cold meat and salad, I'm afraid. My woman won't come Sundays. Have to
answer my own door. Deuced unprofessional, I'm afraid, but it can't be
helped."
"Pleasure," said Wimsey, as they emerged from the laboratory and
entered the dark little flat by the back door. "Did you build this
place on?"
"No," said Hartman; "the last tenant did that. He was an artist. That's
why I took the place. It comes in very useful, ramshackle as it is,
though this glass roof is a bit sweltering on a hot day like this.
Still, I had to have something on the ground-floor, cheap, and it'll do
till times get better."
"Till your vitamin experiments make you famous, eh?" said Peter
cheerfully. "You're goin' to be the comin' man, you know. Feel it in my
bones. Uncommonly neat little kitchen you've got, anyhow."
"It does," said the doctor. "The lab. makes it a bit gloomy, but the
woman's only here in the daytime."
He led the way into a narrow little dining-room, where the table
was laid for a cold lunch. The one window at the end farthest from
the kitchen looked out into Great James Street. The room was little
more than a passage, and full of doors--the kitchen door, a door in
the adjacent wall leading into the entrance-hall, and a third on
the opposite side, through which his visitor caught a glimpse of a
moderate-sized consulting-room.
Lord Peter Wimsey and his host sat down to table, and the doctor
expressed a hope that Mr. Bunter would sit down with them. That correct
person, however, deprecated any such suggestion.
"If I might venture to indicate my own preference, sir," he said, "it
would be to wait upon you and his lordship in the usual manner."
"It's no use," said Wimsey. "Bunter likes me to know my place.
Terrorisin' sort of man, Bunter. Can't call my soul my own. Carry on,
Bunter; we wouldn't presume for the world."
Mr. Bunter handed the salad, and poured out the water with a grave
decency appropriate to a crusted old tawny port.
It was a Sunday afternoon in that halcyon summer of 1921. The sordid
little street was almost empty. The ice-cream man alone seemed thriving
and active. He leaned luxuriously on the green post at the corner,
in the intervals of driving a busy trade. Bloomsbury's swarm of
able-bodied and able-voiced infants was still presumably within-doors,
eating steamy Sunday dinners inappropriate to the tropical weather. The
only disturbing sounds came from the flat above, where heavy footsteps
passed rapidly to and fro.
"Who's the merry-and-bright bloke above?" enquired Lord Peter
presently. "Not an early riser, I take it. Not that anybody is on a
Sunday mornin'. Why an inscrutable Providence ever inflicted such a
ghastly day on people livin' in town I can't imagine. I ought to be in
the country, but I've got to meet a friend at Victoria this afternoon.
Such a day to choose.... Who's the lady? Wife or accomplished friend?
Gather she takes a properly submissive view of woman's duties in the
home, either way. That's the bedroom overhead, I take it."
Hartman looked at Lord Peter in some surprise.
"'Scuse my beastly inquisitiveness, old thing," said Wimsey. "Bad
habit. Not my business."
"How did you----"
"Guesswork," said Lord Peter, with disarming frankness. "I heard the
squawk of an iron bedstead on the ceiling and a heavy fellow get out
with a bump, but it may quite well be a couch or something. Anyway,
he's been potterin' about in his stocking feet over these few feet of
floor for the last half-hour, while the woman has been clatterin' to
and fro, in and out of the kitchen and away into the sittin'-room, with
her high heels on, ever since we've been here. Hence deduction as to
domestic habits of the first-floor tenants."
"I thought," said the doctor, with an aggrieved expression, "you'd
been listening to my valuable exposition of the beneficial effects of
Vitamin B, and Lind's treatment of scurvy with fresh lemons in 1755."
"I was listenin'" agreed Lord Peter hastily, "but I heard the footsteps
as well. Fellow's toddled into the kitchen--only wanted the matches,
though; he's gone off into the sittin'-room and left her to carry on
the good work. What was I sayin'? Oh, yes! You see, as I was sayin'
before, one hears a thing or sees it without knowin' or thinkin' about
it. Then afterwards one starts meditatin', and it all comes back,
and one sorts out one's impressions. Like those plates of Bunter's.
Picture's all there, l--la--what's the word I want, Bunter?"
"Latent, my lord."
"That's it. My right-hand man, Bunter; couldn't do a thing without
him. The picture's latent till you put the developer on. Same with the
brain. No mystery. Little grey books all my respected grandmother!
Little grey matter's all you want to remember things with. As a matter
of curiosity, was I right about those people above?"
