This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Kristen Hughes. Whose body by Dorothy L. Sayers. The singular adventure of the man with the golden pants-nay. Chapter 1 Oh, damn! said Lord Peter Wimsey at Piccadilly Circus. Hi, driver. The taxi-man irritated at receiving this appeal, while negotiating the intricacies of turning into lower Regent Street across the route of a 19-bus, a 38-B, and a motorcycle, bent an unwilling ear. I've left the catalogue behind, said Lord Peter depreciatingly. Uncommon the careless of me. Do you mind putting back to where we came from? To the Savile Club, sir? No, 110 Piccadilly, just beyond, thank you. Thought you was in a hurry, said the man, overcome with a sense of injury. I'm afraid it's an awkward place to turn in, said Lord Peter, answering the thought rather than the words. His long, amiable face looked as if it had generated spontaneously from his top hat, as white maggots breed from Gorgonzola. The taxi, under the severe eye of a policeman, revolved by slow jerks, with a noise like the grinding of teeth. The block of new, perfect, and expensive flats in which Lord Peter dwelt upon the second floor, stood directly opposite the Green Park, in a spot for many years occupied by the skeleton of a frustrated commercial enterprise. As Lord Peter let himself in, he heard his man's voice in the library, uplifted in that throttled stridency peculiar to well-trained persons using the telephone. I believe that's his lordship just coming in again, if your grace would kindly hold the line a moment. What is it, Bunter? Her grace has just called up from Denver, my lord. I was just saying your lordship had gone to the sale when I heard your lordship's latchkey. Thanks, said Lord Peter, and you might find me my catalogue, would you? I think I must have left it in my bedroom or on the desk. He sat down to the telephone with an air of leisurely courtesy, as though it were an acquaintance dropped in for a chat. Hello, mother, that you? Oh, there you are, dear, replied the voice of the Dowager Duchess. I was afraid I'd just missed you. Well, you had, as a matter of fact. I'd just started off to Brocklebury's sale to pick up a book or two, but I had to come back for the catalogue. What's up? Such a quaint thing, said the Duchess. I thought I'd tell you. You know little Mr. Thipps. Thipps? said Lord Peter. Thipps. Oh, yes, the little architect man who's doing the church roof. Yes, what about him? Mrs. Throgmorton's just been in, in quite a state of mind. Sorry, mother, I can't hear. Mrs. Who? Throgmorton. Throgmorton, the vicar's wife. Oh, Throgmorton, yes? Mr. Thipps rang them up this morning. It was his day to come down, you know. Yes? He rang them up to say he couldn't.  Sorry, mother, I can't hear. Found what? Where? A dead body, dear, in his bath. What? No, no, we haven't finished. Please don't cut us off. Hello? Hello? Is that you, mother? Hello, mother? Oh, yes. Sorry, the girl was trying to cut us off. What sort of body? A dead man, dear, with nothing but a pair of pants-nay. Mrs. Throgmorton positively blushed when she was telling me. I'm afraid people do get a little narrow-minded in country vicarages. Well, it sounds a bit unusual. Was it anybody he knew? No, dear, I don't think so. But, of course, he couldn't give her many details. She said he sounded quite distracted. He's such a respectable little man, and having the police in the house and so on really worried him.  Uncommonly awkward for him. Let's see, he lives in Battersea, doesn't he? Yes, dear. Fifty-nine Queen Caroline Mansions, opposite the park. That big block just around the corner from the hospital. I thought perhaps you'd like to run round and see him and ask if there's anything we can do. I always thought him a nice little man. Oh, quite! said Lord Peter, grinning at the telephone. The Duchess was always of the greatest assistance to his hobby of criminal investigation, though she never alluded to it, and maintained a polite fiction of its non-existence. What time did it happen, Mother? I think he found out early this morning, but, of course, he didn't think of telling the Throgmortons just at first. She came up to me just before lunch. So tiresome. I had to ask her to stay. Fortunately, I was alone.  