Regent Square is anything but a high-class locality, being chiefly populated by grubby infants and ladies of doubtful calling, but its rents are comparatively cheap for so central a situation. On mounting to the top of a rather dark and dirty stair, Wimsey and his companion were agreeably surprised to discover a freshly-painted green door with the name ‘Miss O. Kohn’ neatly written upon a white card and attached to the panel by drawing-pins. The brass knocker, representing the Lincoln Imp, was highly polished. At its summons the door was opened at once by a handsome young woman, the original of the photograph, who welcomed them in with a smile.
‘Inspector Umpelty?’
‘Yes, miss. You will be Miss Kohn, I take it? This is Lord Peter Wimsey, who has been kind enough to run me up to Town.’
‘Very pleased to meet you,’ said Miss Kohn. ‘Come in.’ She ushered them into a pleasantly furnished room, with orange window-curtains and bowls of roses placed here and there on low tables and a general air of semi-artistic refinement. Before the empty fireplace stood a dark-haired young man of Semitic appearance, who acknowledged the introductions with a scowl.
‘Mr Simons, my fiancé,’ explained Miss Kohn. ‘Do sit down, and please smoke. Can I offer you any refreshment?’
Declining the refreshment, and heartily wishing Mr Simons out of the way, the Inspector embarked at once on the subject of the photograph, but it soon became obvious both to Wimsey and himself that Miss Kohn had told in her letter nothing more or less than the exact truth. Sincerity was stamped on every feature of her face as she assured them repeatedly that she had never known Paul Alexis and never given him a photograph under the name of Feodora or any other name. They showed her his photograph, but she shook her head.
‘I am perfectly positive that I never saw him in my life.’
Wimsey suggested that he might have seen her at a mannequin parade and endeavoured to introduce himself.
‘Of course, he may have seen me; so many people see me,’ replied Miss Kohn, with artless self-importance. ‘Some of them try to get off with one too, naturally. A girl in my position has to know how to look after herself. But I think I should remember this face if I had ever seen it. You see, a young man with a beard like that is rather noticeable, isn’t he?’
She passed the photograph to Mr Simons, who bent his dark eyes on it disdainfully. Then his expression changed.
‘You know, Olga,’ he said, ‘I think I have seen this man somewhere.’
‘You, Lewis?’
‘Yes. I don’t know where. But there is something familiar about it.’
‘You never saw him with me,’ put in the girl, quickly.
‘No. I don’t know, now I come to think of it, that I ever saw him at all. It’s an older face, the one I’m thinking of – it may be a picture I have seen and not a living person. I don’t know.’
‘The photograph has been published in the papers,’ suggested Umpelty.
‘I know; but it isn’t that. I noticed a resemblance to – somebody or other, the first time I saw it. I don’t know what it is. Something about the eyes, perhaps—’
He paused thoughtfully and the Inspector gazed at him as though he expected him to lay a golden egg there and then, but nothing came of it.
‘No, I can’t place it,’ said Simons, finally. He handed the photograph back.
‘Well, it means nothing to me,’ said Olga Kohn. ‘I do hope you all believe that.’
‘I believe you,’ said Wimsey, suddenly, ‘and I’m going to hazard a suggestion. This Alexis fellow was a romantic sort of blighter. Do you think he can have seen the photograph somewhere and fallen in love with it, as you might say? What I mean is, he might have indulged in an imaginary thingmabob – an ideal passion, so to speak. Kind of fancied he was beloved and all the rest of it, and put a fancy name on to support the illusion if you get what I mean – what?’
‘It is possible,’ said Olga, ‘but it seems very foolish.’
‘Seems perfectly cock-eyed to me,’ pronounced Umpelty with scorn. ‘Besides, where did he get the picture from, that’s what we want to know.’
‘That wouldn’t really be difficult,’ said Olga. ‘He was a dancer at a big hotel. He might easily have met many theatrical managers, and one of them might have given the photograph to him. They would get it, you know, from the agents.’
Inspector Umpelty asked for particulars of the agents and was supplied with the names of three men, all of whom had offices near Shaftesbury Avenue.
‘But I don’t suppose they’ll remember much about it,’ said Olga. ‘They see so many people. Still, you could try. I should be terribly glad to have the thing cleared up. But you do believe me, don’t you?’
