Authors: Dorothy L. Sayers
‘Thank you. This line of salt is the beach. And this piece of bread is a rock at
low-water level.’
Wimsey twitched his chair closer to the table.
‘And this salt-spoon,’ he said, with childlike enjoyment, ‘can be the body.’
He made no comment while Harriet told her story, only interrupting once or
twice with a question about times and distances. He sat drooping above the
sketch-map she was laying out among the breakfast-things, his eyes invisible,
his long nose seeming to twitch like a rabbit’s with concentration. When she
had finished, he sat silent for a moment and then said:
‘Let’s get this clear. You got to the place where you had lunch – when,
exactly?’
‘Just one o’clock. I looked at my watch.’
‘As you came along the cliffs, you could see the whole shore, including the
rock where you found the body.’
‘Yes; I suppose I could.’
‘Was anybody on the rock then?’
‘I realy don’t know. I don’t even specialy remember noticing the rock. I
was thinking about my grub, you see, and I was realy looking about at the side
of the road for a suitable spot to scramble down the cliff. My eyes weren’t
focused for distance.’
‘I see. That’s rather a pity, in a way.’
‘Yes, it is; but I can tel you one thing. I’m quite sure there was nothing
moving
on the shore. I did give one glance round just before I decided to climb
down. I distinctly remember thinking that the beach seemed absolutely and
gloriously deserted – a perfect spot for a picnic. I hate picnicking in a crowd.’
‘And a single person on a lonely beach would be a crowd?’
‘For picnicking purposes, yes. You know what people are. The minute they
see anyone having a peaceful feed they gather in from the four points of the
compass and sit down beside one, and the place is like the Corner House in the
rush hour.’
‘So they do. That must be the symbolism of the Miss Muffet legend.’
‘I’m positive there wasn’t a living soul walking or standing or sitting
anywhere within eyeshot. But as to the body’s being already on the rock, I
wouldn’t swear one way or the other. It was a goodish way out, you know,
and when I saw it from the beach I took the body for seaweed just at first. I
shouldn’t make a mental note of seaweed.’
‘Good. Then at one o’clock the beach was deserted, except possibly for the
body, which may have been there making a noise like seaweed. Then you got
down the side of the cliff. Was the rock visible from where you had lunch?’
‘No, not at al. There is a sort of little bay there – wel, scarcely that. The cliff
juts out a bit, and I was sitting close up against the foot of the rocks, so as to
have something to lean against. I had my lunch – it took about half an hour
altogether.’
‘You heard nothing then? No footsteps or anything? No car?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘And then?’
‘Then I’m afraid I dozed off.’
‘What could be more natural? For how long?’
‘About half an hour. When I woke I looked at my watch again.’
‘What woke you?’
‘A sea-gul squawking round after bits of my sandwich.’
‘That makes it two o’clock.’
‘Yes.’
‘Just a minute. When I arrived here this morning it was a bit early for caling
on one’s lady friends, so I toddled down to the beach and made friends with
one of the fishermen. He happened to mention that it was low tide off the
Grinders yesterday afternoon at 1.15. Therefore when you arrived, the tide was
practicaly out. When you woke, it had turned and had been coming in for
about forty-five minutes. The foot of your rock – which, by the way,
is
localy
named The Devil’s Flat-Iron – is only uncovered for about half an hour
between tide and tide, and that only at the top of springs, if you understand that
expression.’
‘I understand perfectly, but I don’t see what that has to do with it.’
‘Wel, this – that if anybody had come walking along the edge of the water to
the rock, he could have got there without leaving any footprints.’
‘But he did leave footprints. Oh, I see. You’re thinking of a possible
murderer.’
‘I should prefer it to be murder, naturaly. Shouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. Wel, that’s a fact. A murderer might have walked along
from either direction, if he did it that way. If he came from Lesston Hoe he must
have arrived after me, because I could see the shore as I walked along, and
there was no one walking there then. But he could have come at any time from
the Wilvercombe side.’
