Have His Carcase (9 page)

fluttered partridge. Being married to me is a tremendous experience – you’ve

no idea. We’l be al right at the police-station, provided the Super doesn’t turn

sticky on us.

Superintendent Glaisher was conveniently engaged, and Sergeant Saunders

was deputed to show them the razor.

‘Has it been examined for finger-prints?’ asked Wimsey.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Any result?’

‘I couldn’t exactly say, my lord, but I believe not.’

‘Wel, anyway, one is alowed to handle it.’ Wimsey turned it over in his

fingers, inspecting it carefuly, first with the naked eye and secondly with a

watchmaker’s lens. Beyond a very slight crack on the ivory handle, it showed

no very striking peculiarities.

‘If there’s any blood left on it, it wil be hanging about the joint,’ he

observed. ‘But the sea seems to have done its work pretty thoroughly.’

‘You aren’t suggesting,’ said Harriet, ‘that the weapon isn’t realy the

weapon after al?’

‘I should like to,’ said Wimsey. ‘The weapon never is the weapon, is it?’

‘Of course not; and the corpse is never the corpse. The body is, obviously,

not that of Peter Alexis—’

‘But of the Prime Minister of Ruritania—’

‘It did not die of a cut throat—’

‘But of an obscure poison, known only to the Bushmen of Central Australia

—’

‘And the throat was cut after death—’

‘By a middle-aged man of short temper and careless habits, with a stiff beard

and expensive tastes—’

‘Recently returned from China,’ finished up Harriet, triumphantly.

The sergeant, who had gaped in astonishment at the beginning of this

exchange, now burst into a hearty guffaw.

‘That’s very good,’ he said, indulgently. ‘Comic, ain’t it, the stuff these

writer-felows put into their books? Would your lordship like to see the other

exhibits?’

Wimsey replied gravely that he should, very much, and the hat, cigarette-

case, shoe and handkerchief were produced.

‘H’m,’ said Wimsey. ‘Hat fair to middling, but not exclusive. Cranial

capacity on the smal side. Briliantine, ordinary stinking variety. Physical

condition pretty fair—’

‘The man was a dancer.’

‘I thought we agreed he was a Prime Minister. Hair, dark, curly and rather

on the long side. Last year’s hat, reblocked, with new ribbon. Shape, a little

more emphatic than is quite necessary. Deduction: not wealthy, but keen on his

personal appearance. Do we conclude that the hat belongs to the corpse?’

‘Yes, I think so. The briliantine corresponds al right.’

‘Cigarette-case – this is different. Fifteen-carat gold, plain and fairly new,

with monogram P.A. and containing six de Reszkes. The case is pukka, al

right. Probably a gift from some wealthy female admirer.’

‘Or, of course, the cigarette-case appropriate to a Prime Minister.’

‘As you say. Handkerchief – silk, but not from Burlington Arcade. Colour

beastly. Laundry-mark—’

‘Laundry-mark’s al right,’ put in the policeman. ‘Wilver-combe Sanitary

Steam Laundry; mark O.K. for this felow Alexis.’

‘Suspicious circumstance,’ said Harriet, shaking her head. ‘I’ve got three

handkerchiefs in my pack with not only the laundry-marks but the initials of total

strangers.’

‘It’s the Prime Minister, al right,’ agreed Wimsey, with a doleful nod. ‘Prime

Ministers, especialy Ruritanian ones, are notoriously careless about their

laundry. Now the shoe. Oh, yes. Nearly new. Thin sole. Foul colour and worse

shape. Hand-made, so that the horrid appearance is due to malice

aforethought. Not the shoe of a man who does much walking. Made, I

observe, in Wilvercombe.’

‘That’s O.K., too,’ put in the sergeant. ‘We’ve seen the man. He made that

shoe for Mr Alexis al right. Knows him wel.’

‘And you took this actualy off the foot of the corpse? These are deep

waters, Watson. Another man’s handkerchief is nothing, but a Prime Minister in

another felow’s shoes—’

‘You wil have your joke, my lord,’ said the sergeant, with another hoot of

laughter.