‘We believe in you, Miss Kohn,’ said Wimsey, solemnly, ‘as devoutly as in the second law of thermo-dynamics.’
‘What are you getting at?’ said Mr Simons, suspiciously.
‘The second law of thermo-dynamics,’ explained Wimsey, helpfully, ‘which holds the universe in its path, and without which time would run backwards like a cinema film wound the wrong way.’
‘No, would it?’ exclaimed Miss Kohn, rather pleased.
‘Altars may reel,’ said Wimsey, ‘Mr Thomas may abandon his dress-suit and Mr Snowden renounce Free Trade, but the second law of thermo-dynamics will endure while memory holds her seat in this distracted globe, by which Hamlet meant his head but which I, with a wider intellectual range, apply to the planet which we have the rapture of inhabiting. Inspector Umpelty appears shocked, but I assure you that I know no more impressive way of affirming my entire belief in your absolute integrity.’ He grinned. ‘What I like about your evidence, Miss Kohn, is that it adds the final touch of utter and impenetrable obscurity to the problem which the Inspector and I have undertaken to solve. It reduces it to the complete quintessence of incomprehensive nonsense. Therefore, by the second law of thermo-dynamics, which lays down that we are hourly and momently progressing to a state of more and more randomness, we receive positive assurance that we are moving happily and securely in the right direction. You may not believe me,’ added Wimsey, now merrily launched on a flight of fantasy, ‘but I have got to the point now at which the slightest glimmer of common-sense imported into this preposterous case would not merely disconcert me but cut me to the heart. I have seen unpleasant cases, difficult cases, complicated cases and even contradictory cases, but a case founded on stark unreason I have never met before. It is a new experience and, blasé as I am, I confess that I am thrilled to the marrow.’
‘Well,’ said Inspector Umpelty, hoisting himself to his feet, ‘I’m sure we’re very much obliged to you, miss, for your information, though at the moment it doesn’t seem to get us much farther. If anything should occur to you in connection with this Alexis, or if you, sir, should happen to call to mind where you saw Alexis before, we shall be very greatly obliged. And you mustn’t take account of what his lordship here has been saying, because he’s a gentleman that makes up poetry and talks a bit humorous at times.’
Having thus, as he supposed, restored confidence in the mind of Miss Olga Kohn, the Inspector shepherded his companion away, but it was to Wimsey that the girl turned while Umpelty was hunting in the little hall for his hat.
‘That policeman doesn’t believe a word I’ve been saying,’ she whispered anxiously, ‘but you do, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ replied Wimsey. ‘But you see, I can believe a thing without understanding it. It’s all a matter of training.’
XXIII
THE EVIDENCE OF THE THEATRICAL AGENT
’Art honest, or a man of many deeds
And many faces to them? Thou’rt a plotter,
a politician.’
Death’s Jest-Book
Monday, 29 June
Wimsey and the Inspector spent Sunday in Town, and on the Monday started out for Shaftesbury Avenue. At the first two names on their list they drew blank; either the agent had given out no photographs of Olga Kohn or he could not remember anything of the
circumstances. The third agent, a Mr Isaac J. Sullivan, had a smaller and dingier office than the other two. Its antechamber was thronged with the usual crowd, patiently waiting for notice. The Inspector sent his name by a mournful-eyed secretary, who looked as though he had spent all his life saying ‘No’ to people and taking the blame for it. Nothing happened. Wimsey seated himself philosophically on the extreme end of a bench already occupied by eight other people and began to work out a crossword in the morning paper. The Inspector fidgeted. The secretary, emerging from the inner door, was promptly besieged by a rush of applicants. He pushed them away firmly but not harshly, and returned to his desk.
‘Look here, young man,’ said the Inspector, ‘I’ve got to see Mr Sullivan at once. This is a police matter.’
‘Mr Sullivan’s engaged,’ said the secretary, impassively.
‘He’s got to be disengaged then,’ said the Inspector.
‘Presently,’ said the secretary, copying something into a large book.
‘I’ve no time to waste,’ said the Inspector, and strode across to the inner door.
‘Mr Sullivan’s not there,’ said the secretary, intercepting him with eel-like agility.
