"I hope he gets it. Even if it doesn't pay very well it would do him a world of good to have something to do with himself. Well, I'd better be amblin' off. Many thanks, and let me know if you get hold of Oliver."
"Oh, rather!"
Wimsey considered a few moments on the doorstep, and then drove straight down to New Scotland Yard, where he was soon ushered in to Detective-Inspector Parker's office.
Parker, a square-built man in the late thirties, with the nondescript features which lend themselves so excellently to detective purposes, was possibly Lord Peter's most intimate—in some ways his only intimate friend. The two men had worked out many cases together and each respected the other's qualities, though no two characters could have been more widely different. Wimsey was the Roland of the combination—quick, impulsive, careless and an artistic jack-of-all-trades. Parker was the Oliver—cautious, solid, painstaking, his mind a blank to art and literature and exercising itself, in spare moments, with Evangelical theology. He was the one person who was never irritated by Wimsey's mannerisms, and Wimsey repaid him with a genuine affection foreign to his usually detached nature.
"Well, how goes it?"
"Not so bad. I want you to do something for me."
"Not really?"
"Yes, really, blast your eyes. Did you ever know me when I didn't? I want you to get hold of one of your handwriting experts to tell me if these two fists are the same."
He put on the table, on the one hand the bundle of used cheques, and on the other the sheet of paper he had taken from the library at the Bellona Club.
Parker raised his eyebrows.
"That's a very pretty set of finger-prints you've been pulling up there. What is it? Forgery?"
"No, nothing of that sort. I just want to know whether the same bloke who wrote these cheques made the notes too."
Parker rang a bell, and requested the attendance of Mr. Collins.
"Nice fat sums involved, from the looks of it," he went on, scanning the sheet of notes appreciatively. "£150,000 to R., £300,000 to G.—lucky G.—who's G? £20,000 here and £50,000 there. Who's your rich friend, Peter?"
"It's that long story I was going to tell you about when you'd finished your crate problem."
"Oh, is it? Then I'll make a point of solving the crate without delay. As a matter of fact, I'm rather expecting to hear something about it before long. That's why I'm here, dancing attendance on the 'phone. Oh, Collins, this is Lord Peter Wimsey, who wants very much to know whether these two handwritings are the same."
The expert took up the paper and the cheques and looked them over attentively.
"Not a doubt about it, I should say, unless the forgery has been astonishingly well done. Some of the figures, especially, are highly characteristic. The fives, for instance and the threes, and the fours, made all of a piece with the two little loops. It's a very old-fashioned handwriting, and made by a very old man, in not too-good health, especially this sheet of notes. Is that the old Fentiman who died the other day?"
"Well, it is, but you needn't shout about it. It's just a private matter."
"Just so. Well, I should say you need have no doubt about the authenticity of that bit of paper, if that's what you are thinking of."
"Thanks. That's precisely what I do want to know. I don't think there's the slightest question of forgery or anything. In fact, it was just whether we could look on these rough notes as a guide to his wishes. Nothing more."
"Oh, yes, if you rule out forgery, I'd answer for it any day that the same person wrote all these cheques and the notes."
"That's fine. That checks up the results of the finger-print test too. I don't mind telling you, Charles," he added, when Collins had departed, "that this case is getting damned interesting."
At this point the telephone rang, and Parker, after listening for some time, ejaculated "Good work!" and then, turning to Wimsey,
"That's our man. They've got him. Excuse me if I rush off. Between you and me, we've pulled this off rather well. It may mean rather a big thing for me. Sure we can't do anything else for you? Because I've got to get to Sheffield. See you to-morrow or next day."
He caught up his coat and hat and was gone. Wimsey made his own way out and sat for a long time at home, with Bunter's photographs of the Bellona Club before him, thinking.
At six o'clock, he presented himself at Mr. Murbles' Chambers in Staple Inn. The two taxi-drivers had already arrived and were seated, well on the edges of their chairs, politely taking old sherry with the solicitor.
"Ah!" said Mr. Murbles, "this is a gentleman who is interested in the inquiry we are making. Perhaps you would have the goodness to repeat to him what you have already told me. I have ascertained enough," he added, turning to Wimsey, "to feel sure that these are the right drivers, but I should like you to put any questions you wish yourself. This gentleman's name is Swain, and his story should come first, I think."
"Well, sir," said Mr. Swain, a stout man of the older type of driver, "you are wanting to know if anybody picked up an old gent in Portman Square the day before Armistice Day rahnd abaht the afternoon. Well, sir, I was goin' slow through the Square at 'arf-past four, or it might be a quarter to five on that 'ere day, when a footman comes out of a 'ouse—I couldn't say the number for certain, but it was on the east side of the Square as might be abaht the middle—and 'e makes a sign for me to stop. So I draws up, and presently a very old gent comes out. Very thin, 'e was, an' muffled up, but I see 'is legs and they was very thin and 'e looked abaht a 'undred an' two by 'is face, and walked with a stick. 'E was upright, for such a very old gent, but 'e moved slow and rather feeble. An old milingtary gent, I thought 'e might be—'e 'ad that way of speakin', if you understand me, sir. So the footman tells me to drive 'im to a number in 'Arley Street."
