Have His Carcase (13 page)

only a smal restaurant, but very good, and the proprietor knew them very wel;

moreover, Antoine himself lodged in the little hotel attached to the restaurant

and would give himself the pleasure of offering mademoisele a glass of wine.

They would be private there, and could speak quite freely. Harriet assented,

with the proviso that she should pay for the supper, and accordingly, shortly

before midnight, found herself seated on a red-plush settee beneath a row of

gilded mirrors, over a pleasant little supper of the Continental sort.

Doris the blonde and Charis the brunette were only too delighted to discuss

the affairs of the late Mr Alexis. Doris appeared to be the official confidante;

she could give inside information about her late partner’s affairs of the heart. He

had had a girl – oh, yes; but some weeks earlier this connection had come to an

end rather mysteriously. It was nothing to do with Mrs Weldon.
That
matter

had been, in Mr Micawber’s phrase, already ‘provided for’. No; it was

apparently a breaking-off by mutual consent, and nobody seemed to have been

much upset by it. Certainly not Alexis, who, though expressing a great deal of

conventional regret, had seemed to be rather pleased about it, as though he had

brought off a smart piece of business. And since then, the young lady in

question had been seen going about with another man, who was supposed to

be a friend of Alexis.

‘And if you ask me,’ said Doris, in a voice whose fundamental cockney was

overlaid by a veneer of intense refinement, ‘Alexis pushed her off on to this

chap on purpose, to get her out of the way of his other little plans.’

‘What other little plans?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know. But he had something up his sleeve these last few

weeks. Very grand he was about it; I’m sure one was almost afraid to speak to

his high-mightiness. “You’l see,” he said, “just you wait a little bit.” “Wel, I’m

sure,” I said, “I have no wish to intrude. You can keep your secrets,” I said,

“for I don’t want to know them.” It’s my belief he was up to some game or

other. Whatever it was, he was like a dog with two tails about it.’

Mrs Weldon too, thought Harriet, had said the same thing. Alexis was going

to have some news for her – though Mrs Weldon had put her own

interpretation on the remark. Harriet put out another feeler of inquiry.

‘Marriage-licence?’ said Charis. ‘Oh, no! he wouldn’t be putting up any

flags about that. He couldn’t very wel
like
the idea of marrying that dreadful

old woman. Wel, it serves her right now. She’s got left. I think that sort of thing

is disgusting.’

‘I am sorry for her,’ said Antoine.

‘Oh, you are always sorry for people. I do think it’s beastly. I think these

horrible fat men are beastly, too, always pawing a girl about. If Greely wasn’t a

decent sort, I’d chuck the whole thing, but I wil say he does see to it that they

behave themselves. But an old
woman
—’ Charis, superb in her vigorous

youth, expressed contempt by voice and gesture.

‘I suppose,’ suggested Harriet, ‘that Alexis wanted to feel safe and settled

financialy. I mean, a dancer can’t go on dancing al his life, can he? Particularly

if he isn’t very strong.’

She spoke with hesitation, but to her relief Antoine immediately and

emphaticaly agreed with her.

‘You are right. While we are young and gay it is al very good. But presently

the head grows bald, the legs grow stiff, and – finish! The manager says, “It is

al very wel, you are a good dancer, but my clients prefer a younger man,

hein
? Then good-bye the first-class establishment. We go, what you cal, down

the hil. I tel you, it is a great temptation when somebody comes and says,

“Look! You have only to marry me and I wil make you rich and comfortable

for life.” And what is it? Only to tel lies to one’s wife every night instead of to

twenty or thirty sily old ladies. Both are done for money – where is the

difference?’

‘Yes, I suppose we shal al come to it,’ said Charis, with a grimace. ‘Only,

from the way Alexis talked, you’d think he’d have wanted a little more poetry

about it. Al that rubbish about his noble birth and falen fortunes – like

something out of those stories he was so potty about. Quite a hero of romance,

according to him. Always wanted to take the spot-light, did Mr Paul Alexis.