"Perfectly. The man's a gas-company's inspector. A bit surly, but
devoted (after his own fashion) to his wife. I mean, he doesn't mind
hulking in bed on a Sunday morning and letting her do the chores, but
he spends all the money he can spare on giving her pretty hats and fur
coats and what not. They've only been married about six months. I was
called in to her when she had a touch of 'flu in the spring, and he was
almost off his head with anxiety. She's a lovely little woman, I must
say--Italian. He picked her up in some eating-place in Soho, I believe.
Glorious dark hair and eyes; Venus sort of figure; proper contours in
all the right places; good skin--all that sort of thing. She was a bit
of a draw to that restaurant while she was there, I fancy. Lively. She
had an old admirer round here one day--awkward little Italian fellow,
with a knife--active as a monkey. Might have been unpleasant, but I
happened to be on the spot, and her husband came along. People are
always laying one another out in these streets. Good for business, of
course, but one gets tired of tying up broken heads and slits in the
jugular. Still, I suppose the girl can't help being attractive, though
I don't say she's what you might call stand-offish in her manner. She's
sincerely fond of Brotherton, I think, though--that's his name."
Wimsey nodded inattentively. "I suppose life is a bit monotonous here,"
he said.
"Professionally, yes. Births and drunks and wife-beatings are pretty
common. And all the usual ailments, of course. Just at present I'm
living on infant diarrhœa chiefly--bound to, this hot weather, you
know. With the autumn, 'flu and bronchitis set in. I may get an
occasional pneumonia. Legs, of course, and varicose veins----God!"
cried the doctor explosively, "if only I could get away, and do my
experiments!"
"Ah!" said Peter, "where's that eccentric old millionaire with a
mysterious disease, who always figures in the novels? A lightning
diagnosis--a miraculous cure--'God bless you, doctor; here are five
thousand pounds'--Harley Street----"
"That sort doesn't live in Bloomsbury," said the doctor.
"It must be fascinatin', diagnosin' things," said Peter thoughtfully.
"How d'you do it? I mean, is there a regular set of symptoms for each
disease, like callin' a club to show you want your partner to go no
trumps? You don't just say: 'This fellow's got a pimple on his nose,
therefore he has fatty degeneration of the heart----'"
"I hope not," said the doctor drily.
"Or is it more like gettin' a clue to a crime?" went on Peter. "You
see somethin'--a room, or a body, say, all knocked about anyhow, and
there's a damn sight of symptoms of somethin' wrong, and you've got
just to pick out the ones which tell the story?"
"That's more like it," said Dr. Hartman. "Some symptoms are significant
in themselves--like the condition of the gums in scurvy, let us
say--others in conjunction with----"
He broke off, and both sprang to their feet as a shrill scream sounded
suddenly from the flat above, followed by a heavy thud. A man's voice
cried out lamentably; feet ran violently to and fro; then, as the
doctor and his guests stood frozen in consternation, came the man
himself--falling down the stairs in his haste, hammering at Hartman's
door.
"Help! Help! Let me in! My wife! He's murdered her!"
* * * * *
They ran hastily to the door and let him in. He was a big, fair man, in
his shirt-sleeves and stockings. His hair stood up, and his face was
set in bewildered misery.
"She is dead--dead. He was her lover," he groaned. "Come and look--take
her away----Doctor! I have lost my wife! My Maddalena----" He paused,
looked wildly for a moment, and then said hoarsely, "Someone's been
in--somehow--stabbed her--murdered her. I'll have the law on him,
doctor. Come quickly--she was cooking the chicken for my dinner.
Ah-h-h!"
He gave a long, hysterical shriek, which ended in a hiccupping laugh.
The doctor took him roughly by the arm and shook him. "Pull yourself
together, Mr. Brotherton," he said sharply. "Perhaps she is only hurt.
Stand out of the way!"
"Only hurt?" said the man, sitting heavily down on the nearest chair.
"No--no--she is dead--little Maddalena----Oh, my God!"
Dr. Hartman snatched a roll of bandages and a few surgical appliances
from the consulting-room, and he ran upstairs, followed closely by Lord
Peter. Bunter remained for a few moments to combat hysterics with cold
water. Then he stepped across to the dining-room window and shouted.
"Well, wot is it?" cried a voice from the street.
"Would you be so kind as to step in here a minute, officer?" said Mr.
Bunter. "There's been murder done."
* * * * *
When Brotherton and Bunter arrived upstairs with the constable, they
found Dr. Hartman and Lord Peter in the little kitchen. The doctor was
kneeling beside the woman's body. At their entrance he looked up, and
shook his head.
"Death instantaneous," he said. "Clean through the heart. Poor child.
