imagine
that his deductions had been wrong, and supposed rather that the
rapture of Macpherson was too great to be confined to telegraphic
expression and would come next day by post. However, at eleven next
morning the telegram arrived. It said:

    "Just got your wire what does it mean great-uncle stolen last night
    burglar escaped please write fully."

Wimsey committed himself to a brief comment in language usually
confined to the soldiery. Robert had undoubtedly got Great-Uncle
Joseph, and, even if they could trace the burglary to him, the legacy
was by this time gone for ever. He had never felt so furiously
helpless. He even cursed the Catullus, which had kept him from going
north and dealing with the matter personally.

While he was meditating what to do, a second telegram was brought in.
It ran:

    "Great-uncle's bottle found broken in fleet dropped by burglar in
    flight contents gone what next."

Wimsey pondered this.

"Of course," he said, "if the thief simply emptied the bottle and put
Great-Uncle in his pocket, we're done. Or if he's simply emptied
Great-Uncle and put the contents in his pocket, we're done. But
'dropped in flight' sounds rather as though Great-Uncle had gone
overboard lock, stock, and barrel. Why can't the fool of a Scotsman put
a few more details into his wires? It'd only cost him a penny or two. I
suppose I'd better go up myself. Meanwhile a little healthy occupation
won't hurt him."

       *       *       *       *       *

He took a telegraph form from the desk and despatched a further message:

    "Was great-uncle in bottle when dropped if so drag river if not
    pursue burglar probably Robert Ferguson spare no pains starting for
    Scotland to-night hope arrive early to-morrow urgent important put
    your back into it will explain."

The night express decanted Lord Peter Wimsey at Dumfries early the
following morning, and a hired car deposited him at the Stone Cottage
in time for breakfast. The door was opened to him by Maggie, who
greeted him with hearty cordiality:

"Come awa' in, sir. All's ready for ye, and Mr. Macpherson will be back
in a few minutes, I'm thinkin'. Ye'll be tired with your long journey,
and hungry, maybe? Aye. Will ye tak' a bit parritch to your eggs and
bacon? There's nae troot the day, though yesterday was a gran' day for
the fush. Mr. Macpherson has been up and doun, up and doun the river
wi' my Jock, lookin' for ane of his specimens, as he ca's them, that
was dropped by the thief that cam' in. I dinna ken what the thing may
be--my Jock says it's like a calf's pluck to look at, by what Mr.
Macpherson tells him."

"Dear me!" said Wimsey. "And how did the burglary happen, Maggie?"

"Indeed, sir, it was a vera' remarkable circumstance. Mr. Macpherson
was awa' all day Monday and Tuesday, up at the big loch by the viaduct,
fishin'. There was a big rain Saturday and Sunday, ye may remember, and
Mr. Macpherson says, 'There'll be grand fishin' the morn, Jock,' says
he. 'We'll go up to the viaduct if it stops rainin' and we'll spend the
nicht at the keeper's lodge.' So on Monday it stoppit rainin' and was a
grand warm, soft day, so aff they went together. There was a telegram
come for him Tuesday mornin', and I set it up on the mantelpiece, where
he'd see it when he cam' in, but it's been in my mind since that maybe
that telegram had something to do wi' the burglary."

"I wouldn't say but you might be right, Maggie," replied Wimsey gravely.

"Aye, sir, that wadna surprise me." Maggie set down a generous dish of
eggs and bacon before the guest and took up her tale again.

"Well, I was sittin' in my kitchen the Tuesday nicht, waitin' for Mr.
Macpherson and Jock to come hame, and sair I pitied them, the puir
souls, for the rain was peltin' down again, and the nicht was sae
dark I was afraid they micht ha' tummelt into a bog-pool. Weel, I
was listenin' for the sound o' the door-sneck when I heard something
movin' in the front room. The door wasna lockit, ye ken, because Mr.
Macpherson was expectit back. So I up from my chair and I thocht they
had mebbe came in and I not heard them. I waited a meenute to set the
kettle on the fire, and then I heard a crackin' sound. So I cam' out
and I called, 'Is't you, Mr. Macpherson?' And there was nae answer,
only anither big crackin' noise, so I ran forrit, and a man cam'
quickly oot o' the front room, brushin' past me an' puttin' me aside
wi' his hand, so, and oot o' the front door like a flash o' lightnin'.
So, wi' that, I let oot a skelloch, an' Jock's voice answered me fra'
the gairden gate. 'Och!' I says, 'Jock! here's a burrglar been i'
the hoose!' An' I heerd him runnin' across the gairden, doun tae the
river, tramplin' doun a' the young kail and the stra'berry beds, the
blackguard!"

Wimsey expressed his sympathy.

"Aye, that was a bad business. An' the next thing, there was Mr.
Macpherson and Jock helter-skelter after him. If Davie Murray's cattle
had brokken in, they couldna ha' done mair deevastation. An' then there
was a big splashin' an' crashin', an', after a bit, back comes Mr.
Macpherson an' he says, 'He's jumpit intil the Fleet,' he says, 'an'
he's awa'. What has he taken?' he says. 'I dinna ken,' says I, 'for it
all happened sae quickly I couldna see onything.' 'Come awa' ben,' says
he, 'an' we'll see what's missin'.' So we lookit high and low, an' all
we could find was the cupboard door in the front room broken open, and
naething taken but this bottle wi' the specimen."

"Aha!" said Wimsey.

"Ah! an' they baith went oot tegither wi' lichts, but naething could
they see of the thief. Sae Mr. Macpherson comes back, and 'I'm gaun to
ma bed,' says he, 'for I'm that tired I can dae nae mair the nicht,'
says he. 'Oh!' I said, 'I daurna gae tae bed; I'm frichtened.' An' Jock
said, 'Hoots, wumman, dinna fash yersel'. There'll be nae mair burglars
the nicht, wi' the fricht we've gied 'em.' So we lockit up a' the doors
an' windies an' gaed to oor beds, but I couldna sleep a wink."

"Very natural," said Wimsey.

"It wasna till the next mornin'," said Maggie, "that Mr. Macpherson
opened yon telegram. Eh! but he was in a taking. An' then the telegrams
startit. Back an' forrit, back an' forrit atween the hoose an' the
post-office. An' then they fund the bits o' the bottle that the
specimen was in, stuck between twa stanes i' the river. And aff goes
Mr. Macpherson an' Jock wi' their waders on an' a couple o' gaffs,
huntin' in a' the pools an' under the stanes to find the specimen. An'
they're still at it."

At this point three heavy thumps sounded on the ceiling.

"Gude save us!" ejaculated Maggie, "I was forgettin' the puir
gentleman."

"What gentleman?" enquired Wimsey.

"Him that was feshed oot o' the Fleet," replied Maggie. "Excuse me
juist a moment, sir."

She fled swiftly upstairs. Wimsey poured himself out a third cup of
coffee and lit a pipe.

Presently a thought occurred to him. He finished the coffee--not
being a man to deprive himself of his pleasures--and walked quietly
upstairs in Maggie's wake. Facing him stood a bedroom door, half
open--the room which he had occupied during his stay at the cottage.
He pushed it open. In the bed lay a red-headed gentleman, whose long,
foxy countenance was in no way beautified by a white bandage, tilted
rakishly across the left temple. A breakfast-tray stood on a table by
the bed. Wimsey stepped forward with extended hand.

"Good morning, Mr. Ferguson," said he. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

"Good morning," said Mr. Ferguson snappishly.

"I had no idea, when we last met," pursued Wimsey, advancing to the bed
and sitting down upon it, "that you were thinking of visiting my friend
Macpherson."

"Get off my leg," growled the invalid. "I've broken my kneecap."

"What a nuisance! Frightfully painful, isn't it? And they say it takes
years to get right--if it ever does get right. Is it what they call a
Potts fracture? I don't know who Potts was, but it sounds impressive.
How did you get it? Fishing?"

"Yes. A slip in that damned river."

"Beastly. Sort of thing that might happen to anybody. A keen fisher,
Mr. Ferguson?"

"So-so."

"So am I, when I get the opportunity. What kind of fly do you fancy for
this part of the country? I rather like a Greenaway's Gadget myself.
Ever tried it?"

"No," said Mr. Ferguson briefly.

"Some people find a Pink Sisket better, so they tell me. Do you use
one? Have you got your fly-book here?"

"Yes--no," said Mr. Ferguson. "I dropped it."

"Pity. But do give me your opinion of the Pink Sisket."

"Not so bad," said Mr. Ferguson. "I've sometimes caught trout with it."

"You surprise me," said Wimsey, not unnaturally, since he had invented
the Pink Sisket on the spur of the moment, and had hardly expected
his improvisation to pass muster. "Well, I suppose this unlucky
accident has put a stop to your sport for the season. Damned bad luck.
Otherwise, you might have helped us to have a go at the Patriarch."

"What's that? A trout?"

"Yes--a frightfully wily old fish. Lurks about in the Fleet. You never
know where to find him. Any moment he may turn up in some pool or
other. I'm going out with Mac to try for him to-day. He's a jewel of a
fellow. We've nicknamed him Great-Uncle Joseph. Hi! don't joggle about
like that--you'll hurt that knee of yours. Is there anything I can get
for you?"

He grinned amiably, and turned to answer a shout from the stairs.

"Hullo! Wimsey! is that you?"

"It is. How's sport?"

Macpherson came up the stairs four steps at a time, and met Wimsey on
the landing as he emerged from the bedroom.

"I say, d'you know who that is? It's Robert."

"I know. I saw him in town. Never mind him. Have you found Great-Uncle?"

"No, we haven't. What's all this mystery about? And what's Robert
doing here? What did you mean by saying he was the burglar? And why is
Great-Uncle Joseph so important?"

"One thing at a time. Let's find the old boy first. What have you been
doing?"

"Well, when I got your extraordinary messages I thought, of course, you
were off your rocker." (Wimsey groaned with impatience.) "But then I
considered what a funny thing it was that somebody should have thought
Great-Uncle worth stealing, and thought there might be some sense in
what you said, after all." ("Dashed good of you," said Wimsey.) "So I
went out and poked about a bit, you know. Not that I think there's the
faintest chance of finding anything, with the river coming down like
this. Well, I hadn't got very far--by the way, I took Jock with me. I'm
sure he thinks I'm mad, too. Not that he says anything; these people
here never commit themselves----"

"Confound Jock! Get on with it."

"Oh--well, before we'd got very far, we saw a fellow wading about in
the river with a rod and a creel. I didn't pay much attention, because,
you see, I was wondering what you----Yes. Well! Jock noticed him and
said to me, 'Yon's a queer kind of fisherman, I'm thinkin'.' So I had a
look, and there he was, staggering about among the stones with his fly
floating away down the stream in front of him; and he was peering into
all the pools he came to, and poking about with a gaff. So I hailed
him, and he turned round, and then he put the gaff away in a bit of a
hurry and started to reel in his line. He made an awful mess of it,"
added Macpherson appreciatively.

"I can believe it," said Wimsey. "A man who admits to catching trout
with a Pink Sisket would make a mess of anything."

"A pink what?"

"Never mind. I only meant that Robert was no fisher. Get on."

"Well, he got the line hooked round something, and he was pulling and
hauling, you know, and splashing about, and then it came out all of a
sudden, and he waved it all over the place and got my hat. That made
me pretty wild, and I made after him, and he looked round again, and I
yelled out, 'Good God, it's Robert!' And he dropped his rod and took
to his heels. And of course he slipped on the stones and came down
an awful crack. We rushed forward and scooped him up and brought him
home. He's got a nasty bang on the head and a fractured patella. Very
interesting. I should have liked to have a shot at setting it myself,
but it wouldn't do, you know, so I sent for Strachan. He's a good man."

"You've had extraordinary luck about this business so far," said
Wimsey. "Now the only thing left is to find Great-Uncle. How far down
have you got?"

"Not very far. You see, what with getting Robert home and setting his
knee and so on, we couldn't do much yesterday."

"Damn Robert! Great-Uncle may be away out to sea by this time. Let's
get down to it."

He took up a gaff from the umbrella-stand ("Robert's," interjected
Macpherson), and led the way out. The little river was foaming down in
a brown spate, rattling stones and small boulders along in its passage.
Every hole, every eddy might be a lurking-place for Great-Uncle Joseph.
Wimsey peered irresolutely here and there--then turned suddenly to Jock.

"Where's the nearest spit of land where things usually get washed up?"
he demanded.

"Eh, well! there's the Battery Pool, about a mile doon the river. Ye'll
whiles find things washed up there. Aye. Imph'm. There's a pool and a
bit sand, where the river mak's a bend. Ye'll mebbe find it there, I'm
thinkin'. Mebbe no. I couldna say."

"Let's have a look, anyway."

Macpherson, to whom the prospect of searching the stream in detail
appeared rather a dreary one, brightened a little at this.

"That's a good idea. If we take the car down to just above Gatehouse,
we've only got two fields to cross."

The car was still at the door; the hired driver was enjoying the
hospitality of the cottage. They pried him loose from Maggie's scones
and slipped down the road to Gatehouse.

"Those gulls seem rather active about something," said Wimsey, as
they crossed the second field. The white wings swooped backwards and
forwards in narrowing circles over the yellow shoal. Raucous cries
rose on the wind. Wimsey pointed silently with his hand. A long,
unseemly object, like a drab purse, lay on the shore. The gulls,
indignant, rose higher, squawking at the intruders. Wimsey ran forward,
stooped, rose again with the long bag dangling from his fingers.

"Great-Uncle Joseph, I presume," he said, and raised his hat with
old-fashioned courtesy.

"The gulls have had a wee peck at it here and there," said Jock. "It'll
be tough for them. Aye. They havena done so vera much with it."

"Aren't you going to open it?" said Macpherson impatiently.

"Not here," said Wimsey. "We might lose something." He dropped it into
Jock's creel. "We'll take it home first and show it to Robert."

Robert greeted them with ill-disguised irritation.

"We've been fishing," said Wimsey cheerfully. "Look at our bonny wee
fush." He weighed the catch in his hand. "What's inside this wee fush,
Mr. Ferguson?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," said Robert.

"Then why did you go fishing for it?" asked Wimsey pleasantly. "Have
you got a surgical knife there, Mac?"

"Yes--here. Hurry up."

"I'll leave it to you. Be careful. I should begin with the stomach."

Macpherson laid Great-Uncle Joseph on the table, and slit him open with
a practised hand.

"Gude be gracious to us!" cried Maggie, peering over his shoulder.
"What'll that be?"

Wimsey inserted a delicate finger and thumb into the cavities of Uncle
Joseph. "One--two--three----" The stones glittered like fire as he laid
them on the table. "Seven--eight--nine. That seems to be all. Try a
little farther down, Mac."

Speechless with astonishment, Mr. Macpherson dissected his legacy.

"Ten--eleven," said Wimsey. "I'm afraid the sea-gulls have got number
twelve. I'm sorry, Mac."

"But how did they get there?" demanded Robert foolishly.

"Simple as shelling peas. Great-Uncle Joseph makes his will, swallows
his diamonds----"

"He must ha' been a grand man for a pill," said Maggie, with respect.