"Do you remember it?"
Swain mentioned a number which Wimsey recognized as Penberthy's.
"So I drives 'im there. And 'e asks me to ring the bell for 'im, and when the young man comes to the door to ask if the doctor could please see General Fenton, or Fennimore or some such name, sir."
"Was it Fentiman, do you think?"
"Well, yes, it might 'ave been Fentiman. I think it was. So the young man comes back and says, yes, certingly, so I 'elps the old gent aht. Very faint, 'e seemed, and a very bad color, sir, breathin' 'eavy and blue-like abaht the lips. Pore old b..., I thinks, beggin' yer pardon, sir, 'e won't be 'ere long, I thinks. So we 'elps him up the steps into the 'ouse and 'e gives me my fare and a shilling for myself, and that's the last I see of 'im, sir."
"That fits in all right with what Penberthy said," agreed Wimsey. "The General felt the strain of his interview with his sister and went straight round to see him. Right. Now how about this other part of the business?"
"Well," said Mr. Murbles, "I think this gentleman, whose name is—let me see—Hinkins—yes. I think Mr. Hinkins picked up the General when he left Harley Street."
"Yes, sir," agreed the other driver, a smartish-looking man with a keen profile and a sharp eye. "A very old gentleman, like what we've 'eard described, took my taxi at this same number in 'Arley Street at 'alf past five. I remember the day very well, sir; November 10th it was, and I remember it because, after I done taking him where I'm telling you, my magneto started to give trouble, and I didn't 'ave the use of the 'bus on Armistice Day, which was a great loss to me, because that's a good day as a rule. Well, this old military gentleman gets in, with his stick and all, just as Swain says, only I didn't notice him looking particular ill, though I see he was pretty old. Maybe the doctor would have given him something to make him better."
"Very likely," said Mr. Murbles.
"Yes, sir. Well, he gets in, and he says, 'Take me to Dover Street,' he says, but if you was to ask me the number, sir, I'm afraid I don't rightly remember, because, you see, we never went there after all."
"Never went there?" cried Wimsey.
"No, sir. Just as we was comin' out into Cavendish Square, the old gentleman puts his head out and says, 'Stop!' So I stops, and I see him wavin' his hand to a gentleman on the pavement. So this other one comes up, and they has a few words together and then the old——"
"One moment. What was this other man like?"
"Dark and thin, sir, and looked about forty. He had on a gray suit and overcoat and a soft hat, with a dark handkerchief round his throat. Oh, yes, and he had a small black mustache. So the old gentleman says, 'Cabman,' he says, just like that, 'cabman, go back up to Regent's Park and drive round till I tell you to stop.' So the other gentleman gets in with him, and I goes back and drives round the Park, quiet-like, because I guessed they wanted to 'ave a bit of a talk. So I goes twice round, and as we was going round the third time, the younger gentleman sticks 'is 'ed out and says, 'Put me down at Gloucester Gate.' So I puts him down there, and the old gentleman says, 'Good-bye, George, bear in mind what I have said.' So the gentleman says, 'I will, sir,' and I see him cross the road, like as if he might be going up Park Street."
Mr. Murbles and Wimsey exchanged glances.
"And then where did you go?"
"Then, sir, the fare says to me, 'Do you know the Bellona Club in Piccadilly?' he says. So I says, 'Yes, sir.'"
"The Bellona Club?"
"Yes, sir."
"What time was that?"
"It might be getting on for half-past six, sir. I'd been driving very slow, as I tells you, sir. So I takes him to the Club, like he said, and in he goes, and that's the last I see of him, sir."
"Thanks very much," said Wimsey. "Did he seem to be at all upset or agitated when he was talking to the man he called George?"
"No, sir, I couldn't say that. But I thought he spoke a bit sharp-like. What you might call telling him off, sir."
"I see. What time did you get to the Bellona?"
"I should reckon it was about twenty minutes to seven, sir, or just a little bit more. There was a tidy bit of traffic about. Between twenty and ten to seven, as near as I can recollect."
"Excellent. Well, you have both been very helpful. That will be all to-day, but I'd like you to leave your names and addresses with Mr. Murbles, in case we might want some sort of a statement from either of you later on. And—er——"
A couple of Treasury notes crackled. Mr. Swain and Mr. Hinkins made suitable acknowledgment and departed, leaving their addresses behind them.
"So he went back to the Bellona Club. I wonder what for?"
