Mrs. Fentiman followed him to the front door.
“You mustn’t mind what George says to-night. His tummy is feeling rotten and it makes him irritable. And it has been so worrying about this wretched money business.”
“That’s all right,” said Wimsey. “I know exactly. You should see me when my tummy’s upset. Took a young woman out the other night — lobster mayonnaise, meringues and sweet champagne — her choice — oh, lord!”
He made an eloquent grimace and departed in the direction of the public house.
When he returned, George Fentiman was standing on the doorstep.
“I say, Wimsey — I do apologise for being so bloody rude. It’s my filthy temper. Rotten bad form. Sheila’s gone up to bed in tears, poor kid. All my fault. If you knew how this damnable situation gets on my nerves — though I know there’s no excuse…”
“’S quite all right,” said Wimsey. “Cheer up. It’ll all come out in the wash.”
“My wife—” began George again.
“She’s damned fine, old man. But what it is, you both want a holiday.”
“We do, badly. Well, never say die. I’ll see Murbles, as you suggest, Wimsey.”
Bunter received his master that evening with a prim smirk of satisfaction.
“Had a good day, Bunter?”
“Very gratifying indeed, I thank your lordship. The prints on the walking-stick are indubitably identical with those on the sheet of paper you gave me.”
“They are, are they? That’s something. I’ll look at ’em to-morrow, Bunter — I’ve had a tiring evening.”
Chapter VIII
Lord Peter Leads through Strength
At eleven o’clock the next morning, Lord Peter Wimsey, unobtrusively attired in a navy-blue suit and dark grey tie, suitable for a house of mourning, presented himself at the late Lady Dormer’s house in Portman Square.
“Is Miss Dorland at home?”
“I will inquire, sir.”
“Kindly give her my card and ask if she can spare me a few moments.”
“Certainly, my lord. Will your lordship be good enough to take a seat?”
The man departed, leaving his lordship to cool his heels in a tall, forbidding room, with long crimson curtains, a dark red carpet and mahogany furniture of repellent appearance. After an interval of nearly fifteen minutes, he reappeared, bearing a note upon a salver.
It was briefly worded:
“Miss Dorland presents her compliments to Lord Peter Wimsey, and regrets that she is not able to grant him an interview. If, as she supposes, Lord Peter has come to see her as the representative of Major and Captain Fentiman, Miss Dorland requests that he will address himself to Mr. Pritchard, solicitor, of Lincoln’s Inn, who is dealing, on her behalf, with all matters connected with the will of the late Lady Dormer.”
“Dear me,” said Wimsey to himself, “this looks almost like a snub. Very good for me, no doubt. Now I wonder—” He read the note again. “Murbles must have been rather talkative. I suppose he told Pritchard he was putting me on to it. Very indiscreet of Murbles and not like him.”
The servant still stood mutely by, with an air of almost violently disassociating himself from all commentary.
“Thank you,” said Wimsey. “Would you be good enough to say to Miss Dorland that I am greatly obliged to her for this information.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“And perhaps you would kindly call me a taxi.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
Wimsey entered the taxi with all the dignity he could summon, and was taken to Lincoln’s Inn.
Mr. Pritchard was nearly as remote and snubbing in his manner as Miss Dorland. He kept Lord Peter waiting for twenty minutes and received him glacially, in the presence of a beady-eyed clerk.
“Oh, good morning,” said Wimsey, affably. “Excuse my callin’ on you like this. More regular to do it through Murbles, I s’pose — nice old boy, Murbles, isn’t he? But I always believe in goin’ as direct to the point as may be. Saves time, what?”
Mr. Pritchard bowed his head and asked how he might have the pleasure of serving his lordship.
“Well, it’s about this Fentiman business. Survivorship and all that. Nearly said survival. Appropriate, what? You might call the old General a survival, eh?”
Mr. Pritchard waited without moving.
“I take it Murbles told you I was lookin’ into the business, what? Tryin’ to check up on the timetable and all that?”
Mr. Pritchard said neither yea nor nay but placed his fingers together and sat patiently.
“It’s a bit of a problem, you know. Mind if I smoke? Have one yourself?”
“I am obliged to you, I never smoke in business hours.”
“Very proper. Much more impressive. Puts the wind up the clients, what? Well, now, I just thought I’d let you know that it’s likely to be a close-ish thing. Very difficult to tell to a minute or so, don’t you know. May turn out one way — may turn out the other — may turn completely bafflin’ and all that. You get me?”
“Indeed?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely. P’raps you’d like to hear how far I’ve got.” And Wimsey recounted the history of his researches at the Bellona, in so far as the evidence of the commissionaires and the hall-porter were concerned. He said nothing of his interview with Penberthy, nor of the odd circumstances connected with the unknown Oliver, confining himself to stressing the narrowness of the time-limits between which the General must be presumed to have arrived at the Club. Mr. Pritchard listened without comment. Then he said:
“And what, precisely, have you come to suggest?”
