_Lord Peter Forces A Card_
"Hullo!"
"Is that you, Wimsey? Hullo! I say, is that Lord Peter Wimsey. Hullo! I
must speak to Lord Peter Wimsey. Hullo!"
"All right. I've said hullo. Who're you? And what's the excitement?"
"It's me. Major Fentiman. I say--_is_ that Wimsey?"
"Yes. Wimsey speaking. What's up?"
"I can't hear you."
"Of course you can't if you keep on shouting. This is Wimsey. Good
morning. Stand three inches from the mouth-piece and speak in an
ordinary voice. Do not say hullo! To recall the operator, depress the
receiver _gently_ two or three times."
"Oh, shut up! don't be an ass. I've seen Oliver."
"Have you, where?"
"Getting into a train at Charing Cross."
"Did you speak to him?"
"No--it's maddening. I was just getting my ticket when I saw him
passing the barrier. I tore down after him. Some people got in my
way, curse them. There was a Circle train standing at the platform.
He bolted in and they clanged the doors. I rushed on, waving and
shouting, but the train went out. I cursed like anything."
"I bet you did. How very sickening."
"Yes, wasn't it? I took the next train----"
"What for?"
"Oh, I don't know. I thought I might spot him on a platform somewhere."
"What a hope! You didn't think to ask where he'd booked for?"
"No. Besides, he probably got the ticket from an automatic."
"Probably. Well, it can't be helped, that's all. He'll probably turn up
again. You're sure it was he?"
"Oh, dear, yes. I couldn't be mistaken. I'd know him anywhere. I
thought I'd just let you know."
"Thanks awfully. It encourages me extremely. Charing Cross seems to be
a haunt of his. He 'phoned from there on the evening of the tenth, you
know."
"So he did."
"I'll tell you what we'd better do, Fentiman. The thing is getting
rather serious. I propose that you should go and keep an eye on Charing
Cross station. I'll get hold of a detective----"
"A police detective?"
"Not necessarily. A private one would do. You and he can go along and
keep watch on the station for, say a week. You must describe Oliver to
the detective as best you can, and you can watch turn and turn about."
"Hang it all, Wimsey--it'll take a lot of time. I've gone back to my
rooms at Richmond. And besides, I've got my own duties to do."
"Yes, well, while you're on duty the detective must keep watch."
"It's a dreadful grind, Wimsey." Fentiman's voice sounded dissatisfied.
"It's half a million of money. Of course, if you're not keen----"
"I _am_ keen. But I don't believe anything will come of it."
"Probably not; but it's worth trying. And in the meantime, I'll have
another watch kept at Gatti's."
"At Gatti's?"
"Yes. They know him there. I'll send a man down----"
"But he never comes there now."
"Oh, but he may come again. There's no reason why he shouldn't. We know
now that he's in town, and not gone out of the country or anything.
I'll tell the management that he's wanted for an urgent business
matter, so as not to make unpleasantness."
"They won't like it."
"Then they'll have to lump it."
"Well, all right. But, look here--_I'll_ do Gatti's."
"That won't do. We want you to identify him at Charing Cross. The
waiter or somebody can do the identifying at Gatti's. You say they know
him."
"Yes, of course they do. But----"
"But what?--By the way, which waiter is it you spoke to. I had a talk
with the head man there yesterday, and he didn't seem to know anything
about it."
"No--it wasn't the head waiter. One of the others. The plump, dark one."
"All right. I'll find the right one. Now, will you see to the Charing
Cross end?"
"Of course--if you really think it's any good."
"Yes, I do. Right you are. I'll get hold of the 'tec and send him along
to you, and you can arrange with him."
"Very well."
"Cheerio!"
Lord Peter rang off and sat for a few moments, grinning to himself.
Then he turned to Bunter.
"I don't often prophesy, Bunter, but I'm going to do it now. Your
fortune told by hand or cards. Beware of the dark stranger. That sort
of thing."
"Indeed, my lord?"
"Cross the gypsy's palm with silver. I see Mr. Oliver. I see him taking
a journey in which he will cross water. I see trouble. I see the ace of
spades--upside-down, Bunter."
"And what then, my lord?"
"Nothing. I look into the future and I see a blank. The gypsy has
spoken."
"I will bear it in mind, my lord."
"Do. If my prediction is not fulfilled, I will give you a new camera.
And now I'm going round to see that fellow who calls himself Sleuths
Incorporated, and get him to put a good man on to keep watch at Charing
Cross. And after that, I'm going down to Chelsea and I don't quite know
when I shall be back. You'd better take the afternoon off. Put me out
some sandwiches or something, and don't wait up if I'm late."