"--and jumps out of the window. It was as clear as crystal to anybody
who read the will. He told you, Mac, that the stomach was given you to
study."

Robert Ferguson gave a deep groan.

"I knew there was something in it," he said. "That's why I went to look
up the will. And when I saw _you_ there, I knew I was right. (Curse
this leg of mine!) But I never imagined for a moment----"

His eyes appraised the diamonds greedily.

"And what will the value of these same stones be?" enquired Jock.

"About seven thousand pounds apiece, taken separately. More than that,
taken together."

"The old man was mad," said Robert angrily. "I shall dispute the will."

"I think not," said Wimsey. "There's such an offence as entering and
stealing, you know."

"My God!" said Macpherson, handling the diamonds like a man in a dream.
"My God!"

"Seven thousan' pund," said Jock. "Did I unnerstan' ye richtly to say
that one o' they gulls is gaun aboot noo wi' seven thousan' punds'
worth o' diamonds in his wame? Ech! it's just awfu' to think of. Guid
day to you, sirs. I'll be gaun round to Jimmy McTaggart to ask will he
lend me the loan o' a gun."




              THE UNSOLVED PUZZLE OF THE MAN WITH NO FACE


"And what would _you_ say, sir," said the stout man, "to this here
business of the bloke what's been found down on the beach at East
Felpham?"

The rush of travellers after the Bank Holiday had caused an overflow of
third-class passengers into the firsts, and the stout man was anxious
to seem at ease in his surroundings. The youngish gentleman whom he
addressed had obviously paid full fare for a seclusion which he was
fated to forgo. He took the matter amiably enough, however, and replied
in a courteous tone:

"I'm afraid I haven't read more than the headlines. Murdered, I
suppose, wasn't he?"

"It's murder, right enough," said the stout man, with relish. "Cut
about he was, something shocking."

"More like as if a wild beast had done it," chimed in the thin, elderly
man opposite. "No face at all he hadn't got, by what my paper says.
It'll be one of these maniacs, I shouldn't be surprised, what goes
about killing children."

"I wish you wouldn't talk about such things," said his wife, with a
shudder. "I lays awake at nights thinking what might 'appen to Lizzie's
girls, till my head feels regular in a fever, and I has such a sinking
in my inside I has to get up and eat biscuits. They didn't ought to put
such dreadful things in the papers."

"It's better they should, ma'am," said the stout man, "then we're
warned, so to speak, and can take our measures accordingly. Now, from
what I can make out, this unfortunate gentleman had gone bathing all
by himself in a lonely spot. Now, quite apart from cramps, as is a
thing that might 'appen to the best of us, that's a very foolish thing
to do."

"Just what I'm always telling my husband," said the young wife. The
young husband frowned and fidgeted. "Well, dear, it really isn't safe,
and you with your heart not strong----" Her hand sought his under the
newspaper. He drew away, self-consciously, saying, "That'll do, Kitty."

"The way I look at it is this," pursued the stout man. "Here we've been
and had a war, what has left 'undreds o' men in what you might call
a state of unstable ekilibrium. They've seen all their friends blown
up or shot to pieces. They've been through five years of 'orrors and
bloodshed, and it's given 'em what you might call a twist in the mind
towards 'orrors. They may seem to forget it and go along as peaceable
as anybody to all outward appearance, but it's all artificial, if you
get my meaning. Then, one day something 'appens to upset them--they 'as
words with the wife, or the weather's extra hot, as it is to-day--and
something goes pop inside their brains and makes raving monsters of
them. It's all in the books. I do a good bit of reading myself of an
evening, being a bachelor without encumbrances."

"That's all very true," said a prim little man, looking up from his
magazine, "very true indeed--too true. But do you think it applies
in the present case? I've studied the literature of crime a good
deal--I may say I make it my hobby--and it's my opinion there's more
in this than meets the eye. If you will compare this murder with some
of the most mysterious crimes of late years--crimes which, mind you,
have never been solved, and, in my opinion, never will be--what do
you find?" He paused and looked round. "You will find many features
in common with this case. But especially you will find that the
face--and the face only, mark you--has been disfigured, as though to
prevent recognition. As though to blot out the victim's personality
from the world. And you will find that, in spite of the most thorough
investigation, the criminal is never discovered. Now what does all
that point to? To organisation. Organisation. To an immensely powerful
influence at work behind the scenes. In this very magazine that I'm
reading now"--he tapped the page impressively--"there's an account--not
a faked-up story, but an account extracted from the annals of the
police--of the organisation of one of these secret societies, which
mark down men against whom they bear a grudge, and destroy them.
And, when they do this, they disfigure their faces with the mark of
the Secret Society, and they cover up the track of the assassin so
completely--having money and resources at their disposal--that nobody
is ever able to get at them."

"I've read of such things, of course," admitted the stout man, "but
I thought as they mostly belonged to the medeevial days. They had a
thing like that in Italy once. What did they call it now? A Gomorrah,
was it? Are there any Gomorrahs nowadays?"

"You spoke a true word, sir, when you said Italy," replied the prim
man. "The Italian mind is made for intrigue. There's the Fascisti.
That's come to the surface now, of course, but it started by being a
secret society. And, if you were to look below the surface, you would
be amazed at the way in which that country is honeycombed with hidden
organisations of all sorts. Don't you agree with me, sir?" he added,
addressing the first-class passenger.

"Ah!" said the stout man, "no doubt this gentleman has been in Italy
and knows all about it. Should you say this murder was the work of a
Gomorrah, sir?"

"I hope not, I'm sure," said the first-class passenger. "I mean, it
rather destroys the interest, don't you think? I like a nice, quiet,
domestic murder myself, with the millionaire found dead in the library.
The minute I open a detective story and find a Camorra in it, my
interest seems to dry up and turn to dust and ashes--a sort of Sodom
and Camorra, as you might say."

"I agree with you there," said the young husband, "from what you might
call the artistic standpoint. But in this particular case I think there
may be something to be said for this gentleman's point of view."

"Well," admitted the first-class passenger, "not having read the
details----"

"The details are clear enough," said the prim man. "This poor creature
was found lying dead on the beach at East Felpham early this morning,
with his face cut about in the most dreadful manner. He had nothing on
him but his bathing-dress----"

"Stop a minute. Who was he, to begin with?"

"They haven't identified him yet. His clothes had been taken----"

"That looks more like robbery, doesn't it?" suggested Kitty.

"If it was just robbery," retorted the prim man, "why should his face
have been cut up in that way? No--the clothes were taken away, as I
said, to prevent identification. That's what these societies always try
to do."

"Was he stabbed?" demanded the first-class passenger.

"No," said the stout man. "He wasn't. He was strangled."

"Not a characteristically Italian method of killing," observed the
first-class passenger.

"No more it is," said the stout man. The prim man seemed a little
disconcerted.

"And if he went down there to bathe," said the thin, elderly man, "how
did he get there? Surely somebody must have missed him before now, if
he was staying at Felpham. It's a busy spot for visitors in the holiday
season."

"No," said the stout man, "not East Felpham. You're thinking of West
Felpham, where the yacht-club is. East Felpham is one of the loneliest
spots on the coast. There's no house near except a little pub all
by itself at the end of a long road, and after that you have to go
through three fields to get to the sea. There's no real road, only a
cart-track, but you can take a car through. I've been there."

"He came in a car," said the prim man. "They found the track of the
wheels. But it had been driven away again."

"It looks as though the two men had come there together," suggested
Kitty.

"I think they did," said the prim man. "The victim was probably gagged
and bound and taken along in the car to the place, and then he was
taken out and strangled and----"

"But why should they have troubled to put on his bathing-dress?" said
the first-class passenger.

"Because," said the prim man, "as I said, they didn't want to leave any
clothes to reveal his identity."

"Quite; but why not leave him naked? A bathing-dress seems to indicate
an almost excessive regard for decorum, under the circumstances."

"Yes, yes," said the stout man impatiently, "but you 'aven't read the
paper carefully. The two men couldn't have come there in company, and
for why? There was only one set of footprints found, and they belonged
to the murdered man."

He looked round triumphantly.

"Only one set of footprints, eh?" said the first-class passenger
quickly. "This looks interesting. Are you sure?"

"It says so in the paper. A single set of footprints, it says, made by
bare feet, which by a careful comparison 'ave been shown to be those
of the murdered man, lead from the position occupied by the car to the
place where the body was found. What do you make of that?"

"Why," said the first-class passenger, "that tells one quite a lot,
don't you know. It gives one a sort of a bird's eye view of the place,
and it tells one the time of the murder, besides castin' quite a good
bit of light on the character and circumstances of the murderer--or
murderers."

"How do you make that out, sir?" demanded the elderly man.

"Well, to begin with--though I've never been near the place, there is
obviously a sandy beach from which one can bathe."

"That's right," said the stout man.

"There is also, I fancy, in the neighbourhood, a spur of rock running
out into the sea, quite possibly with a handy diving-pool. It must run
out pretty far; at any rate, one can bathe there before it is high
water on the beach."

"I don't know how you know that, sir, but it's a fact. There's rocks
and a bathing-pool, exactly as you describe, about a hundred yards
farther along. Many's the time I've had a dip off the end of them."

"And the rocks run right back inland, where they are covered with short
grass."

"That's right."

"The murder took place shortly before high tide, I fancy, and the body
lay just about at high-tide mark."

"Why so?"

"Well, you say there were footsteps leading right up to the body. That
means that the water hadn't been up beyond the body. But there were
no other marks. Therefore the murderer's footprints must have been
washed away by the tide. The only explanation is that the two men were
standing together just below the tide-mark. The murderer came up out of
the sea. He attacked the other man--maybe he forced him back a little
on his own tracks--and there he killed him. Then the water came up and
washed out any marks the murderer may have left. One can imagine him
squatting there, wondering if the sea was going to come up high enough."

"Ow!" said Kitty, "you make me creep all over."

"Now, as to these marks on the face," pursued the first-class
passenger. "The murderer, according to the idea I get of the thing, was
already in the sea when the victim came along. You see the idea?"

"I get you," said the stout man. "You think as he went in off them
rocks what we was speaking of, and came up through the water, and
that's why there weren't no footprints."

"Exactly. And since the water is deep round those rocks, as you say, he
was presumably in a bathing-dress too."

"Looks like it."

"Quite so. Well, now--what was the face-slashing done with? People
don't usually take knives out with them when they go for a morning dip."

"That's a puzzle," said the stout man.

"Not altogether. Let's say, either the murderer had a knife with him or
he had not. If he had----"

"If he had," put in the prim man eagerly, "he must have laid wait for
the deceased on purpose. And, to my mind, that bears out my idea of a
deep and cunning plot."

"Yes. But, if he was waiting there with the knife, why didn't he
stab the man and have done with it? Why strangle him, when he had a
perfectly good weapon there to hand? No--I think he came unprovided,
and, when he saw his enemy there, he made for him with his hands in the
characteristic British way."

"But the slashing?"

"Well, I think that when he had got his man down, dead before him,
he was filled with a pretty grim sort of fury and wanted to do more
damage. He caught up something that was lying near him on the sand--it
might be a bit of old iron, or even one of those sharp shells you
sometimes see about, or a bit of glass--and he went for him with that
in a desperate rage of jealousy or hatred."

"Dreadful, dreadful!" said the elderly woman.

"Of course, one can only guess in the dark, not having seen the wounds.
It's quite possible that the murderer dropped his knife in the struggle
and had to do the actual killing with his hands, picking the knife up
afterwards. If the wounds were clean knife-wounds, that is probably
what happened, and the murder was premeditated. But if they were rough,
jagged gashes, made by an impromptu weapon, then I should say it was a
chance encounter, and that the murderer was either mad or----"

"Or?"

"Or had suddenly come upon somebody whom he hated very much."

"What do you think happened afterwards?"

"That's pretty clear. The murderer, having waited, as I said, to see
that all his footprints were cleaned up by the tide, waded or swam back
to the rock where he had left his clothes, taking the weapon with him.
The sea would wash away any blood from his bathing-dress or body. He
then climbed out upon the rocks, walked, with bare feet, so as to leave
no tracks on any seaweed or anything, to the short grass of the shore,
dressed, went along to the murdered man's car, and drove it away."

"Why did he do that?"

"Yes, why? He may have wanted to get somewhere in a hurry. Or he may
have been afraid that if the murdered man were identified too soon it
would cast suspicion on him. Or it may have been a mixture of motives.
The point is, where did he come from? How did he come to be bathing at
that remote spot, early in the morning? He didn't get there by car,
or there would be a second car to be accounted for. He may have been
camping near the spot; but it would have taken him a long time to
strike camp and pack all his belongings into the car, and he might have
been seen. I am rather inclined to think he had bicycled there, and
that he hoisted the bicycle into the back of the car and took it away
with him."

"But, in that case, why take the car?"

"Because he had been down at East Felpham longer than he expected, and
he was afraid of being late. Either he had to get back to breakfast at
some house, where his absence would be noticed, or else he lived some
distance off, and had only just time enough for the journey home. I
think, though, he had to be back to breakfast."

"Why?"

"Because, if it was merely a question of making up time on the road,
all he had to do was to put himself and his bicycle on the train
for part of the way. No; I fancy he was staying in a smallish hotel
somewhere. Not a large hotel, because there nobody would notice
whether he came in or not. And not, I think, in lodgings, or somebody
would have mentioned before now that they had had a lodger who went
bathing at East Felpham. Either he lives in the neighbourhood, in which
case he should be easy to trace, or was staying with friends who have
an interest in concealing his movements. Or else--which I think is more
likely--he was in a smallish hotel, where he would be missed from the
breakfast-table, but where his favourite bathing-place was not matter
of common knowledge."

"That seems feasible," said the stout man.

"In any case," went on the first-class passenger, "he must have been
staying within easy bicycling distance of East Felpham, so it shouldn't
be too hard to trace him. And then there is the car."

"Yes. Where is the car, on your theory?" demanded the prim man, who
obviously still had hankerings after the Camorra theory.

"In a garage, waiting to be called for," said the first-class passenger
promptly.

"Where?" persisted the prim man.

"Oh! somewhere on the other side of wherever it was the murderer was
staying. If you have a particular reason for not wanting it to be known
that you were in a certain place at a specified time, it's not a bad
idea to come back from the opposite direction. I rather think I should
look for the car at West Felpham, and the hotel in the nearest town
on the main road beyond where the two roads to East and West Felpham
join. When you've found the car, you've found the name of the victim,
naturally. As for the murderer, you will have to look for an active
man, a good swimmer and ardent bicyclist--probably not very well off,
since he cannot afford to have a car--who has been taking a holiday
in the neighbourhood of the Felphams, and who has a good reason for
disliking the victim, whoever he may be."

"Well, I never," said the elderly woman admiringly. "How beautiful you
do put it all together. Like Sherlock Holmes, I do declare."

"It's a very pretty theory," said the prim man, "but, all the same,
you'll find it's a secret society. Mark my words. Dear me! We're
just running in. Only twenty minutes late. I call that very good for
holiday-time. Will you excuse me? My bag is just under your feet."

