Have His Carcase

He proffered a card, thanked Mr Merryweather and Henry, and withdrew, triumphant. He felt that he had made progress. Surely there could not be two white Endicott razors, bearing the same evidence of misuse and the same little crack in the ivory. Surely he had tracked the right one, and if so—

Well, then he had only to find Mr Bright. A tramp-barber with sandy hair and a crooked shoulder ought not to be so very difficult to find. But there was always the disagreeable possibility that Mr Bright had been a barber for that one performance only. In which case, his name was almost certainly not Bright.

He thought for a moment, then went into a telephone call-box and rang up the Wilvercombe police.

Superintendent Glaisher answered him. He was interested to hear that Wimsey had traced the early history of the razor. He had not personally observed the crack in the ivory, but if his lordship would hold the line for a moment…. Hullo! was Wimsey there?… Yes, his lordship was quite right. There was a crack. Almost indistinguishable, but it was, there. Certainly it was an odd coincidence. It really looked as thought it might bear investigation.

Wimsey spoke again.

Yes, by all means. The Seahampton police should be asked, to trace Bright. No doubt it would turn out that Alexis had got the razor off Bright, but it was funny that he couldn’t have bought one in Wilvercombe if he wanted one. About three weeks ago, was it? Very good. He would see what could, be done. He would also find out whether Alexis had been to Seahampton within that period or whether, alternatively, Bright had been seen in Wilvercombe. He was obliged to Lord Peter for the trouble he had, taken in the matter and if his lordship thought of coming back to Wilvercombe, there had been recent developments which might interest him. It was now pretty, certain that it was a case of suicide. Still, one had to go into these matters pretty carefully. Had the body been found? No. — The body had not come ashore, and the wind was still holding the tide up and making it impossible to undertake any operations off the Grinders.

Chapter IX. The Evidence Of The Flat-Iron

‘Come, tell me now,

How sits this ring?’

— The Bride’s Tragedy

Sunday, 21 June

HARRIET VANE and Lord Peter Wimsey sat side by side on the beach, looking out towards the Devil’s Flat-Iron. The fresh salt wind blew strongly in from the sea, ruffling Harriet’s dark hair. The weather was fine, but the sunshine came only in brilliant bursts, as the driven clouds rolled tumultuously across the bellowing vault of the sky. Over the Grinders, the sea broke in furious patches of white. It, was about three o’clock in the afternoon, and the tide was at its lowest, but even so, the Flat-Iron was hardly uncovered, and the Atlantic waves, roaring’ in, made a heavy breath against its foot. A basket of food lay between the pair, not yet unpacked. Wimsey was drawing plans in the damp sand.

“The thing we want to, get,’ he said, ’is the time of the death. The police are quite clear about how Alexis came here, and there doesn’t seem to be any doubt in the matter, which is a blessing. There’s a train from Wilvercombe that stops at Darley Halt on Thursdays at 10.15, to take people in to Heathbury market. Alexis travelled by that train and got out at the Halt. I think it must have been Alexis all right. He was pretty conspicuous with his black beard and his natty gent’s outfitting. I think we can take that bit as proved. The guard on the train remembered him, and so did three or four of his fellow-travellers. What’s more, his landlady says he left his rooms in time to catch the train, and the booking-clerk: remembers him at Wilvercombe. And, dear Harriet, there is a first return-ticket from Wilvercombe to that Halt that was never given up and never accounted for.’

‘A return-ticket?’asked Harriet.

‘A return-ticket. And that, as you so acutely remark, Sherlock, seems to knock the suicide theory on the head. I said as much to the Super, and what was his reply? That suicides, let alone foreign suicides, were that inconsistent there was no accounting for them.’

‘So they may be, in real life,’ observed Harriet, thoughtfully. ‘One wouldn’t made an intending suicide take a return-ticket in a book but real people are different. It might have been a slip, or just habit or he may not have quite made up his mind to the suicide business.