Poor old Mother. Well, thanks awfully for telling me. I think I'll send Bunter to the sale and tuddle round to Battersea now and try and console the poor little beast. So long. Goodbye, dear. Bunter. Yes, my Lord. Her grace tells me that a respectable Battersea architect has discovered a dead man in his bath. Indeed, my Lord. That's very gratifying. Very, Bunter. Your choice of word is unerring. I wish Eaton and Balliol had done as much for me. Have you found the catalogue? Here it is, my Lord. Thanks. I'm going to Battersea at once. I want you to attend the sale for me. Don't lose time. I don't want to miss the folio dante. Nor the vorogene. Here you are, see? Golden legend, wink into word. 1493. Got that? And I say, make a special effort for the caxon folio of the Four Sons of Iman. It's the 1489 folio and unique. Look, I've marked the lots I want and put my outside offer against each. Do your best for me. I shall be back to dinner. Very good, my Lord. Take my cab and tell him to hurry. He may for you. He doesn't like me very much. Can I, said Lord Peter, looking at himself in the 18th-century mirror over the mantelpiece, can I have the heart to fluster the flustered thips further? That's very difficult to say quickly, by appearing in a top hat and frock coat. I think not. Ten to one he will overlook my trousers and mistake me for the undertaker. A grey suit I fancy, neat but not gaudy, with a hat to tone. Suits my other self better. Exit the amateur of first editions. New motive introduced by solo bassoon. Enter Sherlock Holmes, disguised as a walking gentleman. There goes Bunter, invaluable fellow. Never offers to do his job when you've told him to do something else. Hope he doesn't miss the four sons of Amman. Still, there is another copy of that in the Vatican. It might become available, you never know. If the Church of Rome went apart or Switzerland invaded Italy, whereas a strange corpse doesn't turn up in a suburban bathroom more than once in a lifetime, at least I should think not. At any rate, the number of times it's happened, with a pounce nay, might be counted on the fingers of one hand, I imagine. Dear me, it's a dreadful mistake to ride two hobbies at once. He had drifted across the passage into his bedroom and was changing with a rapidity one might not have expected from a man of his mannerisms. He selected a dark green tie to match his socks, and tied it accurately without hesitation or the slightest compression of his lips. Substituted a pair of brown shoes for his black ones, slipped a monocle into a breast pocket, and took up a beautiful Malacca walking stick with a heavy silver knob. That's all, I think, he murmured to himself. Stay. I may as well have you. You may come in useful, one never knows. He added a flat silver matchbox to his equipment, glanced at his watch, and seeing that it was already a quarter to three, ran briskly downstairs, and hailing a taxi was carried to Battersea Park. Mr. Alfred Thipps was a small, nervous man, whose flaxen hair was beginning to abandon the unequal struggle with destiny. One might say that his only really marked feature was a large bruise over the left eyebrow, which gave him a faintly dissipated air incongruous with the rest of his appearance. Almost in the same breath with his first greeting, he made a self-conscious apology for it, murmuring something about having run against the dining-room door in the dark. He was touched almost to tears by Lord Peter's thoughtfulness and condescension in calling. I'm sure it's most kind of your lordship, he repeated for the dozenth time, rapidly blinking his weak little eyelids. I appreciate it very deeply, very deeply indeed, and so would Mother, only she's so deaf. I don't like to trouble you with making her understand. It's been very hard all day, he added, with the policemen in the house and all this commotion. It's what Mother and me have never been used to, always living very retired, and it's most distressing to a man of regular habits, my lord, and really, I'm most thankful Mother doesn't understand, for I'm sure it would worry her terribly if she was to know about it. She was upset at first, but she's made up some idea of her own about it now, and I'm sure it's all for the best. The old lady who sat knitting by the fire, nodded grimly in response to a look from her son. I always said as you ought to complain about that bath, Alfred, she said suddenly in the high piping voice peculiar to the death, and it's to be oaked the landlord'll see about it now, not but what I think you might have managed without having the police in, but there you always were one to make a fuss about a little thing from chickenpox up. There now, said Mr. Phipps apologetically, you see how it is, not but what it's just as well she settled on that, because she understands we've locked up the bathroom and don't try to go in there, but it's been a