There was an eighth person in the compartment, who had remained
throughout the conversation apparently buried in a newspaper. As the
passengers decanted themselves upon the platform, this man touched the
first-class passenger upon the arm.

"Excuse me, sir," he said. "That was a very interesting suggestion of
yours. My name is Winterbottom, and I am investigating this case. Do
you mind giving me your name? I might wish to communicate with you
later on."

"Certainly," said the first-class passenger. "Always delighted to have
a finger in any pie, don't you know. Here is my card. Look me up any
time you like."

Detective-Inspector Winterbottom took the card and read the name:

    LORD PETER WIMSEY,
    110A Piccadilly.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Evening Views_ vendor outside Piccadilly Tube Station arranged his
placard with some care. It looked very well, he thought.

                               MAN WITH
                                NO FACE
                              IDENTIFIED

It was, in his opinion, considerably more striking than that displayed
by a rival organ, which announced, unimaginatively:

                             BEACH MURDER
                                VICTIM
                              IDENTIFIED

A youngish gentleman in a grey suit who emerged at that moment from the
Criterion Bar appeared to think so too, for he exchanged a copper for
the _Evening Views_, and at once plunged into its perusal with such
concentrated interest that he bumped into a hurried man outside the
station and had to apologise.

The _Evening Views_, grateful to murderer and victim alike for
providing so useful a sensation in the dead days after the Bank
Holiday, had torn Messrs. Negretti & Zambra's rocketing thermometrical
statistics from the "banner" position which they had occupied in the
lunch edition, and substituted:

             "FACELESS VICTIM OF BEACH OUTRAGE IDENTIFIED

                          MURDER OF PROMINENT
                           PUBLICITY ARTIST

                             POLICE CLUES

    "The body of a middle-aged man who was discovered, attired only
    in a bathing-costume and with his face horribly disfigured by
    some jagged instrument, on the beach at East Felpham last Monday
    morning, has been identified as that of Mr. Coreggio Plant, studio
    manager of Messrs. Crichton Ltd., the well-known publicity experts
    of Holborn.

    "Mr. Plant, who was forty-five years of age and a bachelor, was
    spending his annual holiday in making a motoring tour along the
    West Coast. He had no companion with him and had left no address
    for the forwarding of letters, so that, without the smart work
    of Detective-Inspector Winterbottom of the Westshire police, his
    disappearance might not in the ordinary way have been noticed until
    he became due to return to his place of business in three weeks'
    time. The murderer had no doubt counted on this, and had removed
    the motor-car, containing the belongings of his victim, in the hope
    of covering up all traces of this dastardly outrage so as to gain
    time for escape.

    "A rigorous search for the missing car, however, eventuated in its
    discovery in a garage at West Felpham, where it had been left for
    decarbonisation and repairs to the magneto. Mr. Spiller, the garage
    proprietor, himself saw the man who left the car, and has furnished
    a description of him to the police. He is said to be a small, dark
    man of foreign appearance. The police hold a clue to his identity,
    and an arrest is confidently expected in the near future.

    "Mr. Plant was for fifteen years in the employment of Messrs.
    Crichton, being appointed Studio Manager in the latter years of
    the war. He was greatly liked by all his colleagues, and his skill
    in the lay-out and designing of advertisements did much to justify
    the truth of Messrs. Crichton's well-known slogan: 'Crichton's for
    Admirable Advertising.'

    "The funeral of the victim will take place to-morrow at Golders
    Green Cemetery.

    "(Pictures on Back Page.)"

Lord Peter Wimsey turned to the back page. The portrait of the victim
did not detain him long; it was one of those characterless studio
photographs which establish nothing except that the sitter has a
tolerable set of features. He noted that Mr. Plant had been thin rather
than fat, commercial in appearance rather than artistic, and that the
photographer had chosen to show him serious rather than smiling. A
picture of East Felpham beach, marked with a cross where the body was
found, seemed to arouse in him rather more than a casual interest. He
studied it intently for some time, making little surprised noises.
There was no obvious reason why he should have been surprised, for
the photograph bore out in every detail the deductions he had made
in the train. There was the curved line of sand, with a long spur of
rock stretching out behind it into deep water, and running back till
it mingled with the short, dry turf. Nevertheless, he looked at it for
several minutes with close attention, before folding the newspaper and
hailing a taxi; and when he was in the taxi he unfolded the paper and
looked at it again.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Your lordship having been kind enough," said Inspector Winterbottom,
emptying his glass rather too rapidly for true connoisseurship, "to
suggest I should look you up in Town, I made bold to give you a call in
passing. Thank you, I won't say no. Well, as you've seen in the papers
by now, we found that car all right."

Wimsey expressed his gratification at this result.

"And very much obliged I was to your lordship for the hint," went on
the Inspector generously, "not but what I wouldn't say but I should
have come to the same conclusion myself, given a little more time. And,
what's more, we're on the track of the man."

"I see he's supposed to be foreign-looking. Don't say he's going to
turn out to be a Camorrist after all!"

"No, my lord." The Inspector winked. "Our friend in the corner had got
his magazine stories a bit on the brain, if you ask me. And _you_ were
a bit out too, my lord, with your bicyclist idea."

"Was I? That's a blow."

"Well, my lord, these here theories _sound_ all right, but half the
time they're too fine-spun altogether. Go for the facts--that's our
motto in the Force--facts and motive, and you won't go far wrong."

"Oh! you've discovered the motive, then?"

The Inspector winked again.

"There's not many motives for doing a man in," said he. "Women or
money--or women _and_ money--it mostly comes down to one or the other.
This fellow Plant went in for being a bit of a lad, you see. He kept a
little cottage down Felpham way, with a nice little skirt to furnish it
and keep the love-nest warm for him--see?"

"Oh! I thought he was doing a motor-tour."

"Motor-tour your foot!" said the Inspector, with more energy than
politeness. "That's what the old [epithet] told 'em at the office.
Handy reason, don't you see, for leaving no address behind him. No,
no. There was a lady in it all right. I've seen her. A very taking
piece too, if you like 'em skinny, which I don't. I prefer 'em better
upholstered myself."

"That chair is really more comfortable with a cushion," put in Wimsey,
with anxious solicitude. "Allow me."

"Thanks, my lord, thanks. I'm doing very well. It seems that this
woman--by the way, we're speaking in confidence, you understand. I
don't want this to go further till I've got my man under lock and key."

Wimsey promised discretion.

"That's all right, my lord, that's all right. I know I can rely on
you. Well, the long and the short is, this young woman had another
fancy man--a sort of an Italiano, whom she'd chucked for Plant, and
this same dago got wind of the business and came down to East Felpham
on the Sunday night, looking for her. He's one of these professional
partners in a Palais de Danse up Cricklewood way, and that's where the
girl comes from, too. I suppose she thought Plant was a cut above him.
Anyway, down he comes, and busts in upon them Sunday night when they
were having a bit of supper--and that's when the row started."

"Didn't you know about this cottage and the goings-on there?"

"Well, you know, there's such a lot of these week-enders nowadays.
We can't keep tabs on all of them, so long as they behave themselves
and don't make a disturbance. The woman's been there--so they tell
me--since last June, with him coming down Saturday to Monday; but it's
a lonely spot, and the constable didn't take much notice. He came in
the evenings, so there wasn't anybody much to recognise him, except
the old girl who did the slops and things, and she's half-blind. And
of course, when they found him, he hadn't any face to recognise. It'd
be thought he'd just gone off in the ordinary way. I dare say the dago
fellow reckoned on that. As I was saying, there was a big row, and
the dago was kicked out. He must have lain wait for Plant down by the
bathing-place, and done him in."

"By strangling?"

"Well, he _was_ strangled."

"Was his face cut up with a knife, then?"

"Well, no--I don't think it was a knife. More like a broken bottle,
I should say, if you ask me. There's plenty of them come in with the
tide."

"But then we're brought back to our old problem. If this Italian was
lying in wait to murder Plant, why didn't he take a weapon with him,
instead of trusting to the chance of his hands and a broken bottle?"

The Inspector shook his head.

"Flighty," he said. "All these foreigners are flighty. No headpiece.
But there's our man and there's our motive, plain as a pikestaff. You
don't want more."

"And where is the Italian fellow now?"

"Run away. That's pretty good proof of guilt in itself. But we'll have
him before long. That's what I've come to Town about. He can't get out
of the country. I've had an all-stations call sent out to stop him.
The dance-hall people were able to supply us with a photo and a good
description. I'm expecting a report in now any minute. In fact, I'd
best be getting along. Thank you very much for your hospitality, my
lord."

"The pleasure is mine," said Wimsey, ringing the bell to have the
visitor shown out. "I have enjoyed our little chat immensely."

       *       *       *       *       *

Sauntering into the Falstaff at twelve o'clock the following morning,
Wimsey, as he had expected, found Salcombe Hardy supporting his rather
plump contours against the bar. The reporter greeted his arrival with
a heartiness amounting almost to enthusiasm, and called for two large
Scotches immediately. When the usual skirmish as to who should pay had
been honourably settled by the prompt disposal of the drinks and the
standing of two more, Wimsey pulled from his pocket the copy of last
night's _Evening Views_.

"I wish you'd ask the people over at your place to get hold of a decent
print of this for me," he said, indicating the picture of East Felpham
beach.

Salcome Hardy gazed limpid enquiry at him from eyes like drowned
violets.

"See here, you old sleuth," he said, "does this mean you've got a
theory about the thing? I'm wanting a story badly. Must keep up the
excitement, you know. The police don't seem to have got any further
since last night."

"No; I'm interested in this from another point of view altogether. I
did have a theory--of sorts--but it seems it's all wrong. Bally old
Homer nodding, I suppose. But I'd like a copy of the thing."

"I'll get Warren to get you one when we come back. I'm just taking him
down with me to Crichton's. We're going to have a look at a picture. I
say, I wish you'd come too. Tell me what to say about the damned thing."

"Good God! I don't know anything about commercial art."

"'Tisn't commercial art. It's supposed to be a portrait of this
blighter Plant. Done by one of the chaps in his studio or something.
Kid who told me about it says it's clever. I don't know. Don't suppose
she knows, either. You go in for being artistic, don't you?"

"I wish you wouldn't use such filthy expressions, Sally. Artistic! Who
is this girl?"

"Typist in the copy department."

"Oh, Sally!"

"Nothing of that sort. I've never met her. Name's Gladys Twitterton.
I'm sure that's beastly enough to put anybody off. Rang us up last
night and told us there was a bloke there who'd done old Plant in oils
and was it any use to us? Drummer thought it might be worth looking
into. Make a change from that everlasting syndicated photograph."

"I see. If you haven't got an exclusive story, an exclusive picture's
better than nothing. The girl seems to have her wits about her. Friend
of the artist's?"

"No--said he'd probably be frightfully annoyed at her having told me.
But I can wangle that. Only I wish you'd come and have a look at it.
Tell me whether I ought to say it's an unknown masterpiece or merely a
striking likeness."

"How the devil can I say if it's a striking likeness of a bloke I've
never seen?"

"I'll say it's that, in any case. But I want to know if it's well
painted."

"Curse it, Sally, what's it matter whether it is or not? I've got
other things to do. Who's the artist, by the way? Anybody one's ever
heard of?"

"Dunno. I've got the name here somewhere." Sally rooted in his
hip-pocket and produced a mass of dirty correspondence, its angles
blunted by constant attrition. "Some comic name like Buggle or
Snagtooth--wait a bit--here it is. Crowder. Thomas Crowder. I knew it
was something out of the way."

"Singularly like Buggle or Snagtooth. All right, Sally, I'll make a
martyr of myself. Lead me to it."

"We'll have another quick one. Here's Warren. This is Lord Peter
Wimsey. This is on me."

"On me," corrected the photographer, a jaded young man with a
disillusioned manner. "Three large White Labels, please. Well, here's
all the best. Are you fit, Sally? Because we'd better make tracks. I've
got to be up at Golders Green by two for the funeral."

Mr. Crowder of Crichton's appeared to have had the news broken to him
already by Miss Twitterton, for he received the embassy in a spirit of
gloomy acquiescence.

"The directors won't like it," he said, "but they've had to put up
with such a lot that I suppose one irregularity more or less won't
give 'em apoplexy." He had a small, anxious, yellow face like a
monkey. Wimsey put him down as being in his late thirties. He noticed
his fine, capable hands, one of which was disfigured by a strip of
sticking-plaster.

"Damaged yourself?" said Wimsey pleasantly, as they made their way
upstairs to the studio. "Mustn't make a practice of that, what? An
artist's hands are his livelihood--except, of course, for Armless
Wonders and people of that kind! Awkward job, painting with your toes."

"Oh, it's nothing much," said Crowder, "but it's best to keep the paint
out of surface scratches. There's such a thing as lead-poisoning. Well,
here's this dud portrait, such as it is. I don't mind telling you that
it didn't please the sitter. In fact, he wouldn't have it at any price."

"Not flattering enough?" asked Hardy.

"As you say." The painter pulled out a four by three canvas from its
hiding-place behind a stack of poster cartoons, and heaved it up on to
the easel.

"Oh!" said Hardy, a little surprised. Not that there was any reason
for surprise as far as the painting itself was concerned. It was a
straight-forward handling enough; the skill and originality of the
brush-work being of the kind that interests the painter without
shocking the ignorant.

"Oh!" said Hardy. "Was he really like that?"

He moved closer to the canvas, peering into it as he might have
peered into the face of the living man, hoping to get something out
of him. Under this microscopic scrutiny, the portrait, as is the way
of portraits, dislimned, and became no more than a conglomeration of
painted spots and streaks. He made the discovery that, to the painter's
eye, the human face is full of green and purple patches.

He moved back again, and altered the form of his question:

"So that's what he was like, was he?"

He pulled out the photograph of Plant from his pocket, and compared it
with the portrait. The portrait seemed to sneer at his surprise.

"Of course, they touch these things up at these fashionable
photographers," he said. "Anyway, that's not my business. This thing
will make a jolly good eye-catcher, don't you think so, Wimsey? Wonder
if they'd give us a two-column spread on the front page? Well, Warren,
you'd better get down to it."

The photographer, bleakly unmoved by artistic or journalistic
considerations, took silent charge of the canvas, mentally resolving
it into a question of pan-chromatic plates and coloured screens.
Crowder gave him a hand in shifting the easel into a better light. Two
or three people from other departments, passing through the studio on
their lawful occasions, stopped, and lingered in the neighbourhood of
the disturbance, as though it were a street accident. A melancholy,
grey-haired man, temporary head of the studio, vice Coreggio Plant,
deceased, took Crowder aside, with a muttered apology, to give him some
instructions about adapting a whole quad to an eleven-inch treble.
Hardy turned to Lord Peter.

"It's damned ugly," he said. "Is it good?"

"Brilliant," said Wimsey. "You can go all out. Say what you like about
it."

"Oh, splendid! Could we discover one of our neglected British masters?"

"Yes; why not? You'll probably make the man the fashion and ruin him as
an artist, but that's his pigeon."

"But, I say--do you think it's a good likeness? He's made him look a
most sinister sort of fellow. After all, Plant thought it was so bad he
wouldn't have it."

