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

a man in the carriage with me. He’d got in at Leicester. I didn’t recognise him at first, but he turned out to be an old schoolfellow of mine.”

“What was this gentleman’s name?” inquired the Coroner, his pencil poised.

Mr. Thipps shrank together visibly.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” he said. “You see⁠—that is, you will see⁠—it would get him into trouble, and I couldn’t do that⁠—no, I reelly couldn’t do that, not if my life depended on it. No!” he added, as the ominous pertinence of the last phrase smote upon him, “I’m sure I couldn’t do that.”

“Well, well,” said the Coroner.

The Duchess leaned over to Parker again. “I’m beginning quite to admire the little man,” she said.

Mr. Thipps resumed.

“When we got to St. Pancras I was going home, but my friend said no. We hadn’t met for a long time and we ought to⁠—to make a night of it, was his expression. I fear I was weak, and let him overpersuade me to accompany him to one of his haunts. I use the word advisedly,” said Mr. Thipps, “and I assure you, sir, that if I had known beforehand where we were going I never would have set foot in the place.

“I cloak-roomed my bag, for he did not like the notion of our being encumbered with it, and we got into a taxicab and drove to the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street. We then walked a little way, and turned into a side street (I do not recollect which) where there was an open door, with the light shining out. There was a man at a counter, and my friend bought some tickets, and I heard the man at the counter say something to him about ‘Your friend,’ meaning me, and my friend said, ‘Oh, yes, he’s been here before, haven’t you, Alf?’ (which was what they called me at school), though I assure you, sir”⁠—here Mr. Thipps grew very earnest⁠—“I never had, and nothing in the world should induce me to go to such a place again.

“Well, we went down into a room underneath, where there were drinks, and my friend had several, and made me take one or two⁠—though I am an abstemious man as a rule⁠—and he talked to some other men and girls who were there⁠—a very vulgar set of people, I thought them, though I wouldn’t say but what some of the young ladies were nice-looking enough. One of them sat on my friend’s knee and called him a slow old thing, and told him to come on⁠—so we went into another room, where there were a lot of people dancing all these up-to-date dances. My friend went and danced, and I sat on a sofa. One of the young ladies came up to me and said, didn’t I dance, and I said ‘No,’ so she said wouldn’t I stand her a drink then. ‘You’ll stand us a drink then, darling,’ that was what she said, and I said, ‘Wasn’t it after hours?’ and she said that didn’t matter. So I ordered the drink⁠—a gin and bitters it was⁠—for I didn’t like not to, the young lady seemed to expect it of me and I felt it wouldn’t be gentlemanly to refuse when she asked. But it went against my conscience⁠—such a young girl as she was⁠—and she put her arm round my neck afterwards and kissed me just like as if she was paying for the drink⁠—and it reelly went to my ’eart,” said Mr. Thipps, a little ambiguously, but with uncommon emphasis.

Here somebody at the back said, “Cheer-oh!” and a sound was heard as of the noisy smacking of lips.

“Remove the person who made that improper noise,” said the Coroner, with great indignation. “Go on, please, Mr. Thipps.”

“Well,” said Mr. Thipps, “about half-past twelve, as I should reckon, things began to get a bit lively, and I was looking for my friend to say good night, not wishing to stay longer, as you will understand, when I saw him with one of the young ladies, and they seemed to be getting on altogether too well, if you follow me, my friend pulling the ribbons off her shoulder and the young lady laughing⁠—and so on,” said Mr. Thipps, hurriedly, “so I thought I’d just slip quietly out, when I heard a scuffle and a shout⁠—and before I knew what was happening there were half-a-dozen policemen in, and the lights went out, and everybody stampeding and shouting⁠—quite horrid, it was. I was knocked down in the rush, and hit my head a nasty knock on a chair⁠—that was where I got that bruise they asked me about⁠—and I was dreadfully afraid I’d never get away and it would all come out, and perhaps my photograph in the papers, when someone caught hold of me⁠—I think it was the young lady I’d given the gin and bitters to⁠—and she said, ‘This way,’ and pushed me along a passage and out at the back somewhere. So I ran through some streets, and found myself in Goodge Street, and there I got a taxi and came home. I saw the account of the raid afterwards in the papers, and saw my friend had escaped, and so, as it wasn’t the sort of thing I wanted made public, and I didn’t want to get him into difficulties, I just said nothing. But that’s the truth.”

“Well, Mr. Thipps,” said the Coroner, “we shall be able to substantiate a certain amount of this story. Your friend’s name⁠—”

“No,” said Mr. Thipps, stoutly, “not on any account.”

“Very good,” said the Coroner. “Now, can you tell us what time you did get in?”

“About half-past one, I should think. Though reelly, I was so upset⁠—”

“Quite so. Did you go straight to bed?”

“Yes, I took my sandwich and glass of milk first. I thought it might settle my inside, so to speak,” added the witness, apologetically, “not being accustomed to alcohol so late at night and on an empty stomach, as you may say.”

“Quite so. Nobody sat up for you?”

“Nobody.”

“How long