_Lord Peter Leads Through Strength_
At eleven o'clock the next morning, Lord Peter Wimsey, unobtrusively
attired in a navy-blue suit and dark-gray tie, suitable for a house of
mourning, presented himself at the late Lady Dormer's house in Portman
Square.
"Is Miss Dorland at home?"
"I will inquire, sir."
"Kindly give her my card and ask if she can spare me a few moments."
"Certainly, my lord. Will your lordship be good enough to take a seat?"
The man departed, leaving his lordship to cool his heels in a tall,
forbidding room, with long crimson curtains, a dark red carpet and
mahogany furniture of repellent appearance. After an interval of nearly
fifteen minutes, he reappeared, bearing a note upon a salver. It was
briefly worded:
"Miss Dorland presents her compliments to Lord Peter Wimsey, and
regrets that she is not able to grant him an interview. If, as she
supposes, Lord Peter has come to see her as the representative of
Major and Captain Fentiman, Miss Dorland requests that he will address
himself to Mr. Pritchard, solicitor, of Lincoln's Inn, who is dealing,
on her behalf, with all matters connected with the will of the late
Lady Dormer."
"Dear me," said Wimsey to himself, "this looks almost like a snub. Very
good for me, no doubt. Now I wonder--" He read the note again. "Murbles
must have been rather talkative. I suppose he told Pritchard he was
putting me on to it. Very indiscreet of Murbles and not like him."
The servant still stood mutely by, with an air of almost violently
disassociating himself from all commentary.
"Thank you," said Wimsey. "Would you be good enough to say to Miss
Dorland that I am greatly obliged to her for this information."
"Very good, my lord."
"And perhaps you would kindly call me a taxi."
"Certainly, my lord."
Wimsey entered the taxi with all the dignity he could summon, and was
taken to Lincoln's Inn.
Mr. Pritchard was nearly as remote and snubbing in his manner as Miss
Dorland. He kept Lord Peter waiting for twenty minutes and received him
glacially, in the presence of a beady-eyed clerk.
"Oh, good morning," said Wimsey, affably. "Excuse my callin' on you
like this. More regular to do it through Murbles, I s'pose--nice old
boy, Murbles, isn't he? But I always believe in goin' as direct to the
point as may be. Saves time, what?"
Mr. Pritchard bowed his head and asked how he might have the pleasure
of serving his lordship.
"Well, it's about this Fentiman business. Survivorship and all that.
Nearly said survival. Appropriate, what? You might call the old General
a survival, eh?"
Mr. Pritchard waited without moving.
"I take it Murbles told you I was lookin' into the business, what?
Tryin' to check up on the timetable and all that?"
Mr. Pritchard said neither yea nor nay, but placed his fingers together
and sat patiently.
"It's a bit of a problem, you know. Mind if I smoke? Have one yourself?"
"I am obliged to you, I never smoke in business hours."
"Very proper. Much more impressive. Puts the wind up the clients, what?
Well, now, I just thought I'd let you know that it's likely to be a
close-ish thing. Very difficult to tell to a minute or so, don't you
know. May turn out one way--may turn out the other--may turn completely
bafflin' and all that. You get me?"
"Indeed?"
"Oh, yes, absolutely. P'raps you'd like to hear how far I've got."
And Wimsey recounted the history of his researches at the Bellona,
in so far as the evidence of the commissionaires and the hall-porter
were concerned. He said nothing of his interview with Penberthy, nor
of the odd circumstances connected with the unknown Oliver, confining
himself to stressing the narrowness of the time-limits between which
the General must be presumed to have arrived at the Club. Mr. Pritchard
listened without comment. Then he said:
"And what, precisely, have you come to suggest?"
"Well, what I mean to say is, don't you know, wouldn't it be rather a
good thing if the parties could be got to come to terms? Give and take,
you see--split the doings and share the proceeds? After all, half a
million's a goodish bit of money--quite enough for three people to live
on in a quiet way, don't you think? And it would save an awful lot of
trouble and--ahem--lawyers' fees and things."