"The more fool he. Ever heard of the portrait of a certain statesman
that was so revealing of his inner emptiness that he hurriedly bought
it up and hid it to prevent people like you from getting hold of it?"

Crowder came back.

"I say," said Wimsey, "whom does that picture belong to? You? Or the
heirs of the deceased, or what?"

"I suppose it's back on my hands," said the painter. "Plant--well, he
more or less commissioned it, you see, but----"

"How more or less?"

"Well, he kept on hinting, don't you know, that he would like me to do
him, and, as he was my boss, I thought I'd better. No price actually
mentioned. When he saw it, he didn't like it, and told me to alter it."

"But you didn't."

"Oh--well, I put it aside and said I'd see what I could do with it. I
thought he'd perhaps forget about it."

"I see. Then presumably it's yours to dispose of."

"I should think so. Why?"

"You have a very individual technique, haven't you?" pursued Wimsey.
"Do you exhibit much?"

"Here and there. I've never had a show in London."

"I fancy I once saw a couple of small sea-scapes of yours somewhere.
Manchester, was it? or Liverpool? I wasn't sure of your name, but I
recognised the technique immediately."

"I dare say. I did send a few things to Manchester about two years ago."

"Yes--I felt sure I couldn't be mistaken. I want to buy the portrait.
Here's my card, by the way. I'm not a journalist; I collect things."

Crowder looked from the card to Wimsey and from Wimsey to the card, a
little reluctantly.

"If you want to exhibit it, of course," said Lord Peter, "I should be
delighted to leave it with you as long as you liked."

"Oh, it's not that," said Crowder. "The fact is, I'm not altogether
keen on the thing. I should like to--that is to say, it's not really
finished."

"My dear man, it's a bally masterpiece."

"Oh, the painting's all right. But it's not altogether satisfactory as
a likeness."

"What the devil does the likeness matter? I don't know what the late
Plant looked like and I don't care. As I look at the thing it's a damn
fine bit of brush-work, and if you tinker about with it you'll spoil
it. You know that as well as I do. What's biting you? It isn't the
price, is it? You know I shan't boggle about that. I can afford my
modest pleasures, even in these thin and piping times. You don't want
me to have it? Come now--what's the real reason?"

"There's no reason at all why you shouldn't have it if you really want
it, I suppose," said the painter, still a little sullenly. "If it's
really the painting that interests you."

"What do you suppose it is? The notoriety? I can have all I want of
_that_ commodity, you know, for the asking--or even without asking.
Well, anyhow, think it over, and when you've decided, send me a line
and name your price."

Crowder nodded without speaking, and the photographer having by this
time finished his job, the party took their leave.

As they left the building, they became involved in the stream of
Crichton's staff going out to lunch. A girl, who seemed to have been
loitering in a semi-intentional way in the lower hall, caught them as
the lift descended.

"Are you the _Evening Views_ people? Did you get your picture all
right?"

"Miss Twitterton?" said Hardy interrogatively. "Yes, rather--thank you
so much for giving us the tip. You'll see it on the front page this
evening."

"Oh! that's splendid! I'm frightfully thrilled. It has made an
excitement here--all this business. Do they know anything yet about who
murdered Mr. Plant? Or am I being horribly indiscreet?"

"We're expecting news of an arrest any minute now," said Hardy. "As a
matter of fact, I shall have to buzz back to the office as fast as I
can, to sit with one ear glued to the telephone. You will excuse me,
won't you? And, look here--will you let me come round another day, when
things aren't so busy, and take you out to lunch?"

"Of course. I should love to." Miss Twitterton giggled. "I do so want
to hear about all the murder cases."

"Then here's the man to tell you about them, Miss Twitterton," said
Hardy, with mischief in his eye. "Allow me to introduce Lord Peter
Wimsey."

Miss Twitterton offered her hand in an ecstasy of excitement which
almost robbed her of speech.

"How do you do?" said Wimsey. "As this blighter is in such a hurry to
get back to his gossip-shop, what do you say to having a spot of lunch
with me?"

"Well, really----" began Miss Twitterton.

"He's all right," said Hardy; "he won't lure you into any gilded dens
of infamy. If you look at him, you will see he has a kind, innocent
face."

"I'm sure I never thought of such a thing," said Miss Twitterton. "But
you know--really--I've only got my old things on. It's no good wearing
anything decent in this dusty old place."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Wimsey. "You couldn't possibly look nicer. It
isn't the frock that matters--it's the person who wears it. _That's_
all right, then. See you later, Sally! Taxi! Where shall we go? What
time do you have to be back, by the way?"

"Two o'clock," said Miss Twitterton regretfully.

"Then we'll make the Savoy do," said Wimsey; "it's reasonably handy."

Miss Twitterton hopped into the waiting taxi with a little squeak of
agitation.

"Did you see Mr. Crichton?" she said. "He went by just as we were
talking. However, I dare say he doesn't really know me by sight. I
hope not--or he'll think I'm getting too grand to need a salary." She
rooted in her hand-bag. "I'm sure my face is getting all shiny with
excitement. What a silly taxi. It hasn't got a mirror--and I've bust
mine."

Wimsey solemnly produced a small looking-glass from his pocket.

"How wonderfully competent of you!" exclaimed Miss Twitterton. "I'm
afraid, Lord Peter, you are used to taking girls about."

"Moderately so," said Wimsey. He did not think it necessary to mention
that the last time he had used that mirror it had been to examine the
back teeth of a murdered man.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Of course," said Miss Twitterton, "they had to say he was popular with
his colleagues. Haven't you noticed that murdered people are always
well dressed and popular?"

"They have to be," said Wimsey. "It makes it more mysterious and
pathetic. Just as girls who disappear are always bright and home-loving
and have no men friends."

"Silly, isn't it?" said Miss Twitterton, with her mouth full of roast
duck and green peas. "I should think everybody was only too glad to
get rid of Plant--nasty, rude creature. So mean, too, always taking
credit for other people's work. All those poor things in the studio,
with all the spirit squashed out of them. I always say, Lord Peter, you
can tell if a head of a department's fitted for his job by noticing
the atmosphere of the place as you go into it. Take the copy-room,
now. We're all as cheerful and friendly as you like, though I must say
the language that goes on there is something awful, but these writing
fellows are like that, and they don't mean anything by it. But then,
Mr. Ormerod is a real gentleman--that's our copy-chief, you know--and
he makes them all take an interest in the work, for all they grumble
about the cheese-bills and the department-store bilge they have to turn
out. But it's quite different in the studio. A sort of dead-and-alive
feeling about it, if you understand what I mean. We girls notice things
like that more than some of the high-up people think. Of course, I'm
very sensitive to these feelings--almost psychic, I've been told."

Lord Peter said there was nobody like a woman for sizing up character
at a glance. Women, he thought, were remarkably intuitive.

"That's a fact," said Miss Twitterton. "I've often said, if I could
have a few frank words with Mr. Crichton, I could tell him a thing or
two. There are wheels within wheels beneath the surface of a place like
this that these brass-hats have no idea of."

Lord Peter said he felt sure of it.

"The way Mr. Plant treated people he thought were beneath him," went on
Miss Twitterton, "I'm sure it was enough to make your blood boil. I'm
sure, if Mr. Ormerod sent me with a message to him, I was glad to get
out of the room again. Humiliating, it was, the way he'd speak to you.
I don't care if he's dead or not; being dead doesn't make a person's
past behaviour any better, Lord Peter. It wasn't so much the rude
things he said. There's Mr. Birkett, for example; _he's_ rude enough,
but nobody minds him. He's just like a big, blundering puppy--rather a
lamb, really. It was Mr. Plant's nasty sneering way we all hated so.
And he was always running people down."

"How about this portrait?" asked Wimsey. "Was it like him at all?"

"It was a lot too like him," said Miss Twitterton emphatically. "That's
why he hated it so. He didn't like Crowder, either. But, of course, he
knew he could paint, and he made him do it, because he thought he'd be
getting a valuable thing cheap. And Crowder couldn't very well refuse,
or Plant would have got him sacked."

"I shouldn't have thought that would have mattered much to a man of
Crowder's ability."

"Poor Mr. Crowder! I don't think he's ever had much luck. Good artists
don't always seem able to sell their pictures. And I know he wanted to
get married--otherwise he'd never have taken up this commercial work.
He's told me a good bit about himself. I don't know why--but I'm one of
the people men seem to tell things to."

Lord Peter filled Miss Twitterton's glass.

"Oh, please! No, really! Not a drop more! I'm talking a lot too much
as it is. I don't know what Mr. Ormerod will say when I go in to take
his letters. I shall be writing down all kinds of funny things. Ooh! I
really must be getting back. Just look at the time!"

"It's not really late. Have a black coffee--just as a corrective."
Wimsey smiled. "You haven't been talking at all too much. I've enjoyed
your picture of office life enormously. You have a very vivid way of
putting things, you know. I see now why Mr. Plant was not altogether a
popular character."

"Not in the office, anyway--whatever he may have been elsewhere," said
Miss Twitterton darkly.

"Oh?"

"Oh! he was a one," said Miss Twitterton. "He certainly was a one. Some
friends of mine met him one evening up in the West End, and they came
back with some nice stories. It was quite a joke in the office--old
Plant and his rosebuds, you know. Mr. Cowley--he's _the_ Cowley, you
know, who rides in the motor-cycle races--he always said he knew
what to think of Mr. Plant and his motor-tours. That time Mr. Plant
pretended he'd gone touring in Wales, Mr. Cowley was asking him about
the roads, and he didn't know a thing about them. Because Mr. Cowley
really had been touring there, and he knew quite well Mr. Plant hadn't
been where he said he had; and, as a matter of fact, Mr. Cowley knew
he'd been staying the whole time in a hotel at Aberystwyth, in very
attractive company."

Miss Twitterton finished her coffee and slapped the cup down defiantly.

"And now I really _must_ run away, or I shall be most dreadfully late.
And thank you ever so much."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Hullo!" said Inspector Winterbottom, "you've bought that portrait,
then?"

"Yes," said Wimsey. "It's a fine bit of work." He gazed thoughtfully at
the canvas. "Sit down, inspector; I want to tell you a story."

"And I want to tell _you_ a story," replied the inspector.

"Let's have yours first," said Wimsey, with an air of flattering
eagerness.

"No, no, my lord. You take precedence. Go ahead."

He snuggled down with a chuckle into his arm-chair.

"Well!" said Wimsey. "Mine's a sort of a fairy-story. And, mind you, I
haven't verified it."

"Go ahead, my lord, go ahead."

"Once upon a time----" said Wimsey, sighing.

"That's the good old-fashioned way to begin a fairy-story," said
Inspector Winterbottom.

"Once upon a time," repeated Wimsey, "there was a painter. He was a
good painter, but the bad fairy of Financial Success had not been asked
to his christening--what?"

"That's often the way with painters," agreed the inspector.

"So he had to take up a job as a commercial artist, because nobody
would buy his pictures and, like so many people in fairy-tales, he
wanted to marry a goose-girl."

"There's many people want to do the same," said the inspector.

"The head of his department," went on Wimsey, "was a man with a mean,
sneering soul. He wasn't even really good at his job, but he had been
pushed into authority during the war, when better men went to the
Front. Mind you, I'm rather sorry for the man. He suffered from an
inferiority complex"--the inspector snorted--"and he thought the only
way to keep his end up was to keep other people's end down. So he
became a little tin tyrant and a bully. He took all the credit for the
work of the men under his charge, and he sneered and harassed them till
they got inferiority complexes even worse than his own."

"I've known that sort," said the inspector, "and the marvel to me is
how they get away with it."

"Just so," said Wimsey. "Well, I dare say this man would have gone on
getting away with it all right, if he hadn't thought of getting this
painter to paint his portrait."

"Damn silly thing to do," said the inspector. "It was only making the
painter-fellow conceited with himself."

"True. But, you see, this tin tyrant person had a fascinating female
in tow, and he wanted the portrait for the lady. He thought that, by
making the painter do it, he would get a good portrait at starvation
price. But unhappily he'd forgotten that, however much an artist will
put up with in the ordinary way, he is bound to be sincere with his
art. That's the one thing a genuine artist won't muck about with."

"I dare say," said the inspector. "I don't know much about artists."

"Well, you can take it from me. So the painter painted the portrait as
he saw it, and he put the man's whole creeping, sneering, paltry soul
on the canvas for everybody to see."

Inspector Winterbottom stared at the portrait, and the portrait sneered
back at him.

"It's not what you'd call a flattering picture, certainly," he admitted.

"Now, when a painter paints a portrait of anybody," went on Wimsey,
"that person's face is never the same to him again. It's like--what
shall I say? Well, it's like the way a gunner, say, looks at a
landscape where he happens to be posted. He doesn't see it as a
landscape. He doesn't see it as a thing of magic beauty, full of
sweeping lines and lovely colour. He sees it as so much cover, so many
landmarks to aim by, so many gun-emplacements. And when the war is over
and he goes back to it, he will still see it as cover and landmarks and
gun-emplacements. It isn't a landscape any more. It's a war map."

"I know that," said Inspector Winterbottom. "I was a gunner myself."

"A painter gets just the same feeling of deadly familiarity with every
line of a face he's once painted," pursued Wimsey. "And, if it's a
face he hates, he hates it with a new and more irritable hatred. It's
like a defective barrel-organ, everlastingly grinding out the same old
maddening tune, and making the same damned awful wrong note every time
the barrel goes round."

"Lord! how you can talk!" ejaculated the inspector.

"That was the way the painter felt about this man's hateful face. All
day and every day he had to see it. He couldn't get away because he was
tied to his job, you see."

"He ought to have cut loose," said the inspector. "It's no good going
on like that, trying to work with uncongenial people."

"Well, anyway, he said to himself, he could escape for a bit during his
holidays. There was a beautiful little quiet spot he knew on the West
Coast, where nobody ever came. He'd been there before and painted it.
Oh! by the way, that reminds me--I've got another picture to show you."

He went to a bureau and extracted a small panel in oils from a drawer.

"I saw that two years ago at a show in Manchester, and I happened to
remember the name of the dealer who bought it."

Inspector Winterbottom gaped at the panel.

"But that's East Felpham!" he exclaimed.

"Yes. It's only signed T.C., but the technique is rather unmistakable,
don't you think?"

The inspector knew little about technique, but initials he understood.
He looked from the portrait to the panel and back at Lord Peter.

"The painter----"

"Crowder?"

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather go on calling him the painter.
He packed up his traps on his push-bike carrier, and took his tormented
nerves down to this beloved and secret spot for a quiet week-end. He
stayed at a quiet little hotel in the neighbourhood, and each morning
he cycled off to this lovely little beach to bathe. He never told
anybody at the hotel where he went, because it was _his_ place, and he
didn't want other people to find it out."

Inspector Winterbottom set the panel down on the table, and helped
himself to whisky.

"One morning--it happened to be the Monday morning"--Wimsey's voice
became slower and more reluctant--"he went down as usual. The tide was
not yet fully in, but he ran out over the rocks to where he knew there
was a deep bathing-pool. He plunged in and swam about, and let the
small noise of his jangling troubles be swallowed up in the innumerable
laughter of the sea."