You’d think he did the floor a favour by dancing on it. And then the fairy prince

comes down to marrying an old woman for her money.’

‘Oh, he wasn’t so bad,’ protested Doris. ‘You oughtn’t to talk that way,

dear. It’s not so easy for we dancers, the way everybody treats us like dirt.

Though they’re wiling enough to take advantage of you if you give them half a

chance. Why shouldn’t Alexis, or any of us, get a bit of our own back?

Anyhow, he’s dead, poor boy, and you oughtn’t to run him down.’

‘Ah,
voilà
!’ said Antoine. ‘He is dead. Why is he dead? One does not cut

one’s throat
pour s’amuser
.’

‘That’s another thing,’ said Charis, ‘that I can’t quite make out. The minute I

heard about it, I said to myself, “That’s not like Alexis,” He hadn’t the nerve to

do a thing like that. Why, he was terrified of pricking his little finger. You

needn’t frown, dear, Alexis was a regular namby-pamby, and if he was dead

ten times over it wouldn’t make any difference. You used to laugh at him

yourself. “I cannot climb that step-ladder, I am afraid to fal.” “I do not like to

go to the dentist, he might pul my teeth out.” “Do not shake me when I am

cutting the bread, I might cut my fingers.” “Realy, Mr Alexis,” I used to say to

him, “anybody would thing you were made of glass.” ’

‘I know what mademoisele is thinking,’ said Antoine, his melancholy mouth

curling. ‘She thinks: “
Voilà!
that is the gigolo. He is not a man, he is a dol

stuffed with sawdust.” He is bought, he is sold, and sometimes there is an

unpleasantness. Then the English husband, he say, “Wel, what can you expect?

This felow, he is a nasty piece of work. He lives on foolish women and he does

not play the cricket.” Sometimes it is not very nice, but one must live.
Que

voulez-vous? Ce n’ast pas rigolo que d’être gigolo
.’

Harriet blushed.

‘I wasn’t thinking that,’ she said.

‘But you were, mademoisele, and it is very natural.’

‘Antoine doesn’t play cricket,’ put in Doris, kindly, ‘but he plays tennis and

swims very wel.’

‘It is not me that is in question,’ said Antoine. ‘And truly, I cannot

understand this business of throat-cutting. It is not reasonable. Why did Alexis

go al that distance away? He never walked; he found the walking fatigued him.

If he had decided to suicide himself, he would have done it at home.’

‘And he’d have taken some sleeping-stuff,’ said Doris, nodding her golden

head. ‘I know that, because he showed it to me once, when he was in one of

his blue fits. “That is my way out of the bad world,” he said, and he talked a lot

of poetry. I told him not to be sily – and of course, in half an hour he had got

over it. He was like that. But cutting his throat with a razor – no!’

‘That’s awfuly interesting,’ said Harriet. ‘By the way,’ she went on,

remembering her conversation with Wimsey, ‘did he have anything the matter

with his skin? I mean, did he always have to wear gloves, or anything of that

sort?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Antoine. ‘The gigolo must not have things the matter with his

skin. That would not do at al. Alexis had very elegant hands. He was vain of

them.’

‘He said his skin was sensitive, and that’s why he didn’t shave,’ put in Doris.

‘Ah, yes! I can tel you about that,’ Antoine took up his cue. ‘When he came

here about a year ago he asked for a job. Mr Greely he say to me, “See him

dance.” Because, you see, mademoisele, the other dancer had just left us, al of

a sudden,
comme ça
– without the proper notice. I see him dance and I say to

Mr Greely, “That is very good.” The manager say, “Very wel, I take you on

trial for a little time, but I must not have the beard. The ladies wil not like it. It is

unheard of, a gigolo with a beard,” Alexis say, “But if I shave the beard I come

out al over buttons.” ’

‘Pimples?’ suggested Harriet.

‘Yes, pardon, pimples. Wel, the gigolo with the pimples, that is unheard of

also, you understand. “Wel,” say the manager, “you can come a little time with

the beard til we are suited, but if you want to stay, you remove the beard.”

