--_And Finds The Club Suit Blocked_
There never was anybody in the library at the Bellona. It was a large,
quiet, pleasant room, with the bookshelves arranged in bays; each of
which contained a writing-table and three or four chairs. Occasionally
some one would wander in to consult the Times Atlas, or a work on
Strategy and Tactics, or to hunt up an ancient Army list, but for the
most part it was deserted. Sitting in the farthest bay, immured by
books and silence, confidential conversation could be carried on with
all the privacy of the confessional.
"Well, now," said Wimsey, "what about it?"
"About--?" prompted the doctor, with professional caution.
"About that leg?"
"I wonder if anybody else noticed that?" said Penberthy.
"I doubt it. I did, of course. But then, I make that kind of thing my
hobby. Not a popular one, perhaps--an ill-favored thing, but mine own.
In fact, I've got rather a turn for corpses. But not knowin' quite what
it meant, and seein' you didn't seem to want to call attention to it, I
didn't put myself forward."
"No--I wanted to think it over. You see, it suggested, at the first
blush, something rather----"
"Unpleasant," said Wimsey. "If you knew how often I'd heard that word
in the last two days! Well, let's face it. Let's admit, straight away,
that, once rigor sets in, it stays in till it starts to pass off, and
that, when it _does_ start to go it usually begins with the face and
jaw, and not suddenly in one knee-joint. Now Fentiman's jaw and neck
were as rigid as wood--I felt 'em. But the left leg swung loose from
the knee. Now how do you explain that?"
"It is extremely puzzling. As no doubt you are aware, the obvious
explanation would be that the joint had been forcibly loosened by
somebody or something, after rigor had set in. In that case of course,
it wouldn't stiffen up again. It would remain loose until the whole
body relaxed. But how it happened----"
"That's just it. Dead people don't go about jamming their legs into
things and forcing their own joints. And surely, if anybody had found
the body like that he would have mentioned it. I mean, can you imagine
one of the waiter-johnnies, for instance, finding an old gentleman
stiff as a poker in the best arm-chair and then just givin' him a dose
of knee-jerks and leavin' him there?"
"The only thing I could think of," said Penberthy, "was that a waiter
or somebody had found him, and tried to move him--and then got
frightened and barged off without saying anything. It sounds absurd.
But people do do odd things, especially if they're scared."
"But what was there to be scared of?"
"It might seem alarming to a man in a very nervous state. We have
one or two shell-shock cases here that I wouldn't answer for in an
emergency. It would be worth considering, perhaps, if any one had shown
special signs of agitation or shock that day."
"That's an idea," said Wimsey, slowly. "Suppose--suppose, for instance,
there was somebody connected in some way with the General, who was in
an unnerved state of mind--and suppose he came suddenly on this stiff
corpse. You think he might--possibly--lose his head?"
"It's certainly possible. I can imagine that he might behave
hysterically, or even violently, and force the knee-joint back with
some unbalanced idea of straightening the body out and making it look
more seemly. And then, you know he might just run away from the thing
and pretend it hadn't happened. Mind you, I'm not saying it was so,
but I can easily see it happening. And that being so, I thought it
better to say nothing about it. It would be a very unpl----distressing
thing to bring to people's notice. And it might do untold harm to the
nervous case to question him about it. I'd rather let sleeping dogs
lie. There was nothing wrong about the death, that's definite. As for
the rest--our duty is to the living; we can't help the dead."
"Quite. Tell you what, though, I'll have a shot at finding out
whether--we may as well say what we mean--whether George Fentiman
was alone in the smoking-room at any time during the day. One of the
servants may have noticed. It seems the only possible explanation.
Well, thanks very much for your help. Oh, by the way, you said at the
time that the rigor was passing off when we found the body--was that
just camouflage, or does it still hold good?"
"It was just beginning to pass off in the face and jaw as a matter of
fact. It had passed away completely by midnight."
"Thanks. That's another fact, then. I like facts, and there are
annoyin'ly few of them in this case. Won't you have another whisky?"
"No thanks. Due at my surgery. See you another time. Cheerio!"
Wimsey remained for a few moments after he had gone, smoking
meditatively. Then he turned his chair to the table, took a sheet of
paper from the rack and began to jot down a few notes of the case
with his fountain-pen. He had not got far, however, before one of the
Club servants entered, peering into all the bays in turn, looking for
somebody.
"Want me, Fred?"
"Your lordship's man is here, my lord, and says you may wish to be
advised of his arrival."
"Quite right. I'm just coming." Wimsey took up the blotting-pad to
blot his notes. Then his face changed. The corner of a sheet of paper
protruded slightly. On the principle that nothing is too small to be
looked at, Wimsey poked an inquisitive finger between the leaves, and
extracted the paper. It bore a few scrawls relating to sums of money,
very carelessly and shakily written. Wimsey looked at it attentively
for a moment or two, and shook the blotter to see if it held anything
further. Then he folded the sheet, handling it with extreme care by
the corners, put it in an envelope and filed it away in his note-case.