‘I never joke,’ said Wimsey. He brought the lens to bear on the sole of the

shoe. ‘Slight traces of salt water here, but none on the uppers. Inference: he

walked over the sand when it was very wet, but did not actualy wade through

salt water. Two or three scratches on the toe-cap, probably got when

clambering up the rock. Wel, thanks awfuly, sergeant. You are quite at liberty

to inform Inspector Umpelty of al the valuable deductions we have drawn.

Have a drink.’

‘Thank you very much, my lord.’

Wimsey said nothing more til they were in the car again.

‘I’m sorry,’ he then announced, as they threaded their way through the side-

streets, ‘to renounce our little programme of viewing the town. I should have

enjoyed that simple pleasure. But unless I start at once, I shan’t get to town and

back tonight.’

Harriet, who had been preparing to say that she had work to do and could

not waste time rubber-necking round Wilvercombe with Lord Peter,

experienced an unreasonable feeling of having been cheated.

‘To town?’ she repeated.

‘It wil not have escaped your notice,’ said Wimsey, skimming with horrible

dexterity between a bath-chair and a butcher’s van, ‘that the matter of the razor

requires investigation.’

‘Of course – a visit to the Ruritanian Legation is indicated.’

‘H’m – wel; I don’t know that I shal get any farther than Jermyn Street.’

‘In search of the middle-aged man of careless habits?’

‘Yes, ultimately.’

‘He realy exists, then?’

‘Wel, I wouldn’t swear to his exact age.’

‘Or his habits?’

‘No, they might be the habits of his valet.’

‘Or his stiff beard and short temper?’

‘Wel, I think one may be reasonably certain about the beard.’

‘I give in,’ said Harriet, meekly. ‘Please explain.’

Wimsey drew up the car at the entrance to the Hotel Resplendent, and

looked at his watch.

‘I can give you ten minutes,’ he remarked, in an aloof tone. ‘Let us take a

seat in the lounge and order some refreshment. It is a little early, to be sure, but

I always drive more melowly on a pint of beer. Good. Now, as to the razor.

You wil have observed that it is an instrument of excelent and expensive

quality by a first-class maker, and that, in addition to the name of the

manufacturer, it is engraved on the reverse side with the mystic word

“Endicott”.’

‘Yes; what is Endicott?’

‘Endicott is, or was, one of the most exclusive hairdressers in the West End.

So fearfuly exclusive and grand that he won’t even cal himself a hairdresser in

the snobbish modern way, but prefers to be known by the old-world epithet of

“barber”. He wil, or would, hardly condescend to shave anybody who has not

been in Debrett for the last three hundred years. Other people, however rich or

titled, have the misfortune to find his chairs always occupied and his basins

engaged. His shop has the rarefied atmosphere of one of the more aristocratic

mid-Victorian clubs. It is said of Endicott’s that a certain peer, who made his

money during the War by cornering bootlaces or buttons or something, was

once accidentaly admitted to one of the sacred chairs by a new assistant who

had been most unfortunately taken on with insufficient West End experience

during the temporary war-time shortage of barbers. After ten minutes in that

dreadful atmosphere, his hair froze, his limbs became perfectly petrified, and he

had to be removed to the Crystal Palace and placed among the antediluvian

monsters.’

‘Wel?’

‘Wel! Consider first of al the anomaly of the man who buys his razor from

Endicott’s and yet wears the regrettable shoes and mass-production milinery

found on the corpse. Mind you,’ added Wimsey, ‘it is not a question of

expense, exactly. The shoes are hand-made – which merely proves that a

dancer has to take care of his feet. But
could
a man who is shaved by Endicott

possibly order – deliberately
order
– shoes of that colour and shape? A thing

imagination boggles at.’

‘I’m afraid,’ admitted Harriet, ‘that I have never managed to learn al the

subtle rules and regulations about male clothing. That’s why I made Robert

Templeton one of those untidy dressers.’