"I think I know," said Wimsey. "He was accustomed to do any writing or business there, and I fancy he went back to put down some notes as to what he meant to do with the money his sister was leaving him. Look at this sheet of paper, sir. That's the General's handwriting, as I've proved this afternoon, and those are his finger-prints. And the initials R and G probably stand for Robert and George, and these figures for the various sums he means to leave them."
"That appears quite probable. Where did you find this?"
"In the end bay of the library at the Bellona, sir, tucked inside the blotting-paper."
"The writing is very weak and straggly."
"Yes—quite tails off, doesn't it. As though he had come over faint and couldn't go on. Or perhaps he was only tired. I must go down and find out if anybody saw him there that evening. But Oliver, curse him! is the man who knows. If only we could get hold of Oliver."
"We've had no answer to our third question in the advertisement. I've had letters from several drivers who took old gentlemen to the Bellona that morning, but none of them corresponds with the General. Some had check overcoats, and some had whiskers and some had bowler hats or beards—whereas the General was never seen without his silk hat and had, of course, his old-fashioned long military mustache."
"I wasn't hoping for very much from that. We might put in another ad. in case anybody picked him up from the Bellona on the evening or night of the 10th, but I've got a feeling that this infernal Oliver probably took him away in his own car. If all else fails, we'll have to get Scotland Yard on to Oliver."
"Make careful inquiries at the Club, Lord Peter. It now becomes more than possible that somebody saw Oliver there and noticed them leaving together."
"Of course. I'll go along there at once. And I'll put the advertisement in as well. I don't think we'll rope in the B.B.C. It is so confoundedly public."
"That," said Mr. Murbles, with a look of horror, "would bemostundesirable."
Wimsey rose to go. The solicitor caught him at the door.
"Another thing we ought really to know," he said, "is what General Fentiman was saying to Captain George."
"I've not forgotten that," said Wimsey, a little uneasily. "We shall have—oh, yes—certainly—of course, we shall have to know that."
Knave High
"Look here, Wimsey," said Captain Culyer of the Bellona Club, "aren't you ever going to get finished with this investigation or whatever it is? The members are complaining, really they are, and I can't blame them. They find your everlasting questions an intolerable nuisance, old boy, and I can't stop them from thinking there must be something behind it. People complain that they can't get attention from the porters or the waiters because you're everlastingly there chatting, and if you're not there, you're hanging round the bar, eavesdropping. If this is your way of conducting an inquiry tactfully, I wish you'd do it tactlessly. It's becoming thoroughly unpleasant. And no sooner do you stop it, than the other fellow begins."
"What other fellow?"
"That nasty little skulking bloke who's always turning up at the service door and questioning the staff."
"I don't know anything abouthim," replied Wimsey, "I never heard of him. I'm sorry I'm being a bore and all that, though I swear I couldn't be worse than some of your other choice specimens in that line, but I've hit a snag. This business—quite in your ear, old bean—isn't as straightforward as it looks on the surface. That fellow Oliver whom I mentioned to you——"
"He's not known here, Wimsey."
"No, but he may have been here."
"If nobody saw him, he can't have been here."
"Well, then, where did General Fentiman go to when he left? And when he did leave? That's what I want to know. Dash it all, Culyer, the old boy's a landmark. We know he came back here on the evening of the 10th—the driver brought him to the door, Rogers saw him come in and two members noticed him in the smoking-room just before seven. I have a certain amount of evidence that he went into the library. And he can't have stayed long, because he had his outdoor things with him. Somebodymusthave seen him leave. It's ridiculous. The servants aren't all blind. I don't like to say it, Culyer, but I can't help thinking that somebody has been bribed to hold his tongue.... Of course, I knew that would annoy you, but how can you account for it? Who's this fellow you say has been hangin' round the kitchen?"
"I came across him one morning when I'd been down to see about the wine. By the way, there's a case of Margaux come in which I'd like your opinion on some day. The fellow was talking to Babcock, the wine steward, and I asked him pretty sharply what he wanted. He thanked me, and said he had come from the railway to inquire after a packing-case that had gone astray, but Babcock, who is a very decent fellow, told me afterwards that he had been working the pump-handle about old Fentiman, and I gathered he had been pretty liberal with his cash. I thought you were up to your tricks again."
"Is the fellow a sahib?"
"Good God, no. Looks like an attorney's clerk or something. A nasty little tout."
"Glad you told me. I shouldn't wonder if he's the snag I'm up against. Probably Oliver coverin' his tracks."
"Do you suspect this Oliver of something wrong?"
"Well—I rather think so. But I'm damned if I know quite what. I think he knows something about old Fentiman that we don't. And of course he knows how he spent the night, and that's what I'm after."
"What the devil does it matter how he spent the night? He can't have been very riotous, at his age."
"It might throw some light on the time he arrived in the morning, mightn't it?"
"Oh—Well, all I can say is, I hope to God you'll hurry up and finish with it. This Club's becoming a perfect bear-garden. I'd almost rather have the police in."
"Keep hopin'. You may get 'em yet."