Coming out of the library, he found Bunter waiting in the hall, camera
and tripod in hand.
"Ah, here you are, Bunter. Just a minute, while I see the Secretary."
He looked in at the office, and found Culyer immersed in some accounts.
"Oh, I say, Culyer--'mornin' and all that--yes, disgustingly healthy,
thanks, always am--I say, you recollect old Fentiman poppin' off in
that inconsiderate way a little time ago?"
"I'm not likely to forget it," said Culyer, with a wry face. "I've had
three notes of complaint from Wetheridge--one, because the servants
didn't notice the matter earlier, set of inattentive rascals and all
that; two, because the undertaker's men had to take the coffin past his
door and disturbed him; three, because somebody's lawyer came along and
asked him questions--together with distant allusions to the telephones
being out of order and a shortage of soap in the bathroom. Who'd be a
secretary?"
"Awfully sorry for you," said Wimsey with a grin. "I'm not here to
make trouble. Au contraire, as the man said in the Bay of Biscay when
they asked if he'd dined. Fact is, there's a bit of a muddle about the
exact minute when the old boy passed out--mind you, this is in strict
confidence--and I'm havin' a look into it. Don't want a fuss made, but
I'd like a few photographs of the place, just to look at in absence
and keep the lie of the land under my hawk-like optic, what? I've got
my man here with a camera. D'you mind pretendin' he's the bloke from
'The Twaddler' or the 'Picture News,' or something, and givin' him your
official blessin' while he totters round with the doings?"
"Mysterious idiot--of course, if you like. Though how photographs of
the place to-day are going to give you a line on the time of a death
which happened ten days ago, I don't pretend to understand. But, I
say--it's all fair and aboveboard? We don't want any----"
"Of course not. That's the idea. Strictest confidence--any sum up
to £50,000 on your note of hand alone, delivered in plain vans, no
reference needed. Trust little Peter."
"Oh, right-ho! What d'you want done?"
"I don't want to go round with Bunter. Give the show away. May he be
called in here?"
"Certainly."
A servant was sent to fetch Bunter, who came in looking imperturbably
prim and point-device. Wimsey looked him over and shook his head.
"I'm sorry, Bunter, but you don't look in the least like the
professional photographer from 'The Twaddler.' That dark-gray suit
is all right, but you haven't got quite the air of devil-may-care
seediness that marks the giants of Fleet Street. D'you mind stickin'
all those dark-slides into one pocket and a few odd lenses and doodahs
into the other, and rufflin' your manly locks a trifle? That's better.
Why have you no pyro stains on the right thumb and forefinger?"
"I attribute it, my lord, principally to the circumstance that I prefer
metol-quinol for the purpose of development."
"Well, you can't expect an outsider to grasp a thing like that. Wait a
minute. Culyer, you seem to have a fairly juicy pipe there. Give us a
cleaner."
Wimsey thrust the instrument energetically through the stem of the
pipe, bringing out a revolting collection of brown, oily matter.
"Nicotine poisoning, Culyer--that's what you'll die of if you aren't
jolly careful. Here you are, Bunter. Judiciously smeared upon the
finger tips, that should give quite the right effect. Now, look here,
Mr. Culyer here will take you round. I want a shot of the smoking-room
from the entrance, a close up of the fireplace, showing General
Fentiman's usual chair, and another shot from the door of the ante-room
that leads into the library. Another shot through the ante-room into
the library, and some careful studies of the far bay of the library
from all points of view. After that, I want two or three views of the
hall, and a shot of the cloak-room; get the attendant there to show you
which was General Fentiman's customary peg, and take care that that
gets into the picture. That's all for the moment, but you can take
anything else that seems necessary for purposes of camouflage. And I
want all the detail you can possibly get in, so stop down to whatever
it is and take as long as you like. You'll find me knocking about
somewhere when you've finished, and you'd better get some more plates
in, because we're going on to another place."
"Very good, my lord."
"Oh, and, Culyer, by the way. Dr. Penberthy sent a female in to lay the
General out, didn't he? D'you happen to remember when she arrived?"
"About nine o'clock the next morning, I think."
"Have you got her name, by any chance?"
"I don't think so. But I know she came from Merritt's, the
undertakers--round Shepherd's Market way. They'd probably put you on to
her."
"Thanks frightfully, Culyer. I'll make myself scarce now. Carry on,
Bunter."
Wimsey thought for a moment; then strolled across to the smoking-room,
exchanged a mute greeting with one or two of the assembled veterans,
picked up the "Morning Post," and looked round for a seat. The great
arm-chair with ears still stood before the fire, but some dim feeling
of respect for the dead had left it vacant. Wimsey sauntered over to
it, and dropped lazily into its well-sprung depths. A veteran close
at hand looked angrily at him and rustled the "Times" loudly. Wimsey
ignored these signals, barricading himself behind his paper. The
veteran sank back again, muttering something about "young men" and "no
decency." Wimsey sat on unmoved, and paid no attention, even when a
man from "The Twaddler" came in, escorted by the Secretary, to take
photographs of the smoking-room. A few sensitives retired before this
attack. Wetheridge waddled away with a grumbling protest into the
library. It gave Wimsey considerable satisfaction to see the relentless
camera pursue him into that stronghold.
