Have His Carcase (8 page)

‘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