Have His Carcass lpw-8

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘Pimples’ suggested Harriet.

  Yes, pardon, pimples. Well, the gigolo with the pimples, that is unheard of also, you understand. “Well,” say the manager, “you can come a little time with the beard till we are suited, but if you want to stay, you remove the beard.”

  Very well, Alexis come and dance, and the ladies are delighted. The beard is so distinguished, so romantic, so unusual. They come a very long distance express to dance with the beard. Mr Greely say, “It is good. I was mistaken. You stay and the beard stay too. My God! What will these ladies want next? The long whiskers, perhaps? Antoine,” he say to me, “you grow the long whiskers and maybe you get off still better.” But me, no! God has not given me the hair to make whiskers.’

  ‘Did Alexis have a razor at all?’

  ‘How should I know? If he knew that the shaving made the pimples, he must have tried to shave, n’est-ce pas? But — as to the razor, I cannot tell. Do you know, Doris?’

  ‘Me? I like that. Alexis never was my fancy-man. But I’ll ask Leila Garland. She ought to know.’

  ‘Sa maitresse,’ explained Antoine. ‘Yes, ask her, Doris. Because evidently that is of a considerable importance. I have not thought of that, mon dieu!’

  ‘You’ve told me a lot of interesting things,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m very much obliged to you. And I’d be still more — obliged if you didn’t mention that I’d been asking you, because, what with the newspaper reporters and so on—’

  ‘Oh!’ said Antoine. ‘Listen, mademoiselle, you must not think that because we are the dolls that are bought and sold we have neither eyes nor ears. This gentleman that arrived this morning — do you think we do not know who he is? This Lord Peter, so celebrated, he does not come here for nothing, hein? It is not for nothing he talks to you and asks questions. He is not interested because a foreign dancer has cut his throat in a tantrum. No. But, equally, we know how to be discreet: Ma foi, if we did not, we should not keep our jobs, you understand. We tell, you what we know, and the lady who writes the romans-policiers and the lord who is connaisseur in mysteries, they make the investigations. But we say nothing. It is our business to say nothing. That is understood.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Charis. ‘We won’t let on. Not that there’s a great deal to tell anybody. We’ve had the police asking questions, of course, but they never believe anything one says. I’m sure they all think it’s something to do with Leila. These policemen always think that if anything happens to a fellow, there must be a girl at the bottom of it.’’

  ‘But that,’ said Antoine, ’is a compliment.’

  Chapter VIII. The Evidence Of The Second Barber

  ‘Send him back again,

  An unmasked braggart to his bankrupt den.’

  — Letter from Gottingen

  Saturday, 20 June; Sunday, 21 June

  Wimsy, sleek with breakfast, sunshine and sentiment, strolled peacefully upon the close-clipped lawn of the George at Stamford, pausing now and again to inhale the scent of a crimson rose, or to marvel at the age and extent of the wistaria, trailing its lacy tendrils along the grey stone wall. He had covenanted with himself to interview Colonel Belfridge at eleven o’clock. By that time, both of them would have digested their breakfasts and be ready for a small, companionable spot of something. He had a pleasurable interior certainty that he was on the track of a nice, difficult, meaty problem, investigated under agreeable conditions. He lit up a well-seasoned pipe. Life felt good to him.

  At ten minutes past eleven, life felt slightly less good. Colonel Belfridge, who looked as though he had been designed by H. M. Bateman in a moment of more than ordinary inspiration, was extremely indignant. It seemed to him that it was an ungentlemanly action to go and interrogate a man’s barber, — hr’rm about a man’s personal belongings, and he resented the insinuation that a man could possibly be mixed up, hr’rm, in the decease of a damned dago, hr’rm, in an adjectival four-by-three watering-places like Wilvercombe. Wimsey ought to be ashamed, hr’rm, woof! of interfering in what was properly the business of the police, dammit, sir! If the police didn’t know their own damned business, what did we pay rates and taxes for, tell me that, sir!