She cannot have suffered at all. Oh, constable, it is very fortunate
you are here. Murder appears to have been done--though I'm afraid the
man has escaped. Probably Mr. Brotherton can give us some help. He was
in the flat at the time."
The man had sunk down on a chair, and was gazing at the body with
a face from which all meaning seemed to have been struck out. The
policeman produced a notebook.
"Now, sir," he said, "don't let's waste any time. Sooner we can get to
work the more likely we are to catch our man. Now, you was 'ere at the
time, was you?"
Brotherton stared a moment, then, making a violent effort, he answered
steadily:
"I was in the sitting-room, smoking and reading the paper.
My--_she_--was getting the dinner ready in here. I heard her give a
scream, and I rushed in and found her lying on the floor. She didn't
have time to say anything. When I found she was dead, I rushed to the
window, and saw the fellow scrambling away over the glass roof there. I
yelled at him, but he disappeared. Then I ran down----"
"'Arf a mo'," said the policeman. "Now, see 'ere, sir, didn't you think
to go after 'im at once?"
"My first thought was for her," said the man. "I thought maybe she
wasn't dead. I tried to bring her round----" His speech ended in a
groan.
"You say he came in through the window," said the policeman.
"I beg your pardon, officer," interrupted Lord Peter, who had been
apparently making a mental inventory of the contents of the kitchen.
"Mr. Brotherton suggested that the man went _out_ through the window.
It's better to be accurate."
"It's the same thing," said the doctor. "It's the only way he could
have come in. These flats are all alike. The staircase door leads into
the sitting-room, and Mr. Brotherton was there, so the man couldn't
have come that way."
"And," said Peter, "he didn't get in through the bedroom window, or we
should have seen him. We were in the room below. Unless, indeed, he let
himself down from the roof. Was the door between the bedroom and the
sitting-room open?" he asked suddenly, turning to Brotherton.
The man hesitated a moment. "Yes," he said finally. "Yes, I'm sure it
was."
"Could you have seen the man if he had come through the bedroom window?"
"I couldn't have helped seeing him."
"Come, come, sir," said the policeman, with some irritation, "better
let _me_ ask the questions. Stands to reason the fellow wouldn't get in
through the bedroom window in full view of the street."
"How clever of you to think of that," said Wimsey. "Of course not.
Never occurred to me. Then it must have been this window, as you say."
"And, what's more, here's his marks on the window-sill," said the
constable triumphantly, pointing to some blurred traces among the
London soot. "That's right. Down he goes by that drain-pipe, over the
glass roof down there--what's that the roof of?"
"My laboratory," said the doctor. "Heavens! to think that while we were
there at dinner this murdering villain----"
"Quite so, sir," agreed the constable. "Well, he'd get away over
the wall into the court be'ind. 'E'll 'ave been seen there, no
fear; you needn't anticipate much trouble in layin' 'ands on 'im,
sir. I'll go round there in 'arf a tick. Now then, sir"--turning to
Brotherton--"'ave you any idea wot this party might have looked like?"
Brotherton lifted a wild face, and the doctor interposed.
"I think you ought to know, constable," he said, "that there was--well,
not a murderous attack, but what might have been one, made on this
woman before--about eight weeks ago--by a man named Marincetti--an
Italian waiter--with a knife."
"Ah!" The policeman licked his pencil eagerly. "Do you know this party
as 'as been mentioned?" he enquired of Brotherton.
"That's the man," said Brotherton, with concentrated fury. "Coming here
after my wife--God curse him! I wish to God I had him dead here beside
her!"
"Quite so," said the policeman. "Now, sir"--to the doctor--"'ave you
got the weapon wot the crime was committed with?"
"No," said Hartman, "there was no weapon in the body when I arrived."
"Did _you_ take it out?" pursued the constable, to Brotherton.
"No," said Brotherton, "he took it with him."
"Took it with 'im," the constable entered the fact in his notes. "Phew!
Wonderful 'ot it is in 'ere, ain't it, sir?" he added, mopping his brow.
"It's the gas-oven, I think," said Peter mildly. "Uncommon hot thing, a
gas-oven, in the middle of July. D'you mind if I turn it out? There's
the chicken inside, but I don't suppose you want----"
Brotherton groaned, and the constable said: "Quite right, sir. A man
wouldn't 'ardly fancy 'is dinner after a thing like this. Thank you,
sir. Well now, doctor, wot kind of weapon do you take this to 'ave
been?"
"It was a long, narrow weapon--something like an Italian stiletto,
I imagine," said the doctor, "about six inches long. It was thrust
in with great force under the fifth rib, and I should say it had
pierced the heart centrally. As you see, there has been practically no
bleeding. Such a wound would cause instant death. Was she lying just as
she is now when you first saw her, Mr. Brotherton?"
