Whose Body?, Dorothy L. Sayers [good summer reads .txt] 📗

about, either. And we seem to be two suits of clothes short in last night’s work. Sir Reuben makes tracks without so much as a fig-leaf, and a mysterious individual turns up with a pince-nez, which is quite useless for purposes of decency. Dash it all! If only I had some good excuse for takin’ up this body case officially⁠—”

The telephone bell rang. The silent Bunter, whom the other two had almost forgotten, padded across to it.

“It’s an elderly lady, my lord,” he said. “I think she’s deaf⁠—I can’t make her hear anything, but she’s asking for your lordship.”

Lord Peter seized the receiver, and yelled into it a “Hullo!” that might have cracked the vulcanite. He listened for some minutes with an incredulous smile, which gradually broadened into a grin of delight. At length he screamed: “All right! all right!” several times, and rang off.

“By Jove!” he announced, beaming, “sportin’ old bird! It’s old Mrs. Thipps. Deaf as a post. Never used the phone before. But determined. Perfect Napoleon. The incomparable Sugg has made a discovery and arrested little Thipps. Old lady abandoned in the flat. Thipps’s last shriek to her: ‘Tell Lord Peter Wimsey.’ Old girl undaunted. Wrestles with telephone book. Wakes up the people at the exchange. Won’t take no for an answer (not bein’ able to hear it), gets through, says: ‘Will I do what I can?’ Says she would feel safe in the hands of a real gentleman. Oh, Parker, Parker! I could kiss her, I reely could, as Thipps says. I’ll write to her instead⁠—no, hang it, Parker, we’ll go round. Bunter, get your infernal machine and the magnesium. I say, we’ll all go into partnership⁠—pool the two cases and work ’em out together. You shall see my body tonight, Parker, and I’ll look for your wandering Jew tomorrow. I feel so happy, I shall explode. O Sugg, Sugg, how art thou suggified! Bunter, my shoes. I say, Parker, I suppose yours are rubber-soled. Not? Tut, tut, you mustn’t go out like that. We’ll lend you a pair. Gloves? Here. My stick, my torch, the lampblack, the forceps, knife, pillboxes⁠—all complete?”

“Certainly, my lord.”

“Oh, Bunter, don’t look so offended. I mean no harm. I believe in you, I trust you⁠—what money have I got? That’ll do. I knew a man once, Parker, who let a world-famous poisoner slip through his fingers because the machine on the Underground took nothing but pennies. There was a queue at the booking office and the man at the barrier stopped him, and while they were arguing about accepting a five-pound-note (which was all he had) for a twopenny ride to Baker Street, the criminal had sprung into a Circle train, and was next heard of in Constantinople, disguised as an elderly Church of England clergyman touring with his niece. Are we all ready? Go!”

They stepped out, Bunter carefully switching off the lights behind them.

As they emerged into the gloom and gleam of Piccadilly, Wimsey stopped short with a little exclamation.

“Wait a second,” he said. “I’ve thought of something. If Sugg’s there he’ll make trouble. I must short-circuit him.”

He ran back, and the other two men employed the few minutes of his absence in capturing a taxi.

Inspector Sugg and a subordinate Cerberus were on guard at 59, Queen Caroline Mansions, and showed no disposition to admit unofficial inquirers. Parker, indeed, they could not easily turn away, but Lord Peter found himself confronted with a surly manner and what Lord Beaconsfield described as a masterly inactivity. It was in vain that Lord Peter pleaded that he had been retained by Mrs. Thipps on behalf of her son.

“Retained!” said Inspector Sugg, with a snort. “She’ll be retained if she doesn’t look out. Shouldn’t wonder if she wasn’t in it herself, only she’s so deaf, she’s no good for anything at all.”

“Look here, Inspector,” said Lord Peter, “what’s the use of bein’ so bally obstructive? You’d much better let me in⁠—you know I’ll get there in the end. Dash it all, it’s not as if I was takin’ the bread out of your children’s mouths. Nobody paid me for finding Lord Attenbury’s emeralds for you.”

“It’s my duty to keep out the public,” said Inspector Sugg, morosely, “and it’s going to stay out.”

“I never said anything about your keeping out of the public,” said Lord Peter, easily, sitting down on the staircase to thrash the matter out comfortably, “though I’ve no doubt pussyfoot’s a good thing, on principle, if not exaggerated. The golden mean, Sugg, as Aristotle says, keeps you from bein’ a golden ass. Ever been a golden ass, Sugg? I have. It would take a whole rose-garden to cure me, Sugg⁠—

“ ‘You are my garden of beautiful roses,
My own rose, my one rose, that’s you!’ ”

“I’m not going to stay any longer talking to you,” said the harassed Sugg; “it’s bad enough⁠—Hullo, drat that telephone. Here, Cawthorn, go and see what it is, if that old catamaran will let you into the room. Shutting herself up there and screaming,” said the Inspector, “it’s enough to make a man give up crime and take to hedging and ditching.”

The constable came back:

“It’s from the Yard, sir,” he said, coughing apologetically; “the Chief says every facility is to be given to Lord Peter Wimsey, sir. Um!” He stood apart noncommittally, glazing his eyes.

“Five aces,” said Lord Peter, cheerfully. “The Chief’s a dear friend of my mother’s. No go, Sugg, it’s no good buckin’; you’ve got a full house. I’m goin’ to make it a bit fuller.”

He walked in with his followers.

The body had been removed a few hours previously, and when the bathroom and the whole flat had been explored by the naked eye and the camera of the competent Bunter, it became evident that the real problem of the household was old Mrs. Thipps. Her son and servant had both been removed, and it appeared that they had no friends in town, beyond a few business acquaintances of Thipps’s, whose very addresses the old lady did not know. The