Wimsey disposed quickly of his business with Sleuths Incorporated, and
then made his way to a pleasant little studio overlooking the river
at Chelsea. The door, which bore a neat label "Miss Marjorie Phelps,"
was opened by a pleasant-looking young woman with curly hair and a blue
overall heavily smudged with clay.
"Lord Peter! How nice of you. Do come in."
"Shan't I be in the way?"
"Not a scrap. You don't mind if I go on working."
"Rather not."
"You could put the kettle on and find some food if you liked to be
really helpful. I just want to finish up this figure."
"That's fine. I took the liberty of bringing a pot of Hybla honey with
me."
"What sweet ideas you have! I really think you are one of the nicest
people I know. You don't talk rubbish about art, and you don't want
your hand held, and your mind always turns on eating and drinking."
"Don't speak too soon. I don't want my hand held, but I did come here
with an object."
"Very sensible of you. Most people come without any."
"And stay interminably."
"They do."
Miss Phelps cocked her head on one side and looked critically at the
little dancing lady she was modeling. She had made a line of her own in
pottery figurines, which sold well and were worth the money.
"That's rather attractive," said Wimsey.
"Rather pretty-pretty. But it's a special order, and one can't afford
to be particular. I've done a Christmas present for you, by the way.
You'd better have a look at it, and if you think it offensive we'll
smash it together. It's in that cupboard."
Wimsey opened the cupboard and extracted a little figure about nine
inches high. It represented a young man in a flowing dressing-gown,
absorbed in the study of a huge volume held on his knee. The portrait
was life-like. He chuckled.
"It's damned good, Marjorie. A very fine bit of modeling. I'd love to
have it. You aren't multiplying it too often, I hope? I mean, it won't
be on sale at Selfridges?"
"I'll spare you that. I thought of giving one to your mother."
"That'll please her no end. Thanks ever so. I shall look forward to
Christmas, for once. Shall I make some toast?"
"Rather!"
Wimsey squatted happily down before the gasfire, while the modeler
went on with her work. Tea and figurine were ready almost at the same
moment, and Miss Phelps, flinging off her overall, threw herself
luxuriously into a battered arm-chair by the hearth.
"And what can I do for you?"
"You can tell me all you know about Miss Ann Dorland."
"Ann Dorland? Great heavens! You haven't fallen for Ann Dorland, have
you? I've heard she's coming into a lot of money."
"You have a perfectly disgusting mind, Miss Phelps. Have some more
toast. Excuse me licking my fingers. I have not fallen for the lady. If
I had, I'd manage my affairs without assistance. I haven't even seen
her. What's she like?"
"To look at?"
"Among other things."
"Well, she's rather plain. She has dark, straight hair, cut in a bang
across the forehead and bobbed--like a Flemish page. Her forehead is
broad and she has a square sort of face and a straight nose--quite
good. Also, her eyes are good--gray, with nice heavy eyebrows, not
fashionable a bit. But she has a bad skin and rather sticky-out teeth.
And she's dumpy."
"She's a painter, isn't she?"
"M'm--well! she paints."
"I see. A well-off amateur with a studio."
"Yes. I will say that old Lady Dormer was very decent to her. Ann
Dorland, you know, is some sort of far-away distant cousin on the
female side of the Fentiman family, and when Lady Dormer first got to
hear of her she was an orphan and incredibly poverty-stricken. The
old lady liked to have a bit of young life about the house, so she
took charge of her, and the wonderful thing is that she didn't try to
monopolize her. She let her have a big place for a studio and bring in
any friends she liked and go about as she chose--in reason, of course."
"Lady Dormer suffered a good deal from oppressive relations in her own
youth," said Wimsey.
"I know, but most old people seem to forget that. I'm sure Lady Dormer
had time enough. She must have been rather unusual. Mind you, I
didn't know her very well, and I don't really know a great deal about
Ann Dorland. I've been there, of course. She gave parties--rather
incompetently. And she comes round to some of our studios from time to
time. But she isn't really one of us."
"Probably one has to be really poor and hard-working to be that."
"No. You, for instance, fit in quite well on the rare occasions when
we have the pleasure. And it doesn't matter not being able to paint.
Look at Bobby Hobart and his ghastly daubs--he's a perfect dear and
everybody loves him. I think Ann Dorland must have a complex of some
kind. Complexes explain so much, like the blessed word hippopotamus."