terrible shock to me, sir, my lord I should say, but there my nerves are all to pieces, such a thing has never happened, happened to me in all my born days, such a state I was in this morning, I didn't know if I was on my head or my heels, I really didn't, and my heart not being too strong, I hardly knew how to get out of that horrid room and telephone for the police. It's affected me, sir, it's affected me, it really has, I couldn't touch a bit of breakfast, nor lunch, neither, and what with telephoning and putting off clients and interviewing people all morning, I've hardly known what to do with myself. I'm sure it must have been uncommonly distressing, said Lord Peter sympathetically, especially coming in like that before breakfast, hate anything tiresome happening before breakfast, takes a man at such a confounded disadvantage, what? That's just it, that's just it, said Mr. Phipps eagerly, when I saw that dreadful thing lying there in my bath, mother naked too, except for a pair of eyeglasses, I assure you my Lord, it regularly turned my stomach, if you'll excuse the expression, I'm not very strong, sir, and I get that sinking feeling sometimes in the morning, and what with one thing and another I'd had to send the girl for a stiff brandy, or I don't know what might have happened. I felt so queer, though I'm anything but partial to spirits as a rule, still I make it a rule never to be without brandy in the house, in case of emergency, you know. Very wise of you, said Lord Peter cheerfully, you're a very far-seeing man, Mr. Phipps, wonderful what a little nipple do in case of need, and the less you're used to it, the more good it does you. Hope your girl is a sensible young woman, what? Nuisance to have women fainting and shrieking all over the place, oh, Gladys is a good girl, said Mr. Phipps, very reasonable indeed. She was shocked, of course, that's very understandable, I was shocked myself, and it wouldn't be proper in a young woman not to be shocked under the circumstances, but she really is a helpful energetic girl in a crisis, if you understand me. I consider myself very fortunate these days to have got a good decent girl to do for me and mother, even though she is a bit careless and forgetful about little things, but that's only natural. She was very sorry indeed about having left the bathroom window open, she really was, and thought I was angry at first, seeing what's come of it, it wasn't anything to speak of, not in the ordinary way as you might say. Girls will forget things, you know my lord, and she really was so distressed I didn't like to say too much to her. All I said was, it might have been burglars, I said. Remember that next time you leave a window open all night. This time it was a dead man, I said, and that's unpleasant enough, but next time it might be burglars, I said, and all of us murdered in our beds. But the police inspector, inspector Sugg, they called him from the yard, he was very sharp with her poor girl. Quite frightened her, and made her think he suspected her of something, though what good a body could be to her poor girl I can't imagine. And so I told the inspector, he was quite rude to me, my lord. I may say I didn't like his manner at all. If you've got anything definite to accuse Gladys from me of, inspector, I said to him, bring it forward, that's what you have to do, I said, but I've yet to learn that you're paid to be rude to a gentleman in his own house, house, really, said Mr. Thipps, growing quite pink on the top of his head. He regularly browsed me, regularly browsed me, my lord, and I'm a mild man as a rule. Sugg all over, said Lord Peter, I know him. When he don't know what else to say, he's rude, stands to reason you and the girl wouldn't go collecting bodies. Who'd want to saddle himself with a body? Difficulties, usually, to get rid of them. Have you got rid of this one yet, by the way? It's still in the bathroom, said Mr. Thipps. Inspector Sugg said nothing was to be touched till his men came in to move it. I'm expecting them at any time. If it would interest your lordship to have a look at it. Thanks awfully, said Lord Peter, I'd like to very much if I'm not putting you out. Not at all, said Mr. Thipps, his manner as he led the way along the passage convinced Lord Peter of two things. First, that gruesome as his exhibit was, he rejoiced in the importance it reflected upon himself in his flat. And secondly, that Inspector Sugg had forbidden him to exhibit it to anyone. The latter supposition was confirmed by the action of Mr. Thipps, who stopped to fetch the door