"Eh?"

"[Greek: kumatôn anêrithmon gelasma]--quotation from the classics.
Some people say it means the dimpled surface of the waves in the
sunlight--but how could Prometheus, bound upon his rock, have seen it?
Surely it was the chuckle of the incoming tide among the stones that
came up to his ears on the lonely peak where the vulture fretted at his
heart. I remember arguing about it with old Philpotts in class, and
getting rapped over the knuckles for contradicting him. I didn't know
at the time that he was engaged in producing a translation on his own
account, or doubtless I should have contradicted him more rudely and
been told to take my trousers down. Dear old Philpotts!"

"I don't know anything about that," said the inspector.

"I beg your pardon. Shocking way I have of wandering. The
painter--well! he swam round the end of the rocks, for the tide was
nearly in by that time; and, as he came up from the sea, he saw a man
standing on the beach--that beloved beach, remember, which he thought
was his own sacred haven of peace. He came wading towards it, cursing
the Bank Holiday rabble who must needs swarm about everywhere with
their cigarette-packets and their kodaks and their gramophones--and
then he saw that it was a face he knew. He knew every hated line in it,
on that clear sunny morning. And, early as it was, the heat was coming
up over the sea like a haze."

"It was a hot week-end," said the Inspector.

"And then the man hailed him, in his smug, mincing voice. 'Hullo!' he
said, 'you here? How did you find my little bathing-place?' And that
was too much for the painter. He felt as if his last sanctuary had
been invaded. He leapt at the lean throat--it's rather a stringy one,
you may notice, with a prominent Adam's apple--an irritating throat.
The water chuckled round their feet as they swayed to and fro. He felt
his thumbs sink into the flesh he had painted. He saw, and laughed to
see, the hateful familiarity of the features change and swell into an
unrecognisable purple. He watched the sunken eyes bulge out and the
thin mouth distort itself as the blackened tongue thrust through it--I
am not unnerving you, I hope?"

The inspector laughed.

"Not a bit. It's wonderful, the way you describe things. You ought to
write a book."

    "I sing but as the throstle sings,
    Amid the branches dwelling,"

replied his lordship negligently, and went on without further comment.

"The painter throttled him. He flung him back on the sand. He looked at
him, and his heart crowed within him. He stretched out his hand, and
found a broken bottle, with a good jagged edge. He went to work with
a will, stamping and tearing away every trace of the face he knew and
loathed. He blotted it out and destroyed it utterly.

"He sat beside the thing he had made. He began to be frightened. They
had staggered back beyond the edge of the water, and there were the
marks of his feet on the sand. He had blood on his face and on his
bathing-suit, and he had cut his hand with the bottle. But the blessed
sea was still coming in. He watched it pass over the bloodstains and
the footprints and wipe the story of his madness away. He remembered
that this man had gone from his place, leaving no address behind him.
He went back, step by step, into the water, and, as it came up to his
breast, he saw the red stains smoke away like a faint mist in the
brown-blueness of the tide. He went--wading and swimming and plunging
his face and arms deep in the water, looking back from time to time
to see what he had left behind him. I think that when he got back to
the point and drew himself out, clean and cool, upon the rocks, he
remembered that he ought to have taken the body back with him and let
the tide carry it away, but it was too late. He was clean, and he could
not bear to go back for the thing. Besides, he was late, and they would
wonder at the hotel if he was not back in time for breakfast. He ran
lightly over the bare rocks and the grass that showed no footprint. He
dressed himself, taking care to leave no trace of his presence. He took
the car, which would have told a story. He put his bicycle in the back
seat, under the rugs, and he went--but you know as well as I do where
he went."

Lord Peter got up with an impatient movement, and went over to the
picture, rubbing his thumb meditatively over the texture of the
painting.

"You may say, if he hated the face so much, why didn't he destroy the
picture? He couldn't. It was the best thing he'd ever done. He took a
hundred guineas for it. It was cheap at a hundred guineas. But then--I
think he was afraid to refuse me. My name is rather well known. It was
a sort of blackmail, I suppose. But I wanted that picture."

Inspector Winterbottom laughed again.

"Did you take any steps, my lord, to find out if Crowder has really
been staying at East Felpham?"

"No." Wimsey swung round abruptly. "I have taken no steps at all.
That's your business. I have told you the story, and, on my soul, I'd
rather have stood by and said nothing."

"You needn't worry." The inspector laughed for the third time. "It's a
good story, my lord, and you told it well. But you're right when you
say it's a fairy-story. We've found this Italian fellow--Franceso, he
called himself, and he's the man all right."

"How do you know? Has he confessed?"

"Practically. He's dead. Killed himself. He left a letter to the woman,
begging her forgiveness, and saying that when he saw her with Plant he
felt murder come into his heart. 'I have revenged myself,' he says, 'on
him who dared to love you.' I suppose he got the wind up when he saw
we were after him--I wish these newspapers wouldn't be always putting
these criminals on their guard--so he did away with himself to cheat
the gallows. I may say it's been a disappointment to me."

"It must have been," said Wimsey. "Very unsatisfactory, of course. But
I'm glad my story turned out to be only a fairy-tale after all. You're
not going?"

"Got to get back to my duty," said the inspector, heaving himself to
his feet. "Very pleased to have met you, my lord. And I mean what I
say--you ought to take to literature."

Wimsey remained after he had gone, still looking at the portrait.

"'What is Truth?' said jesting Pilate. No wonder, since it is so
completely unbelievable.... I could prove it ... if I liked ... but
the man had a villainous face, and there are few good painters in the
world."




            THE ADVENTUROUS EXPLOIT OF THE CAVE OF ALI BABA


In the front room of a grim and narrow house in Lambeth a man sat
eating kippers and glancing through the _Morning Post_. He was smallish
and spare, with brown hair rather too regularly waved and a strong,
brown beard, cut to a point. His double-breasted suit of navy-blue and
his socks, tie, and handkerchief, all scrupulously matched, were a
trifle more point-device than the best taste approves, and his boots
were slightly too bright a brown. He did not look a gentleman, not even
a gentleman's gentleman, yet there was something about his appearance
which suggested that he was accustomed to the manner of life in good
families. The breakfast-table, which he had set with his own hands, was
arrayed with the attention to detail which is exacted of good-class
servants. His action, as he walked over to a little side-table and
carved himself a plate of ham, was the action of a superior butler; yet
he was not old enough to be a retired butler; a footman, perhaps, who
had come into a legacy.

He finished the ham with good appetite, and, as he sipped his coffee,
read through attentively a paragraph which he had already noticed and
put aside for consideration.

                       "LORD PETER WIMSEY'S WILL
                           BEQUEST TO VALET
                         £10,000 TO CHARITIES

    "The will of Lord Peter Wimsey, who was killed last December while
    shooting big game in Tanganyika, was proved yesterday at £500,000.
    A sum of £10,000 was left to various charities, including [here
    followed a list of bequests]. To his valet, Mervyn Bunter, was
    left an annuity of £500 and the lease of the testator's flat in
    Piccadilly. [Then followed a number of personal bequests.] The
    remainder of the estate, including the valuable collection of books
    and pictures at 110A Piccadilly, was left to the testator's mother,
    the Dowager Duchess of Denver.

     "Lord Peter Wimsey was thirty-seven at the time of his death. He
    was the younger brother of the present Duke of Denver, who is the
    wealthiest peer in the United Kingdom. Lord Peter was distinguished
    as a criminologist and took an active part in the solution of
    several famous mysteries. He was a well-known book-collector and
    man-about-town."

The man gave a sigh of relief.

"No doubt about that," he said aloud. "People don't give their money
away if they're going to come back again. The blighter's dead and
buried right enough. I'm free."

He finished his coffee, cleared the table, and washed up the crockery,
took his bowler hat from the hall-stand, and went out.

A bus took him to Bermondsey. He alighted, and plunged into a network
of gloomy streets, arriving after a quarter of an hour's walk at a
seedy-looking public-house in a low quarter. He entered and called for
a double whisky.

The house had only just opened, but a number of customers, who had
apparently been waiting on the doorstep for this desirable event, were
already clustered about the bar. The man who might have been a footman
reached for his glass, and in doing so jostled the elbow of a flash
person in a check suit and regrettable tie.

"Here!" expostulated the flash person, "what d'yer mean by it? We don't
want your sort here. Get out!"

He emphasised his remarks with a few highly coloured words, and a
violent push in the chest.

"Bar's free to everybody, isn't it?" said the other, returning the
shove with interest.

"Now then!" said the barmaid, "none o' that. The gentleman didn't do it
intentional, Mr. Jukes."

"Didn't he?" said Mr. Jukes. "Well, I _did_."

"And you ought to be ashamed of yourself," retorted the young lady,
with a toss of the head. "I'll have no quarrelling in my bar--not this
time in the morning."

"It was quite an accident," said the man from Lambeth. "I'm not one to
make a disturbance, having always been used to the best houses. But if
any gentleman _wants_ to make trouble----"

"All right, all right," said Mr. Jukes, more pacifically. "I'm not keen
to give you a new face. Not but what any alteration wouldn't be for the
better. Mind your manners another time, that's all. What'll you have?"

"No, no," protested the other, "this one must be on me. Sorry I pushed
you. I didn't mean it. But I didn't like to be taken up so short."

"Say no more about it," said Mr. Jukes generously. "I'm standing this.
Another double whisky, miss, and one of the usual. Come over here where
there isn't so much of a crowd, or you'll be getting yourself into
trouble again."

He led the way to a small table in the corner of the room.

"That's all right," said Mr. Jukes. "Very nicely done. I don't think
there's any danger here, but you can't be too careful. Now, what about
it, Rogers? Have you made up your mind to come in with us?"

"Yes," said Rogers, with a glance over his shoulder, "yes, I have.
That is, mind you, if everything seems all right. I'm not looking for
trouble, and I don't want to get let in for any dangerous games. I
don't mind giving you information, but it's understood as I take no
active part in whatever goes on. Is that straight?"

"You wouldn't be allowed to take an active part if you wanted to,"
said Mr. Jukes. "Why, you poor fish, Number One wouldn't have anybody
but experts on his jobs. All you have to do is to let us know where
the stuff is and how to get it. The Society does the rest. It's some
organisation, I can tell you. You won't even know who's doing it, or
how it's done. You won't know anybody, and nobody will know you--except
Number One, of course. He knows everybody."

"And you," said Rogers.

"And me, of course. But I shall be transferred to another district. We
shan't meet again after to-day, except at the general meetings, and
then we shall all be masked."

"Go on!" said Rogers incredulously.

"Fact. You'll be taken to Number One--he'll see you, but you won't see
him. Then, if he thinks you're any good, you'll be put on the roll,
and after that you'll be told where to make your reports to. There is
a divisional meeting called once a fortnight, and every three months
there's a general meeting and share-out. Each member is called up by
number and has his whack handed over to him. That's all."

"Well, but suppose two members are put on the same job together?"

"If it's a daylight job, they'll be so disguised their mothers wouldn't
know 'em. But it's mostly night work."

"I see. But, look here--what's to prevent somebody following me home
and giving me away to the police?"

"Nothing, of course. Only I wouldn't advise him to try it, that's all.
The last man who had that bright idea was fished out of the river down
Rotherhithe way, before he had time to get his precious report in.
Number One knows everybody, you see."

"Oh!--and who is this Number One?"

"There's lots of people would give a good bit to know that."

"Does nobody know?"

"Nobody. He's a fair marvel, is Number One. He's a gentleman, I can
tell you that, and a pretty high-up one, from his ways. _And_ he's got
eyes all round his head. _And_ he's got an arm as long as from here to
Australia. _But_ nobody knows anything about him, unless it's Number
Two, and I'm not even sure about her."

"There are women in it, then?"

"You can bet your boots there are. You can't do a job without 'em
nowadays. But that needn't worry you. The women are safe enough. They
don't want to come to a sticky end, no more than you and me.

"But, look here, Jukes--how about the money? It's a big risk to take.
Is it worth it?"

"Worth it?" Jukes leant across the little marble-topped table and
whispered.

"Coo!" gasped Rogers. "And how much of that would I get, now?"

"You'd share and share alike with the rest, whether you'd been in
that particular job or not. There's fifty members, and you'd get
one-fiftieth, same as Number One and same as me."

"Really? No kidding?"

"See that wet, see that dry!" Jukes laughed. "Say, can you beat it?
There's never been anything like it. It's the biggest thing ever been
known. He's a great man, is Number One."

"And do you pull off many jobs?"

"Many? Listen. You remember the Carruthers necklace, and the Gorleston
Bank robbery? And the Faversham burglary? And the big Rubens that
disappeared from the National Gallery? And the Frensham pearls? All
done by the Society. And never one of them cleared up."

Rogers licked his lips.

"But now, look here," he said cautiously. "Supposing I was a spy, as
you might say, and supposing I was to go straight off and tell the
police about what you've been saying?"

"Ah!" said Jukes, "suppose you did, eh? Well, supposing something nasty
didn't happen to you on the way there--which I wouldn't answer for,
mind----"

"Do you mean to say you've got me watched?"

"You can bet your sweet life we have. Yes. Well, _supposing_ nothing
happened on the way there, and you was to bring the slops to this pub,
looking for yours truly----"

"Yes?"

"You wouldn't find me, that's all. I should have gone to Number Five."

"Who's Number Five?"

"Ah! I don't know. But he's the man that makes you a new face while
you wait. Plastic surgery, they call it. And new finger-prints. New
everything. We go in for up-to-date methods in our show."

Rogers whistled.

"Well, how about it?" asked Jukes, eyeing his acquaintance over the rim
of his tumbler.

"Look here--you've told me a lot of things. Shall I be safe if I say
'no'?"

"Oh, yes--if you behave yourself and don't make trouble for us."

"H'm, I see. And if I say 'yes'?"

"Then you'll be a rich man in less than no time, with money in your
pocket to live like a gentleman. And nothing to do for it, except to
tell us what you know about the houses you've been to when you were in
service. It's money for jam if you act straight by the Society."

Rogers was silent, thinking it over.

"I'll do it!" he said at last.

"Good for you. Miss! The same again, please. Here's to it, Rogers!
I knew you were one of the right sort the minute I set eyes on you.
Here's to money for jam, and take care of Number One! Talking of Number
One, you'd better come round and see him to-night. No time like the
present."

"Right you are. Where'll I come to? Here?"

"Nix. No more of this little pub for us. It's a pity, because it's nice
and comfortable, but it can't be helped. Now, what you've got to do is
this. At ten o'clock to-night exactly, you walk north across Lambeth
Bridge." (Rogers winced at this intimation that his abode was known),
"and you'll see a yellow taxi standing there, with the driver doing
something to his engine. You'll say to him, 'Is your bus fit to go?'
and he'll say, 'Depends where you want to go to.' And you'll say, 'Take
me to Number One, London.' There's a shop called that, by the way,
but he won't take you there. You won't know where he _is_ taking you,
because the taxi-windows will be covered up, but you mustn't mind that.
It's the rule for the first visit. Afterwards, when you're regularly
one of us, you'll be told the name of the place. And when you get
there, do as you're told and speak the truth, because, if you don't,
Number One will deal with you. See?"