"Ah!" said Mr. Pritchard. "I may say that I have been expecting this.
A similar suggestion was made to me earlier by Mr. Murbles, and I then
told him that my client preferred not to entertain the idea. You will
permit me to add, Lord Peter, that the reiteration of this proposal
by you, after your employment to investigate the facts of the case in
the interests of the other party, has a highly suggestive appearance.
You will excuse me, perhaps, if I warn you further that your whole
course of conduct in this matter seems to me open to a very undesirable
construction."
Wimsey flushed.
"You will perhaps permit _me_, Mr. Pritchard, to inform you that I am
not 'employed' by anybody. I have been requested by Mr. Murbles to
ascertain the facts. They are rather difficult to ascertain, but I have
learned one very important thing from you this afternoon. I am obliged
to you for your assistance. Good morning."
The beady-eyed clerk opened the door with immense politeness.
"Good morning," said Mr. Pritchard.
"Employed, indeed," muttered his lordship, wrathfully. "Undesirable
construction. I'll construct him. That old brute knows something,
and if he knows something, that shows there's something to be known.
Perhaps he knows Oliver; I shouldn't wonder. Wish I'd thought to
spring the name on him and see what he said. Too late now. Never mind,
we'll get Oliver. Bunter didn't have any luck with those 'phone calls,
apparently. I think I'd better get hold of Charles."
He turned into the nearest telephone-booth and gave the number of
Scotland Yard. Presently an official voice replied, of which Wimsey
inquired whether Detective-Inspector Parker was available. A series
of clicks proclaimed that he was being put through to Mr. Parker, who
presently said: "Hullo!"
"Hullo, Charles. This is Peter Wimsey. Look here, I want you to do
something for me. It isn't a criminal job, but it's important. A man
calling himself Oliver rang up a number in Mayfair at a little after
nine on the night of November 10th. Do you think you could get that
call traced for me?"
"Probably. What was the number?"
Wimsey gave it.
"Right you are, old chap. I'll have it looked up and let you know. How
goes it? Anything doing?"
"Yes--rather a cozy little problem--nothing for you people--as far as
I know, that is. Come round one evening and I'll tell you about it,
unofficially."
"Thanks very much. Not for a day or two, though. We're run off our feet
with this crate business."
"Oh, I know--the gentleman who was sent from Sheffield to Euston in
a crate, disguised as York hams. Splendid. Work hard and you will be
happy. No, thanks, my child, I don't want another twopenn'orth--I'm
spending the money on sweets. Cheerio, Charles!"
The rest of the day Wimsey was obliged to pass in idleness, so far as
the Bellona Club affair was concerned. On the following morning he was
rung up by Parker.
"I say--that 'phone call you asked me to trace."
"Yes?"
"It was put through at 9.13 P.M. from a public call-box at Charing
Cross Underground Station."
"Oh hell!--the operator didn't happen to notice the bloke, I suppose?"
"There isn't an operator. It's one of those automatic boxes."
"Oh!--may the fellow who invented them fry in oil. Thanks frightfully,
all the same. It gives us a line on the direction, anyhow."
"Sorry I couldn't do better for you. Cheerio!"
"Oh, cheer-damnably-ho!" retorted Wimsey, crossly, slamming the
receiver down. "What is it, Bunter?"
"A district messenger, with a note, my lord."
"Ah,--from Mr. Murbles. Good. This may be something. Yes. Tell the boy
to wait, there's an answer." He scribbled quickly. "Mr. Murbles has
got an answer to that cabman advertisement, Bunter. There are two men
turning up at six o'clock, and I'm arranging to go down and interview
them."
"Very good, my lord."
"Let's hope that means we get a move on. Get me my hat and coat--I'm
running round to Dover Street for a moment."
Robert Fentiman was there when Wimsey called, and welcomed him heartily.
"Any progress?"
