Authors: Dorothy L. Sayers
prince, Glaisher, or thought you were, would you rather pay your bils with a
few dirty bits of paper, or with this?’
He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a handful of gold sovereigns.
They roled ringing over the table as he threw them down, and Glaisher and
Umpelty flung out eager hands to catch them as they spun away in the lamp-
light. They picked them up and weighed them in their palms; they held them
between their fingers, passing inquisitive fingers along the miled edges and over
the smooth relief of the gleaming George and Dragon.
‘Yes,’ said Wimsey, ‘they feel pleasant, don’t they? There are ten of them
there, and they’re worth no more than paper pounds,* and to me they’re
actualy worth nothing, because, being a tom-fool, I can’t bring myself to spend
them. But they’re gold. I wouldn’t mind possessing £300 worth of them, though
they might weigh five pounds avoirdupois and be an infernal nuisance. But the
queer thing is this – that that extra five pounds of weight just disturbed the very
delicate balance between the corpse and the water. The specific gravity of a
dead body is
just
less than sufficient to sink it – but only just. A very heavy pair
of boots or a belt stuffed with gold is enough to carry it down and wedge it
among the Grinder rocks – as you know to your cost, Umpelty. It would have
been uncommonly awkward for the conspirators if Alexis had never been
found. In time Mrs Weldon would have come to believe in his death, I daresay
– but she might have squandered a fortune first, in hunting for him.’
* The acute reader will discern that at the date of this story, Great Britain had not yet
gone off the Gold Standard.
‘It’s a queer story altogether,’ said Glaisher, ‘and what nobody that hadn’t
been through it al from the beginning as you might say would hardly be
disposed to believe. But now, my lord, alowing that it was al worked out as
you say, how about the murder?’
‘Exactly. As regards the murder I frankly admit we’re not much further on
than before. The preliminaries are al easy enough. First of al, somebody must
have come along to have a look at the place. I don’t quite know who that was,
but I think I can guess. Somebody who already knew the lie of the land, from
having stayed here before. Somebody who had a car to spin about the country
in. Somebody who had a very good excuse for being in the neighbourhood and
respectable friends whose guests were above suspicion.’
‘Mrs Morecambe!’
‘Just so. Mrs Morecambe. Possibly Mr Morecambe also. We can soon find
out whether that delightful couple spent a week-end at Heathbury Vicarage any
time within the last few months.’
‘Yes, they did,’ put in Umpelty. ‘The lady was here for a fortnight at the end
of February and her husband came down for one weekend. They told us that
when we made our inquiries, but we didn’t attach any importance to it at the
time.’
‘Of course not. Very wel. Then, at the moment when everything is ready to
poop off, the rest of the gang arrive. Morecambe gets himself up as a
hairdresser and establishes his identity round about the neighbourhood. He has
to do that, because he wants to purchase a razor in a way which it is difficult to
trace. You may say, why a razor at al, when they must have known that Alexis
didn’t shave? Wel, I can imagine why. It’s quieter than a pistol and it’s a
typical suicide’s weapon. And it’s very safe and sure, and much handier to
carry about than, say, a carving-knife. And if any question was raised about it,
Morecambe could always come forward with a convincing story about how he
had given the razor to Alexis.’
‘Ah! I was thinking about that. Would he have come forward, do you
suppose, if you hadn’t put that bit in the paper?’
‘Difficult to say. But I imagine that he would have waited to see how things
went. He would probably have attended the inquest, as a casual spectator, and
then if the coroner showed any signs of not accepting the suicide theory, he
would have risen up and put the matter beyond doubt with a few wel-chosen
words. You see, the beauty of his itinerant hairdresser impersonation was that it
afforded him an excelent excuse for appearing and disappearing like a Cheshire
cat, and also changing his name. By the way, I think we shal find that he realy
did live in Manchester at some time or another, and so knew just how much
dope to dole out about derelict streets and departed hairdressers’ shops in that
city.’
