Have His Carcase (26 page)

‘This was last Monday week, gentlemen. On the Tuesday night, I went down

to the sea – just over there, at the end of the town, and sat on a seat to think

things over. It was getting on for midnight.’ The words were coming more

fluently now, the glass of whisky having no doubt done its work. ‘I looked at

the sea and I felt the razor in my pocket and I wondered whether it was worth

while struggling on. I was terribly depressed. I had come quite to the end of my

resources. There was the sea, and there was the razor. You might think that the

use of a razor would come natural to a hairdresser, but I can assure you

gentlemen that the idea of using it for that purpose seems just as horrible to us

as it would to you. But the sea – washing up against the wal of the Esplanade –

it seemed to cal me, if you can understand what I mean. It sounded as if it was

saying: “Chuck it, chuck it, chuck it up, Bil Simpson.” Fascinating and

frightening at the same time, as you might say. Al the same, I’ve always had a

horror of drowning. Helpless and choking, and the green water in your eyes –

we al have our special night-mares, and that one’s mine. Wel, I’d sat there for

a bit, trying to make up my mind, when I heard somebody walking along, and

presently this young felow came and sat down on the seat beside me. He was

in evening dress, I remember, with an overcoat and a soft hat. He had a black

beard – that was about the first thing I noticed, because it’s not very usual on a

young man in this country, except he might be an artist, perhaps. Wel, we got

into conversation – I think he started it by offering me a cigarette. It was one of

those Russian ones, with a paper tube to it. He spoke friendly, and, I don’t

know how it was, I found myself teling him al about the fix I was in. You know

how it is, my lord. Sometimes you’l get talking to a stranger where you

wouldn’t to anybody you knew. It struck me he didn’t feel so very happy

himself, and we had a long talk about the general damnableness of life. He said

he was a Russian and an exile and told me about the hard times he’d had as a

kid, and a lot of stuff about “Holy Russia” and the Soviet. Seems as if he took it

to heart a lot. And women and al that – seemed as though he’d had some

trouble with his best girl. And then he said he only wished his difficulties could

be solved as easy as mine, and how I ought to pul myself together and make a

fresh start. “You give me that razor,” he said, “and go away and think it over.”

So I said the razor was my livelihood, such as it was, and he laughed and said,

“In the mood you’re in, it’s more likely to be your deathlihood.” A funny way

he had of talking, quick and sort of poetic, you know. So he gave me some

money – five pounds it was, in Treasury notes – and I gave him the razor.

“What’l you do with that, sir?” I said, “it’s no good to you.” “I’l find a use for

it,” he said, “never you fear.” And he laughed and put it away in his pocket.

Then he got up and said, “Funny we should drop across one another tonight,”

and something about “two minds with but a single thought”. And he clapped me

on the shoulder and told me to buck up and gave me a pleasant nod and away

he went, and that’s the last I saw of him. I wish I’d known what he wanted with

the razor, or I wouldn’t have given it to him, but there! how was I to know, I

ask you, gentlemen?’

‘Sounds like Paul Alexis, right enough,’ said Wimsey, thoughtfuly.

‘He didn’t actualy say who he was, I suppose?’ suggested Hardy.

‘No, he didn’t; but he said he was a professional dancing-partner at one of

the hotels, and wasn’t it one hel of a life for a man that ought to be a prince in

his own country – making love to ugly old women at twopence-halfpenny a

time. Very bitter he sounded.’

‘Wel,’ said Wimsey, ‘we’re very much obliged to you, Mr Bright. That

seems to clear the whole thing up quite satisfactorily. I think you’l have to let

the police know about it.’

Mr Bright looked uneasy at the mention of the police.

‘Better come along now and get it over,’ said Wimsey, jumping to his feet.

‘You can’t very wel get out of it, and, hang it al, man! there’s nothing in it for

anybody to worry you about.’

The hairdresser agreed, reluctantly, and fastened his pale eyes on Saly

Hardy.

‘It al sounds O.K. to me,’ said the latter, ‘but we’l have to check up on

your story, you know, old man. You might have invented it. But if the cops can

prove what you say about yourself – it’s their business, realy – then there’l be

a good, fat cheque for you, that ought to keep you going for some time, if you’l

steer clear of that – er – little weakness of yours. The great thing,’ added Saly,

reaching for the whisky, ‘is never to let weaknesses interfere with business.’

He poured himself out a stiff peg and, as an afterthought, mixed another for

the hairdresser.

Superintendent Glaisher was delighted with Bright’s story, and so was

Inspector Umpelty, who had clung to the suicide theory al along.

‘We’l soon get this business cleared up,’ said the latter, confidently. ‘We’l

check up on this Bright lad’s movements, but they’re probably right enough.

They fit in O.K. with what that man said at Seahampton. And we’l keep an eye

on Bright. He’s had to give us an address and his promise to stay in

Wilvercombe, because, of course, he’l be wanted for the inquest – when we

get an inquest. The body’s bound to turn up soon. I can’t understand why it’s

not been found before this. It’s been five days in the water now, and it can’t

stay there for ever. They float first, you know, and then they sink, but they have

to come up again when the gases start to form. I’ve seen ’em blown up like

baloons. It must have got caught somewhere, that’s about the way of it; but

we’l be dragging the bay near the Grinders again this afternoon, and we’re sure

to get something before long. I’l be glad when we do. Makes one feel kind of

foolish to be carrying on an investigation without a body to show for it.’

‘Satisfied?’ asked Hardy, as Wimsey returned from the police-station. He

had telephoned his story to Town and was absorbing a little refreshment after

his labours.

