Classic Tales of Mystery

by Editors of Canterbury Classics

  “I wonder you stand it,” said Mr. Graves. “Now there’s none of that here. A quiet, orderly, domestic life, Mr. Bunter, has much to be said for it. Meals at regular hours; decent, respectable families to dinner—none of your painted women—and no valeting at night, there’s much to be said for it. I don’t hold with Hebrews as a rule, Mr. Bunter, and of course I understand that you may find it to your advantage to be in a titled family, but there’s less thought of that these days, and I will say, for a self-made man, no one could call Sir Reuben vulgar, and my lady at any rate is county—Miss Ford, she was, one of the Hampshire Fords, and both of them always most considerate.”

  “I agree with you, Mr. Graves—his lordship and me have never held with being narrow-minded—why, yes, my dear, of course it’s a footmark, this is the washstand linoleum. A good Jew can be a good man, that’s what I’ve always said. And regular hours and considerate habits have a great deal to recommend them. Very simple in his tastes, now, Sir Reuben, isn’t he? for such a rich man, I mean.”

  “Very simple indeed,” said the cook; “the meals he and her ladyship have when they’re by themselves with Miss Rachel—well, there now—if it wasn’t for the dinners, which is always good when there’s company, I’d be wastin’ my talents and education here, if you understand me, Mr. Bunter.”

  Mr. Bunter added the handle of the umbrella to his collection, and began to pin a sheet across the window, aided by the housemaid.

  “Admirable,” said he. “Now, if I might have this blanket on the table and another on a towel-horse or something of that kind by way of a background—you’re very kind, Mrs. Pemming … Ah! I wish his lordship never wanted valeting at night. Many’s the time I’ve sat up till three and four, and up again to call him early to go off Sherlocking at the other end of the country. And the mud he gets on his clothes and his boots!”

  “I’m sure it’s a shame, Mr. Bunter,” said Mrs. Pemming, warmly. “Low, I calls it. In my opinion, police-work ain’t no fit occupation for a gentleman, let alone a lordship.”

  “Everything made so difficult, too,” said Mr. Bunter nobly sacrificing his employer’s character and his own feelings in a good cause; “boots chucked into a corner, clothes hung up on the floor, as they say—”

  “That’s often the case with these men as are born with a silver spoon in their mouths,” said Mr. Graves. “Now, Sir Reuben, he’s never lost his good old-fashioned habits. Clothes folded up neat, boots put out in his dressing-room, so as a man could get them in the morning, everything made easy.”

  “He forgot them the night before last, though.”

  “The clothes, not the boots. Always thoughtful for others, is Sir Reuben. Ah! I hope nothing’s happened to him.”

  “Indeed, no, poor gentleman,” chimed in the cook, “and as for what they’re sayin’, that he’d ’ave gone out surrepshous-like to do something he didn’t ought, well, I’d never believe it of him, Mr. Bunter, not if I was to take my dying oath upon it.”

  “Ah!” said Mr. Bunter, adjusting his arc-lamps and connecting them with the nearest electric light, “and that’s more than most of us could say of them as pays us.”

  “Five foot ten,” said Lord Peter, “and not an inch more.” He peered dubiously at the depression in the bed clothes, and measured it a second time with the gentleman-scout’s vade-mecum. Parker entered this particular in a neat pocketbook.

  “I suppose,” he said, “a six-foot-two man might leave a five-foot-ten depression if he curled himself up.”

  “Have you any Scotch blood in you, Parker?” inquired his colleague, bitterly.

  “Not that I know of,” replied Parker. “Why?”

  “Because of all the cautious, ungenerous, deliberate and cold-blooded devils I know,” said Lord Peter, “you are the most cautious, ungenerous, deliberate and cold-blooded. Here am I, sweating my brains out to introduce a really sensational incident into your dull and disreputable little police investigation, and you refuse to show a single spark of enthusiasm.”

  “Well, it’s no good jumping at conclusions.”

  “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.”

  Lo
rd 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 l
ike 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?”

  “Cursed if I know,” said the Honourable Freddy; “knocked on the head by the bears, I should think.”

  “P’r’aps he’s gone off on his own,” suggested Lord Peter. “Double life, you know. Giddy old blighters, some of these City men.”

  “Oh, no,” said the Honourable Freddy, faintly roused; “no, hang it all, Wimsey, I wouldn’t care to say that. He’s a decent old domestic bird, and his daughter’s a charmin’ girl. Besides, he’s straight enough—he’d do you down fast enough, but he wouldn’t let you down. Old Anderson is badly cut up about it.”

  “Who’s Anderson?”

  “Chap with property out there. He belongs here. He was goin’ to meet Levy on Tuesday. He’s afraid those railway people will get in now, and then it’ll be all U. P.”

  “Who’s runnin’ the railway people over here?” inquired Lord Peter.

  “Yankee blighter, John P. Milligan. He’s got an option, or says he has. You can’t trust these brutes.”

  “Can’t Anderson hold on?”

  “Anderson isn’t Levy. Hasn’t got the shekels. Besides, he’s only one. Levy covers the ground—he could boycott Milligan’s beastly railway if he liked. That’s where he’s got the pull, you see.”

  “B’lieve I met the Milligan man somewhere,” said Lord Peter, thoughtfully. “Ain’t he a hulking brute with black hair and a beard?”

  “You’re thinkin’ of somebody else,” said the Honourable Freddy. “Milligan don’t stand any higher than I do, unless you call five-feet-ten hulking—and he’s bald, anyway.”

  Lord Peter considered this over the Gorgonzola. Then he said: “Didn’t know Levy had a charmin’ daughter.”

  “Oh, yes,” said the Honourable Freddy, with an elaborate detachment. “Met her and Mamma last year abroad. That’s how I got to know the old man. He’s been very decent. Let me into this Argentine business on the ground floor, don’t you know?”