"On her back, just as she is," replied the husband.
"Well, that seems clear enough," said the policeman. "This 'ere
Marinetti, or wotever 'is name is, 'as a grudge against the poor young
lady----"
"I believe he was an admirer," put in the doctor.
"Quite so," agreed the constable. "Of course, these foreigners are
like that--even the decentest of 'em. Stabbin' and such-like seems
to come nateral to them, as you might say. Well, this 'ere Marinetti
climbs in 'ere, sees the poor young lady standin' 'ere by the table all
alone, gettin' the dinner ready; 'e comes in be'ind, catches 'er round
the waist, stabs 'er--easy job, you see; no corsets nor nothink--she
shrieks out, 'e pulls 'is stiletty out of 'er an' makes tracks. Well,
now we've got to find 'im, and by your leave, sir, I'll be gettin'
along. We'll 'ave 'im by the 'eels before long, sir, don't you worry.
I'll 'ave to put a man in charge 'ere, sir, to keep folks out, but that
needn't worry you. Good mornin', gentlemen."
"May we move the poor girl now?" asked the doctor.
"Certainly. Like me to 'elp you, sir?"
"No. Don't lose any time. We can manage." Dr. Hartman turned to Peter
as the constable clattered downstairs. "Will you help me, Lord Peter?"
"Bunter's better at that sort of thing," said Wimsey, with a hard mouth.
The doctor looked at him in some surprise, but said nothing, and he and
Bunter carried the still form away. Brotherton did not follow them. He
sat in a grief-stricken heap, with his head buried in his hands. Lord
Peter walked about the little kitchen, turning over the various knives
and kitchen utensils, peering into the sink bucket, and apparently
taking an inventory of the bread, butter, condiments, vegetables, and
so forth which lay about in preparation for the Sunday meal. There were
potatoes in the sink, half peeled, a pathetic witness to the quiet
domestic life which had been so horribly interrupted. The colander was
filled with green peas. Lord Peter turned these things over with an
inquisitive finger, gazed into the smooth surface of a bowl of dripping
as though it were a divining-crystal, ran his hands several times right
through a bowl of flour--then drew his pipe from his pocket and filled
it slowly.
The doctor returned, and put his hand on Brotherton's shoulder.
"Come," he said gently, "we have laid her in the other bedroom. She
looks very peaceful. You must remember that, except for that moment of
terror when she saw the knife, she suffered nothing. It is terrible for
you, but you must try not to give way. The police----"
"The police can't bring her back to life," said the man savagely.
"She's dead. Leave me alone, curse you! Leave me alone, I say!"
He stood up, with a violent gesture.
"You must not sit here," said Hartman firmly. "I will give you
something to take, and you must try to keep calm. Then we will leave
you, but if you don't control yourself----"
After some further persuasion, Brotherton allowed himself to be led
away.
"Bunter," said Lord Peter, as the kitchen door closed behind them, "do
you know why I am doubtful about the success of those rat experiments?"
"Meaning Mr. Hartman's, my lord?"
"Yes. Dr. Hartman has a theory. In any investigations, my Bunter, it is
most damnably dangerous to have a theory."
"I have heard you say so, my lord."
"Confound you--you know it as well as I do! What is wrong with the
doctor's theories, Bunter?"
"You wish me to reply, my lord, that he only sees the facts which fit
in with the theory."
"Thought-reader!" exclaimed Lord Peter bitterly.
"And that he supplies them to the police, my lord."
"Hush!" said Peter, as the doctor returned.
* * * * *
"I have got him to lie down," said Dr. Hartman, "and I think the best
thing we can do is to leave him to himself."
"D'you know," said Wimsey, "I don't cotton to that idea, somehow."
"Why? Do you think he's likely to destroy himself?"
"That's as good a reason to give as any other, I suppose," said Wimsey,
"when you haven't got any reason which can be put into words. But my
advice is, don't leave him for a moment."
"But why? Frequently, with a deep grief like this, the presence of
other people is merely an irritant. He begged me to leave him."
"Then for God's sake go back to him," said Peter.
"Really, Lord Peter," said the doctor, "I think I ought to know what is
best for my patient."
"Doctor," said Wimsey, "this is not a question of your patient. A crime
has been committed."
"But there is no mystery."
"There are twenty mysteries. For one thing, when was the window-cleaner
here last?"
"The window-cleaner?"