‘I ought to be,’ replied his lordship. ‘The only thing that worries me, Saly, is

that if I’d wanted to invent a story to fit this case, that is exactly the story I

should have invented. I wonder where Mr Bright was at two o’clock on

Thursday afternoon.’

‘What an obstinate devil you are,’ said Mr Hardy. ‘Fact is, you’re so

damned keen on a murder, you smel murder everywhere. Forget it.’

Wimsey was silent, but when he had got rid of Saly Hardy, he drew out of

his pocket a smal leaflet entitled ‘Tide Tables’, and studied it carefuly.

‘I thought so,’ he said.

He took a piece of paper and wrote out a schedule of Things to be noted

and Things to be Done under the name of Wiliam Bright. It embodied the

substance of Bright’s story and of the conversation with the police; but the left-

hand column ended with this observation:

‘He states that the tide, lapping against the Esplanade, seemed to call him in a

very convincing and poetic manner. But at midnight on Tuesday, 16 June the tide

was not lapping against the Esplanade. It was the extreme bottom of the ebb.’

And in the right-hand column he wrote:

‘Keep an eye on him.’

After a little more thought, he took a fresh sheet of paper and wrote a letter

to Chief Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard, asking for information about

Bolshevik agents. One never could tel. Queer things have happened before this

– queerer things even than Bolshevik conspiracies. Incidentaly, he mentioned

Mr Haviland Martin and his banking account. Parker, with the Bolsheviks as an

excuse, might find ways and means to unlock even a bank-manager’s lips.

Superintendent Glaisher might not like this horning in on his province – but

Parker had married Lord Peter’s sister, and may not a man write a private

letter to his own brother-in-law?

XV

THE EVIDENCE OF THE LADYLOVE AND THE LANDLADY

‘You are an adept in these chamber-passions,

And have a heart that’s Cupid’s arrow-cushion

Worn out with use.’

Death’s Jest-Book

‘What’s this? Did you not see a white convulsion

Rut through his cheek and fling his eyelids up?

There’s mischief in the paper.’

Fragment

Tuesday, 23 June

In the meantime, Harriet’s novel was not getting along very wel. Not only was

there the tiresomeness about the town-clock – or ought it to be caled the

Tolbooth clock? – but also she had arrived at the point where, according to the

serial editor who was paying for the first rights, the heroine and the detective’s

friend were expected to indulge in a spot of love-making. Now, a person

whose previous experience of love has been disappointing, and who has just

been through a harassing scene with another suitor and is, further, busily

engaged in investigating the rather sordid love-affairs of a third party who has

been brought to a violent and blood-boltered end, is in no mood to sit down

and deal competently with the raptures of two innocents holding hands in a

rose-garden. Harriet shook her head impatiently, and plunged into her

distasteful task.

‘I say, Betty, I’m afraid you must think I’m a pretty average sort of idiot.’

‘But I don’t think you’re an idiot at all, you idiot.’

Would even the readers of the
Daily Message
think that amusing? Harriet

feared not. Wel, better get on with it. The girl would have to say something

encouraging now, or the stammering young imbecile would never come to the

point.

‘I think it’s perfectly wonderful that you should be doing all this to help me.’

Here she was, remorselessly binding this hideous load of gratitude on the

unfortunate girl. But Betty and Jack were a pair of hypocrites, anyway, because

they both knew perfectly wel that Robert Templeton was doing al the work.

However.

‘As if there was anything in the world I wouldn’t try and do for you – Betty!’

‘Well, Jack?’

‘Betty – darling – I suppose you couldn’t possibly –’

Harriet came to the conclusion that she couldn’t – not possibly. She picked

up the telephone, got put through to Telegrams, and dictated a brief, snappy

message to her long-suffering agent. ‘Tel Bootle I absolutely refuse induce

love-interest – Vane.’

After that she felt better, but the novel was perfectly impossible. Wasn’t

there anything else she could do? Yes. She again seized the telephone and put

an inquiry through to the office. Was it possible to get into touch with M.

Antoine?

The management seemed quite used to putting clients in touch with M.

Antoine. They had a telephone number which ought to find him. It did. Could

M. Antoine put Miss Vane in touch with Miss Leila Garland and Mr da Soto?

Certainly. Nothing was more simple. Mr da Soto was playing at the Winter

Gardens, and the morning concert would be just finishing. Miss Garland would

probably be joining him for lunch. In any case, Antoine would charge himself

with al that and would, if Miss Vane desired it, cal for her and accompany her

to the Winter Gardens. It was most good of M. Antoine. On the contrary, it

was a pleasure; in a quarter of an hour’s time, then?
Parfaitement
.

‘Tel me, M. Antoine,’ said Harriet, as their taxi roled along the Esplanade.

‘You who are a person of great experience, is love, in your opinion, a matter of

the first importance?’

‘It is, alas! of a great importance, mademoisele, but of the first importance,

no!’

‘What is of the first importance?’

‘Mademoisele, I tel you frankly that to have a healthy mind in a healthy

body is the greatest gift of
le bon Dieu
, and when I see so many people who

have clean blood and strong bodies spoiling themselves and distorting their

brains with drugs and drink and foolishness, it makes me angry. They should

leave that to the people who cannot help themselves because to them life is

without hope.’

Harriet hardly knew what to reply; the words were spoken with such

personal and tragic significance. Rather fortunately, Antoine did not wait.

‘
L’amour!
These ladies come and dance and excite themselves and want

love and think it is happiness. And they tel me about their sorrows – me – and

they have no sorrows at al, only that they are sily and selfish and lazy. Their

husbands are unfaithful and their lovers run away and what do they say? Do

they say, I have two hands, two feet, al my faculties, I wil make a life for

myself? No. They say, Give me cocaine, give me the cocktail, give me the thril,