‘I take it, then, that he wears a beard in ordinary life.’
‘Oh, yes. He just shaved it off when he began his impersonation. Then, when
he went back to London, he had only to get a false beard sent to him at a hotel
under a different name, and wear it for the brief period of his taxi-ride to
Kensington. If the attendant at the picture-palace happened to notice a
gentleman putting on a false beard in the cloak-room – which he may not have
done – it would not be his business to interfere, and Morecombe had done his
very best to throw off any shadowers. If Bunter hadn’t been uncommonly
persevering and uncommonly quick, he’d have lost the trail twenty times over.
As it was, he very nearly missed Morecombe in the cinema. Supposing Bunter
had folowed Morecambe into the cloak-room. Morecambe would have
postponed the beard business and there would have been another chase, but by
having the wits to keep outside, he gave Morecambe the impression that the
coast was clear. Scotland Yard is keeping an eye on Morecambe’s house now,
but I expect they wil find that the gentleman is il in bed, being attended by his
devoted wife. When his beard has grown again, he wil emerge; and meantime,
Mrs Morecambe, who was an actress and knows something about make-up,
wil see to it that there is always a beard fit for inspection when the maid comes
in to do the room.’
‘So much for Morecambe,’ said Glaisher. ‘Now, how about Weldon? We’d
pretty wel put him out of the thing. Now we’ve got to bring him back. He
comes along in his Morgan, two days before the murder is due to take place,
and he camps in Hinks’s Lane, which somebody’s been good enough to find
out al about beforehand. Mrs Morecambe, I suppose – very good. He
accounts for his presence on the scene by a cock-and-bul tale about keeping
an eye on his mother’s love-affairs. Al right. But what I want to know is, why
did he come and mix himself up in the thing at al, taking al those risks? He
wasn’t there to do the murder, because we know where he was at 1.30, if not
at 1.55, and we can’t fit the times in anyhow, even supposing Perkins is a liar,
which we can’t prove. And he wasn’t there to ride the mare down to the Flat-
Iron, because we know where he was at twelve o’clock—’
‘Do we?’ said Harriet, gently.
She had joined the committee-meeting half-way through the session, and had
been sitting quietly in an armchair, smoking, with her hat on her knee.
‘Yes, do we?’ said Wimsey. ‘We thought we did when Mrs Morecambe
was supposed to be an unimpeachable witness, but do we now? I think I see a
gleam in Miss Vane’s eye that suggests she is about to put one over on us.
Speak. I am bound to hear! What has Robert Templeton been discovering?’
‘Mr Weldon,’ said Harriet, ‘was not doing anything nefarious in
Wilvercombe on Thursday, 18th. He wasn’t doing anything in Wilvercombe.
He never was in Wilvercombe. He didn’t buy colars. He didn’t go to the
Winter Gardens. Mrs Morecambe arrived alone and she left alone, and there’s
no evidence that Mr Weldon was with her at any point of the journey.’
‘O my prophetic soul! There goes my reputation! I said that the two o’clock
alibi would be broken, and it’s standing like the Flat-Iron Rock. I said the
Wilvercombe alibi would stand, and it has broken in pieces like a potter’s
vessel. I’l go no more a-sleuthing with you, fair maid. O, now, for ever farewel
the tranquil mind! Farewel content! Farewel, Othelo’s occupation’s gone. Are
you sure about it?’
‘Pretty wel. I went to the men’s outfitting and asked for colars like the ones
my husband bought on the 18th. Had I the bil? No. What kind of colars?
Wel, colars, just ordinary colars. What was my husband like? I described
Henry Weldon and his dark spectacles. Nobody remembered him. Would they
look up the day-book? Wel, they looked up the paper thing that twizzles round
in the til, and found the item. Oh, yes – the assistant remembered
those
colars.