It was half-past twelve before a waiter approached Lord Peter to say
that Mr. Culyer would be glad to speak to him for a moment. In the
office, Bunter reported his job done, and was despatched to get some
lunch and a fresh supply of plates. Wimsey presently went down to the
dining-room, where he found Wetheridge already established, getting the
first cut off the saddle of mutton, and grumbling at the wine. Wimsey
went deliberately over, greeted him heartily, and sat down at the same
table.
Wetheridge said it was beastly weather. Wimsey agreed amiably.
Wetheridge said it was scandalous, seeing what one paid for one's food
in this place, that one couldn't get anything fit to eat. Wimsey, who
was adored by chef and waiters alike for his appreciation of good
food, and had been sent the choicest cut without having to ask for
it, sympathized with this sentiment too. Wetheridge said he had been
chased all over the Club that morning by an infernal photographer
fellow, and that one got no peace these days with all this confounded
publicity. Wimsey said it was all done for advertisement, and that
advertisement was the curse of the age. Look at the papers--nothing but
advertisements from cover to cover. Wetheridge said that in his time,
by gad, a respectable Club would have scorned advertisements, and that
he could remember the time when newspapers were run by gentlemen for
gentlemen. Wimsey said that nothing was what it had been; he thought it
must be due to the War.
"Infernal slackness, that's what it is," said Wetheridge. "The service
in this place is a disgrace. That fellow Culyer doesn't know his job.
This week it's the soap. Would you believe it, there was none--actually
none--in the bathroom yesterday. Had to ring for it. Made me late for
dinner. Last week it was the telephone. Wanted to get through to a
man down in Norfolk. Brother was a friend of mine--killed on the last
day of the War, half an hour before the guns stopped firing--damnable
shame--always ring up on Armistice Day, say a few words, don't you
know--hr'rm!"
Wetheridge, having unexpectedly displayed this softer side of his
character, relapsed into a snorting silence.
"Couldn't you get through, sir?" inquired Wimsey, with feeling.
Anything that had happened at the Bellona Club on Armistice Day was of
interest to him.
"I got _through_ all right," said Wetheridge, morosely. "But, confound
it all, I had to go down to the cloak-room to get a call from one of
the boxes there. Didn't want to hang about the entrance. Too many
imbeciles coming in and out. Exchanging silly anecdotes. Why a solemn
national occasion should be an excuse for all these fools meeting and
talking rot, I don't know."
"Beastly annoyin'. But why didn't you tell 'em to put the call through
to the box by the library?"
"Aren't I telling you? The damned thing was out of order. Damned
great notice stuck across it as cool as you please--'Instrument out
of order.' Just like that. No apology. Nothing. Sickening, I call it.
I told the fellow at the switch-board it was a disgrace. And all he
said was, he hadn't put the notice up, but he'd draw attention to the
matter."
"It was all right in the evening," said Wimsey, "because I saw Colonel
Marchbanks using it."
"I know it was. And then, dashed if we didn't get the fool thing
ringing, ringing at intervals all the next morning. Infuriating noise.
When I told Fred to stop it, he just said it was the Telephone Company
testing the line. They've no business to make a row like that. Why
can't they test it quietly, that's what I want to know?"
Wimsey said telephones were an invention of the devil. Wetheridge
grumbled his way through to the end of lunch, and departed. Wimsey
returned to the entrance-hall, where he found the assistant
commissionaire on duty, and introduced himself.
Weston, however, was of no assistance. He had not noticed General
Fentiman's arrival on the eleventh. He was not acquainted with many of
the members, having only just taken over his new duties. He thought it
odd that he should not have noticed so very venerable a gentleman, but
the fact remained that he had not. He regretted it extremely. Wimsey
gathered that Weston was annoyed at having lost a chance of reflected
celebrity. He had missed his scoop, as the reporters say.
Nor was the hall-porter any more helpful. The morning of November
11th had been a busy one. He had been in and out of his little glass
pigeonhole continually, shepherding guests into various rooms to find
the members they wanted, distributing letters and chatting to country
members who visited the Bellona seldom and liked to "have a chat with
Piper" when they did. He could not recollect seeing the General. Wimsey
began to feel that there must have been a conspiracy to overlook the
old gentleman on the last morning of his life.
"You don't think he never was here at all, do you, Bunter?" he
suggested. "Walkin' about invisible and tryin' hard to communicate,
like the unfortunate ghost in that story of somebody or other's?"
Bunter was inclined to reject the psychic view of the case. "The
General must have been here in the body, my lord, because there _was_
the body."
"That's true," said Wimsey. "I'm afraid we can't explain away the body.
S'pose that means I'll have to question every member of this beastly
Club separately. But just at the moment I think we'd better go round to
the General's flat and hunt up Robert Fentiman. Weston, get me a taxi,
please."