"Possibly a little this evening. I've got a line on those cabmen. I
just came round to ask if you could let me have a specimen of old
Fentiman's fist."
"Certainly. Pick what you like. He hasn't left much about. Not exactly
the pen of a ready writer. There are a few interesting notes of his
early campaigns, but they're rather antiques by this time."
"I'd rather have something quite recent."
"There's a bundle of cancelled cheques here, if that would do."
"It would do particularly well--I want something with figures in it if
possible. Many thanks. I'll take these."
"How on earth is his handwriting going to tell you when he pegged out?"
"That's my secret, dash it all! Have you been down to Gatti's?"
"Yes. They seem to know Oliver fairly well by sight, but that's all.
He lunched there fairly often, say once a week or so, but they don't
remember seeing him since the eleventh. Perhaps he's keeping under
cover. However, I'll haunt the place a bit and see if he turns up."
"I wish you would. His call came from a public box, so that line of
inquiry peters out."
"Oh, bad luck!"
"You've found no mention of him in any of the General's papers?"
"Not a thing, and I've gone through every bit and scrap of writing in
the place. By the way, have you seen George lately?"
"Night before last. Why?"
"He seems to me to be in rather a queer state. I went around last night
and he complained of being spied on or something."
"Spied on?"
"Followed about. Watched. Like the blighters in the 'tec stories.
Afraid all this business is getting on his nerves. I hope he doesn't go
off his rocker or anything. It's bad enough for Sheila as it is. Decent
little woman."
"Thoroughly decent," agreed Wimsey, "and very fond of him."
"Yes. Works like Billy-oh to keep the home together and all that. Tell
you the truth, I don't know how she puts up with George. Of course,
married couples are always sparring and so on, but he ought to behave
before other people. Dashed bad form, being rude to your wife in
public. I'd like to give him a piece of my mind."
"He's in a beastly galling position," said Wimsey. "She's his wife and
she's got to keep him, and I know he feels it very much."
"Do you think so? Seems to me he takes it rather as a matter of course.
And whenever the poor little woman reminds him of it, he thinks she's
rubbing it in."
"Naturally, he hates being reminded of it. And I've heard Mrs. Fentiman
say one or two sharp things to him."
"I daresay. Trouble with George is, he can't control himself. He never
could. A fellow ought to pull himself together and show a bit of
gratitude. He seems to think that because Sheila has to work like a man
she doesn't want the courtesy and--you know, tenderness and so on--that
a woman ought to get."
"It always gives me the pip," said Wimsey, "to see how rude people
are when they're married. I suppose it's inevitable. Women are funny.
They don't seem to care half so much about a man's being honest and
faithful--and I'm sure your brother's all that--as for their opening
doors and saying thank you. I've noticed it lots of times."
"A man ought to be just as courteous after marriage as he was before,"
declared Robert Fentiman, virtuously.
"So he ought, but he never is. Possibly there's some reason we don't
know about," said Wimsey. "I've asked people, you know--my usual
inquisitiveness--and they generally just grunt and say that their wives
are sensible and take their affection for granted. But I don't believe
women ever get sensible, not even through prolonged association with
their husbands."
The two bachelors wagged their heads, solemnly.
"Well, I think George is behaving like a sweep," said Robert, "but
perhaps I'm hard on him. We never did get on very well. And anyhow, I
don't pretend to understand women. Still, this persecution-mania, or
whatever it is, is another thing. He ought to see a doctor."
"He certainly ought. We must keep an eye on him. If I see him at the
Bellona I'll have a talk to him and try and get out of him what it's
all about."
"You won't find him at the Bellona. He's avoided it since all this
unpleasantness started. I think he's out hunting for jobs. He said
something about one of those motor people in Great Portland Street
wanting a salesman. He can handle a car pretty well, you know."
"I hope he gets it. Even if it doesn't pay very well it would do him a
world of good to have something to do with himself. Well, I'd better be
amblin' off. Many thanks, and let me know if you get hold of Oliver."