key from his bedroom, saying that the police had the other, but that he made it a rule to have two keys to every door in case of accident. The bathroom was in no way remarkable. It was long and narrow, the window being exactly over the head of the bath. The panes were a frosted glass, the frame wide enough to admit a man's body. Lord Peter stepped rapidly across to it, opened it, and looked out. The flat was the top one of the building and situated about the middle of the block. The bathroom window looked out upon the back yards of the flat, which were occupied by various small outbuildings, coal holes, garages, and the like. Beyond these were the back gardens of a parallel line of houses. On the right rose the extensive edifice of St. Luke's Hospital Battersea, with its grounds, and connected with it by a covered way, the residence of the famous surgeon Sir Julian Freckie, who directed the surgical side of the great new hospital, and was, in addition, known in Harley Street as a distinguished neurologist, with a highly individual point of view. This information was poured into Lord Peter's ear at considerable length by Mr. Thipps, who seemed to feel that the neighborhood of anybody so distinguished shed a kind of halo of glory over Queen Caroline Mansions. We had him round here himself this morning, he said, about this horrid business. Inspector Sugg thought one of the young medical gentlemen at the hospital might have brought the corpse round for a joke, as you might say. They always have embodies in the dissecting room, so Inspector Sugg went round to see Sir Julian this morning to ask if there was a body missing. He was very kind, was Sir Julian, very kind indeed, though he was at work when they got there, in the dissecting room. He looked up the books to see that all the bodies were accounted for, and then very obligingly came round here to look at this. He indicated the bath, and said he was afraid he couldn't help us. There was no corpse missing from the hospital, and this one didn't answer to any description of any they'd had. Nor to the description of any of the patients, I hope. Suggested Lord Peter casually. At this grisly hint, Mr. Thipps turned pale. I didn't hear Inspector Sugg inquire, he said with some agitation. What a very horrid thing that would be! God bless my soul, my lord, I never thought of it. Well, if they had missed a patient, they'd probably have discovered it by now, said Lord Peter. Let's have a look at this one. He screwed his monocle into his eye, adding, I see you're troubled here with the soot blowing in. Beastly nuisance, ain't it? I get it too, spoils all my books, you know. Here, don't you trouble if you don't care about looking at it. He took back from Mr. Thipps' hesitating hand the sheet which had been flung over the bath, and turned it back. The body which lay in the bath was that of a tall, stout man of about fifty.  The features were thick, fleshy and strongly marked, with prominent dark eyes, and a long nose curving down to a heavy chin. The clean shaven lips were full and sensual, and the dropped jaw showed teeth stained with tobacco. On the dead face, the handsome pair of gold pantsnay marked death with grotesque elegance. The fine gold chain curved over the naked breast. The legs lay stiffly stretched out side by side. The arms reposed close to the body. The fingers were flexed naturally. Lord Peter lifted one arm, and looked at the hand with a little frown. Bit of a dandy-ear visitor, what? He murmured. Palm of violet and manicure. He bent again, slipping his hand beneath the head. The absurd eyeglasses slipped off, clattering into the bath, and the noise put the last touch to Mr. Thip's growing nervousness. If you'll excuse me, he murmured, it makes me feel quite faint, it really does. He slipped outside, and he had no sooner done so than Lord Peter, lifting the body quickly and cautiously. Turned it over and inspected it with his head on one side, bringing his monocle into play, with the air of the late Joseph Chamberlain approving a rare orchid. He then laid the head over his arm, and bringing out the silver matchbox from his pocket, slipped it into the open mouth. Then, making the noise usually written tut tut, he laid the body down, picked up the mysterious pantsnay, looked at it, put it on his nose and looked through it, made the same noise again, readjusted the pantsnay upon the nose of the corpse, so as to leave no traces of interference, for the irritation of Inspector Sugg, rearranged the body, returned to the window and leaning out, reached upwards and