‘Oh, yes, he is,’ replied the Inspector. ‘Now, don’t you go obstructing me in the performance of my duty.’ He put the secretary aside with one hand and flung the door open, revealing a young lady in the minimum of clothing, who was displaying her charms to a couple of stout gentlemen with large eigars.
‘Shut the door, blast you,’ said one gentleman, without looking around. ‘Hell of a draught, and you’ll let all that lot in.’
‘Which of you is Mr Sullivan?’ demanded the Inspector, standing his ground, and glaring at a second door on the opposite side of the room.
‘Sullivan ain’t here. Shut that door, will you?’
The Inspector retired, discomfited, amid loud applause from the ante-room.
‘I say, old man,’ said Wimsey, ‘what do you think the blighter means by this: “Bright-eyed after swallowing a wingless biped?” Sounds like the tiger who conveyed the young lady of Riga.’
The Inspector snorted.
There was an interval. Presently the inner door opened again and the young lady emerged, clothed and apparently very much in her right mind, for she smiled round and observed to an acquaintance seated next to Wimsey:
‘O.K. darling. “Aeroplane Girl,” first row, song and dance, start next week.’
The acquaintance offered suitable congratulations, the two men with cigars came out with their hats on and the assembly surged towards the inner room.
‘Now, ladies,’ protested the secretary, ‘it’s not a bit of use. Mr Sullivan’s engaged.’
‘Look here,’ said the Inspector.
At this moment the door opened a fraction of an inch and an impatient voice bellowed: ‘Horrocks!’
‘I’ll tell him,’ said the secretary, hastily, and wormed himself neatly through the crack of the door, frustrating the efforts of a golden-haired sylph to rush the barrier.
Presently the door opened again and the bellowing voice was heard to observe:
‘I don’t care if he’s Godalmighty. He’s got to wait. Send that girl in, and – oh, Horrocks –’
The secretary turned back – fatally. The sylph was under his guard in a moment. There was an altercation on the threshold. Then, suddenly, the door opened to its full extent and disgorged, all in a heap, the sylph, the secretary, and an immensely stout man, wearing a benevolent expression entirely at variance with his hectoring voice.
‘Now, Grace, my girl, don’t you get trying it on. There’s nothing for you today. You’re wasting my time. Be a good girl. I’ll let you know when anything turns up. Hullo, Phyllis, back again? That’s right. Might want you next week. No, Mammy, no grey-haired mommas wanted today. I – hullo!’
His eye fell on Wimsey, who had got stuck over his crossword and was gazing vaguely round in search of inspiration.
‘Here, Horrocks! Why the hell didn’t you tell me? What do you think I pay you for? Wasting my time. Here, you, what’s your name? Never been here before, have you? I’m wanting your type. Hi! Rosencrantz!’
Another gentleman, slightly less bulky but also inclined to embonpoint, appeared in the doorway.
‘Told you we should have something to suit you,’ bellowed the first gentleman, excitedly.
‘Vot for?’ demanded Mr Rosencrantz, languidly.
‘What for?’ Indignation quivered in the tone. ‘Why, for the Worm that Turned, to be sure! J’ever see such a perfect type? You’ve got the right thing here, my boy. Knock ’em flat, eh? The nose alone would carry the play for you.’
‘That’s all very well, Sullivan,’ replied Mr Rosencrantz, ‘but can he act?’
‘Act?’ exploded Mr Sullivan. ‘He don’t have to act. He’s only got to walk on. Look at it! Ain’t that the perfect Worm? Here, you, thingummy, speak up, can’t you?’
‘Well, really, don’t you know.’ Wimsey screwed his monocle more firmly into his eye. ‘Really, old fellow, you make me feel all of a doo-dah, what?’
‘There you are!’ said Mr Sullivan, triumphantly. ‘Voice like a plum. Carries his clothes well, eh! I wouldn’t sell you a feller that wasn’t the goods, Rosencrantz, you know that.’
‘Pretty fair,’ admitted Mr Rosencrantz, grudgingly. ‘Walk a bit, will you?’
Wimsey obliged by mincing delicately in the direction of the inner office. Mr Sullivan purred after him. Mr Rosencrantz followed. Horrocks, aghast, caught Mr Sullivan by the sleeve.
‘I say,’ he said, ‘look out. I think there’s a mistake.’