"I see."

"Are you game? You're not afraid?"

"Of course I'm not afraid."

"Good man! Well, we'd better be moving now. And I'll say good-bye,
because we shan't see each other again. Good-bye--and good luck!"

"Good-bye."

They passed through the swing-doors, and out into the mean and dirty
street.

       *       *       *       *       *

The two years subsequent to the enrolment of the ex-footman Rogers in a
crook society were marked by a number of startling and successful raids
on the houses of distinguished people. There was the theft of the great
diamond tiara from the Dowager Duchess of Denver; the burglary at the
flat formerly occupied by the late Lord Peter Wimsey, resulting in the
disappearance of £7,000 worth of silver and gold plate; the burglary
at the country mansion of Theodore Winthrop, the millionaire--which,
incidentally, exposed that thriving gentleman as a confirmed Society
blackmailer and caused a reverberating scandal in Mayfair; and the
snatching of the famous eight-string necklace of pearls from the
Marchioness of Dinglewood during the singing of the Jewel Song in
_Faust_ at Covent Garden. It is true that the pearls turned out to be
imitation, the original string having been pawned by the noble lady
under circumstances highly painful to the Marquis, but the coup was
nevertheless a sensational one.

On a Saturday afternoon in January, Rogers was sitting in his
room in Lambeth, when a slight noise at the front door caught his
ear. He sprang up almost before it had ceased, dashed through the
small hall-way, and flung the door open. The street was deserted.
Nevertheless, as he turned back to the sitting-room, he saw an
envelope lying on the hat-stand. It was addressed briefly to "Number
Twenty-one." Accustomed by this time to the somewhat dramatic methods
used by the Society to deliver its correspondence, he merely shrugged
his shoulders, and opened the note.

It was written in cipher, and, when transcribed, ran thus:

    "Number Twenty-one,--An Extraordinary General Meeting will be held
    to-night at the house of Number One at 11.30. You will be absent at
    your peril. The word is FINALITY."

Rogers stood for a little time considering this. Then he made his way
to a room at the back of the house, in which there was a tall safe,
built into the wall. He manipulated the combination and walked into
the safe, which ran back for some distance, forming, indeed, a small
strong-room. He pulled out a drawer marked "Correspondence," and added
the paper he had just received to the contents.

After a few moments he emerged, re-set the lock to a new combination,
and returned to the sitting-room.

"Finality," he said. "Yes--I think so." He stretched out his hand to
the telephone--then appeared to alter his mind.

He went upstairs to an attic, and thence climbed into a loft close
under the roof. Crawling among the rafters, he made his way into the
farthest corner; then carefully pressed a knot on the timber-work. A
concealed trap-door swung open. He crept through it, and found himself
in the corresponding loft of the next house. A soft cooing noise
greeted him as he entered. Under the skylight stood three cages, each
containing a carrier pigeon.

He glanced cautiously out of the skylight, which looked out upon a
high blank wall at the back of some factory or other. There was nobody
in the dim little courtyard, and no window within sight. He drew his
head in again, and, taking a small fragment of thin paper from his
pocket-book, wrote a few letters and numbers upon it. Going to the
nearest cage, he took out the pigeon and attached the message to its
wing. Then he carefully set the bird on the window-ledge. It hesitated
a moment, shifted its pink feet a few times, lifted its wings, and
was gone. He saw it tower up into the already darkening sky over the
factory roof and vanish into the distance.

He glanced at his watch and returned downstairs. An hour later he
released the second pigeon, and in another hour the third. Then he sat
down to wait.

At half-past nine he went up to the attic again. It was dark, but a few
frosty stars were shining, and a cold air blew through the open window.
Something pale gleamed faintly on the floor. He picked it up--it was
warm and feathery. The answer had come.

He ruffled the soft plumes and found the paper. Before reading it, he
fed the pigeon and put it into one of the cages. As he was about to
fasten the door, he checked himself.

"If anything happens to me," he said, "there's no need for you to
starve to death, my child."

He pushed the window a little wider open and went downstairs again. The
paper in his hand bore only the two letters, "O.K." It seemed to have
been written hurriedly, for there was a long smear of ink in the upper
left-hand corner. He noted this with a smile, put the paper in the
fire, and, going out into the kitchen, prepared and ate a hearty meal
of eggs and corned beef from a new tin. He ate it without bread, though
there was a loaf on the shelf near at hand, and washed it down with
water from the tap, which he let run for some time before venturing
to drink it. Even then he carefully wiped the tap, both inside and
outside, before drinking.

When he had finished, he took a revolver from a locked drawer,
inspecting the mechanism with attention to see that it was in working
order, and loaded it with new cartridges from an unbroken packet. Then
he sat down to wait again.

At a quarter before eleven, he rose and went out into the street. He
walked briskly, keeping well away from the wall, till he came out into
a well-lighted thoroughfare. Here he took a bus, securing the corner
seat next the conductor, from which he could see everybody who got on
and off. A succession of buses eventually brought him to a respectable
residential quarter of Hampstead. Here he alighted and, still keeping
well away from the walls, made his way up to the Heath.

The night was moonless, but not altogether black, and, as he crossed
a deserted part of the Heath, he observed one or two other dark forms
closing in upon him from various directions. He paused in the shelter
of a large tree, and adjusted to his face a black velvet mask, which
covered him from brow to chin. At its base the number 21 was clearly
embroidered in white thread.

At length a slight dip in the ground disclosed one of those agreeable
villas which stand, somewhat isolated, among the rural surroundings
of the Heath. One of the windows was lighted. As he made his way to
the door, other dark figures, masked like himself, pressed forward and
surrounded him. He counted six of them.

The foremost man knocked on the door of the solitary house. After
a moment, it was opened slightly. The man advanced his head to the
opening; there was a murmur, and the door opened wide. The man stepped
in, and the door was shut.

When three of the men had entered, Rogers found himself to be the next
in turn. He knocked, three times loudly, then twice faintly. The door
opened to the extent of two or three inches, and an ear was presented
to the chink. Rogers whispered "Finality." The ear was withdrawn, the
door opened, and he passed in.

Without any further word of greeting, Number Twenty-one passed into
a small room on the left, which was furnished like an office, with a
desk, a safe, and a couple of chairs. At the desk sat a massive man in
evening dress, with a ledger before him. The new arrival shut the door
carefully after him; it clicked to, on a spring-lock. Advancing to the
desk, he announced, "Number Twenty-one, sir," and stood respectfully
waiting. The big man looked up, showing the number 1 startlingly white
on his velvet mask. His eyes, of a curious hard blue, scanned Rogers
attentively. At a sign from him, Rogers removed his mask. Having
verified his identity with care, the President said, "Very well, Number
Twenty-one," and made an entry in the ledger. The voice was hard and
metallic, like his eyes. The close scrutiny from behind the immovable
black mask seemed to make Rogers uneasy; he shifted his feet, and his
eyes fell. Number One made a sign of dismissal, and Rogers, with a
faint sigh as though of relief, replaced his mask and left the room. As
he came out, the next comer passed in in his place.

The room in which the Society met was a large one, made by knocking
the two largest of the first-floor rooms into one. It was furnished in
the standardised taste of twentieth-century suburbia and brilliantly
lighted. A gramophone in one corner blared out a jazz tune, to which
about ten couples of masked men and women were dancing, some in evening
dress and others in tweeds and jumpers.

In one corner of the room was an American bar. Rogers went up and asked
the masked man in charge for a double whisky. He consumed it slowly,
leaning on the bar. The room filled. Presently somebody moved across to
the gramophone and stopped it. He looked round. Number One had appeared
on the threshold. A tall woman in black stood beside him. The mask,
embroidered with a white 2, covered hair and face completely; only her
fine bearing and her white arms and bosom and the dark eyes shining
through the eye-slits proclaimed her a woman of power and physical
attraction.

"Ladies and gentlemen." Number One was standing at the upper end of the
room. The woman sat beside him; her eyes were cast down and betrayed
nothing, but her hands were clenched on the arms of the chair and her
whole figure seemed tensely aware.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Our numbers are two short to-night." The masks
moved; eyes were turned, seeking and counting. "I need not inform you
of the disastrous failure of our plan for securing the plans of the
Court-Windlesham helicopter. Our courageous and devoted comrades,
Number Fifteen and Number Forty-eight, were betrayed and taken by the
police."

An uneasy murmur rose among the company.

"It may have occurred to some of you that even the well-known
steadfastness of these comrades might give way under examination.
There is no cause for alarm. The usual orders have been issued, and
I have this evening received the report that their tongues have been
effectually silenced. You will, I am sure, be glad to know that these
two brave men have been spared the ordeal of so great a temptation to
dishonour, and that they will not be called upon to face a public trial
and the rigours of a long imprisonment."

A hiss of intaken breath moved across the assembled members like the
wind over a barley-field.

"Their dependants will be discreetly compensated in the usual manner.
I call upon Numbers Twelve and Thirty-four to undertake this agreeable
task. They will attend me in my office for their instructions after the
meeting. Will the Numbers I have named kindly signify that they are
able and willing to perform this duty?"

Two hands were raised in salute. The President continued, looking at
his watch:

"Ladies and gentlemen, please take your partners for the next dance."

The gramophone struck up again. Rogers turned to a girl near him in
a red dress. She nodded, and they slipped into the movement of a
fox-trot. The couples gyrated solemnly and in silence. Their shadows
were flung against the blinds as they turned and stepped to and fro.

"What has happened?" breathed the girl in a whisper, scarcely moving
her lips. "I'm frightened, aren't you? I feel as if something awful was
going to happen."

"It does take one a bit short, the President's way of doing things,"
agreed Rogers, "but it's safer like that."

"Those poor men----"

A dancer, turning and following on their heels, touched Rogers on the
shoulder.

"No talking, please," he said. His eyes gleamed sternly; he twirled his
partner into the middle of the crowd and was gone. The girl shuddered.

The gramophone stopped. There was a burst of clapping. The dancers
again clustered before the President's seat.

"Ladies and gentlemen. You may wonder why this extraordinary meeting
has been called. The reason is a serious one. The failure of our recent
attempt was no accident. The police were not on the premises that night
by chance. We have a traitor among us."

Partners who had been standing close together fell distrustfully apart.
Each member seemed to shrink, as a snail shrinks from the touch of a
finger.

"You will remember the disappointing outcome of the Dinglewood affair,"
went on the President, in his harsh voice. "You may recall other
smaller matters which have not turned out satisfactorily. All these
troubles have been traced to their origin. I am happy to say that our
minds can now be easy. The offender has been discovered and will be
removed. There will be no more mistakes. The misguided member who
introduced the traitor to our Society will be placed in a position
where his lack of caution will have no further ill-effects. There is no
cause for alarm."

Every eye roved about the company, searching for the traitor and his
unfortunate sponsor. Somewhere beneath the black masks a face must have
turned white; somewhere under the stifling velvet there must have been
a brow sweating, not with the heat of the dance. But the masks hid
everything.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please take your partners for the next dance."

The gramophone struck into an old and half-forgotten tune: "There ain't
nobody loves me." The girl in red was claimed by a tall mask in evening
dress. A hand laid on Roger's arm made him start. A small, plump woman
in a green jumper slipped a cold hand into his. The dance went on.

When it stopped, amid the usual applause, everyone stood, detached,
stiffened in expectation. The President's voice was raised again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please behave naturally. This is a dance, not a
public meeting."

Rogers led his partner to a chair and fetched her an ice. As he stooped
over her, he noticed the hurried rise and fall of her bosom.

"Ladies and gentlemen." The endless interval was over. "You will no
doubt wish to be immediately relieved from suspense. I will name the
persons involved. Number Thirty-seven!"

A man sprang up with a fearful, strangled cry.

"Silence!"

The wretch choked and gasped.

"I never--I swear I never--I'm innocent."

"Silence. You have failed in discretion. You will be dealt with. If you
have anything to say in defence of your folly, I will hear it later.
Sit down."

Number Thirty-seven sank down upon a chair. He pushed his handkerchief
under the mask to wipe his face. Two tall men closed in upon him. The
rest fell back, feeling the recoil of humanity from one stricken by
mortal disease.

The gramophone struck up.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I will now name the traitor. Number Twenty-one,
stand forward."

Rogers stepped forward. The concentrated fear and loathing of
forty-eight pairs of eyes burned upon him. The miserable Jukes set up a
fresh wail.

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"

"Silence! Number Twenty-one, take off your mask."

The traitor pulled the thick covering from his face. The intense hatred
of the eyes devoured him.

"Number Thirty-seven, this man was introduced here by you, under the
name of Joseph Rogers, formerly second footman in the service of the
Duke of Denver, dismissed for pilfering. Did you take steps to verify
that statement?"

"I did--I did! As God's my witness, it was all straight. I had him
identified by two of the servants. I made enquiries. The tale was
straight--I'll swear it was."

The President consulted a paper before him, then he looked at his watch
again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please take your partners...."

Number Twenty-one, his arms twisted behind him and bound, and his
wrists hand-cuffed, stood motionless, while the dance of doom circled
about him. The clapping, as it ended, sounded like the clapping of the
men and women who sat, thirsty-lipped, beneath the guillotine.

"Number Twenty-one, your name has been given as Joseph Rogers, footman,
dismissed for theft. Is that your real name?"

"No."

"What is your name?"

"Peter Death Bredon Wimsey."

"We thought you were dead."

"Naturally. You were intended to think so."

"What has become of the genuine Joseph Rogers?"

"He died abroad. I took his place. I may say that no real blame
attaches to your people for not having realised who I was. I not only
took Roger's place; I _was_ Rogers. Even when I was alone, I walked
like Rogers, I sat like Rogers, I read Rogers's books, and wore
Rogers's clothes. In the end, I almost thought Rogers's thoughts. The
only way to keep up a successful impersonation is never to relax."

"I see. The robbery of your own flat was arranged?"

"Obviously."

"The robbery of the Dowager Duchess, your mother, was connived at by
you?"

"It was. It was a very ugly tiara--no real loss to anybody with decent
taste. May I smoke, by the way?"

"You may not. Ladies and gentlemen...."

The dance was like the mechanical jigging of puppets. Limbs jerked,
feet faltered. The prisoner watched with an air of critical detachment.

"Numbers Fifteen, Twenty-two and Forty-nine. You have watched the
prisoner. Has he made any attempts to communicate with anybody?"

"None." Number Twenty-two was the spokesman. "His letters and parcels
have been opened, his telephone tapped, and his movements followed. His
water-pipes have been under observation for Morse signals."

"You are sure of what you say?"

"Absolutely."

"Prisoner, have you been alone in this adventure? Speak the truth, or
things will be made somewhat more unpleasant for you than they might
otherwise be."

"I have been alone. I have taken no unnecessary risks."

"It may be so. It will, however, be as well that steps should be taken
to silence the man at Scotland Yard--what is his name?--Parker. Also
the prisoner's manservant, Mervyn Bunter, and possibly also his mother
and sister. The brother is a stupid oaf, and not, I think, likely to
have been taken into the prisoner's confidence. A precautionary watch
will, I think, meet the necessities of his case."

