Have His Carcase

WIMSEY and the Inspector spent Sunday in. Town, and on the Monday started out for Shaftesbury Avenue. At the first two names on their list they drew blank; either the agent had given out no photographs of Olga Kohn or he could not remember anything of the circumstances. The third agent, a Mr Isaac J. Sullivan, had a smaller and dingier office than the other two. Its antechamber was thronged with the usual crowd, patiently waiting for notice. The Inspector sent his name by a mournful-eyed-secretary, who looked as though he had spent all his life saying ‘No’ to people and taking the blame for it. Nothing happened. Wimsey seated himself philosophically on the extreme end of a bench already occupied: by eight other people and began to work out a crossword, in the morning paper. The Inspector fidgeted. The secretary, emerging from the inner door, was promptly besieged by a rush of applicants. He pushed them away firmly but not harshly, and returned to his, desk.

‘Look here, young man,’ said the, Inspector, ‘I’ve got to see Mr Sullivan at once. This is a police matter.’

‘Mr Sullivan’s engaged,’ said the secretary, impassively.

‘He’s got to be disengaged then,’ said the Inspector. ‘’Presently,’ said the secretary, copying something into a large book.

‘I’ve no time to waste,’ said the Inspector, and strode across to the inner door.

‘Mr Sullivan’s not there,’ said the secretary, intercepting him with eel-like agility

‘Oh, yes, he is,’ replied the Inspector. ‘Now, don’t you go obstructing me in the performance of my duty.’ He, put the secretary aside with one hand and flung the door open, revealing a young lady in the minimum of clothing, who was displaying her charms to a couple of stout gentlemen with large cigars.

‘Shut the door, blast you,’ said one gentleman, without looking around. ‘Hell of a draught, and you’ll let all that lot in.’

‘Which of you is Mr Sullivan?’ demanded the Inspector, standing his ground, and glaring at a second door on the opposite side of the room.

‘Sullivan ain’t here. Shut that door, will you?’

The Inspector retired, discomfited, amid loud applause — from the ante-room.

‘I say old man,’ said Wimsey, ‘what: do you think the blighter means by this “Bright-eyed after swallowing a wingless biped?” Sounds like the tiger who conveyed the young lady of Riga.’

The Inspector snorted.

There was an interval. Presently the inner door opened again and the young lady emerged, clothed and apparently very much in her right mind, for she smiled round and observed to an acquaintance seated next to Wimsey:

‘O. K. darling. “Aeroplane Girl,’ first row, song and dance, start next week.’

The acquaintance offered suitable congratulations, the two men with cigars came out with their hats’ on and the assembly surged towards the inner room.

‘Now, ladies,’ protested the ‘secretary, ‘it’s not a bit of use. Mr Sullivan’s engaged.’

‘Look here,’ said the Inspector.

At this moment the door opened a fraction of an inch and an impatient voice bellowed: ‘Horrocks!’

‘I’ll tell him,’ said the secretary, hastily, and wormed himself neatly through the crack of the door, frustrating the efforts of a golden-haired sylph to rush the barrier.

Presently the door opened again and the bellowing voice was heard to observe:

‘I don’t care if he’s Godalmighty. He’s got to wait. Send that girl in, and-oh, Horrocks

The secretary turned back — fatally. The sylph was under his guard in a moment. There was an altercation on the threshold. Then, suddenly; the door opened to its full extent and disgorged, all in a heap, the sylph, the secretary, and an immensely stout man, wearing a benevolent expression entirely at variance with his hectoring voice.

‘Now, Grace, my; girl, don’t you get trying it on. There’s nothing for you today. You’re wasting my time. Be a good girl. I’ll let you know when, anything turns up. Hullo, Phyllis, back again? That’s right. Might want you next week. No, Mammy, no grey-haired mommas wanted today. I — hullo!’

His eye fell on Wimsey who had got stuck over his crossword and was gazing vaguely round in search of inspiration.,

‘Here, Horrocks! Why the hell didn’t you tell me? What do you think I pay you for? Wasting my time. Here, you, what’s your name? Never been here before, have you? I’m wanting your type. Hi! Rosencrantz!’

Another: gentleman, slightly less bulky but also inclined to embonpoint, appeared in the doorway.

‘Told you we should have something to suit you,’ bellowed the first gentleman, excitedly.

‘Vot for?’ demanded Mr Rosencrantz, languidly.

‘What for?’ Indignation quivered in the tone. ‘Why, for the Worm that Turned, to be sure! J’ever see such a perfect type? You’ve got the right thing here, my boy. Knock ’em flat, eh? The nose alone would carry the play for you.’

‘That’s all very well, Sullivan,’ replied Mr Rosencrantz, ‘but can he act?’

‘Act?’ exploded Mr Sullivan. ‘He don’t have to act. He’s only got to walk on. Look at it! Ain’t that the perfect Worm? Here, you, thingummy, speak up, can’t you?’