Lord Peter Views the Body (11 page)

    ‘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 handcuffed 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 golfclubs. 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 Dallmeyers, 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 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 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 Defective-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 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 tomorrow.’

    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 tomorrow would have done, I would not have thought of disturbing him tonight. 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 to 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
tomorrow morning. Now, this is the trouble. Last year he gave me a magnificent diamond necklace of a hundred and fifteen stones—’