‘No, he couldn’t,’ said Wimsey. ‘He wasn’t there, you said, at one o’clock.’
‘He might have been standing on the seaward side of the Flat-Iron.’
‘So he might. Now, how about the corpse? We can tel pretty close when
he
came.’
‘How?’
‘You said there were no wet stains on his shoes. Therefore he went dry-
shod to the rock. We only have to find out exactly when the sand on the
landward side of the rock is uncovered.’
‘Of course. How stupid of me. Wel, we can easily find that out. Where had
I got to?’
‘You had been awakened by the cry of a sea-gul.’
‘Yes. Wel, then, I walked round the point of the cliff and out to the rock,
and there he was.’
‘And at that moment there was nobody within sight?’
‘Not a single soul, except a man in a boat.’
‘Yes – the boat. Now, supposing the boat had come in when the tide was
out, and the occupant had walked or waded up to the rock—’
‘That’s possible, of course. The boat was some way out.’
‘It al seems to depend on when the corpse got there. We must find that out.’
‘You’re determined it should be murder.’
‘Wel, suicide seems so dul. And why go al that way to commit suicide?’
‘Why not? Much tidier than doing it in your bedroom or anywhere like that.
Aren’t we beginning at the wrong end? If we knew who the man was, we might
find he had left an explanatory note behind him to say why he was going to do
it. I daresay the police know al about it by now.’
‘Possibly,’ said Wimsey in a dissatisfied tone.
‘What’s worrying you?’
‘Two things. The gloves. Why should anybody cut his throat in gloves?’
‘I know. That bothered me too. Perhaps he had some sort of skin disease
and was accustomed to wearing gloves for everything. I ought to have looked. I
did start to take the gloves off, but they were – messy.’
‘Um! I see you stil retain a few female frailties. The second point that
troubles me is the weapon. Why should a gentleman with a beard sport a cut-
throat razor?’
‘Bought for the purpose.’
‘Yes; after al, why not? My dear Harriet, I think you are right. The man cut
his throat, and that’s al there is to it. I am disappointed.’
‘It is disappointing, but it can’t be helped. Halo! here’s my friend the
Inspector.’
It was indeed Inspector Umpelty who was threading his way between the
tables. He was in mufti – a large, comfortable-looking tweed-clad figure. He
greeted Harriet pleasantly.
‘I thought you might like to see how your snaps have turned out, Miss Vane.
And we’ve identified the man.’
‘No? Have you? Good work. This is Inspector Umpelty – Lord Peter
Wimsey.’
The Inspector appeared gratified by the introduction.
‘You’re early on the job, my lord. But I don’t know that you’l find anything
very mysterious about this case. Just a plain suicide, I fancy.’
‘We had regretfuly come to that conclusion,’ admitted Wimsey.
‘Though why he should have done it, I don’t know. But you never can tel
with these foreigners, can you?’
‘I thought he looked rather foreign,’ said Harriet.
‘Yes. He’s a Russian, or something of that sort. Paul Alexis Goldschmidt, his
name is; known as Paul Alexis. Comes from this very hotel, as a matter of fact.
One of the professional dancing-partners in the lounge here – you know the
sort. They don’t seem to know much about him. Turned up here just over a
year ago and asked for a job. Seemed to be a good dancer and al that and
they had a vacancy, so they took him on. Age twenty-two or thereabouts.
Unmarried. Lived in rooms. Nothing known against him.’
‘Papers in order?’
‘Naturalised British subject. Said to have escaped from Russia at the
Revolution. He must have been a kid of about nine, but we haven’t found out
yet who had charge of him. He was alone when he turned up here, and his
landlady doesn’t ever seem to have heard of anybody belonging to him. But
we’l soon find out when we go through his stuff.’
‘He didn’t leave any letter for the coroner, or anything?’
‘We’ve found nothing so far. And as regards the coroner, that’s a bit of a
bother, that is. I don’t know how long it’l be, miss, before you’re wanted. You
see, we can’t find the body.’