Very wel, Alexis come and dance, and the ladies are delighted. The beard is so

distinguished, so romantic, so unusual. They come a very long distance express

to dance with the beard. Mr Greely say, “It is good. I was mistaken. You stay

and the beard stay too. My God! What wil these ladies want next? The long

whiskers, perhaps? Antoine,” he say to me, “you grow the long whiskers and

maybe you get off stil better.” But me, no! God has not given me the hair to

make whiskers.’

‘Did Alexis have a razor at al?’

‘How should I know? If he knew that the shaving made the pimples, he must

have tried to shave,
n’est-ce pas
? But as to the razor, I cannot tel. Do you

know, Doris?’

‘Me? I like that. Alexis never was my fancy-man. But I’l ask Leila Garland.

She ought to know.’

‘
Sa maîtresse
,’ explained Antoine. ‘Yes, ask her, Doris. Because evidently

that is of a considerable importance. I have not thought of that,
mon dieu
!’

‘You’ve told me a lot of interesting things,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m very much

obliged to you. And I’d be stil more obliged if you didn’t mention that I’d been

asking you, because, what with the newspaper reporters and so on—’

‘Oh!’ said Antoine. ‘Listen, mademoisele, you must not think that because

we are the dols that are bought and sold we have neither eyes nor ears. This

gentleman that arrived this morning – do you think we do not know who he is?

This Lord Peter, so celebrated, he does not come here for nothing,
hein
? It is

not for nothing he talks to you and asks questions. He is not interested because

a foreign dancer has cut his throat in a tantrum. No. But, equaly, we know how

to be discreet.
Ma foi
, if we did not, we should not keep our jobs, you

understand. We tel you what we know, and the lady who writes the
romans-

policiers
and the lord who is
connaisseur
in mysteries, they make the

investigations. But we say nothing. It is our business to say nothing. That is

understood.’

‘That’s right,’ said Charis. ‘We won’t let on. Not that there’s a great deal to

tel anybody. We’ve had the police asking questions, of course, but they never

believe anything one says. I’m sure they al think it’s something to do with Leila.

These policemen always think that if anything happens to a felow, there must

be a girl at the bottom of it.’

‘But that,’ said Antoine, ‘is a compliment.’

VIII

THE EVIDENCE OF THE SECOND BARBER

‘Send him back again,

An unmasked braggart to his bankrupt den.’

Letter from Göttingen

Saturday, 20 June Sunday, 21 June

Wimsey, sleek with breakfast, sunshine and sentiment, stroled peacefuly upon

the close-clipped lawn of the George at Stamford, pausing now and again to

inhale the scent of a crimson rose, or to marvel at the age and extent of the

wisteria, trailing its lacy tendrils along the grey stone wal. He had covenanted

with himself to interview Colonel Belfridge at eleven o’clock. By that time, both

of them would have digested their breakfasts and be ready for a smal,

companionable spot of something. He had a pleasurable interior certainty that

he was on the track of a nice, difficult, meaty problem, investigated under

agreeable conditions. He lit up a wel-seasoned pipe. Life felt good to him.

At ten minutes past eleven, life felt slightly less good. Colonel Belfridge, who

looked as though he had been designed by H. M. Bateman in a moment of

more than ordinary inspiration, was extremely indignant. It seemed to him that it

was an ungentlemanly action to go and interrogate a man’s barber, hr’rm, about

a man’s personal belongings, and he resented the insinuation that a man could

possibly be mixed up, hr’rm, in the decease of a damned dago, hr’rm, in an

adjectival four-by-three watering-place like Wilvercombe. Wimsey ought to be

ashamed, hr’rm, woof! of interfering in what was properly the business of the

police, dammit, sir! If the police didn’t know their own damned business, what

did we pay rates and taxes for, tel me that, sir!

Wimsey apologised for worrying Colonel Belfridge, and protested that a man

must take up some sort of hobby.