Have His Carcase (20 page)

a murder than we had before.’

‘Always supposing Polock knew about the £300. But how should he?’

‘See here,’ said the Superintendent. ‘Suppose Alexis was wanting to leave

England.’

‘That’s what I say,’ interjected Umpelty.

‘And suppose he had hired Polock to meet him somewhere off-shore with

his boat and take him across to a yacht or something. And suppose, in paying

Polock, he’d happened to show him the rest of the money. Couldn’t Polock

have put him ashore and cut his throat for him and made away with the gold?’

‘But why?’ objected Umpelty. ‘Why put him ashore? Wouldn’t it have been

easier to cut his throat aboard the boat and drop the body into the sea?’

‘No, it wouldn’t,’ said Wimsey, eagerly. ‘Ever seen ’em stick a pig,

Inspector? Ever reckoned how much blood there was to the job? If Polock

had cut Alexis’ throat on board, it would take a devil of a lot of swabbing to get

the boat properly clean again.’

‘That’s quite true,’ said the Superintendent. ‘But in any case, how about

Polock’s clothes? I’m afraid we haven’t got evidence enough to get a warrant

and search his place for bloodstains.’

‘You could wash ’em off oil-skins pretty easily, too,’ remarked Wimsey.

The two policemen acquiesced gloomily.

‘And if you stood behind your man and cut his throat that way, you’d stand a

reasonable chance of not getting so very heavily splashed. It’s my belief the

man was kiled in the place where he was found, murder or no murder. And if

you don’t mind, Superintendent, I’ve got a little suggestion which might work

and tel us definitely whether it realy was murder or suicide.’

He again outlined the suggestion, and the Superintendent nodded.

‘I see no objection whatever, my lord. Something might quite wel come of it.

In fact,’ said Mr Glaisher, ‘something of the same kind had passed through my

own mind, as you might say. But I don’t mind it’s appearing to come from your

lordship. Not at al.’

Wimsey grinned and went in search of Salcombe Hardy, the
Morning Star

reporter, whom he found, as he expected, taking refreshment in the hotel bar.

Most of the pressmen had withdrawn by this time, but Hardy, with a touching

faith in Lord Peter, had clung to his post.

‘Though you’re treating me damn badly, old man,’ he said, raising his

mournful violet eyes to Wimsey’s grey ones, ‘I
know
you must have something

up your sleeve, or you wouldn’t be hanging round the scene of the crime like

this. Unless it’s the girl. For God’s sake, Wimsey, say it isn’t the girl. You

wouldn’t play such a shabby trick on a poor, hardworking journalist. Or, look

here! If there’s nothing else doing, give me a story about the girl. Anything’l do,

so long as it’s a story. “Romantic Engagement of Peer’s Son” – that’d be better

than nothing. But I must have a story.’

‘Pul yourself together, Saly,’ said his lordship, ‘and keep your inky paws off

my private affairs. Come right away out of this haunt of vice and sit down

quietly in a corner of the lounge and I’l give you a nice, pretty story al to

yourself.’

‘That’s right,’ said Mr Hardy, in a burst of emotion. ‘That’s what I expected

from a dear old friend. Never let down a pal, even if he’s only a poor bloody

journalist. Noblesse oblige. That’s what I said to those other blighters. “I’m

sticking to old Peter,” I said, “Peter’s the man for my money. He won’t see a

hardworking man lose a job for want of a good news story.” But these new

men – they’ve no push, no guts. Fleet Street’s going to the dogs, curse it.

There’s nobody left now of the old gang except me. I know where the news is,

and I know how to get it. I said to myself, You hang on to old Peter, I said, and

one of these days he’l give you a story.’

‘Splendid felow!’ said Wimsey. ‘May we ne’er lack a friend or a story to

give him. Are you reasonably sober, Saly?’

‘Sober?’ exclaimed the journalist indignantly. ‘J’ever know a pressman who

wasn’t sober when somebody had a story to give him? I may not be a blasted

pussyfoot, but my legs are always steady enough to go after a story, and what

more could anybody want?’