  Wimsey apologised for worrying Colonel Belfridge, and protested that a man must take up some sort of hobby.

  The Colonel intimated that golf, or, hr’rm, breeding spaniels would be a more seemly amusement for a gentleman.

  Wimsey said that, having engaged, in a spot of intelligence work during the War, he had acquired a kind of taste for that kind of thing.

  The Colonel pounced on this remark immediately, turned Wimsey’s war-record inside out, discovered a number of military experiences common to both of them, and presently found himself walking with his visitor down the pansy-edged path of his little garden to display a litter of puppies.

  ‘My dear boy,’ said Colonel Belfridge, ‘I shall only be too happy to help you in any way I can. You’re not in a hurry, are you? Stay to lunch and we can talk it over afterwards. Mabel!’—in a stentorian shout.

  A middle-aged woman appeared in the back doorway and waddled hastily down the path towards them.

  ‘Gentleman for lunch!’ bawled the Colonel. ‘And decant a bottle of the ‘04, Carefully now, dammit! I wonder, now,’ he added, turning to Wimsey, ‘if you recollect a fellow called Stokes.’

  It was with very great difficulty that Wimsey detached the Colonel’s mind from the events of the Great War and led it back to the subject of razors. Once his attention was captured, however, Colonel Belfridge proved to be a good and reliable witness.

  He remembered the pair of razors perfectly. Had a lot of trouble with those razors, hr’rm, woof! Razors were not what they had been in his young days. Nothing was, sir, dammit! Steel wouldn’t stand up to the work. What with these damned foreigners and mass-production, our industries were going to the dogs. He remembered, during the Boer War..’

  Wimsey, after a quarter of an hour, mentioned the subject of razors.

  ‘Ha yes,’ said the Colonel, smoothing his vast white moustache down and up at the ends with a vast, curving gesture. ‘Ha, hr’rm, yes! The razors; of course: ‘ Now, what do you want to know about, there?’

  ‘Have you still got them, sir?’

  ‘No, sir, I have not. I got rid of them, sir. A poor lot they were, too. I told Endicott I was surprised at his stocking such inferior stuff. Wanted re-setting every other week. But it’s the same story with all of ’em. Can’t get a decent blade anywhere nowadays. And we shan’t sir, we shan’t, unless we get a strong Conservative Government — I say, a strong Government, sir, that will have the guts to protect the iron and steel industry. But will they do it? No, damme, sir they’re afraid of losing their miserable votes. Flapper votes!’ How can you expect a pack of women to understand the importance of iron and steel? Tell me that, ha, hr’rm!’

  Wimsey asked what he had done with the razors.

  ‘Gave ’em to the gardener,’ said the Colonel. ‘Very decent man. Comes in twice a week. Wife and family. War pensioner with a game leg. Helps with the dogs. Quite a good man. Name of Summers.’’

  ‘When was that, sir?’

  ‘What? Oh! when did I give “em to him, you mean. Let me see, now, let me see. That was after Diana had whelped — near thing that — nearly lost her that time, poor bitch. She died two years ago — killed — run over by a damned motorcyclist. Best bitch I ever had. I had him up in court for it — made him pay. Careless young devil. No consideration for anybody. And now they’ve abolished the speed-limit—,

  Wimsey reminded the Colonel that they were talking about razors.

  After further consideration, the Colonel narrowed down the period to the year 1926. He was sure about it, because of the spaniel’s illness, which had given Summers considerable trouble. He had made the man a present of money, and had added the razors, having just purchased a new pair for himself. Owing to the illness of the mother, only one puppy out of the litter had been successfully reared, and that was Stam
ford Royal, who had proved a very good dog. A reference to the stud-book clinched the date conclusively.

  Wimsey thanked the Colonel, and asked whether he could interview Summers.