"Oh, rather!"
Wimsey considered a few moments on the doorstep, and then drove
straight down to New Scotland Yard, where he was soon ushered in to
Detective-Inspector Parker's office.
Parker, a square-built man in the late thirties, with the nondescript
features which lend themselves so excellently to detective purposes,
was possibly Lord Peter's most intimate--in some ways his only
intimate friend. The two men had worked out many cases together
and each respected the other's qualities, though no two characters
could have been more widely different. Wimsey was the Roland
of the combination--quick, impulsive, careless and an artistic
jack-of-all-trades. Parker was the Oliver--cautious, solid,
painstaking, his mind a blank to art and literature and exercising
itself, in spare moments, with Evangelical theology. He was the one
person who was never irritated by Wimsey's mannerisms, and Wimsey
repaid him with a genuine affection foreign to his usually detached
nature.
"Well, how goes it?"
"Not so bad. I want you to do something for me."
"Not really?"
"Yes, really, blast your eyes. Did you ever know me when I didn't? I
want you to get hold of one of your handwriting experts to tell me if
these two fists are the same."
He put on the table, on the one hand the bundle of used cheques, and
on the other the sheet of paper he had taken from the library at the
Bellona Club.
Parker raised his eyebrows.
"That's a very pretty set of finger-prints you've been pulling up
there. What is it? Forgery?"
"No, nothing of that sort. I just want to know whether the same bloke
who wrote these cheques made the notes too."
Parker rang a bell, and requested the attendance of Mr. Collins.
"Nice fat sums involved, from the looks of it," he went on, scanning
the sheet of notes appreciatively. "£150,000 to R., £300,000 to
G.--lucky G.--who's G? £20,000 here and £50,000 there. Who's your rich
friend, Peter?"
"It's that long story I was going to tell you about when you'd finished
your crate problem."
"Oh, is it? Then I'll make a point of solving the crate without delay.
As a matter of fact, I'm rather expecting to hear something about it
before long. That's why I'm here, dancing attendance on the 'phone. Oh,
Collins, this is Lord Peter Wimsey, who wants very much to know whether
these two handwritings are the same."
The expert took up the paper and the cheques and looked them over
attentively.
"Not a doubt about it, I should say, unless the forgery has been
astonishingly well done. Some of the figures, especially, are highly
characteristic. The fives, for instance and the threes, and the
fours, made all of a piece with the two little loops. It's a very
old-fashioned handwriting, and made by a very old man, in not too-good
health, especially this sheet of notes. Is that the old Fentiman who
died the other day?"
"Well, it is, but you needn't shout about it. It's just a private
matter."
"Just so. Well, I should say you need have no doubt about the
authenticity of that bit of paper, if that's what you are thinking of."
"Thanks. That's precisely what I do want to know. I don't think there's
the slightest question of forgery or anything. In fact, it was just
whether we could look on these rough notes as a guide to his wishes.
Nothing more."
"Oh, yes, if you rule out forgery, I'd answer for it any day that the
same person wrote all these cheques and the notes."
"That's fine. That checks up the results of the finger-print test
too. I don't mind telling you, Charles," he added, when Collins had
departed, "that this case is getting damned interesting."
At this point the telephone rang, and Parker, after listening for some
time, ejaculated "Good work!" and then, turning to Wimsey,
"That's our man. They've got him. Excuse me if I rush off. Between you
and me, we've pulled this off rather well. It may mean rather a big
thing for me. Sure we can't do anything else for you? Because I've got
to get to Sheffield. See you to-morrow or next day."
He caught up his coat and hat and was gone. Wimsey made his own way
out and sat for a long time at home, with Bunter's photographs of the
Bellona Club before him, thinking.
At six o'clock, he presented himself at Mr. Murbles' Chambers in Staple
Inn. The two taxi-drivers had already arrived and were seated, well
on the edges of their chairs, politely taking old sherry with the
solicitor.