Wimsey pushed his friend gently into position before a table in the lounge.

‘Here you are, then,’ he said. ‘You take this stuff down and see that it gets a

good show in your beastly rag. You can put in trimmings to suit yourself.’

Hardy glanced up sharply.

‘Oh!’ said he. ‘Ulterior motive, eh? Not al pure friendship. Patriotism is not

enough. Oh, wel! as long as it’s exclusive and news, the motive is imma – imma

– damn the word – immaterial.’

‘Quite,’ said Wimsey. ‘Now then, take this down. “The mystery surrounding

the horrible tragedy at the Flat-Iron deepens steadily with every effort made to

solve it. Far from being a simple case of suicide, as at first seemed probable,

the horrible death—” ’

‘Al right,’ interjected Hardy. ‘I can do that part on my head. What I want is

the story.’

‘Yes; but work up the mystery part of it. Go on, now: “Lord Peter Wimsey,

the celebrated amateur of crime-detection, interviewed by our special

correspondent in his pleasant sitting-room at the Hotel Belevue—” ’

‘Is the sitting-room important?’

‘The address is. I want them to know where to find me.’

‘Right you are. Go ahead.’

‘– “at the Hotel Belevue, Wilvercombe, said that while the police stil held

strongly to the suicide theory, he himself was by no means satisfied. The point

that particularly troubled him was that, whereas the deceased wore a ful beard

and had never been known to shave, the crime was committed—” ’

‘Crime?’

‘Suicide is a crime.’

‘So it is. Wel?’

‘– “committed with an ordinary cut-throat razor, which shows signs of

considerable previous hard wear.” Rub that in wel, Saly. “The history of this

razor has been traced up to a point—” ’

‘Who traced it?’

‘I did.’

‘Can I say that?’

‘If you like.’

‘That makes it better. “Lord Peter Wimsey explained, with his

characteristicaly modest smile, that he had himself been at pains to trace the

previous history of the razor, a search which led him—” Where did it lead you,

Wimsey?’

‘I don’t want to tel ’em that. Say that the search covered many hundred

miles.’

‘Al right. I can make that sound very important. Anything else?’

‘Yes. This is the important bit. Get ’em to put it in black lettering – you

know.’

‘Not my business. Sub-editor. But I’l try. Carry on. “Leaning over the table

and emphasising the point with an eloquent gesture of his artistic hands, Lord

Peter said—” ’

‘ “The trail,” ’ dictated Wimsey, ‘ “breaks off at the crucial point.
How did

the razor get into the hands of Paul Alexis?
If once I could be satisfied of

that, the answer might at once set at rest al my doubts.
If Paul Alexis can be

proved to have bought the razor, I shall consider the suicide theory to

have been proved up to the hilt
. But until that missing link in the chain of

evidence is reconstructed,
I shall hold that Paul Alexis was foully and

brutally murdered
, and I shal spare no efforts to bring the murderer to the

judgement he has so richly deserved,” How’s that, Saly?’

‘Not too bad. I can work that up into something. I shal add, of course, that

you, knowing the enormous circulation of the
Morning Star
, are relying on the

wide publicity it wil give to this statement to etcetera, etcetera. I might even get

them to offer a reward.’

‘Why not? Anyway, pitch it to ’em hot and strong, Saly.’

‘I wil – for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer. Between you and me,

would
you be satisfied that it was suicide if the reward was claimed?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Wimsey. ‘Probably not. In fact, I am never satisfied.’

XII

THE EVIDENCE OF THE BRIDE’S SON

‘How I despise

All such mere men of muscle!’

Death’s Jest-Book

Monday, 22 June

Wimsey looked at his watch. It was half-past one, and he had had no lunch. He

remedied the omission, took the car and drove out to Darley. He had to wait

for a few moments while the gates were opened at the Halt, and took the

opportunity to check up on the police inquiry. He found that the lame gate-

keeper knew the mysterious Mr Martin by sight – had, in fact, met him one

evening in the bar of the Feathers. A pleasant gentleman, with a hearty way with

him. Suffered from some trouble with his eyes, which obliged him to wear dark

glasses, but a very nice gentleman for al that. The gate-keeper was quite

positive that Mr Martin had not passed through the railway-gates at any time on

Thursday – not in any car or cart or on a cycle, that was to say. As for passing

on foot, he couldn’t swear to it, and you couldn’t expect it of him.