“Well, what I mean to say is, don’t you know, wouldn’t it be rather a good thing if the parties could be got to come to terms? Give and take, you see — split the doings and share the proceeds? After all, half a million’s a goodish bit of money — quite enough for three people to live on in a quiet way, don’t you think? And it would save an awful lot of trouble and — ahem — lawyers’ fees and things.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Pritchard. “I may say that I have been expecting this. A similar suggestion was made to me earlier by Mr. Murbles, and I then told him that my client preferred not to entertain the idea; you will permit me to add, Lord Peter, that the reiteration of this proposal by you, after your employment to investigate the facts of the case in the interests of the other party, has a highly suggestive appearance. You will excuse me, perhaps, if I warn you further that your whole course of conduct in this matter seems to me open to a very undesirable construction.”
Wimsey flushed.
“You will perhaps permit me, Mr. Pritchard, to inform you that I am not ‘employed’ by anybody. I have been requested by Mr. Murbles to ascertain the facts. They are rather difficult to ascertain, but I have learned one very important thing from you this afternoon. I am obliged to you for your assistance. Good morning.”
The beady-eyed clerk opened the door with immense politeness.
“Good morning,” said Mr. Pritchard.
“Employed, indeed,” muttered his lordship, wrathfully. “Undesirable construction. I’ll construct him. That old brute knows something, and if he knows something, that shows there’s something to be known. Perhaps he knows Oliver; shouldn’t wonder. Wish I’d thought to spring the name on him and see what he said. Too late now. Never mind, we’ll get Oliver. Bunter didn’t have any luck with those ’phone calls, apparently. I think I’d better get hold of Charles.”
He turned into the nearest telephone-booth and gave the number of Scotland Yard. Presently an official voice replied, of which Wimsey inquired whether Detective-Inspector Parker was available.
A series of clicks proclaimed that he was being put through to Mr. Parker, who presently said: “Hallo!”
“Hallo, Charles. This is Peter Wimsey. Look here, I want you to do something for me. It isn’t a criminal job, but it’s important. A man calling himself Oliver rang up a number in Mayfair at a little after nine on the night of N
ovember 10th. Do you think you could get that call traced for me?”
“Probably. What was the number?”
Wimsey gave it.
“Right you are, old chap. I’ll have it looked up and let you know. How goes it? Anything doing?”
“Yes — rather a cosy little problem — nothing for you people — as far as I know, that is. Come round one evening and I’ll tell you about it, unofficially.”
“Thanks very much. Not for a day or two, though. We’re run off our feet with this crate business.”
“Oh, I know — the gentleman who was sent from Sheffield to Euston in a crate disguised as York hams. Splendid. Work hard and you will be happy. No, thanks, my child, I don’t want another twopenn’orth — I’m spending the money on sweets. Cheerio, Charles!”
The rest of the day Wimsey was obliged to pass in idleness, so far as the Bellona Club affair was concerned. On the following morning he was rung up by Parker.
“I say — that ’phone-call you asked me to trace.”
“Yes?”
“It was put through at 9.13 p.m. from a public call-box at Charing Cross Underground Station.”
“Oh, hell! — the operator didn’t happen to notice the bloke, I suppose?”
“There isn’t an operator. It’s one of those automatic boxes.”
“Oh! — may the fellow who invented them fry in oil. Thanks frightfully, all the same. It gives us a line on the direction, anyhow.”
“Sorry I couldn’t do better for you. Cheerio!”
“Oh, cheer-damnably-ho!” retorted Wimsey, crossly, slamming the receiver down. “What is it, Bunter?”
“A district messenger, with a note, my lord.”
“Ah, — from Mr. Murbles. Good. This may be something. Yes. Tell the boy to wait, there’s an answer.” He scribbled quickly. “Mr. Murbles has got an answer to that cabman advertisement, Bunter. There are two men turning up at six o’clock, and I’m arranging to go down and interview them.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“Let’s hope that means we get a move on. Get me my hat and coat — I’m running round to Dover Street for a moment.”
Robert Fentiman was there when Wimsey called, and welcomed him heartily.
“Any progress?”
“Possibly a little this evening. I’ve got a line on those cabmen. I just came round to ask if you could let me have a specimen of old Fentiman’s fist.”
“Certainly. Pick what you like. He hasn’t left much about. Not exactly the pen of a ready writer. There are a few interesting notes of his early campaigns, but they’re rather antiques by this time.”
“I’d rather have something quite recent.”
“There’s a bundle of cancelled cheques here, if that would do.”
“It would do particularly well — I want something with figures in it if possible. Many thanks. I’ll take these.”