The prisoner appeared, for the first time, to be moved.

"Sir, I assure you that my mother and sister know nothing which could
possibly bring danger on the Society."

"You should have thought of their situation earlier. Ladies and
gentlemen, please take----"

"No--no!" Flesh and blood could endure the mockery no longer. "No!
Finish with him. Get it over. Break up the meeting. It's dangerous. The
police----"

"Silence!"

The President glanced round at the crowd. It had a dangerous look about
it. He gave way.

"Very well. Take the prisoner away and silence him. He will receive
Number 4 treatment. And be sure you explain it to him carefully first."

"Ah!"

The eyes expressed a wolfish satisfaction. Strong hands gripped
Wimsey's arms.

"One moment--for God's sake let me die decently."

"You should have thought this over earlier. Take him away. Ladies and
gentlemen, be satisfied--he will not die quickly."

"Stop! Wait!" cried Wimsey desperately. "I have something to say. I
don't ask for life--only for a quick death. I--I have something to
sell."

"To sell?"

"Yes."

"We make no bargains with traitors."

"No--but listen! Do you think I have not thought of this? I am not so
mad. I have left a letter."

"Ah! now it is coming. A letter. To whom?"

"To the police. If I do not return to-morrow----"

"Well?"

"The letter will be opened."

"Sir," broke in Number Fifteen. "This is bluff. The prisoner has not
sent any letter. He has been strictly watched for many months."

"Ah! but listen. I left the letter before I came to Lambeth."

"Then it can contain no information of value."

"Oh, but it does."

"What?"

"The combination of my safe."

"Indeed? Has this man's safe been searched?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did it contain?"

"No information of importance, sir. An outline of our organisation--the
name of this house--nothing that cannot be altered and covered before
morning."

Wimsey smiled.

"Did you investigate the inner compartment of the safe?"

There was a pause.

"You hear what he says," snapped the President sharply. "Did you find
this inner compartment?"

"There was no inner compartment, sir. He is trying to bluff."

"I hate to contradict you," said Wimsey, with an effort at his ordinary
pleasant tone, "but I really think you must have overlooked the inner
compartment."

"Well," said the President, "and what do you say is in this inner
compartment, if it does exist?"

"The names of every member of this Society, with their addresses,
photographs, and finger-prints."

"What?"

The eyes round him now were ugly with fear. Wimsey kept his face
steadily turned towards the President.

"How do you say you have contrived to get this information?"

"Well, I have been doing a little detective work on my own, you know."

"But you have been watched."

"True. The finger-prints of my watchers adorn the first page of the
collection."

"This statement can be proved?"

"Certainly. I will prove it. The name of Number Fifty, for example----"

"Stop!"

A fierce muttering arose. The President silenced it with a gesture.

"If you mention names here, you will certainly have no hope of mercy.
There is a fifth treatment--kept specially for people who mention
names. Bring the prisoner to my office. Keep the dance going."

The President took an automatic from his hip-pocket and faced his
tightly fettered prisoner across the desk.

"Now speak!" he said.

"I should put that thing away, if I were you," said Wimsey
contemptuously. "It would be a much pleasanter form of death than
treatment Number 5, and I might be tempted to ask for it."

"Ingenious," said the President, "but a little too ingenious. Now, be
quick; tell me what you know."

"Will you spare me if I tell you?"

"I make no promises. Be quick."

Wimsey shrugged his bound and aching shoulders.

"Certainly. I will tell you what I know. Stop me when you have heard
enough."

He leaned forward and spoke low. Overhead the noise of the gramophone
and the shuffling of feet bore witness that the dance was going on.
Stray passers-by crossing the Heath noted that the people in the lonely
house were making a night of it again.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well," said Wimsey, "am I to go on?"

From beneath the mask the President's voice sounded as though he were
grimly smiling.

"My lord," he said, "your story fills me with regret that you are
not, in fact, a member of our Society. Wit, courage, and industry are
valuable to an association like ours. I fear I cannot persuade you?
No--I supposed not."

He touched a bell on his desk.

"Ask the members kindly to proceed to the supper-room," he said to the
mask who entered.

The "supper-room" was on the ground-floor, shuttered and curtained.
Down its centre ran a long, bare table, with chairs set about it.

"A Barmecide feast, I see," said Wimsey pleasantly. It was the first
time he had seen this room. At the far end, a trap-door in the floor
gaped ominously.

The President took the head of the table.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, as usual--and the foolish courtesy
had never sounded so sinister--"I will not conceal from you the
seriousness of the situation. The prisoner has recited to me more than
twenty names and addresses which were thought to be unknown, except to
their owners and to me. There has been great carelessness"--his voice
rang harshly--"which will have to be looked into. Finger-prints have
been obtained--he has shown me the photographs of some of them. How our
investigators came to overlook the inner door of this safe is a matter
which calls for enquiry."

"Don't blame them," put in Wimsey. "It was meant to be overlooked, you
know. I made it like that on purpose."

The President went on, without seeming to notice the interruption.

"The prisoner informs me that the book with the names and addresses is
to be found in this inner compartment, together with certain letters
and papers stolen from the houses of members, and numerous objects
bearing authentic finger-prints. I believe him to be telling the truth.
He offers the combination of the safe in exchange for a quick death. I
think the offer should be accepted. What is your opinion, ladies and
gentlemen?"

"The combination is known already," said Number Twenty-two.

"Imbecile! This man has told us, and has proved to me, that he is
Lord Peter Wimsey. Do you think he will have forgotten to alter the
combination? And then there is the secret of the inner door. If he
disappears to-night and the police enter his house----"

"I say," said a woman's rich voice, "that the promise should be given
and the information used--and quickly. Time is getting short."

A murmur of agreement went round the table.

"You hear," said the President, addressing Wimsey. "The Society offers
you the privilege of a quick death in return for the combination of the
safe and the secret of the inner door."

"I have your word for it?"

"You have."

"Thank you. And my mother and sister?"

"If you in your turn will give us your word--you are a man of
honour--that these women know nothing that could harm us, they shall be
spared."

"Thank you, sir. You may rest assured, upon my honour, that they know
nothing. I should not think of burdening any woman with such dangerous
secrets--particularly those who are dear to me."

"Very well. It is agreed--yes?"

The murmur of assent was given, though with less readiness than before.

"Then I am willing to give you the information you want. The word of
the combination is UNRELIABILITY."

"And the inner door?"

"In anticipation of the visit of the police, the inner door--which
might have presented difficulties--is open."

"Good! You understand that if the police interfere with our
messenger----"

"That would not help me, would it?"

"It is a risk," said the President thoughtfully, "but a risk which I
think we must take. Carry the prisoner down to the cellar. He can amuse
himself by contemplating apparatus Number 5. In the meantime, Numbers
Twelve and Forty-six----"

"No, no!"

A sullen mutter of dissent arose and swelled threateningly.

"No," said a tall man with a voice like treacle. "No--why should any
members be put in possession of this evidence? We have found one
traitor among us to-night and more than one fool. How are we to know
that Numbers Twelve and Forty-six are not fools and traitors also?"

The two men turned savagely upon the speaker, but a girl's voice struck
into the discussion, high and agitated.

"Hear, hear! That's right, I say. How about us? We ain't going to have
our names read by somebody we don't know nothing about. I've had enough
of this. They might sell the 'ole lot of us to the narks."

"I agree," said another member. "Nobody ought to be trusted, nobody at
all."

The President shrugged his shoulders.

"Then what, ladies and gentlemen, do you suggest?"

There was a pause. Then the same girl shrilled out again:

"I say Mr. President oughter go himself. He's the only one as knows
all the names. It won't be no cop to him. Why should we take all the
risk and trouble and him sit at home and collar the money? Let him go
himself, that's what I say."

A long rustle of approbation went round the table.

"I second that motion," said a stout man who wore a bunch of gold
seals at his fob. Wimsey smiled as he looked at the seals; it was that
trifling vanity which had led him directly to the name and address of
the stout man, and he felt a certain affection for the trinkets on that
account.

The President looked round.

"It is the wish of the meeting, then, that I should go?" he said, in an
ominous voice.

Forty-five hands were raised in approbation. Only the woman known as
Number Two remained motionless and silent, her strong white hands
clenched on the arm of the chair.

The President rolled his eyes slowly round the threatening ring till
they rested upon her.

"Am I to take it that this vote is unanimous?" he enquired.

The woman raised her head.

"Don't go," she gasped faintly.

"You hear," said the President, in a faintly derisive tone. "This lady
says, don't go."

"I submit that what Number Two says is neither here nor there," said
the man with the treacly voice. "Our own ladies might not like us to be
going, if they were in madam's privileged position." His voice was an
insult.

"Hear, hear!" cried another man. "This is a democratic society, this
is. We don't want no privileged classes."

"Very well," said the President. "You hear, Number Two. The feeling
of the meeting is against you. Have you any reasons to put forward in
favour of your opinion?"

"A hundred. The President is the head and soul of our Society. If
anything should happen to him--where should we be? You"--she swept the
company magnificently with her eyes--"you have all blundered. We have
your carelessness to thank for all this. Do you think we should be
safe for five minutes if the President were not here to repair your
follies?"

"Something in that," said a man who had not hitherto spoken.

"Pardon my suggesting," said Wimsey maliciously, "that, as the lady
appears to be in a position peculiarly favourable for the reception
of the President's confidences, the contents of my modest volume will
probably be no news to her. Why should not Number Two go herself?"

"Because I say she must not," said the President sternly, checking the
quick reply that rose to his companion's lips. "If it is the will of
the meeting, I will go. Give me the key of the house."

One of the men extracted it from Wimsey's jacket-pocket and handed it
over.

"Is the house watched?" he demanded of Wimsey.

"No."

"That is the truth?"

"It is the truth."

The President turned at the door.

"If I have not returned in two hours' time," he said, "act for the best
to save yourselves, and do what you like with the prisoner. Number Two
will give orders in my absence."

He left the room. Number Two rose from her seat with a gesture of
command.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Supper is now considered over. Start the dancing
again."

       *       *       *       *       *

Down in the cellar the time passed slowly, in the contemplation of
apparatus Number 5. The miserable Jukes, alternately wailing and
raving, at length shrieked himself into exhaustion. The four members
guarding the prisoners whispered together from time to time.

"An hour and a half since the President left," said one.

Wimsey glanced up. Then he returned to his examination of the room.
There were many curious things in it, which he wanted to memorise.

Presently the trap-door was flung open. "Bring him up!" cried a voice.
Wimsey rose immediately, and his face was rather pale.

The members of the gang were again seated round the table. Number Two
occupied the President's chair, and her eyes fastened on Wimsey's face
with a tigerish fury, but when she spoke it was with a self-control
which roused his admiration.

"The President has been two hours gone," she said. "What has happened
to him? Traitor twice over--what has happened to him?"

"How should I know?" said Wimsey. "Perhaps he has looked after Number
One and gone while the going was good!"

She sprang up with a little cry of rage, and came close to him.

"Beast! liar!" she said, and struck him on the mouth. "You know he
would never do that. He is faithful to his friends. What have you done
with him? Speak--or I will make you speak. You two, there--bring the
irons. He _shall_ speak!"

"I can only form a guess, madame," replied Wimsey, "and I shall
not guess any the better for being stimulated with hot irons, like
Pantaloon at the circus. Calm yourself, and I will tell you what I
think. I think--indeed, I greatly fear--that Monsieur le Président in
his hurry to examine the interesting exhibits in my safe may, quite
inadvertently, no doubt, have let the door of the inner compartment
close behind him. In which case----"

He raised his eyebrows, his shoulders being too sore for shrugging, and
gazed at her with a limpid and innocent regret.

"What do you mean?"

Wimsey glanced round the circle.

"I think," he said, "I had better begin from the beginning by
explaining to you the mechanism of my safe. It is rather a nice safe,"
he added plaintively. "I invented the idea myself--not the principle of
its working, of course; that is a matter for scientists--but just the
idea of the thing.

"The combination I gave you is perfectly correct as far as it goes. It
is a three-alphabet thirteen-letter lock by Bunn & Fishett--a very good
one of its kind. It opens the outer door, leading into the ordinary
strong-room, where I keep my cash and my Froth Blower's cuff-links and
all that. But there is an inner compartment with two doors, which open
in quite a different manner. The outermost of these two inner doors is
merely a thin steel skin, painted to look like the back of the safe
and fitting closely, so as not to betray any join. It lies in the same
plane as the wall of the room, you understand, so that if you were to
measure the outside and the inside of the safe you would discover no
discrepancy. It opens outwards with an ordinary key, and, as I truly
assured the President, it was left open when I quitted my flat."

"Do you think," said the woman sneeringly, "that the President is so
simple as to be caught in a so obvious trap? He will have wedged open
that inner door undoubtedly."

"Undoubtedly, madame. But the sole purpose of that outer inner door, if
I may so express myself, is to appear to be the only inner door. But
hidden behind the hinge of that door is another door, a sliding panel,
set so closely in the thickness of the wall that you would hardly see
it unless you knew it was there. This door was also left open. Our
revered Number One had nothing to do but to walk straight through into
the inner compartment of the safe, which, by the way, is built into the
chimney of the old basement kitchen, which runs up the house at that
point. I hope I make myself clear?"

"Yes, yes--get on. Make your story short."

Wimsey bowed, and, speaking with even greater deliberation than ever,
resumed:

"Now, this interesting list of the Society's activities, which I have
had the honour of compiling, is written in a very large book--bigger,
even, than Monsieur le Président's ledger which he uses downstairs. (I
trust, by the way, madame, that you have borne in mind the necessity
of putting that ledger in a safe place. Apart from the risk of
investigation by some officious policeman, it would be inadvisable that
any junior member of the Society should get hold of it. The feeling of
the meeting would, I fancy, be opposed to such an occurrence.)"

"It is secure," she answered hastily. "_Mon dieu!_ get on with your
story."

"Thank you--you have relieved my mind. Very good. This big book lies
on a steel shelf at the back of the inner compartment. Just a moment.
I have not described this inner compartment to you. It is six feet
high, three feet wide, and three feet deep. One can stand up in it
quite comfortably, unless one is very tall. It suits me nicely--as you
may see, I am not more than five feet eight and a half. The President
has the advantage of me in height; he might be a little cramped, but
there would be room for him to squat if he grew tired of standing. By
the way, I don't know if you know it, but you have tied me up rather
tightly."

"I would have you tied till your bones were locked together. Beat him,
you! He is trying to gain time."

"If you beat me," said Wimsey, "I'm damned if I'll speak at all.
Control yourself, madame; it does not do to move hastily when your king
is in check."

"Get on!' she cried again, stamping with rage.

"Where was I? Ah! the inner compartment. As I say, it is a little
snug--the more so that it is not ventilated in any way. Did I mention
that the book lay on a steel shelf?"

"You did."