‘Wotcher mean, mistake?’ retorted his employer in a fierce whisper. ‘I dunno who he is, but he’s got the goods, all right, so don’t come butting in.’
‘Ever played lead?’ demanded Mr Rosencrantz of Wimsey.
Lord Peter paused in the inner doorway, raking the petrified audience right and left with impertinent eyes.
‘I have played lead,’ he announced, ‘before all the crowned heads of Europe. Off with the mask! The Worm has Turned! I am Lord Peter Wimsey, the Piccadilly Sleuth, hot on the trail of Murder.’
He drew the two stout gentlemen into the room and shut the door behind them.
‘That’s a good curtain,’ said somebody.
‘Well!’ gasped the Inspector. ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’
He made for the door, and this time Horrocks offered no resistance.
‘Well, well, well,’ said Mr Sullivan, ‘Well, well!’ He turned Wimsey’s card over and stared at it. ‘Dear, dear, what a pity. Such a waste, eh, Rosencrantz? With your face, you ought to be makin’ a fortune.’
‘There ain’t nothing in this for me, anyhow,’ said Mr Rosencrantz, ‘so I’d better be pushin’ along. The Vorm is a good Vorm, Sullivan, as Shakespeare says, but he ain’t on the market. Unless Lord Peter has a fancy for the thing. It ’ud go vell, eh? Lord Peter Vimsey in the title rôle? The nobility ain’t much cop these days, but Lord Peter is vell known. He does somethings. Nowadays, they all vant somebody as does somethings. A lord is nothing, but a lord that flies the Atlantic or keeps a hatshop or detects murders – there might be a draw in that, vot you think?’
Mr Sullivan looked hopefully at Wimsey.
‘Sorry,’ said his lordship. ‘Can’t be done.’
‘Times are bad,’ said Mr Rosencrantz, who seemed to grow more enthusiastic as the desired article was withdrawn from his grasp, ‘but I make you a good offer. Vot you say to two hundred a veek, eh?’
Wimsey shook his head.
‘Three hundred?’ suggested Mr Rosencrantz.
‘Sorry, old horse. I’m not selling.’
‘Five hundred, then.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Mr Umpelty.
‘It’s no go,’ said Mr Sullivan. ‘Very sad, but it’s no go. Suppose you are rich, eh? Great pity. It won’t last, you know. Super-tax and death-duties. Better take what you can while you can. No?’
‘Defin
itely, no,’ said Wimsey.
Mr Rosencrantz sighed.
‘Oh, vell – I’d best be moving. See you tomorrow, Sully. You have something for me then, eh?’
He retired, not through the antechamber, but through the private door on the opposite side of the room. Mr Sullivan turned to his visitors.
‘You want me? Tell me what you want and make it snappy. I’m busy.’
The Inspector produced Olga’s photograph.
‘The Kohn girl, eh? Yes, what about her? No trouble, eh? A good girl. Works hard. Nothing against her here.’
The Inspector explained that they wanted to know whether Mr Sullivan had distributed any photographs of Olga recently.
‘Well now, let me think. She hasn’t been round here for a good time. Doing mannequin work, I rather think. Better for her. A good girl and a good-looker, but she can’t act, poor child. Just a minute, though. Where’s Horrocks?’
He surged to the door, set it cautiously ajar and bawled ‘Horrocks!’ through the crack. The secretary sidled in.
‘Horrocks! You know this photograph of the little Kohn? Have we sent it out lately?’
‘Why, yes, sir. Don’t you remember? That fellow who said he wanted Russian types for the provinces.’
‘That’s right, that’s right. I knew there was somebody. Tell these gentlemen about him. We didn’t know him, did we?’
‘No, sir. Said he was starting management on his own. Name of – wait a minute.’ He pulled a book from a shelf and turned the leaves with a wetted finger. ‘Yes, here we are. Maurice Vavasour.’
‘Fine sort of name,’ grunted Mr Sullivan. ‘Not his own, naturally. Never is. Probably called Potts or Spink. Can’t run a company as Potts or Spink. Not classy enough. I’ve got the fellow now. Little chap with a beard. Said he was casting for romantic drama and wanted a Russian type. We gave him the Livinsky girl and the little Petrovna and one or two more. He seemed struck with this photograph, I remember. I told him Petrovna had more experience, but he said he didn’t mind about that. I didn’t like the fellow.’
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