“How on earth is his handwriting going to tell you when he pegged out?”
“That’s my secret, dash it all! Have you been down to Gatti’s?”
“Yes. They seem to know Oliver fairly well by sight, but that’s all. He lunched there fairly often, say once a week or so, but they don’t remember seeing him since the eleventh. Perhaps he’s keeping under cover. However, I’ll haunt the place a bit and see if he turns up.”
“I wish you would. His call came from a public box, so that line of inquiry peters out.”
“Oh, bad luck!”
“You’ve found no mention of him in any of the General’s papers?”
“Not a thing, and I’ve gone through every bit and scrap of writing in the place. By the way, have you seen George lately?”
“Night before last. Why?”
“He seems to me to be in rather a queer state. I went round last night and he complained of being spied on or something.”
“Spied on?”
“Followed about. Watched. Like the blighters in the ’tec stories. Afraid all this business is getting on his nerves. I hope he doesn’t go off his rocker or anything. It’s bad enough for Sheila as it is. Decent little woman.”
“Thoroughly decent,” agreed Wimsey, and very fond of him.”
“Yes. Works like billy-oh to keep the home together and all that. Tell you the truth, I don’t know how she puts up with George. Of course, married couples are always sparring and so on, but he ought to behave before other people. Dashed bad form, being rude to your wife in public. I’d like to give him a piece of my mind.”
“He’s in a beastly galling position,” said Wimsey. “She’s his wife and she’s got to keep him, and I know he feels it very much.”
“Do you think so? Seems to me he takes it rather as a matter of course. And whenever the poor little woman reminds him of it, he thinks she’s rubbing it in.”
“Naturally, he hates being reminded of it. And I’ve heard Mrs. Fentiman say one or two sharp things to him.”
“I daresay. Trouble with George is, he can’t control himself. He never could. A fellow ought to pull himself together and show a bit of gratitude. He seems to think that because Sheila has to work like a man she doesn’t want the courtesy and — you know, tenderness and so on — that a woman ought to get.”
“It always gives me the pip,” said Wimsey, “to see how rude people are when they’re married. I suppose it’s inevitable. Women are funny. They don’t seem to care half so much about a man’s being honest and faithful — and I’m sure your brother’s all that — as for their opening doors and saying thank-you. I’ve noticed it lots of times.”
“A man ought to be just as courteous after marriage as he was before,” declared Robert Fentiman, virtuously.
“So he ought, but he never is. Possibly there’s some reason we don’t know about,” said Wimsey. “I’ve asked people, you know — my usual inquisitiveness — and they generally just grunt and say that their wives are sensible and take their affection for granted. But I don’t believe women ever get sensible, not even through prolonged association with their husbands.”
The two bachelors wagged their heads, solemnly.
“Well, I think George is behaving like a sweep,” said Robert, “but perhaps I’m hard on him. We never did get on very well. And anyhow, I don’t pretend to understand women. Still, this persecution-mania, or whatever it is, is another thing. He ought to see a doctor.”
“He certainly ought. We must keep an eye on him. If I see him at the Bellona I’ll have a talk to him and try and get out of him what it’s all about.”
“You won’t find him at the Bellona. He’s avoided it since all this unpleasantness started. I think he’s out hunting for jobs. He said something about one of those motor people in Great Portland Street wanting a salesman. He can handle a car pretty well, you know.”
“I hope he gets it. Even if it doesn’t pay very well it would do him a world of good to have something to do with himself. Well, I’d better be amblin’ off. Many thanks, and let me know if you get hold of Oliver.”
“Oh, rather!”
Wimsey considered a few moments on the doorstep, and then drove straight down to New Scotland Yard, where he was soon ushered in to Detective Inspector Parker’s office.
Parker, a square-built man in the late thirties, with the nondescript features which lend themselves so excellently to detective purposes, was possibly Lord Peter’s most intimate — in some ways his only intimate friend. The two men had worked out many cases together and each respected the other’s qualities, though no two characters could have been more widely different. Wimsey was the Roland of the combination — quick, impulsive, careless and an artistic jack-of-all-trades. Parker was the Oliver — cautious, solid, painstaking, his mind a blank to art and literature and exercising itself, in spare moments, with Evangelical theology. He was the one person who was never irritated by Wimsey’s mannerisms, and Wimsey repaid him with a genuine affection foreign to his usually detached nature.
“Well, how goes it?”
“Not so bad. I want you to d
o something for me.”
“Not really?”
“Yes, really, blast your eyes. Did you ever know me when I didn’t? I want you to get hold of one of your handwriting experts to tell me if these two fists are the same.”
He put on the table, on the one hand the bundle of used cheques, and on the other the sheet of paper he had taken from the library at the Bellona Club.
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