sideways with his walking stick, which he had somewhat incongruously brought along with him. Nothing appearing to come of these investigations, he withdrew his head, closed the window, and rejoined Mr. Thipps in the passage. Mr. Thipps, touched by this sympathetic interest in the younger son of a duke, took the liberty, on their returning to the sitting-room, of offering him a cup of tea. Lord Peter, who had strolled over to the window, and was admiring the outlook on Battersea Park, was about to accept, when an ambulance came into view at the end of Prince of Wales Road. Its appearance reminded Lord Peter of an important engagement, and with a hurried, by-jove, he took his leave of Mr. Thipps. My mother sent kind regards and all that, he said, shaking hands fervently, hopes you'll soon be down at Denver again. Goodbye, Mrs. Thipps, he bawled kindly into the ear of the old lady. Oh no, my dear sir, please don't trouble to come down. He was none too soon. As he stepped out of the door and turned toward the station, the ambulance drew up from the other direction, and Inspector Sugg emerged from it, with two constables. The Inspector spoke to the officer on duty at the mansions, and turned a suspicious gaze on Lord Peter's retreating back. Dear old Sugg, said that nobleman fondly, dear dear old bird, how he does hate me to be sure. I couldn't have done better myself. The thought of the Dante makes my mouth water, and the Four Sons of Iman. And you've saved me sixty pounds! That's glorious! What shall we spend it on, Bunter? Think of it, all ours, and to do as we like with, for as Harold Skimpol so rightly observes, sixty pounds saved is sixty pounds gained, and I'd reckoned on spending it all. It's your saving, Bunter, and, properly speaking, your sixty pounds. What do we want? Anything in your department? Would you like anything altered in the flat? Well, my lord, as your lordship is so good. The manservant paused, about to pour an old brandy into a liquor glass.  It's no good talking as if you are announcing dinner, you're spilling the brandy. The voice is Jacob's voice, but the hands are the hands of Esau. What does that blessed dark room of yours want now? There's a double an astigmat, with a set of supplementary lenses, my lord, said Bunter, with a note almost of religious fervor. If it was a case of forgery now, or footprints, I could enlarge them right up on the plate, or the wide-angled lens would be useful. It's as though the camera had eyes at the back of its head, my lord. Look, I've got it here. He pulled a catalogue from his pocket, and submitted it, quivering to his employer's gaze. Lord Peter perused the description slowly, the corners of his long mouth lifted into a faint smile. It's Greek to me, he said, and fifty pounds seems a ridiculous price for a few bits of glass. I suppose, Bunter, you'd say seven hundred fifty was a bit out of the way for a dirty old book in a dead language, wouldn't you? It wouldn't be my place to say so, my lord. No, Bunter, I pay you two hundred pounds a year to keep your thoughts to yourself. Tell me, Bunter, in these democratic days, don't you think that's unfair? No, my lord. You don't. Do you mind telling me, frankly, why you don't think it unfair? Frankly, my lord, your lordship is paid a nobleman's income to take Lady Worthington into dinner, and refrain from exercising your lordship's undoubted powers of repartee. Lord Peter considered this. That's your idea, is it, Bunter? No bless a liege for a consideration. I dare say you're right. Then you're better off than I am, because I'd have to behave myself to Lady Worthington if I hadn't a penny. Bunter, if I sacked you here and now, would you tell me what you think of me? No, my lord. You'd have a perfect right to, my Bunter, and if I sacked you on top of drinking the kind of coffee you make, I'd deserve everything you could say of me.  I don't want to know how you do it, because I believe it to be witchcraft, and I don't want to burn eternally. You can buy your cross-eyed lens. Thank you, my lord. Have you finished in the dining room? Not quite, my lord. Well, come back when you have. I have many things to tell you. Hello, who's that? The doorbell had rung sharply. Unless it's anybody interested, I'm not at home. Very good, my lord. Lord Peter's library was one of the most beautiful bachelor rooms in London. Its scheme was black and primrose. Its walls were lined with rare additions, and its chairs and Chesterfield sofa suggested the embraces of the ories.  