Whose Body? A Lord Peter Wimsey Novel
“Jump? You don’t even crawl distantly within sight of a conclusion. I
believe if you caught the cat with her head in the cream-jug you’d say
it was conceivable that the jug was empty when she got there.”
“Well, it would be conceivable, wouldn’t it?”
“Curse you,” said Lord Peter. He screwed his monocle into his eye,
and bent over the pillow, breathing hard and tightly through his nose.
“Here, give me the tweezers,” he said presently. “Good heavens, man,
don’t blow like that, you might be a whale.” He nipped up an almost
invisible object from the linen.
“What is it?” asked Parker.
“It’s a hair,” said Wimsey grimly, his hard eyes growing harder. “Let’s
go and look at Levy’s hats, shall we? And you might just ring for that
fellow with the churchyard name, do you mind?”
Mr. Graves, when summoned, found Lord Peter Wimsey squatting on the
floor of the dressing-room before a row of hats arranged upside down
before him.
“Here you are,” said that nobleman cheerfully. “Now, Graves, this is a
guessin’ competition—a sort of three-hat trick, to mix metaphors. Here
are nine hats, including three top-hats. Do you identify all these hats
as belonging to Sir Reuben Levy? You do? Very good. Now I have three
guesses as to which hat he wore the night he disappeared, and if I
guess right, I win; if I don’t, you win. See? Ready? Go. I suppose you
know the answer yourself, by the way?”
“Do I understand your lordship to be asking which hat Sir Reuben wore
when he went out on Monday night, your lordship?”
“No, you don’t understand a bit,” said Lord Peter. “I’m asking if _you_
know—don’t tell me, I’m going to guess.”
“I do know, your lordship,” said Mr. Graves, reprovingly.
“Well,” said Lord Peter, “as he was dinin’ at the Ritz he wore a
topper. Here are three toppers. In three guesses I’d be bound to hit
the right one, wouldn’t I? That don’t seem very sportin’. I’ll take one
guess. It was this one.”
He indicated the hat next the window.
“Am I right, Graves—have I got the prize?”
“That _is_ the hat in question, my lord,” said Mr. Graves, without
excitement.
“Thanks,” said Lord Peter, “that’s all I wanted to know. Ask Bunter to
step up, would you?”
Mr. Bunter stepped up with an aggrieved air, and his usually smooth
hair ruffled by the focussing cloth.
“Oh, there you are, Bunter,” said Lord Peter; “look here—”
“Here I am, my lord,” said Mr. Bunter, with respectful reproach, “but
if you’ll excuse me saying so, downstairs is where I ought to be,
with all those young women about—they’ll be fingering the evidence, my
lord.”
“I cry your mercy,” said Lord Peter, “but I’ve quarrelled hopelessly
with Mr. Parker and distracted the estimable Graves, and I want you to
tell me what finger-prints you have found. I shan’t be happy till I get
it, so don’t be harsh with me, Bunter.”
“Well, my lord, your lordship understands I haven’t photographed them
yet, but I won’t deny that their appearance is interesting, my lord.
The little book off the night table, my lord, has only the marks of
one set of fingers—there’s a little scar on the right thumb which makes
them easy recognised. The hair-brush, too, my lord, has only the same
set of marks. The umbrella, the toothglass and the boots all have two
sets: the hand with the scarred thumb, which I take to be Sir Reuben’s,
my lord, and a set of smudges superimposed upon them, if I may put it
that way, my lord, which may or may not be the same hand in rubber
gloves. I could tell you better when I’ve got the photographs made,
to measure them, my lord. The linoleum in front of the washstand is
very gratifying indeed, my lord, if you will excuse my mentioning it.
Besides the marks of Sir Reuben’s boots which your lordship pointed
out, there’s the print of a man’s naked foot—a much smaller one, my
lord, not much more than a ten-inch sock, I should say if you asked
me.”
Lord Peter’s face became irradiated with almost a dim, religious light.
“A mistake,” he breathed, “a mistake, a little one, but he can’t afford
it. When was the linoleum washed last, Bunter?”
“Monday morning, my lord. The housemaid did it and remembered to
mention it. Only remark she’s made yet, and it’s to the point. The
other domestics—”
His features expressed disdain.
“What did I say, Parker? Five-foot-ten and not an inch longer. And he
didn’t dare to use the hair-brush. Beautiful. But he _had_ to risk the
top-hat. Gentleman can’t walk home in the rain late at night without
a hat, you know, Parker. Look! what do you make of it? Two sets of
finger-prints on everything but the book and the brush, two sets of
feet on the linoleum, and two kinds of hair in the hat!”
He lifted the top-hat to the light, and extracted the evidence with
tweezers.
“Think of it, Parker—to remember the hair-brush and forget the hat—to
remember his fingers all the time, and to make that one careless step
on the tell-tale linoleum. Here they are, you see, black hair and tan
hair—black hair in the bowler and the panama, and black and tan in
last night’s topper. And then, just to make certain that we’re on the
right track, just one little auburn hair on the pillow, on this pillow,
Parker, which isn’t quite in the right place. It almost brings tears to
my eyes.”
“Do you mean to say—” said the detective, slowly.
