Have His Carcase

‘How should I know? If he knew that the shaving made the pimples, he must have tried to shave, n’est-ce pas? But — as to the razor, I cannot tell. Do you know, Doris?’

‘Me? I like that. Alexis never was my fancy-man. But I’ll ask Leila Garland. She ought to know.’

‘Sa maitresse,’ explained Antoine. ‘Yes, ask her, Doris. Because evidently that is of a considerable importance. I have not thought of that, mon dieu!’

‘You’ve told me a lot of interesting things,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m very much obliged to you. And I’d be still more — obliged if you didn’t mention that I’d been asking you, because, what with the newspaper reporters and so on—’

‘Oh!’ said Antoine. ‘Listen, mademoiselle, you must not think that because we are the dolls that are bought and sold we have neither eyes nor ears. This gentleman that arrived this morning — do you think we do not know who he is? This Lord Peter, so celebrated, he does not come here for nothing, hein? It is not for nothing he talks to you and asks questions. He is not interested because a foreign dancer has cut his throat in a tantrum. No. But, equally, we know how to be discreet: Ma foi, if we did not, we should not keep our jobs, you understand. We tell, you what we know, and the lady who writes the romans-policiers and the lord who is connaisseur in mysteries, they make the investigations. But we say nothing. It is our business to say nothing. That is understood.’

‘That’s right,’ said Charis. ‘We won’t let on. Not that there’s a great deal to tell anybody. We’ve had the police asking questions, of course, but they never believe anything one says. I’m sure they all think it’s something to do with Leila. These policemen always think that if anything happens to a fellow, there must be a girl at the bottom of it.’’

‘But that,’ said Antoine, ’is a compliment.’

Chapter VIII. The Evidence Of The Second Barber

‘Send him back again,

An unmasked braggart to his bankrupt den.’

— Letter from Gottingen

Saturday, 20 June; Sunday, 21 June

Wimsy, sleek with breakfast, sunshine and sentiment, strolled peacefully upon the close-clipped lawn of the George at Stamford, pausing now and again to inhale the scent of a crimson rose, or to marvel at the age and extent of the wistaria, trailing its lacy tendrils along the grey stone wall. He had covenanted with himself to interview Colonel Belfridge at eleven o’clock. By that time, both of them would have digested their breakfasts and be ready for a small, companionable spot of something. He had a pleasurable interior certainty that he was on the track of a nice, difficult, meaty problem, investigated under agreeable conditions. He lit up a well-seasoned pipe. Life felt good to him.

At ten minutes past eleven, life felt slightly less good. Colonel Belfridge, who looked as though he had been designed by H. M. Bateman in a moment of more than ordinary inspiration, was extremely indignant. It seemed to him that it was an ungentlemanly action to go and interrogate a man’s barber, — hr’rm about a man’s personal belongings, and he resented the insinuation that a man could possibly be mixed up, hr’rm, in the decease of a damned dago, hr’rm, in an adjectival four-by-three watering-places like Wilvercombe. Wimsey ought to be ashamed, hr’rm, woof! of interfering in what was properly the business of the police, dammit, sir! If the police didn’t know their own damned business, what did we pay rates and taxes for, tell me that, sir!

Wimsey apologised for worrying Colonel Belfridge, and protested that a man must take up some sort of hobby.

The Colonel intimated that golf, or, hr’rm, breeding spaniels would be a more seemly amusement for a gentleman.

Wimsey said that, having engaged, in a spot of intelligence work during the War, he had acquired a kind of taste for that kind of thing.

The Colonel pounced on this remark immediately, turned Wimsey’s war-record inside out, discovered a number of military experiences common to both of them, and presently found himself walking with his visitor down the pansy-edged path of his little garden to display a litter of puppies.

‘My dear boy,’ said Colonel Belfridge, ‘I shall only be too happy to help you in any way I can. You’re not in a hurry, are you? Stay to lunch and we can talk it over afterwards. Mabel!’—in a stentorian shout.

A middle-aged woman appeared in the back doorway and waddled hastily down the path towards them.

‘Gentleman for lunch!’ bawled the Colonel. ‘And decant a bottle of the ‘04, Carefully now, dammit! I wonder, now,’ he added, turning to Wimsey, ‘if you recollect a fellow called Stokes.’