To the eyes of the young man who was ushered in from the raw November fog, it seemed not only rare and unattainable, but friendly and familiar, like a colorful and gilded paradise in a medieval painting. Mr. Parker, my lord. Lord Peter jumped up with genuine eagerness. My dear man, I'm delighted to see you. What a beastly foggy night, ain't it? Bunter, some more of that admirable coffee and another glass and the cigars. Parker, I hope you're full of crime. Nothing less than arson or murder will do for us tonight. On such a night as this. Bunter and I were just sitting down to carouse. I've got a Dante, and a Caxton folio that is practically unique, at Sir Ralph Brockelberry's sale. Bunter, who did the bargaining, is going to have a lens which does all kinds of wonderful things with its eyes shut and—we both have got a body in the bath. We both have got a body in the bath. For in spite of all temptations, to go in for cheap sensations, we insist upon a body in a bath. Nothing less will do for us, Parker. It's mine at present, but we're going shares in it. Property of the firm, won't you join us? You really must put something in the jackpot. Perhaps you have a body. Oh, do have a body. Everybody welcome. Gin a body, meet a body, hauled before the beak.  Need a body speak? Not a bit of it. He tips a glassy wink to yours truly, and yours truly reads the truth. Ah, said Parker. I knew you'd been round to Queen Caroline Mansions, so have I, and met Sugg, and he told me he'd seen you. He was cross, too. Unwarrantable interference, he calls it. I knew he would, said Lord Peter. I love taking a rise out of dear old Sugg. He's always so rude. I see by the star that he has excelled himself by taking the girl, Gladys, what's her name, into custody. Sugg of the evening, beautiful Sugg. But what were you doing there? To tell you the truth, said Parker, I went round to see if the somatic-looking stranger in Mr. Thip's bath was by any extraordinary chance, Sir Ruben Levy, but he isn't. Sir Ruben Levy? Wait a minute. I saw something about that. I know. A headline. Mysterious disappearance of famous financier. What's it all about? I didn't read it carefully. Well, it's a bit odd, though I dare say it's nothing really. Old chap may have cleared for some reason best known to himself. It only happened this morning, and nobody would have thought anything about it. Only it happened to be the day on which he had arranged to attend the most important financial meeting, and to do some deal involving millions. I haven't got all the details. But I know he's got enemies who just assume the deal didn't come off. So when I got wind of this fellow in the bath, I buzzed round to have a look at him. It didn't seem likely, of course, but unlikelier things do happen in our profession. The funny thing is, old Sugg has got bitten with the idea it is him, and is wildly telegraphing to Lady Levy to come and identify him. However, as Sir Ruben is a pious Jew of pious parents, and the chap in the bath obviously isn't, I'm not going to waste my time. One thing is, the man would be really extraordinarily like Sir Ruben if he had a beard, and as Lady Levy is abroad with the family, somebody may say it's him, and Sugg will build up a lovely theory, like the Tower of Babel, and destined so to perish. You're certain of your facts, I suppose. Positive. Sugg, of course, says he doesn't take account of fancy religions.  He's like a detective in a novel. Well, I don't know anything about Levy, but I've seen the body, and I should say the idea was preposterous upon the face of it. What do you think of the brandy? Unbelievable, whimsy. Sort of thing makes one believe in heaven, but I want your yarn. Do you mind if Bunter hears it too? Invaluable man, Bunter. Amazing fellow with a camera. And the odd thing is, he's always on the spot when I want my bath or my boots. I don't know when he develops things. I believe he does them in his sleep. Bunter. Yes, my lord. Stop fiddling about in there and get yourself the proper things to drink and join the merry throng. Certainly, my lord. Mr. Parker has a new trick. The vanishing financier. Absolutely no deception. Hey, presto, pass, and where is he? Will some gentleman from the audience kindly step upon the platform and inspect the cabinet? Thank you, sir. The quickness of the end deceives the eye. I'm afraid mine isn't much of a story, said Parker. It's just one of those simple things that offer no handle. Sir Ruben Levy dined last night with three friends at the Ritz. After dinner, the friends went to the theater. He refused to go with them on account of an appointment. I haven't yet been