"You don't mean that, seriously?"
"I'm never serious. That's what my friends dislike about me. Honestly, I'll try and make as little row as I can. But if Oliver is sending his minions to corrupt your staff and play old harry with my investigations, it's going to make it damned awkward. I wish you'd let me know if the fellow turns up again. I'd like to cast my eye over him."
"All right, I will. And do clear out now, there's a good fellow."
"I go," said Wimsey, "my tail well tucked down between my legs and a flea in each ear. Oh! by the way——"
"Well?" (in an exasperated tone).
"When did you last see George Fentiman?"
"Not for donkey's years. Not since it happened."
"I thought not. Oh, and by the way——"
"Yes?"
"Robert Fentiman was actually staying in the Club at the time, wasn't he?"
"Which time?"
"The time it happened, you ass."
"Yes, he was. But he's living at the old man's place now."
"I know, thanks. But I wondered whether—Where does he live when he isn't in town?"
"Out at Richmond, I think. In rooms, or something."
"Oh, does he? Thanks very much. Yes, I really will go. In fact, I've practically gone."
He went. He never stopped going till he came to Finsbury Park. George was out, and so, of course, was Mrs. Fentiman, but the charwoman said she had heard the Captain mention he was going down to Great Portland Street. Wimsey went in pursuit. A couple of hours spent lounging round show-rooms and talking to car-demonstrators, nearly all of whom were, in one manner or another, his dear old pals, resulted in the discovery that George Fentiman was being taken on by the Walmisley-Hubbard outfit for a few weeks to show what he could do.
"Oh, he'll do you all right," said Wimsey, "he's a damn fine driver. Oh, lord, yes!He'sall right."
"He looks a bit nervy," said the particular dear old pal attached to the Walmisley-Hubbard show. "Wants bucking up, what? That reminds me. What about a quick one?"
Wimsey submitted to a mild quick one and then wandered back to look at a new type of clutch. He spun out this interesting interview till one of the Walmisley-Hubbard "shop 'buses" came in with Fentiman at the wheel.
"Hullo!" said Wimsey, "trying her out?"
"Yes. I've got the hang of her all right."
"Think you could sell her?" asked the old pal.
"Oh, yes. Soon learn to show her off. She's a jolly decent 'bus."
"That's good. Well, I expect you're about ready for a quick one. How about it, Wimsey?"
They had a quick one together. After this, the dear old pal remembered that he must buzz off because he'd promised to hunt up a customer.
"You'll turn up to-morrow, then?" he said to George. "There's an old bird down at Malden wants to have a trial trip. I can't go, so you can have a shot at him. All right?"
"Perfectly."
"Righty-ho! I'll have the 'bus ready for you at eleven. Cheer-most-frightfully-ho! So long."
"Little sunbeam about the house, isn't he?" said Wimsey.
"Rather. Have another?"
"I was thinking, how about lunch? Come along with me if you have nothing better to do."
George accepted and put forward the names of one or two restaurants.
"No," said Wimsey, "I've got a fancy to go to Gatti's to-day, if you don't mind."
"Not at all, that will do splendidly. I've seen Murbles, by the bye, and he's prepared to deal with the MacStewart man. He thinks he can hold him off till it's all settled up—if it everissettled."
"That's good," said Wimsey, rather absently.
"And I'm damned glad about this chance of a job," went on George. "If it turns out any good, it'll make things a lot easier—in more than one way."
Wimsey said heartily that he was sure it would, and then relapsed into a silence unusual with him, which lasted all the way to the Strand.
At Gatti's he left George in a corner while he went to have a chat with the head waiter, emerging from the interview with a puzzled expression which aroused even George's curiosity, full as he was of his own concerns.
"What's up? Isn't there anything you can bear to eat?"
"It's all right. I was just wondering whether to havemoules marinièresor not."
"Good idea."
Wimsey's face cleared, and for some time they absorbed mussels from the shell with speechless, though not altogether silent, satisfaction.
"By the way," said Wimsey, suddenly, "you never told me that you had seen your grandfather the afternoon before he died."
George flushed. He was struggling with a particularly elastic mussel, firmly rooted to the shell, and could not answer for a moment.
"How on earth?—confound it all, Wimsey, areyoubehind this infernal watch that's being kept on me?"
"Watch?"
"Yes, I said watch. I call it a damn rotten thing to do. I never thought for a moment you had anything to do with it."
"I haven't. Who's keeping a watch on you?"
"There's a fellow following me about. A spy. I'm always seeing him. I don't know whether he's a detective or what. He looks like a criminal. He came down in the 'bus with me from Finsbury Park this morning. He was after me all day yesterday. He's probably about now. I won't have it. If I catch sight of him again I shall knock his dirty little head off. Why should I be followed and spied on? I haven't done anything. And nowyoubegin."