“I mean to say,” said Lord Peter, “that it was not Sir Reuben Levy whom
the cook saw last night on the doorstep. I say that it was another man,
perhaps a couple of inches shorter, who came here in Levy’s clothes and
let himself in with Levy’s latchkey. Oh, he was a bold, cunning devil,
Parker. He had on Levy’s boots, and every stitch of Levy’s clothing
down to the skin. He had rubber gloves on his hands which he never took
off, and he did everything he could to make us think that Levy slept
here last night. He took his chances, and won. He walked upstairs, he
undressed, he even washed and cleaned his teeth, though he didn’t use
the hair-brush for fear of leaving red hairs in it. He had to guess
what Levy did with boots and clothes; one guess was wrong and the other
right, as it happened. The bed must look as if it had been slept in, so
he gets in, and lies there in his victim’s very pyjamas. Then, in the
morning sometime, probably in the deadest hour between two and three,
he gets up, dresses himself in his own clothes that he has brought with
him in a bag, and creeps downstairs. If anybody wakes, he is lost, but
he is a bold man, and he takes his chance. He knows that people do not
wake as a rule—and they don’t wake. He opens the street door which he
left on the latch when he came in—he listens for the stray passer-by
or the policeman on his beat. He slips out. He pulls the door quietly
to with the latchkey. He walks briskly away in rubber-soled shoes—he’s
the kind of criminal who isn’t complete without rubber-soled shoes. In
a few minutes he is at Hyde Park Corner. After that—”
He paused, and added:
“He did all that, and unless he had nothing at stake, he had everything
at stake. Either Sir Reuben Levy has been spirited away for some silly
practical joke, or the man with the auburn hair has the guilt of murder
upon his soul.”
“Dear me!” ejaculated the detective, “you’re very dramatic about it.”
Lord Peter passed his hand rather wearily over his hair.
“My true friend,” he murmured in a voice surcharged with emotion,
“you recall me to the nursery rhymes of my youth—the sacred duty of
flippancy:
“There was an old man of Whitehaven
Who danced a quadrille with a raven,
But they said: It’s absurd
To encourage that bird—
So they smashed that old man of Whitehaven.
That’s the correct attitude, Parker. Here’s a poor old buffer spirited
away—such a joke—and I don’t believe he’d hurt a fly himself—that makes
it funnier. D’you know, Parker, I don’t care frightfully about this
case after all.”
“Which, this or yours?”
“Both. I say, Parker, shall we go quietly home and have lunch and go to
the Coliseum?”
“You can if you like,” replied the detective; “but you forget I do this
for my bread and butter.”
“And I haven’t even that excuse,” said Lord Peter; “well, what’s the
next move? What would you do in my case?”
“I’d do some good, hard grind,” said Parker. “I’d distrust every
bit of work Sugg ever did, and I’d get the family history of every
tenant of every flat in Queen Caroline Mansions. I’d examine all their
box-rooms and rooftraps, and I would inveigle them into conversations
and suddenly bring in the words ‘body’ and ‘pince-nez,’ and see if they
wriggled, like those modern psyo-what’s-his-names.”
“You would, would you?” said Lord Peter with a grin. “Well, we’ve
exchanged cases, you know, so just you toddle off and do it. I’m going
to have a jolly time at Wyndham’s.”
Parker made a grimace.
“Well,” he said, “I don’t suppose you’d ever do it, so I’d better.
You’ll never become a professional till you learn to do a little work,
Wimsey. How about lunch?”
“I’m invited out,” said Lord Peter, magnificently. “I’ll run around
and change at the club. Can’t feed with Freddy Arbuthnot in these bags;
Bunter!”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Pack up if you’re ready, and come round and wash my face and hands for
me at the club.”
“Work here for another two hours, my lord. Can’t do with less than
thirty minutes’ exposure. The current’s none too strong.”
“You see how I’m bullied by my own man, Parker? Well, I must bear it,
I suppose. Ta-ta!”
He whistled his way downstairs.
The conscientious Mr. Parker, with a groan, settled down to a
systematic search through Sir Reuben Levy’s papers, with the assistance
of a plate of ham sandwiches and a bottle of Bass.
* * * * *
Lord Peter and the Honourable Freddy Arbuthnot, looking together like
an advertisement for gents’ trouserings, strolled into the dining-room
at Wyndham’s.
“Haven’t seen you for an age,” said the Honourable Freddy. “What have
you been doin’ with yourself?”
“Oh, foolin’ about,” said Lord Peter, languidly.
“Thick or clear, sir?” inquired the waiter of the Honourable Freddy.
“Which’ll you have, Wimsey?” said that gentleman, transferring the
burden of selection to his guest. “They’re both equally poisonous.”
“Well, clear’s less trouble to lick out of the spoon,” said Lord Peter.
“Clear,” said the Honourable Freddy.
“Consommé Polonais,” agreed the waiter. “Very nice, sir.”
Conversation languished until the Honourable Freddy found a bone in the
filleted sole, and sent for the head waiter to explain its presence.
When this matter had been adjusted Lord Peter found energy to say:
“Sorry to hear about your gov’nor, old man.”
“Yes, poor old buffer,” said the Honourable Freddy; “they say he can’t
last long now. What? Oh! the Montrachet ’08. There’s nothing fit to
drink in this place,” he added gloomily.
After this deliberate insult to a noble vintage there was a further
pause, till Lord Peter said: “How’s ’Change?”
“Rotten,” said the Honourable Freddy.
He helped himself gloomily to salmis of game.
“Can I do anything?” asked Lord Peter.
“Oh, no, thanks—very decent of you, but it’ll pan out all right in
time.”
“This isn’t a bad salmis,” said Lord Peter.
“I’ve eaten worse,” admitted his friend.
“What about those Argentines?” inquired Lord Peter. “Here, waiter,
there’s a bit of cork in my glass.”
“Cork?” cried the Honourable Freddy, with something approaching
animation; “you’ll hear about this, waiter. It’s an amazing thing a
fellow who’s paid to do the job can’t manage to take a cork out of a
bottle. What you say? Argentines? Gone all to hell. Old Levy bunkin’
off like that’s knocked the bottom out of the market.”
“You don’t say so,” said Lord Peter. “What d’you suppose has happened
to the old man?”