Wimsey helped himself lavishly to honey and looked receptive.
"I think really," went on Miss Phelps, "that Ann ought to have been
something in the City. She has brains, you know. She'd run anything
awfully well. But she isn't creative. And then, of course, so many
of our little lot seem to be running love-affairs. And a continual
atmosphere of hectic passion is very trying if you haven't got any of
your own."
"Has Miss Dorland a mind above hectic passion?"
"Well, no. I daresay she would quite have liked--but nothing ever came
of it. Why are you interested in having Ann Dorland analyzed?"
"I'll tell you some day. It isn't just vulgar curiosity."
"No, you're very decent as a rule, or I wouldn't be telling you all
this. I think, really, Ann has a sort of fixed idea that she couldn't
ever possibly attract any one, and so she's either sentimental and
tiresome, or rude and snubbing, and our crowd does hate sentimentality
and simply can't bear to be snubbed. Ann's rather pathetic, really. As
a matter of fact, I think she's gone off art a bit. Last time I heard
about her, she had been telling some one she was going in for social
service, or sick-nursing, or something of that kind. I think it's very
sensible. She'd probably get along much better with the people who do
that sort of thing. They're so much more solid and polite."
"I see. Look here, suppose I ever wanted to run across Miss Dorland
accidentally on purpose--where should I be likely to find her?"
"You _do_ seem thrilled about her! I think I should try the Rushworths.
They go in rather for science and improving the submerged tenth and
things like that. Of course, I suppose Ann's in mourning now, but I
don't think that would necessarily keep her away from the Rushworths.
Their gatherings aren't precisely frivolous."
"Thanks very much. You're a mine of valuable information. And, for a
woman, you don't ask many questions."
"Thank you for those few kind words, Lord Peter."
"I am now free to devote my invaluable attention to _your_ concerns.
What is the news? And who is in love with whom?"
"Oh, life is a perfect desert. Nobody is in love with me, and the
Schlitzers have had a worse row than usual and separated."
"No!"
"Yes. Only, owing to financial considerations, they've got to go on
sharing the same studio--you know, that big room over the mews. It must
be very awkward having to eat and sleep and work in the same room with
somebody you're being separated from. They don't even speak, and it's
very awkward when you call on one of them and the other has to pretend
not to be able to see or hear you."
"I shouldn't think one could keep it up under those circumstances."
"It's difficult. I'd have had Olga here, only she is so dreadfully
bad-tempered. Besides, neither of them will give up the studio to the
other."
"I see. But isn't there any third party in the case?"
"Yes--Ulric Fiennes, the sculptor, you know. But he can't have her at
his place because his wife's there, and he's really dependent on his
wife, because his sculping doesn't pay. And besides, he's at work
on that colossal group for the Exhibition and he can't move it; it
weighs about twenty tons. And if he went off and took Olga away, his
wife would lock him out of the place. It's very inconvenient being a
sculptor. It's like playing the double-bass; one's so handicapped by
one's baggage."
"True. Whereas, when you run away with me, we'll be able to put all the
pottery shepherds and shepherdesses in a handbag."
"Of course. What fun it will be. Where shall we run to?"
"How about starting to-night and getting as far as Oddenino's and going
on to a show--if you're not doing anything?"
"You are a loveable man, and I shall call you Peter. Shall we see
'Betwixt and Between?'"
"The thing they had such a job to get past the censor? Yes, if you
like. Is it particularly obscene?"
"No, epicene, I fancy."
"Oh, I see. Well, I'm quite agreeable. Only I warn you that I shall
make a point of asking you the meaning of all the risky bits in a very
audible voice."
"That's your idea of amusement, is it?"
"Yes. It does make them so wild. People say 'Hush!' and giggle, and if
I'm lucky I end up with a gorgeous row in the bar."
"Then I won't risk it. No. I'll tell you what I'd really love. We'll
go and see 'George Barnwell' at the Elephant and have a fish-and-chips
supper afterwards."
This was agreed upon, and was voted in retrospect a most profitable
evening. It finished up with grilled kippers at a friend's studio in
the early hours. Lord Peter returned home to find a note upon the
hall-table.
"My lord,
"The person from Sleuths Incorporated rang up to-day that he was
inclined to acquiesce in your lordship's opinion, but that he was
keeping his eye upon the party and would report further to-morrow.
The sandwiches are on the dining-room table, if your lordship
should require refreshment.
"Yours obediently,
"M. BUNTER."
"Cross the gypsy's palm with silver," said his lordship, happily, and
rolled into bed.