Have His Carcase

‘Well, really, don’t you know.’ Wimsey, screwed his monoocle more firmly into his eye. ‘Really, old fellow, you make me feel all of a doo-dab, what?’

‘There you, are!’ said Mr Sullivan, triumphantly. ‘Voice like a plum. Carries his clothes well, eh! I wouldn’t sell you a feller that wasn’t the goods, Rosencrantz, you know that’

‘Pretty fair,’ admitted Mr Rosencrantz, grudgingly. ‘Walk a bit, will you?’

Wimsey obliged by mincing delicately in the direction of the inner office. Mr Sullivan purred after, him. Mr Rosencrantz followed. Horrocks, aghast, caught Mr Sullivan by the sleeve.

‘I say,’ he said, ‘look out. I think there’s a mistake.’

‘Wotcher mean, mistake?’ retorted his employer in a fierce’ whisper. ‘I dunno who he is, but he’s got the goods, all right, so don’t come butting in.’

‘Ever played lead?’ demanded Mr Rosencrantz of Wimsey.

Lord Peter paused in the inner doorway, raking the petrified audience right and left with impertinent eyes.

‘I have played lead,’—he announced, ‘before all the crowned heads of Europe. Off with the mask! The Worm has Turned!’ I am Lord Peter Wimsey, the Piccadilly Sleuth, hot on the trail of Murder.’

‘He drew the two stout gentlemen into the room and shut the door behind them.

‘That’s a good curtain,’ said somebody,

‘Well!’ gasped the Inspector. ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’

He made for the door, and this time Horrocks offered no resistance.

‘Well, well, well,’ said Mr Sullivan, ‘Well, well!’ He turned Wimsey’s card over and stared at it. ‘Dear, dear, what a pity. Such a waste, eh, Rosencrantz? With your face, you ought to be makin’ a fortune.’

‘There ain’t nothing in this for me, anyhow,’ said Mr Rosencrantz, ‘so I’d better be pushin’ along. The Vorm is a good Vorm, Sullivan, as Shakespeare says, but he ain’t on the market. Unless Lord Peter has a fancy for the thing. It ‘ud go vell, eh? Lord Peter Vimsey in the title role? The nobility ain’t much cop these days, but Lord Peter is vell known. He does somethings. Nowadays, they all-vant somebody as does somethings. A lord is nothing, but a lord that flies the Atlantic or keeps a hatshop or detects murders — there might be a draw in that, vot you think?’

Mr Sullivan looked hopefully at Wimsey.

‘Sorry,’ said his lordship. ‘Can’t be done.’

‘Times are bad,’ said Mr Rosencrantz, who seemed to grow more enthusiastic as the desired article was withdrawn from his grasp, ‘but I make you a good offer. Vot you say, to two hundred a week eh?’

Wimsey shook his head.

‘Three hundred?’ suggested Mr Rosencrantz.

‘Sorry, old horse. I’m not selling.’

‘Five hundred, then.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Mr Umpelty.

‘It’s no go,’ said Mr Sullivan. ‘Very sad, but it’s no go. Suppose you are rich, eh? Great pity., It won’t last,’ you know. Super-tax and death-duties. Better take what. you can while you can. No?’

‘Definitely, no,’ said Wimsey.

Mr Rosencrantz sighed.

‘Oh, veil — I’d best be moving. See you tomorrow, Sully. You have something for me then, eh?’

He retired, not through the antechamber, but through the private door on the opposite side of the room. Mr Sullivan turned to his visitors.

‘You want me? Tell me what you want and make it snappy. I’m busy.’

The Inspector produced Olga’s photograph.

‘The Kohn girl,’ eh? Yes, what about her? No trouble, eh? A good girl. Works hard. Nothing against her here.’

The Inspector explained that they wanted to know whether Mr Sullivan had, distributed any photographs of Olga; recently.

‘Well now, let me think. She hasn’t been round here for a good time. Doing mannequin work, I rather think. Better for her. A good girl and-a good-looker, but she can’t act, poor child. Just a minute, though. Where’s Horrocks?’

He surged to the door, set it cautiously ajar and bawled ‘Horrocks!’’ through the crack. The secretary sidled in.

‘Horrocks! You know this photograph of the little Kohn? Have we sent it out lately?’

‘Why, yes, sir.’ Don’t you remember? That fellow who said he wanted Russian types for the provinces.’

‘That’s right, that’s right. I knew there was somebody. Tell these gentlemen about him We didn’t know him,’ did we?’

‘No, — sir. Said he was starting management on his own. Name of — wait a minute.’ He pulled a-book from a shelf and turned the leaves with a wetted finger. ‘Yes, here we are — Maurice Vavasour.’

‘Fine sort of name,’ grunted Mr Sullivan. ‘Not his own, naturally. Never is. Probably called Potts or Spink. Can’t run a company as Potts or Spink. ‘ Not classy enough. I’ve got the fellow now: Little chap with a beard. Said he was casting for romantic drama and wanted a Russian type. We gave him the Livinsky girl and the little Petrovna and one or two more. He seemed stuck with this photograph, I remember. I told him Petrovna had more experience, but he said he didn’t mind about that. I didn’t like the fellow.’

‘No?’