"I swear I've nothing to do with anybody following you about. Honestly, I haven't. I wouldn't employ a man, anyway, who'd let a bloke see that he was being followed. No. When I start huntin' you, I shallbeas silent and stealthy as a gas-leak. What's this incompetent bloodhound like to look at?"
"Looks like a tout. Small, thin, with his hat pulled down over his eyes and an old rain-coat with the collar turned up. And a very blue chin."
"Sounds like a stage detective. He's a silly ass anyway."
"He gets on my nerves."
"Oh, all right. Next time you see him, punch his head."
"But what does he want?"
"How should I know? What have you been doing?"
"Nothing, of course. I tell you, Wimsey, I believe there's some sort of conspiracy going on to get me into trouble, or do away with me, or something. I can't stand it. It's simply damnable. Suppose this fellow starts hanging round the Walmisley-Hubbard place. Look nice, won't it, for their salesman to have a 'tec on his heels all the time? Just as I hoped things were coming right——"
"Bosh!" said Wimsey. "Don't let yourself get rattled. It's probably all imagination, or just a coincidence."
"It isn't. I wouldn't mind betting he's outside in the street now."
"Well, then, we'll settle his hash when we get outside. Give him in charge for annoying you. Look here, forget him for a bit. Tell me about the old General. How did he seem, that last time you saw him?"
"Oh, he seemed fit enough. Crusty, as usual."
"Crusty, was he? What about?"
"Private matters," said George, sullenly.
Wimsey cursed himself for having started his questions tactlessly. The only thing now was to retrieve the situation as far as possible.
"I'm not at all sure," he said, "that relations shouldn't all be painlessly put away after threescore and ten. Or at any rate segregated. Or have their tongues sterilized, so that they can't be poisonously interferin'."
"I wish they were," growled George. "The old man—damn it all, I know he was in the Crimea, but he's no idea what a real war's like. He thinks things can go on just as they did half a century ago. I daresay he never did behave as I do. Anyway, I know he never had to go to his wife for his pocket-money, let alone having the inside gassed out of him. Coming preaching to me—and I couldn't say anything, because he was so confoundedly old, you know."
"Very trying," murmured Wimsey, sympathetically.
"It's all so damned unfair," said George. "Do you know," he burst out, the sense of grievance suddenly overpowering his wounded vanity, "the old devil actually threatened to cut me out of the miserable little bit of money he had to leave me if I didn't 'reform my domestic behavior.' That's the way he talked. Just as if I was carrying on with another woman or something. I know I did have an awful row with Sheila one day, but of course I didn't mean half I said. She knows that, but the old man took it all seriously."
"Half a moment," broke in Wimsey, "did he say all this to you in the taxi that day?"
"Yes, he did. A long lecture, all about the purity and courage of a good woman, driving round and round Regent's Park. I had to promise to turn over a new leaf and all that. Like being back at one's prep. school."
"But didn't he mention anything about the money Lady Dormer was leaving to him?"
"Not a word. I don't suppose he knew about it."
"I think he did. He'd just come from seeing her, you know, and I've a very good idea she explained matters to him then."
"Did she? Well, that rather explains it. I thought he was being very pompous and stiff about it. He said what a responsibility money was, you know, and how he would like to feel that anything he left to me was being properly used and all that. And he rubbed it in about my not having been able to make good for myself—that was what got my goat—and about Sheila. Said I ought to appreciate a good woman's love more, my boy, and cherish her and so on. As if I needed him to tell me that. But of course, if he knew he was in the running for this half-million, it makes rather a difference. By jove, yes! I expect he would feel a bit anxious at the idea of leaving it all to a fellow he looked on as a waster."
"I wonder he didn't mention it."
"You didn't know grandfather. I bet he was thinking over in his mind whether it wouldn't be better to give my share to Sheila, and he was sounding me, to see what sort of disposition I'd got. The old fox! Well, I did my best to put myself in a good light, of course, because just at the moment I didn't want to lose my chance of his two thousand. But I don't think he found me satisfactory. I say," went on George, with rather a sheepish laugh, "perhaps it's just as well he popped off when he did. He might have cut me off with a shilling, eh?"
"Your brother would have seen you through in any case."
"I suppose he would. Robert's quite a decent sort, really, though he does get on one's nerves so."
"Does he?"
"He's so thick-skinned; the regular unimaginative Briton. I believe Robert would cheerfully go through another five years of war and think it all a very good rag. Robert was proverbial, you know, for never turning a hair. I remember Robert, at that ghastly hole at Carency, where the whole ground was rotten with corpses—ugh!—potting those swollen great rats for a penny a time, and laughing at them. Rats. Alive and putrid with what they'd been feeding on. Oh, yes. Robert was thought a damn good soldier."
"Very fortunate for him," said Wimsey.
"Yes. He's the same sort as grandfather. They liked each other. Still, grandfather was very decent about me. A beast, as the school-boy said, but a just beast. And Sheila was a great favorite of his."