"Yes. The steel shelf is balanced on a very delicate concealed spring.
When the weight of the book--a heavy one, as I said--is lifted, the
shelf rises almost imperceptibly. In rising it makes an electrical
contact. Imagine to yourself, madame; our revered President steps
in--propping the false door open behind him--he sees the book--quickly
he snatches it up. To make sure that it is the right one, he opens
it--he studies the pages. He looks about for the other objects I have
mentioned, which bear the marks of finger-prints. And silently, but
very, very quickly--you can imagine it, can you not?--the secret panel,
released by the rising of the shelf, leaps across like a panther behind
him. Rather a trite simile, but apt, don't you think?"

"My God! oh, my God!" Her hand went up as though to tear the choking
mask from her face. "You--you devil--devil! What is the word that
opens the inner door? Quick! I will have it torn out of you--the word!"

"It is not a hard word to remember, madame--though it has been
forgotten before now. Do you recollect, when you were a child, being
told the tale of 'Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves'? When I had that door
made, my mind reverted, with rather a pretty touch of sentimentality,
in my opinion, to the happy hours of my childhood. The words that open
the door are--'Open Sesame'."

"Ah! How long can a man live in this devil's trap of yours?"

"Oh," said Wimsey cheerfully, "I should think he might hold out a
few hours if he kept cool and didn't use up the available oxygen by
shouting and hammering. If we went there at once, I dare say we should
find him fairly all right."

"I shall go myself. Take this man and--do your worst with him. Don't
finish him till I come back. I want to see him die!"

"One moment," said Wimsey, unmoved by this amiable wish. "I think you
had better take me with you."

"Why--why?"

"Because, you see, I'm the only person who can open the door."

"But you have given me the word. Was that a lie?"

"No--the word's all right. But, you see, it's one of these new-style
electric doors. In fact, it's really the very latest thing in doors.
I'm rather proud of it. It opens to the words 'Open Sesame' all
right--_but to my voice only_."

"Your voice? I will choke your voice with my own hands. What do you
mean--your voice only?"

"Just what I say. Don't clutch my throat like that, or you may alter
my voice so that the door won't recognise it. That's better. It's apt
to be rather pernickety about voices. It got stuck up for a week once,
when I had a cold and could only implore it in a hoarse whisper. Even
in the ordinary way, I sometimes have to try several times before I hit
on the exact right intonation."

She turned and appealed to a short, thick-set man standing beside her.

"Is this true? Is it possible?"

"Perfectly, ma'am, I'm afraid," said the man civilly. From his voice
Wimsey took him to be a superior workman of some kind--probably an
engineer.

"Is it an electrical device? Do you understand it?"

"Yes, ma'am. It will have a microphone arrangement somewhere, which
converts the sound into a series of vibrations controlling an electric
needle. When the needle has traced the correct pattern, the circuit
is completed and the door opens. The same thing can be done by light
vibrations equally easily."

"Couldn't you open it with tools?"

"In time, yes, ma'am. But only by smashing the mechanism, which is
probably well protected."

"You may take that for granted," interjected Wimsey reassuringly.

She put her hands to her head.

"I'm afraid we're done in," said the engineer, with a kind of respect
in his tone for a good job of work.

"No--wait! Somebody must know--the workmen who made this thing?"

"In Germany," said Wimsey briefly.

"Or--yes, yes, I have it--a gramophone. This--this--_he_--shall be made
to say the word for us. Quick--how can it be done?"

"Not possible, ma'am. Where should we get the apparatus at half-past
three on a Sunday morning? The poor gentleman would be dead long
before----"

There was a silence, during which the sounds of the wakening day came
through the shuttered windows. A motor-horn sounded distantly.

"I give in," she said. "We must let him go. Take the ropes off him. You
will free him, won't you?" she went on, turning piteously to Wimsey.
"Devil as you are, you are not such a devil as that! You will go
straight back and save him!"

"Let him go, nothing!" broke in one of the men. "He doesn't go to peach
to the police, my lady, don't you think it. The President's done in,
that's all, and we'd all better make tracks while we can. It's all up,
boys. Chuck this fellow down the cellar and fasten him in, so he can't
make a row and wake the place up. I'm going to destroy the ledgers. You
can see it done if you don't trust me. And you, Thirty, you know where
the switch is. Give us a quarter of an hour to clear, and then you can
blow the place to glory."

"No! You can't go--you can't leave him to die--your President--your
leader--my--I won't let it happen. Set this devil free. Help me, one of
you, with the ropes----"

"None of that, now," said the man who had spoken before. He caught her
by the wrists, and she twisted, shrieking, in his arms, biting and
struggling to get free.

"Think, think," said the man with the treacly voice. "It's getting on
to morning. It'll be light in an hour or two. The police may be here
any minute."

"The police!" She seemed to control herself by a violent effort. "Yes,
yes, you are right. We must not imperil the safety of all for the sake
of one man. _He_ himself would not wish it. That is so. We will put
this carrion in the cellar where it cannot harm us, and depart, every
one to his own place, while there is time."

"And the other prisoner?"

"He? Poor fool--he can do no harm. He knows nothing. Let him go," she
answered contemptuously.

In a few minutes' time Wimsey found himself bundled unceremoniously
into the depths of the cellar. He was a little puzzled. That they
should refuse to let him go, even at the price of Number One's life, he
could understand. He had taken the risk with his eyes open. But that
they should leave him as a witness against them seemed incredible.

The men who had taken him down strapped his ankles together and
departed, switching the lights out as they went.

"Hi! Kamerad!" said Wimsey. "It's a bit lonely sitting here. You might
leave the light on."

"It's all right, my friend," was the reply. "You will not be in the
dark long. They have set the time-fuse."

The other man laughed with rich enjoyment, and they went out together.
So that was it. He was to be blown up with the house. In that case
the President would certainly be dead before he was extricated. This
worried Wimsey; he would rather have been able to bring the big crook
to justice. After all, Scotland Yard had been waiting six years to
break up this gang.

He waited, straining his ears. It seemed to him that he heard footsteps
over his head. The gang had all crept out by this time....

There was certainly a creak. The trap-door had opened; he felt, rather
than heard, somebody creeping into the cellar.

"Hush!" said a voice in his ear. Soft hands passed over his face, and
went fumbling about his body. There came the cold touch of steel on
his wrists. The ropes slackened and dropped off. A key clicked in the
handcuffs. The strap about his ankles was unbuckled.

"Quick! quick! they have set the time-switch. The house is mined.
Follow me as fast as you can. I stole back--I said I had left my
jewellery. It was true. I left it on purpose. _He_ must be saved--only
you can do it. Make haste!"

Wimsey, staggering with pain, as the blood rushed back into his bound
and numbed arms, crawled after her into the room above. A moment, and
she had flung back the shutters and thrown the window open.

"Now go! Release him! You promise?"

"I promise. And I warn you, madame, that this house is surrounded. When
my safe-door closed it gave a signal which sent my servant to Scotland
Yard. Your friends are all taken----"

"Ah! But you go--never mind me--quick! The time is almost up."

"Come away from this!"

He caught her by the arm, and they went running and stumbling across
the little garden. An electric torch shone suddenly in the bushes.

"That you, Parker?" cried Wimsey. "Get your fellows away. Quick! the
house is going up in a minute."

The garden seemed suddenly full of shouting, hurrying men. Wimsey,
floundering in the darkness, was brought up violently against the
wall. He made a leap at the coping, caught it, and hoisted himself
up. His hands groped for the woman; he swung her up beside him. They
jumped; everyone was jumping; the woman caught her foot and fell with
a gasping cry. Wimsey tried to stop himself, tripped over a stone, and
came down headlong. Then, with a flash and a roar, the night went up in
fire.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wimsey picked himself painfully out from among the débris of the garden
wall. A faint moaning near him proclaimed that his companion was still
alive. A lantern was turned suddenly upon them.

"Here you are!" said a cheerful voice. "Are you all right, old thing?
Good lord! what a hairy monster!"

"All right," said Wimsey. "Only a bit winded. Is the lady safe?
H'm--arm broken, apparently--otherwise sound. What's happened?"

"About half a dozen of 'em got blown up; the rest we've bagged."
Wimsey became aware of a circle of dark forms in the wintry dawn.
"Good Lord, what a day! What a come-back for a public character! You
old stinker--to let us go on for two years thinking you were dead! I
bought a bit of black for an arm-band. I did, really. Did anybody know,
besides Bunter?"

"Only my mother and sister. I put it in a secret trust--you know, the
thing you send to executors and people. We shall have an awful time
with the lawyers, I'm afraid, proving I'm me. Hullo! Is that friend
Sugg?"

"Yes, my lord," said Inspector Sugg, grinning and nearly weeping with
excitement. "Damned glad to see your lordship again. Fine piece of
work, your lordship. They're all wanting to shake hands with you, sir."

"Oh, Lord! I wish I could get washed and shaved first. Awfully glad
to see you all again, after two years' exile in Lambeth. Been a good
little show, hasn't it?"

"Is he safe?"

Wimsey started at the agonised cry.

"Good Lord!" he cried. "I forgot the gentleman in the safe. Here, fetch
a car, quickly. I've got the great big top Moriarty of the whole bunch
quietly asphyxiating at home. Here--hop in, and put the lady in too. I
promised we'd get back and save him--though" (he finished the sentence
in Parker's ear) "there may be murder charges too, and I wouldn't give
much for his chance at the Old Bailey. Whack her up. He can't last
much longer shut up there. He's the bloke you've been wanting, the man
at the back of the Morrison case and the Hope-Wilmington case, and
hundreds of others."

       *       *       *       *       *

The cold morning had turned the streets grey when they drew up before
the door of the house in Lambeth. Wimsey took the woman by the arm and
helped her out. The mask was off now, and showed her face, haggard and
desperate, and white with fear and pain.

"Russian, eh?" whispered Parker in Wimsey's ear.

"Something of the sort. Damn! the front door's blown shut, and the
blighter's got the key with him in the safe. Hop through the window,
will you?"

Parker bundled obligingly in, and in a few seconds threw open the door
to them. The house seemed very still. Wimsey led the way to the back
room, where the strong-room stood. The outer door and the second door
stood propped open with chairs. The inner door faced them like a blank
green wall.

"Only hope he hasn't upset the adjustment with thumping at it,"
muttered Wimsey. The anxious hand on his arm clutched feverishly.
He pulled himself together, forcing his tone to one of cheerful
commonplace.

"Come on, old thing," he said, addressing himself conversationally to
the door. "Show us your paces. Open Sesame, confound you. Open Sesame!"

The green door slid suddenly away into the wall. The woman sprang
forward and caught in her arms the humped and senseless thing that
rolled out from the safe. Its clothes were torn to ribbons, and its
battered hands dripped blood.

"It's all right," said Wimsey, "it's all right! He'll live--to stand
his trial."

       *       *       *       *       *


                         NOTES TO THE SOLUTION


    I.1. VIRGO: The sign of the zodiac between LEO (strength) and LIBRA
    (justice). Allusion to parable of The Ten Virgins.

    I.3. R.S.: Royal Society, whose "fellows" are addicted to studies
    usually considered dry-as-dust.

    IV.3. TESTAMENT (or will); search is to be directed to the Old
    Testament. Ref. to parable of New Cloth and Old Garment.

    XIV.3. HI:

    "He would answer to Hi!
    Or to any loud cry."

    _The Hunting of the Snark._

    I.5. TRANS.: Abbreviation of Translation; ref. to building of Babel.

    XI.5. SCENT:

    "Even the scent of roses
    Is not what they supposes,
    But more than mind discloses
    And more then men believe."

    G. K. Chesterton: _The Song of Quoodle_.

    VI.7. ICTUS: Blow; add V (five) and you get VICTUS (vanquished);
    the ictus is the stress in a foot of verse; if the stress be
    misplaced the line goes lamely.

    I.8. SPINOZA: He wrote on the properties of optical glasses; also
    on metaphysics.

    IV.13. THIRTY-ONE: Seven (months) out of the twelve of the sun's
    course through the heavens have thirty-one days.

    XIV.13. ET: Conjunction. In astrology an aspect of the heavenly
    bodies. That Cicero was the master of this word indicates that it
    is a Latin one.

    X.14. BEZOAR: The bezoar stone was supposed to be a prophylactic
    against poison.

    11.I. PLAUD: If you would laud, then plaud (var. of applaud);
    Plaud-it also means "cheer."

    10.II. ALIENA: _As You Like It_. II. 1. 130.

    1.III. R.D.: "Refer to Drawer."

    4.III. CANTICLES: The Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis are known as the
    Canticles, but the Book of Canticles (the Vulgate name for the Song
    of Songs, in which the solution is found) occurs earlier in the
    Bible.

    2.VI. EST: [Greek: 'on kai mê 'on] = _est_ and _non est_--the
    problem of being and not-being. Ref. Marlowe: _Doctor Faustus_ I. 1.

    12.X. TOB.: Add IT to get Tobit; the tale of Tobit and the Fish is
    in the Apocrypha (the book of hidden things).

    1.XI. MANES: "Un lion est une mâchoire et non pas une crinière":
    Emile Faguet: _Lit. du XVIIe siècle_. Manes: benevolent spirits of
    the dead.

     1.XV. SAINT: Evidence of miraculous power is required for
    canonisation.




THE SOLUTION OF THE CROSS-WORD PUZZLE IN "UNCLE MELEAGER'S WILL."

        I | II|III| IV| V | VI|VII|VIII| IX| X | XI|XII|XIII|XIV| XV|
      +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+
     1| V | I | R | G | O |   |   | S  |   |   | M | I | D  | A | S |
      +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+
     2| E | N | D | I | V | E |   | C  |   | V | A | N | I  | T | A |
      +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+
     3| R | S |   |=T=|=E=|=S=|=T=|=A= |=M=|=E=|=N=|=T=|    | H | I |
      +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+
     4| S | E |=C=| A | N | T |   | R  |   | L | E | A |=V= | E | N |
      +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+
     5| T | R |=A=| N | S |   |   | L  |   |   | S | C |=E= | N | T |
      +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+
     6|   | T |=N=| A |   |   | S | E  | G |   |   | T |=R= | E |   |
      +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+
     7|   |   |=T=|   |   | I | C | T  | U | S |   |   |=S= |   |   |
      +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+
     8| S | P |=I=| N | O | Z | A |    | A | U | C | T |=I= | O | N |
      +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+
     9|   |   |=C=|   |   | E | L | A  | N | D |   |   |=C= |   |   |
      +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+
    10|   | A |=L=| T |   |   | A | D  | O |   |   | F |=L= | U |   |
      +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+
    11| P | L |=E=| A | S |   |   | M  |   |   | A | R |=E= | N | A |
      +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+
    12| L | I |=S=| T | E | N |   | E  |   | T | W | I |=S= | T | S |
      +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+
    13| A | E |   |=T=|=H=|=I=|=R=|=T= |=Y=|=O=|=N=|=E=|    | E | T |
      +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+
    14| U | N | H | O | O | D |   | U  |   | B | E | Z | O  | A | R |
      +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+
    15| D | A | M | O | N |   |   | S  |   |   | D | E | R  | M | A |
      +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+---+---+----+---+---+




                     _BOOKS BY DOROTHY L. SAYERS:_


                           THE NINE TAILORS

                           HANGMAN'S HOLIDAY

                              WHOSE BODY?

                           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






*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LORD PETER VIEWS THE BODY ***


    

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