Here, however, a new witness suddenly came forward. The gate-keeper’s

little daughter, Rosie, ‘just going on for five, and a wonderful quick girl for her

age,’ as her father proudly remarked, was emphatic that ‘the nasty man with the

black glasses’ had not been seen at the railway-gates during the critical period

on the Thursday. Rosie knew him and disliked him, for she had seen him in the

vilage the day before and his horrid black glasses had frightened her. She and a

smal friend had been ‘playing Bluebeard’ at the railway-gates on Thursday.

She knew it was Thursday, because it was market day, when the 10.15

stopped there. She had been Sister Anne on her tower, and had caled out to

her companion when she saw anybody coming along the road. They had played

there from after dinner (12.30 according to the gate-keeper) til nearly tea-time

(four o’clock). She was absolutely sure the nasty man had not come through

the railway-wickets. If he had, she would have run away.

This seemed to dispose of the last lingering possibility that the mysterious Mr

Martin might have left the Feathers rather earlier than he was supposed to have

done, walked to the crossing and been picked up by a car on the other side.

Wimsey thanked Rosie with grave courtesy, gave her sixpence and drove on.

His next port of cal was, of course, the Feathers. The landlord, Mr Lundy,

was ready enough with his information. What he had told the inspector was

quite right. He had first seen Mr Martin on Tuesday – the 16th, that would be.

He had arrived about six o’clock and left his Morgan parked on the vilage

green while he came in and took a glass of mild and bitter and asked the way to

Mr Goodrich’s house. Who was Mr Goodrich? Why, Mr Goodrich was the

gentleman that owned the land down by Hinks’s Lane, where Mr Martin had

been camping. Al the land thereabouts belonged to Mr Goodrich.

‘I want to be clear about this,’ said Wimsey. ‘Did Mr Martin come here

from the direction of Hinks’s Lane, or which way did he come?’

‘No, sir; he drove in along the Heathbury Road and left his car on the green,

same as I said.’

‘Did he come straight in here?’

‘Straight as a swaler to its nest,’ replied Mr Lundy, picturesquely. ‘We was

open, you see, sir.’

‘And did he ask anybody about where he could camp? Or did he ask at

once for Mr Goodrich?’

‘He didn’t ask no questions at al sir, only that: Where was Mr Goodrich’s

house?’

‘He knew Mr Goodrich’s name, then?’

‘Seemingly he did, sir.’

‘Did he say why he wanted to see Mr Goodrich?’

‘No, sir. Just asked the way and drank up his beer and off in the car again.’

‘I understand he had lunch here last Thursday?’

‘That’s right, sir. Came in a big open car with a lady. She set him down here

and drove off again, and he came in and set down to lunch.’ He thought it

would be about one o’clock, but the girl could tel better than he could.

The girl knew al about it. Yes, as she had already told Inspector Umpelty,

Mr Martin had come in about ten minutes to one. He mentioned to her that he

had been to Wilvercombe, and thought he would make a change by lunching at

the inn. His car, it seemed, had got something the matter with it, and a passing

car had picked him up and taken him to Wilvercombe and back. Yes, he had

lunched heartily: roast leg of mutton with potatoes and boiled cabbage and a

rhubarb pie to folow.

Wimsey shuddered at the thought of roast mutton and cabbage on a red-hot

June day, and asked when Mr Martin had left the inn.

‘It would be half-past one, sir, by the right time. Our clocks are al ten

minutes fast, same as the clock in the bar, that’s set by the wireless every day. I

couldn’t say but what Mr Martin might have stopped in the bar on his way out,

but half-past one was when he paid me for his lunch. I couldn’t be mistaken

about that, sir, because it was my day off and my young man was taking me