Sold to a lady. A lady? Oh, yes, my sister-in-law, no doubt. I described Mrs
Morecambe. Yes, that was the lady. Was that the only sale of colars that
morning? It was. Then those must be the colars. So I bought six of them – here
they are – and asked whether the gentleman had been outside in the car.
Gentlemen are
so
funny about going into shops. No, no gentleman. The
assistant had taken the parcel out to the car, which was empty. So then I went
to the Winter Gardens. I knew, of course, that they had been asked about
Weldon, but
I
asked them about Mrs Morecambe, and I found an attendant
who remembered her by her appearance and get-up, and by the fact that she
had taken notes of the programme. For Weldon, naturaly. After that I tried the
bobby on point-duty in the Market Square. Such a nice, inteligent bobby. He
remembered the car, because of the funny number, and he’d noticed that there
was no one in it except the lady who was driving. He’d noticed it again when it
came away: stil only the lady in it. So that’s that. Of course, Mrs Morecambe
may have dropped Henry Weldon at some point between Darley and
Wilvercombe, but as for being
in
Wilvercombe – that I’l swear he wasn’t; at
any rate, he didn’t arrive in the Square with her, as he said.’
‘No,’ said Glaisher. ‘And it’s pretty clear now where he was. He was riding
that damned mare along the beach – out at eleven o’clock and back at 12.30,
or thereabouts. But why?’
‘That’s clear, too. He was the Rider from the Sea. But he stil didn’t kil Paul
Alexis. Who did?’
‘Wel, my lord,’ said Umpelty, ‘we’l have to go back to our first idea.
Weldon brought bad news about this here conspiracy, and Alexis kiled
himself.’
‘With Morecambe’s razor? No, it’s al wrong, Inspector. It’s al
wrong
.’
‘Hadn’t we better ask Weldon what he knows about it al? If we confront
him with what we know about Morecambe and the letter and al that, he may
come clean. If he was along there at 12.15, he must have seen Alexis, anyhow.’
Wimsey shook his head.
‘Deep waters,’ he said, ‘deep waters. Look here! I’ve an idea we’ve been
working this thing from the wrong end. If only we knew more about those
papers that Alexis sent to “Boris”, they might tel us something. Where do you
suppose they are? You may say, in Warsaw – but I don’t think so. I fancy
Warsaw was only an accommodation address. Everything that went there
probably came back to Morecambe.’
‘Then perhaps we’l find them in London,’ suggested Glaisher, hopefuly.
‘Very much perhaps. The man who planned this show is no fool. If he told
Alexis to destroy al his papers, he’l hardly have risked keeping anything of that
sort himself. But we could try. Have we enough evidence against him to justify a
search-warrant?’
‘Why, yes.’ Glaisher pondered. ‘If Morecambe’s identified as Bright, then
he’s been giving false information to the police. We could detain him on
suspicion and go through his place in Kensington. The London felows are
keeping tabs on him now, but we didn’t want to be in too much of a hurry. We
thought, maybe, the real murderer might be getting in touch with him. You see,
there must be another party to the business – the chap who did the actual job,
and we don’t know who he is from Adam. But of course, there’s this to it – the
longer we leave Morecambe to himself, the more time he’s got to make away
with the evidence. It may be you’re right, my lord, and we ought to pul him in.
Only you’l bear in mind, my lord, that if we do detain him, we’l have to make
a charge. There’s such a thing as Habeas Corpus.’
‘Al the same,’ said Wimsey, ‘I think you’l have to risk that. I don’t suppose
you’l find any papers, but you may find something else. The paper and ink used
to write the letters, perhaps, and books of reference about Russia. Books
aren’t as easy to get rid of as papers. And we’ve got to find out the exact
connection between Morecambe and Weldon.’
‘They’re working on that now, my lord.’
‘Good. After al, people don’t conspire to commit murder for the fun of the
thing. Does Mrs Weldon know anything about the Morecambes?’
‘No,’ said Harriet. ‘I asked her. She’s never heard of them.’