  By all means. It was not one of Summers’ days, but he lived in a little cottage near the bridge. Wimsey, could go and see him and mention the Colonel’s name. Should the Colonel walk down with Wimsey?

  Lord Peter was grateful, but begged the Colonel would not take the trouble. (He felt, indeed, that Summers might be more communicative in Colonel Belfridge’s absence.) With some trouble, he disengaged himself from the old soldier’s offers of hospitality, and purred away through the picturesque streets of Stamford to the cottage by the bridge.

  Summers was an easy man to question — alert, prompt and exact. It was very kind of Colonel Belfridge to give him the razors. He himself could not make use of them, preferring the safety instrument, but of course he had not told the Colonel that, not wishing to hurt his feelings. He had given the razors to his sister’s husband, who kept a hairdressing establishment in Seahampton.

  Seahampton! Less than 50 miles from Wilvercombe! Had Wimsey, struck it lucky with his very first shot? He was turning away, when it occurred to him to ask whether there was any special mark by which either of the razors might be recognised.

  Yes, there was. One of them had been accidentally dropped on the stone floor of the cottage and there was a slight, a very slight crack across the ivory. You wouldn’t hardly notice it without you looked closely. The other razor was, so far as Summers knew, quite perfect.

  Wimsey thanked his informant and rewarded him suitably. He returned to the car and set his course southward.

  He had always thought Stamford a beautiful town and now, with its grey stone houses and oriel windows bathed in the mellow afternoon sunshine, it seemed to him the loveliest jewel in the English crown.

  He, slept that night in Seahampton, and on the Sunday morning set forth in search of Summers’ brother-in-law, whose name was Merryweather — a name of happy omen. The shop turned out to be a small one, in the neighbourhood of the docks. Mr Merryweather lived above his premises, and was delighted to give Wimsey information about the razors.

  He had had them in 1927, and they were good razors, though they had been badly treated and were considerably worn when they came into his hands. He had one of them still, and it was doing good service. Perhaps his lordship ‘would like to look at it. Here it was.

  Wimsey, with a beating heart, turned it over in his hands. It was the exact duplicate of the razor that Harriet had, found on the shore. He examined it carefully, but found no crack in the ivory. But what, he asked, almost afraid to put — the question for fear of disappointment, what had become of the fellow to it?

  ‘Now that, my lord,’ said Mr Merryweather, ‘I unfortunately cannot show you. Had I known it would be wanted, I certainly would never have parted with it I sold that razor, my lord, only a few weeks ago, to one of these tramping fellows that came here looking for a job. I had no work for him here, and to tell you the truth, my lord, I wouldn’t have given it to him if I had. You’d be surprised, the number of these men who come round, and half of them are no more skilled hairdressers than my tom-cat. Just out for what they can pick up, that’s what they are. We generally give them a few razors to set, just to see what they’re made of, and the way they set about it, you can tell, nine times out of ten, that they’ve never set a razor their lives.’ Well, this one was like that, and I told him he could push off. Then he asked me if I could sell him a second-hand razor, so I sold him this one to get rid of him. He paid for it and away he went, and that’s the last I saw of him.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Oh, a little rat of a fellow. Sandy-haired and too smooth in his manner by half. Not so tall as your lordship, he wasn’t, and if I remember rightly he was a bit — not deformed, but what I might call crooked. He might have had one shoulder a trifle higher than the other. Nothing very noticeable, but he, gave me that impression. No, he wasn’t lame or anything of that kind.; Quite spry, he seemed, and quick in his movements. He had rather pale eyes, with sandy eyelashes — an ugly little devil, if you’ll excuse me. Very well-kept hands — one notices that, because, of course, when a man asks, for a job in this kind of establishment, that’s one of the first things one looks for. Dirty or bitten nails, for instance, are what one couldn’t stand for for a moment. Let me see, now. Oh, yes — he spoke very well. Spoke like a gentleman, very refined and quiet. That’s a thing one notices, too. Not that it’s of any great account in a neighbourhood like this. Our customers are sometimes a roughish lot. But one can’t help notice, you see, when one’s been used to it. Besides, it gives one an idea what kind of place a man has been used to.’