‘Robert Templeton’s clothes have always pained me,’ confessed Wimsey.

‘The one blot on your otherwise fascinating tales. But to leave that distressing

subject and come back to the razor. That razor has seen a good deal of hard

wear. It has been re-ground a considerable number of times, as you can tel by

the edge. Now, a realy first-class razor like that needs very little in the way of

grinding and setting, provided it is mercifuly used and kept carefuly stropped.

Therefore, either the man who used it was very clumsy and careless about using

the strop, or his beard was abnormaly stiff, or both – probably both. I visualise

him as one of those men who are heavy-handed with tools – you know the

kind. Their fountain pens always make blots and their watches get over-wound.

They neglect to strop their razors until the strop gets hard and dry, and then

they strop them ferociously and jag the edge of the blade. Then they lose their

tempers and curse the razor and send it away to be ground and set. The new

edge only lasts them for a few weeks and then back the razor goes again,

accompanied by a rude message.’

‘I see. Wel, I didn’t know al that. But why did you say the man was

middle-aged?’

‘That was rather guess-work. But I suggest that a young man who had so

much difficulty with his razor would be more likely to change over to a safety

and use a new blade every few days. But a man of middle-age would not be so

likely to change his habits. In any case, I’m sure that razor has had more than

three years’ hard wear. And if the dead man is only twenty-two now, and has a

ful beard, then I don’t see how he could very wel have worn the blade down

to that extent, with any amount of grinding and setting. We must find out from

the hotel manager here whether he was already wearing the beard when he

came a year ago. That would narrow the time down stil further. But the first

thing to do is to trace old Endicott and find out from him whether it was

possible for one of his razors to have been sold later than 1925.’

‘Why 1925?’

‘Because that was the date at which old Endicott sold his premises and

retired with varicose veins and a smal fortune.’

‘And who kept on the business?’

‘Nobody. The shop is now a place where you buy the most recherché kind

of hams and potted meats. There were no sons to carry on – the only young

Endicott was kiled in the Salient, poor chap. Old Endicott said he wouldn’t sel

his name to anybody. And anyhow, Endicott’s without an Endicott wouldn’t be

Endicott’s. So that was that.’

‘But he might have sold the stock?’

‘That’s what I want to find out. I’l have to be off now. I’l try and be back

tonight, so don’t worry.’

‘I’m not worrying,’ retorted Harriet, indignantly. ‘I’m perfectly happy.’

‘Splendid. Oh! While I’m about it, shal I see about getting a marriage-

licence?’

‘Don’t trouble, thank you.’

‘Very wel; I just thought I’d ask. I say, while I’m away, how would it be if

you put in some good work with the other professional dancers here? You

might get hold of some gossip about Paul Alexis.’

‘There’s something in that. But I’l have to get a decent frock if there is such

a thing in Wilvercombe.’

‘Wel, get a wine-coloured one, then. I’ve always wanted to see you in

wine-colour. It suits people with honey-coloured skin. (What an ugly word

“skin” is.) “Blossoms of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured menuphar” – I

always have a quotation for everything – it saves original thinking.’

‘Blast the man!’ said Harriet, left abruptly alone in the blue-plush lounge.

Then she suddenly ran out down the steps and leapt upon the Daimler’s

running-board.

‘Port or sherry?’ she demanded.

‘What?’ said Wimsey, taken aback.

‘The frock – port or sherry?’

‘Claret,’ said Wimsey. ‘Château Margaux 1893 or there-abouts. I’m not

particular to a year or two.’

He raised his hat and slipped in the clutch. As Harriet turned back, a voice,

faintly familiar, accosted her:

‘Miss – er – Miss Vane? Might I speak to you for a moment?’

It was the ‘predatory hag’ whom she had seen the evening before in the

dance-lounge of the Resplendent.

V

THE EVIDENCE OF THE BETROTHED

‘He said, dear mother, I should be his countess;

Today he’d come to fetch me, but with day

I’ve laid my expectation in its grave.’

The Bride’s Tragedy