"Ah!" said Mr. Murbles, "this is a gentleman who is interested in the
inquiry we are making. Perhaps you would have the goodness to repeat
to him what you have already told me. I have ascertained enough,"
he added, turning to Wimsey, "to feel sure that these are the right
drivers, but I should like you to put any questions you wish yourself.
This gentleman's name is Swain, and his story should come first, I
think."
"Well, sir," said Mr. Swain, a stout man of the older type of driver,
"you are wanting to know if anybody picked up an old gent in Portman
Square the day before Ar_mis_tice Day rahnd abaht the afternoon. Well,
sir, I was goin' slow through the Square at 'arf-past four, or it might
be a quarter to five on that 'ere day, when a footman comes out of a
'ouse--I couldn't say the number for certain, but it was on the east
side of the Square as might be abaht the middle--and 'e makes a sign
for me to stop. So I draws up, and presently a very old gent comes out.
Very thin, 'e was, an' muffled up, but I see 'is legs and they was very
thin and 'e looked abaht a 'undred an' two by 'is face, and walked with
a stick. 'E was upright, for such a very old gent, but 'e moved slow
and rather feeble. An old milingtary gent, I thought 'e might be--'e
'ad that way of speakin', if you understand me, sir. So the footman
tells me to drive 'im to a number in 'Arley Street."
"Do you remember it?"
Swain mentioned a number which Wimsey recognized as Penberthy's.
"So I drives 'im there. And 'e asks me to ring the bell for 'im, and
when the young man comes to the door to ask if the doctor could please
see General Fenton, or Fennimore or some such name, sir."
"Was it Fentiman, do you think?"
"Well, yes, it might 'ave been Fentiman. I think it was. So the young
man comes back and says, yes, certingly, so I 'elps the old gent aht.
Very faint, 'e seemed, and a very bad color, sir, breathin' 'eavy and
blue-like abaht the lips. Pore old b..., I thinks, beggin' yer pardon,
sir, 'e won't be 'ere long, I thinks. So we 'elps him up the steps into
the 'ouse and 'e gives me my fare and a shilling for myself, and that's
the last I see of 'im, sir."
"That fits in all right with what Penberthy said," agreed Wimsey. "The
General felt the strain of his interview with his sister and went
straight round to see him. Right. Now how about this other part of the
business?"
"Well," said Mr. Murbles, "I think this gentleman, whose name is--let
me see--Hinkins--yes. I think Mr. Hinkins picked up the General when he
left Harley Street."
"Yes, sir," agreed the other driver, a smartish-looking man with a keen
profile and a sharp eye. "A very old gentleman, like what we've 'eard
described, took my taxi at this same number in 'Arley Street at 'alf
past five. I remember the day very well, sir; November 10th it was, and
I remember it because, after I done taking him where I'm telling you,
my magneto started to give trouble, and I didn't 'ave the use of the
'bus on Armistice Day, which was a great loss to me, because that's a
good day as a rule. Well, this old military gentleman gets in, with his
stick and all, just as Swain says, only I didn't notice him looking
particular ill, though I see he was pretty old. Maybe the doctor would
have given him something to make him better."
"Very likely," said Mr. Murbles.
"Yes, sir. Well, he gets in, and he says, 'Take me to Dover Street,'
he says, but if you was to ask me the number, sir, I'm afraid I don't
rightly remember, because, you see, we never went there after all."
"Never went there?" cried Wimsey.
"No, sir. Just as we was comin' out into Cavendish Square, the old
gentleman puts his head out and says, 'Stop!' So I stops, and I see him
wavin' his hand to a gentleman on the pavement. So this other one comes
up, and they has a few words together and then the old----"
"One moment. What was this other man like?"
"Dark and thin, sir, and looked about forty. He had on a gray suit and
overcoat and a soft hat, with a dark handkerchief round his throat.