"Who shall fathom the ebony-black enigma of the window-cleaner?"
pursued Peter lightly, putting a match to his pipe. "You are quietly
in your bath, in a state of more or less innocent nature, when an
intrusive head appears at the window, like the ghost of Hamilton Tighe,
and a gruff voice, suspended between earth and heaven, says 'Good
morning, sir.' Where do window-cleaners go between visits? Do they
hibernate, like busy bees? Do they----?"
"Really, Lord Peter," said the doctor, "don't you think you're going a
bit beyond the limit?"
"Sorry you feel like that," said Peter, "but I really want to know
about the window-cleaner. Look how clear these panes are."
"He came yesterday, if you want to know," said Dr. Hartman, rather
stiffly.
"You are sure?"
"He did mine at the same time."
"I thought as much," said Lord Peter. "In the words of the song:
"I thought as much,
It was a little--window-cleaner,
In that case," he added, "it is absolutely imperative that Brotherton
should not be left alone for a moment. Bunter! Confound it all, where's
that fellow got to?"
The door into the bedroom opened.
"My lord?" Mr. Bunter unobtrusively appeared, as he had unobtrusively
stolen out to keep an unobtrusive eye upon the patient.
"Good," said Wimsey. "Stay where you are." His lackadaisical manner had
gone, and he looked at the doctor as four years previously he might
have looked at a refractory subaltern.
"Dr. Hartman," he said, "something is wrong. Cast your mind back. We
were talking about symptoms. Then came the scream. Then came the sound
of feet running. _Which direction did they run in?_"
"I'm sure I don't know."
"Don't you? Symptomatic, though, doctor. They have been troubling
me all the time, subconsciously. Now I know why. They ran _from the
kitchen_."
"Well?"
"Well! And now the window-cleaner----"
"What about him?"
"Could you swear that it wasn't the window-cleaner who made those marks
on the sill?"
"And the man Brotherton saw----?"
"Have we examined your laboratory roof for his footsteps?"
"But the weapon? Wimsey, this is madness! Someone took the weapon."
"I know. But did you think the edge of the wound was clean enough to
have been made by a smooth stiletto? It looked ragged to me."
"Wimsey, what are you driving at?"
"There's a clue here in the flat--and I'm damned if I can remember
it. I've seen it--I know I've seen it. It'll come to me presently.
Meanwhile, don't let Brotherton----"
"What?"
"Do whatever it is he's going to do."
"But what is it?"
"If I could tell you that I could show you the clue. Why couldn't he
make up his mind whether the bedroom door was open or shut? Very good
story, but not quite thought out. Anyhow--I say, doctor, make some
excuse, and strip him, and bring me his clothes. And send Bunter to me."
The doctor stared at him, puzzled. Then he made a gesture of
acquiescence and passed into the bedroom. Lord Peter followed him,
casting a ruminating glance at Brotherton as he went. Once in the
sitting-room, Lord Peter sat down on a red velvet arm-chair, fixed his
eyes on a gilt-framed oleograph, and became wrapped in contemplation.
Presently Bunter came in, with his arms full of clothing. Wimsey took
it, and began to search it, methodically enough, but listlessly.
Suddenly he dropped the garments, and turned to the manservant.
"No," he said, "this is a precaution, Bunter mine, but I'm on the wrong
track. It wasn't here I saw--whatever I did see. It was in the kitchen.
Now, what was it?"
"I could not say, my lord, but I entertain a conviction that I was
also, in a manner of speaking, conscious--not consciously conscious, my
lord, if you understand me, but still conscious of an incongruity."
"Hurray!" said Wimsey suddenly. "Cheer-oh! for the sub-conscious
what's-his-name! Now let's remember the kitchen. I cleared out of
it because I was gettin' obfuscated. Now then. Begin at the door.
Fryin'-pans and saucepans on the wall. Gas-stove--oven goin'--chicken
inside. Rack of wooden spoons on the wall, gas-lighter, pan-lifter.
Stop me when I'm gettin' hot. Mantelpiece. Spice-boxes and stuff.
Anything wrong with them? No. Dresser. Plates. Knives and forks--all
clean; flour dredger--milk-jug--sieve on the wall--nutmeg-grater.
Three-tier steamer. Looked inside--no grisly secrets in the steamer."
"Did you look in all the dresser drawers, my lord?"
"No. That could be done. But the point is, I _did_ notice somethin'.
What did I notice? That's the point. Never mind. On with the dance--let
joy be unconfined! Knife-board. Knife-powder. Kitchen table. Did you
speak?"
"No," said Bunter, who had moved from his attitude of wooden deference.
"Table stirs a chord. Very good. On table. Choppin'-board. Remains of
ham and herb stuffin'. Packet of suet. Another sieve. Several plates.
Butter in a glass dish. Bowl of drippin'----"
"Ah!"