‘You don’t mean to tel me,’ said Wimsey, ‘that the evil-eyed doctor and the
mysterious Chinaman have already conveyed it to the lone house on the moor?’
‘You wil have your fun, my lord, I see. No – it’s a bit simpler than that. You
see, the current sets northwards round the bay there, and with this sou’wester
blowing, the body wil have been washed off the Flat-Iron. It’l either come
ashore somewhere off Sandy Point, or it’l have got carried out and caught up
in the Grinders. If that’s where it is, we’l have to wait til the wind goes down.
You can’t take a boat in there with this sea running, and you can’t dive off the
rocks – even supposing you knew whereabouts to dive. It’s a nuisance, but it
can’t be helped.’
‘H’m,’ said Wimsey. ‘Just as wel you took those photographs, Sherlock, or
we’d have no proof that there ever had been a body.’
‘Coroner can’t sit on a photograph, though,’ said the Inspector, gloomily.
‘Howsomever, it looks like a plain suicide, so it doesn’t matter such a lot. Stil,
it’s annoying. We like to get these things tidied up as we go along.’
‘Naturaly,’ said Wimsey. ‘Wel, I’m sure if anybody can tidy up, you can,
Inspector. You impress me as being a man with an essentialy tidy mind. I wil
engage to prophesy, Sherlock, that before lunch-time. Inspector Umpelty wil
have sorted out the dead man’s papers, got the entire story from the hotel-
manager, identified the place where the razor was bought and explained the
mysterious presence of the gloves.’
The Inspector laughed.
‘I don’t think there’s much to be got out of the manager, my lord, and as for
the razor, that’s neither here nor there.’
‘But the gloves?’
‘Wel, my lord, I expect the only person that could tel us about that is the
poor blighter himself, and he’s dead. But as regards the papers, you’re dead
right. I’m looking along there now.’ He paused, doubtfuly, and looked from
Harriet to Wimsey and back again.
‘No,’ said Wimsey. ‘Set your mind at rest. We are not going to ask to come
with you. I know that the amateur detective has a habit of embarrassing the
police in the execution of their duty. We are going out to view the town like a
perfect little lady and gentleman. There’s only one thing I
should
like to have a
look at, if it isn’t troubling you too much – and that’s the razor.’
The Inspector was very wiling that Lord Peter should see the razor. ‘And if
you like to comerlongerme,’ he added kindly, ‘you’l dodge al these reporters.’
‘Not me!’ said Harriet. ‘I’ve got to see them and tel them al about my new
book. A razor is only a razor, but good advance publicity means sales. You
two run along; I’l folow you down.’
She stroled away in search of the reporters. The Inspector grinned uneasily.
‘No flies on that young lady,’ he observed. ‘But can she be trusted to hold
her tongue?’
‘Oh, she won’t chuck away a good plot,’ said Wimsey, lightly. ‘Come and
have a drink.’
‘Too soon after breakfast,’ objected the Inspector.
‘Or a smoke,’ suggested Wimsey.
The Inspector declined.
‘Or a nice sit-down in the lounge,’ said Wimsey, sitting down.
‘Excuse me,’ said Inspector Umpelty, ‘I must be getting along. I’l tel them
at the Station about you wanting to look at the razor. . . . Fair tied to that young
woman’s apronstrings,’ he reflected, as he shouldered his bulky way through
the revolving doors. ‘The poor mutt!’
Harriet, escaping half an hour later from Salcombe Hardy and his coleagues,
found Wimsey faithfuly in attendance.
‘I’ve got rid of the Inspector,’ observed that gentleman, cheerfuly. ‘Get your
hat on and we’l go.’
Their simultaneous exit from the Resplendent was observed and recorded by
the photographic contingent, who had just returned from the shore. Between an
avenue of clicking shutters, they descended the marble steps, and climbed into
Wimsey’s Daimler.
‘I feel,’ said Harriet, maliciously, ‘as if we had just been married at St
George’s, Hanover Square.’
‘No, you don’t,’ retorted Wimsey. ‘If we had, you would be trembling like a