  ‘Did this man say anything about where he had been employed previously?’

  ‘Not that I remember. My impression of him was that he’d been; out of employment for a goodish time, and wasn’t too, keen on giving details. He said he was on his own. There’s plenty of them do that — want you to believe they have their own place in Bond Street and only lost their money through unexampled misfortunes. You know the sort, I expect, my lord. But I didn’t pay a lot of attention to the man, not liking the look of him.’

  ‘I suppose he gave a name.’

  ‘I suppose he did, come to think of it, but I’m dashed if I know what it was, Henry! What did that sneaking little red-haired fellow that came here the other day say his name was? The man that bought that razor off me?’

  Henry, a youth with a crest like a cockatoo, who apparently lodged with his employer, laid aside the Sunday paper which he had been unsuccessfully pretending to read.

  ‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘I don’t remember, Mr Merryweather. Some ordinary name. Was it Brown, now? I think it was Brown.

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ said Mr — Merryweather, suddenly enlightened. ‘It was Bright, that’s what it was. Because don’t you remember me saying he didn’t act up to his name when it came to setting razors?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Henry. ‘Of course. Bright. What’s’ the matter with him? Been getting into trouble?’

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder if he had,’ said Wimsey.

  ‘Police?’ suggested Henry, with a sparkling countenance.

  ‘Now, Henry,’ said Mr Merryweather. ‘Does his lordship here look as if he was the police? I’m surprised at you. You’ll never make your way in this profession if you ‘don’t know better than that’

  Henry blushed.

  ‘I’m not the police,’ said Wimsey, ‘but I shouldn’t be surprised if the police did want to get hold of Mr Bright one of these days. But don’t you say anything about that. Only, if you should happen to see Mr Bright again, at any time, you might let me know. I’m staying at Wilvercombe at the moment — at the Bellevue but in case I’m not’ there, this address will always find me.’

  He proffered a card, thanked Mr Merryweather and Henry, and withdrew, triumphant. He felt that he had made progress. Surely there could not be two white Endicott razors, bearing the same evidence of misuse and the same little crack in the ivory. Surely he had tracked the right one, and if so—

  Well, then he had only to find Mr Bright. A tramp-barber with sandy hair and a crooked shoulder ought not to be so very difficult to find. But there was always the disagreeable possibility that Mr Bright had been a barber for that one performance only. In which case, his name was almost certainly not Bright.

  He thought for a moment, then went into a telephone call-box and rang up the Wilvercombe police.

  Superintendent Glaisher answered him. He was interested to hear that Wimsey had traced the early history of the razor. He had not personally observed the crack in the ivory, but if his lordship would hold the line for a moment…. Hullo! was Wimsey there?… Yes, his lordship was quite right. There was a crack. Almost indistinguishable, but it was, there. Certainly it was an odd coincidence. It really looked as thought it might bear investigation.

  Wimsey spo
ke again.

  Yes, by all means. The Seahampton police should be asked, to trace Bright. No doubt it would turn out that Alexis had got the razor off Bright, but it was funny that he couldn’t have bought one in Wilvercombe if he wanted one. About three weeks ago, was it? Very good. He would see what could, be done. He would also find out whether Alexis had been to Seahampton within that period or whether, alternatively, Bright had been seen in Wilvercombe. He was obliged to Lord Peter for the trouble he had, taken in the matter and if his lordship thought of coming back to Wilvercombe, there had been recent developments which might interest him. It was now pretty, certain that it was a case of suicide. Still, one had to go into these matters pretty carefully. Had the body been found? No. — The body had not come ashore, and the wind was still holding the tide up and making it impossible to undertake any operations off the Grinders.