"Nobody could help liking her," said Wimsey, politely.
Lunch ended on a more cheerful note than it had begun. As they came out into the street, however, George Fentiman glanced round uneasily. A small man in a buttoned-up overcoat and with a soft hat pulled down over his eyes, was gazing into the window of a shop near at hand.
George strode up to him.
"Look here, you!" he said. "What the devil do you mean by following me about? You clear off, d'you hear?"
"I think you are mistaken, sir," said the man, quietly enough. "I have never seen you before."
"Haven't you, by jove? Well,I'veseenyouhanging about, and if you do it any more, I'll give you something to remember me by. D'you hear?"
"Hullo!" said Wimsey, who had stopped to speak to the commissionaire, "what's up?—Here, you, wait a moment!"
But at sight of Wimsey, the man had slipped like an eel among the roaring Strand traffic, and was lost to view.
George Fentiman turned to his companion triumphantly.
"Did you see that? That lousy little beggar! Made off like a shot when I threatened him. That's the fellow who's been dogging me about for three days."
"I'm sorry," said Wimsey, "but it was not your prowess, Fentiman. It was my awful aspect that drove him away. What is it about me? Have I a front like Jove to threaten and command? Or am I wearing a repulsive tie?"
"He's gone, anyway."
"I wish I'd had a better squint at him. Because I've got a sort of idea that I've seen those lovely features before, and not so long ago, either. Was this the face that launched a thousand ships? No, I don't think it was that."
"All I can say is," said George, "that if I see him again, I'll put such a face on him that his mother won't know him."
"Don't do that. You might destroy a clue. I—wait a minute—I've got an idea. I believe it must be the same man who's been haunting the Bellona and asking questions. Oh, hades! and we've let him go. And I'd put him down in my mind as Oliver's minion. If ever you see him again, Fentiman, freeze on to him like grim death. I want to talk to him."
Lord Peter Forces A Card
"Hullo!"
"Is that you, Wimsey? Hullo! I say, is that Lord Peter Wimsey. Hullo! I must speak to Lord Peter Wimsey. Hullo!"
"All right. I've said hullo. Who're you? And what's the excitement?"
"It's me. Major Fentiman. I say—isthat Wimsey?"
"Yes. Wimsey speaking. What's up?"
"I can't hear you."
"Of course you can't if you keep on shouting. This is Wimsey. Good morning. Stand three inches from the mouth-piece and speak in an ordinary voice. Do not say hullo! To recall the operator, depress the receivergentlytwo or three times."
"Oh, shut up! don't be an ass. I've seen Oliver."
"Have you, where?"
"Getting into a train at Charing Cross."
"Did you speak to him?"
"No—it's maddening. I was just getting my ticket when I saw him passing the barrier. I tore down after him. Some people got in my way, curse them. There was a Circle train standing at the platform. He bolted in and they clanged the doors. I rushed on, waving and shouting, but the train went out. I cursed like anything."
"I bet you did. How very sickening."
"Yes, wasn't it? I took the next train——"
"What for?"
"Oh, I don't know. I thought I might spot him on a platform somewhere."
"What a hope! You didn't think to ask where he'd booked for?"
"No. Besides, he probably got the ticket from an automatic."
"Probably. Well, it can't be helped, that's all. He'll probably turn up again. You're sure it was he?"
"Oh, dear, yes. I couldn't be mistaken. I'd know him anywhere. I thought I'd just let you know."
"Thanks awfully. It encourages me extremely. Charing Cross seems to be a haunt of his. He 'phoned from there on the evening of the tenth, you know."
"So he did."
"I'll tell you what we'd better do, Fentiman. The thing is getting rather serious. I propose that you should go and keep an eye on Charing Cross station. I'll get hold of a detective——"
"A police detective?"
"Not necessarily. A private one would do. You and he can go along and keep watch on the station for, say a week. You must describe Oliver to the detective as best you can, and you can watch turn and turn about."
"Hang it all, Wimsey—it'll take a lot of time. I've gone back to my rooms at Richmond. And besides, I've got my own duties to do."
"Yes, well, while you're on duty the detective must keep watch."
"It's a dreadful grind, Wimsey." Fentiman's voice sounded dissatisfied.
"It's half a million of money. Of course, if you're not keen——"
"Iamkeen. But I don't believe anything will come of it."
"Probably not; but it's worth trying. And in the meantime, I'll have another watch kept at Gatti's."
"At Gatti's?"
"Yes. They know him there. I'll send a man down——"
"But he never comes there now."
"Oh, but he may come again. There's no reason why he shouldn't. We know now that he's in town, and not gone out of the country or anything. I'll tell the management that he's wanted for an urgent business matter, so as not to make unpleasantness."
"They won't like it."
"Then they'll have to lump it."
"Well, all right. But, look here—I'lldo Gatti's."