Oh, yes, and he had a small black mustache. So the old gentleman says,
'Cabman,' he says, just like that, 'cabman, go back up to Regent's Park
and drive round till I tell you to stop.' So the other gentleman gets
in with him, and I goes back and drives round the Park, quiet-like,
because I guessed they wanted to 'ave a bit of a talk. So I goes twice
round, and as we was going round the third time, the younger gentleman
sticks 'is 'ed out and says, 'Put me down at Gloucester Gate.' So I
puts him down there, and the old gentleman says, 'Good-bye, George,
bear in mind what I have said.' So the gentleman says, 'I will, sir,'
and I see him cross the road, like as if he might be going up Park
Street."
Mr. Murbles and Wimsey exchanged glances.
"And then where did you go?"
"Then, sir, the fare says to me, 'Do you know the Bellona Club in
Piccadilly?' he says. So I says, 'Yes, sir.'"
"The Bellona Club?"
"Yes, sir."
"What time was that?"
"It might be getting on for half-past six, sir. I'd been driving very
slow, as I tells you, sir. So I takes him to the Club, like he said,
and in he goes, and that's the last I see of him, sir."
"Thanks very much," said Wimsey. "Did he seem to be at all upset or
agitated when he was talking to the man he called George?"
"No, sir, I couldn't say that. But I thought he spoke a bit sharp-like.
What you might call telling him off, sir."
"I see. What time did you get to the Bellona?"
"I should reckon it was about twenty minutes to seven, sir, or just a
little bit more. There was a tidy bit of traffic about. Between twenty
and ten to seven, as near as I can recollect."
"Excellent. Well, you have both been very helpful. That will be all
to-day, but I'd like you to leave your names and addresses with Mr.
Murbles, in case we might want some sort of a statement from either of
you later on. And--er----"
A couple of Treasury notes crackled. Mr. Swain and Mr. Hinkins made
suitable acknowledgment and departed, leaving their addresses behind
them.
"So he went back to the Bellona Club. I wonder what for?"
"I think I know," said Wimsey. "He was accustomed to do any writing
or business there, and I fancy he went back to put down some notes
as to what he meant to do with the money his sister was leaving him.
Look at this sheet of paper, sir. That's the General's handwriting,
as I've proved this afternoon, and those are his finger-prints. And
the initials R and G probably stand for Robert and George, and these
figures for the various sums he means to leave them."
"That appears quite probable. Where did you find this?"
"In the end bay of the library at the Bellona, sir, tucked inside the
blotting-paper."
"The writing is very weak and straggly."
"Yes--quite tails off, doesn't it. As though he had come over faint and
couldn't go on. Or perhaps he was only tired. I must go down and find
out if anybody saw him there that evening. But Oliver, curse him! is
the man who knows. If only we could get hold of Oliver."
"We've had no answer to our third question in the advertisement. I've
had letters from several drivers who took old gentlemen to the Bellona
that morning, but none of them corresponds with the General. Some had
check overcoats, and some had whiskers and some had bowler hats or
beards--whereas the General was never seen without his silk hat and
had, of course, his old-fashioned long military mustache."
"I wasn't hoping for very much from that. We might put in another ad.
in case anybody picked him up from the Bellona on the evening or night
of the 10th, but I've got a feeling that this infernal Oliver probably
took him away in his own car. If all else fails, we'll have to get
Scotland Yard on to Oliver."
"Make careful inquiries at the Club, Lord Peter. It now becomes more
than possible that somebody saw Oliver there and noticed them leaving
together."
"Of course. I'll go along there at once. And I'll put the advertisement
in as well. I don't think we'll rope in the B.B.C. It is so
confoundedly public."
"That," said Mr. Murbles, with a look of horror, "would be _most_
undesirable."
Wimsey rose to go. The solicitor caught him at the door.
"Another thing we ought really to know," he said, "is what General
Fentiman was saying to Captain George."
"I've not forgotten that," said Wimsey, a little uneasily. "We shall
have--oh, yes--certainly--of course, we shall have to know that."