"That won't do. We want you to identify him at Charing Cross. The waiter or somebody can do the identifying at Gatti's. You say they know him."
"Yes, of course they do. But——"
"But what?—By the way, which waiter is it you spoke to. I had a talk with the head man there yesterday, and he didn't seem to know anything about it."
"No—it wasn't the head waiter. One of the others. The plump, dark one."
"All right. I'll find the right one. Now, will you see to the Charing Cross end?"
"Of course—if you really think it's any good."
"Yes, I do. Right you are. I'll get hold of the 'tec and send him along to you, and you can arrange with him."
"Very well."
"Cheerio!"
Lord Peter rang off and sat for a few moments, grinning to himself. Then he turned to Bunter.
"I don't often prophesy, Bunter, but I'm going to do it now. Your fortune told by hand or cards. Beware of the dark stranger. That sort of thing."
"Indeed, my lord?"
"Cross the gypsy's palm with silver. I see Mr. Oliver. I see him taking a journey in which he will cross water. I see trouble. I see the ace of spades—upside-down, Bunter."
"And what then, my lord?"
"Nothing. I look into the future and I see a blank. The gypsy has spoken."
"I will bear it in mind, my lord."
"Do. If my prediction is not fulfilled, I will give you a new camera. And now I'm going round to see that fellow who calls himself Sleuths Incorporated, and get him to put a good man on to keep watch at Charing Cross. And after that, I'm going down to Chelsea and I don't quite know when I shall be back. You'd better take the afternoon off. Put me out some sandwiches or something, and don't wait up if I'm late."
Wimsey disposed quickly of his business with Sleuths Incorporated, and then made his way to a pleasant little studio overlooking the river at Chelsea. The door, which bore a neat label "Miss Marjorie Phelps," was opened by a pleasant-looking young woman with curly hair and a blue overall heavily smudged with clay.
"Lord Peter! How nice of you. Do come in."
"Shan't I be in the way?"
"Not a scrap. You don't mind if I go on working."
"Rather not."
"You could put the kettle on and find some food if you liked to be really helpful. I just want to finish up this figure."
"That's fine. I took the liberty of bringing a pot of Hybla honey with me."
"What sweet ideas you have! I really think you are one of the nicest people I know. You don't talk rubbish about art, and you don't want your hand held, and your mind always turns on eating and drinking."
"Don't speak too soon. I don't want my hand held, but I did come here with an object."
"Very sensible of you. Most people come without any."
"And stay interminably."
"They do."
Miss Phelps cocked her head on one side and looked critically at the little dancing lady she was modeling. She had made a line of her own in pottery figurines, which sold well and were worth the money.
"That's rather attractive," said Wimsey.
"Rather pretty-pretty. But it's a special order, and one can't afford to be particular. I've done a Christmas present for you, by the way. You'd better have a look at it, and if you think it offensive we'll smash it together. It's in that cupboard."
Wimsey opened the cupboard and extracted a little figure about nine inches high. It represented a young man in a flowing dressing-gown, absorbed in the study of a huge volume held on his knee. The portrait was life-like. He chuckled.
"It's damned good, Marjorie. A very fine bit of modeling. I'd love to have it. You aren't multiplying it too often, I hope? I mean, it won't be on sale at Selfridges?"
"I'll spare you that. I thought of giving one to your mother."
"That'll please her no end. Thanks ever so. I shall look forward to Christmas, for once. Shall I make some toast?"
"Rather!"
Wimsey squatted happily down before the gasfire, while the modeler went on with her work. Tea and figurine were ready almost at the same moment, and Miss Phelps, flinging off her overall, threw herself luxuriously into a battered arm-chair by the hearth.
"And what can I do for you?"
"You can tell me all you know about Miss Ann Dorland."
"Ann Dorland? Great heavens! You haven't fallen for Ann Dorland, have you? I've heard she's coming into a lot of money."
"You have a perfectly disgusting mind, Miss Phelps. Have some more toast. Excuse me licking my fingers. I have not fallen for the lady. If I had, I'd manage my affairs without assistance. I haven't even seen her. What's she like?"
"To look at?"
"Among other things."
"Well, she's rather plain. She has dark, straight hair, cut in a bang across the forehead and bobbed—like a Flemish page. Her forehead is broad and she has a square sort of face and a straight nose—quite good. Also, her eyes are good—gray, with nice heavy eyebrows, not fashionable a bit. But she has a bad skin and rather sticky-out teeth. And she's dumpy."
"She's a painter, isn't she?"
"M'm—well! she paints."
"I see. A well-off amateur with a studio."
"Yes. I will say that old Lady Dormer was very decent to her. Ann Dorland, you know, is some sort of far-away distant cousin on the female side of the Fentiman family, and when Lady Dormer first got to hear of her she was an orphan and incredibly poverty-stricken. The old lady liked to have a bit of young life about the house, so she took charge of her, and the wonderful thing is that she didn't try to monopolize her. She let her have a big place for a studio and bring in any friends she liked and go about as she chose—in reason, of course."
"Lady Dormer suffered a good deal from oppressive relations in her own youth," said Wimsey.
"I know, but most old people seem to forget that. I'm sure Lady Dormer had time enough. She must have been rather unusual. Mind you, I didn't know her very well, and I don't really know a great deal about Ann Dorland. I've been there, of course. She gave parties—rather incompetently. And she comes round to some of our studios from time to time. But she isn't really one of us."
"Probably one has to be really poor and hard-working to be that."
"No. You, for instance, fit in quite well on the rare occasions when we have the pleasure. And it doesn't matter not being able to paint. Look at Bobby Hobart and his ghastly daubs—he's a perfect dear and everybody loves him. I think Ann Dorland must have a complex of some kind. Complexes explain so much, like the blessed word hippopotamus."
Wimsey helped himself lavishly to honey and looked receptive.
"I think really," went on Miss Phelps, "that Ann ought to have been something in the City. She has brains, you know. She'd run anything awfully well. But she isn't creative. And then, of course, so many of our little lot seem to be running love-affairs. And a continual atmosphere of hectic passion is very trying if you haven't got any of your own."
"Has Miss Dorland a mind above hectic passion?"
"Well, no. I daresay she would quite have liked—but nothing ever came of it. Why are you interested in having Ann Dorland analyzed?"
"I'll tell you some day. It isn't just vulgar curiosity."
"No, you're very decent as a rule, or I wouldn't be telling you all this. I think, really, Ann has a sort of fixed idea that she couldn't ever possibly attract any one, and so she's either sentimental and tiresome, or rude and snubbing, and our crowd does hate sentimentality and simply can't bear to be snubbed. Ann's rather pathetic, really. As a matter of fact, I think she's gone off art a bit. Last time I heard about her, she had been telling some one she was going in for social service, or sick-nursing, or something of that kind. I think it's very sensible. She'd probably get along much better with the people who do that sort of thing. They're so much more solid and polite."
"I see. Look here, suppose I ever wanted to run across Miss Dorland accidentally on purpose—where should I be likely to find her?"
"Youdoseem thrilled about her! I think I should try the Rushworths. They go in rather for science and improving the submerged tenth and things like that. Of course, I suppose Ann's in mourning now, but I don't think that would necessarily keep her away from the Rushworth's. Their gatherings aren't precisely frivolous."
"Thanks very much. You're a mine of valuable information. And, for a woman, you don't ask many questions."
"Thank you for those few kind words, Lord Peter."
"I am now free to devote my invaluable attention toyourconcerns. What is the news? And who is in love with whom?"
"Oh, life is a perfect desert. Nobody is in love with me, and the Schlitzers have had a worse row than usual and separated."
"No!"
"Yes. Only, owing to financial considerations, they've got to go on sharing the same studio—you know, that big room over the mews. It must be very awkward having to eat and sleep and work in the same room with somebody you're being separated from. They don't even speak, and it's very awkward when you call on one of them and the other has to pretend not to be able to see or hear you."
"I shouldn't think one could keep it up under those circumstances."
"It's difficult. I'd have had Olga here, only she is so dreadfully bad-tempered. Besides, neither of them will give up the studio to the other."
"I see. But isn't there any third party in the case?"
"Yes—Ulric Fiennes, the sculptor, you know. But he can't have her at his place because his wife's there, and he's really dependent on his wife, because his sculping doesn't pay. And besides, he's at work on that colossal group for the Exhibition and he can't move it; it weighs about twenty tons. And if he went off and took Olga away, his wife would lock him out of the place. It's very inconvenient being a sculptor. It's like playing the double-bass; one's so handicapped by one's baggage."
"True. Whereas, when you run away with me, we'll be able to put all the pottery shepherds and shepherdesses in a handbag."
"Of course. What fun it will be. Where shall we run to?"
"How about starting to-night and getting as far as Oddenino's and going on to a show—if you're not doing anything?"
"You are a loveable man, and I shall call you Peter. Shall we see 'Betwixt and Between?'"
"The thing they had such a job to get past the censor? Yes, if you like. Is it particularly obscene?"
"No, epicene, I fancy."
"Oh, I see. Well, I'm quite agreeable. Only I warn you that I shall make a point of asking you the meaning of all the risky bits in a very audible voice."
"That's your idea of amusement, is it?"
"Yes. It does make them so wild. People say 'Hush!' and giggle, and if I'm lucky I end up with a gorgeous row in the bar."
"Then I won't risk it. No. I'll tell you what I'd really love. We'll go and see 'George Barnwell' at the Elephant and have a fish-and-chips supper afterwards."
This was agreed upon, and was voted in retrospect a most profitable evening. It finished up with grilled kippers at a friend's studio in the early hours. Lord Peter returned home to find a note upon the hall-table.