able to trace the appointment, but anyhow he returned home to his house, nine Park Lane, at twelve o'clock. Who saw him? The cook, who had just gone up to bed, saw him on the doorstep and heard him let himself in. He walked upstairs, leaving his great coat on the hall peg and his umbrella in the stand. You'll remember how it rained last night. He undressed and went to bed. Next morning he wasn't there. That's all, said Parker abruptly, with a wave of the hand. It isn't all, it isn't all. Daddy go on, that's not half a story, pleaded lord Peter. But it is all. When his man came to call him, he wasn't there. The bed had been slept in, his pajamas and all his clothes were there. The only odd thing being that they were thrown rather untidily on the ottoman at the foot of the bed, instead of being neatly folded on a chair, as is Sir Ruben's custom, looking as though he had been rather agitated or unwell. No clean clothes were missing, no suit, no boots, nothing. The boots he had worn were in his dressing room as usual. He had washed and cleaned his teeth and done all the usual things. The housemaid was down cleaning the hall at half past six and can swear that nobody came in or out after that. So one is forced to suppose that a respectable middle-aged Hebrew financier either went mad between 12 and 6 a.m. and walked quietly out of the house in his birthday suit on a November night, or else was spirited away like the lady in the Ingoldsby Legends, body and bones, leaving only a heap of crumpled clothes behind him. Was the front door bolted? That's the sort of question you would ask straight off. It took me an hour to think of it. No, contrary to custom, there was only the Yale lock on the door. On the other hand, some of the maids had been given leave to go to the theater, and Sir Ruben may quite conceivably have left the door open under the impression they had not come in. Such a thing has happened before. And that's really all? Really all, except for one very trifling circumstance. I love trifling circumstances, said Lord Peter with childish delight. So many men have been hanged by trifling circumstances. What was it? Sir Ruben and Lady Levy, who are a most devoted couple, always share the same room. Lady Levy, as I said before, is in mentone at the moment for her health. In her absence, Sir Ruben sleeps in the double bed as usual, and invariably on his own side, the outside of the bed. Last night he put the two pillows together and slept in the middle, or if anything, rather closer to the wall than otherwise. The housemaid, who is a most intelligent girl, noticed this when she went up to make the bed, and with really admirable detective instinct, refused to touch the bed, or let anybody else touch it. Though it wasn't till later that they actually sent for the police. Was nobody in the house but Sir Ruben and the servants? No. Lady Levy was away with her daughter and her maid. The valet, cook, parlor maid, housemaid, and kitchen maid were the only people in the house, and naturally wasted an hour or two squawking and gossiping. I got there about ten. What have you been doing since? Trying to get on the track of Sir Ruben's appointment last night, since with the exception of the cook, his appointer was the last person who saw him before his disappearance. There may be some quite simple explanation, though I'm dashed if I can think of one for the moment.  He may have been disguised. I thought of that. In fact, it seems the only possible explanation, but it's adduced odd, Wimsy. An important city man, on the eve of an important transaction, without a word of warning to anybody, slips off in the middle of the night, disguised down to his skin, leaving behind his watch, purse, checkbook, and, most mysterious and important of all, his spectacles, without which he can't see a step, as he is extremely short-sighted. He. That is important, interrupted, Wimsy. You are sure he didn't take a second pair? His man vouches for it that he had only two pairs, one of which was found on his dressing table, and the other in the drawer where it is always kept. Lord Peter whistled. You've got me there, Parker. Even if he'd gone out to commit suicide, he'd have taken those. So you'd think, or the suicide would have happened the first time he started to cross the road. However, I didn't overlook the possibility. I've got particulars of all-today street accidents, and I can lay my hand on my heart and say that none of them is Sir Rubin. Besides, he took his latch-key with him, which looks as though he'd meant to come back. Have you seen the men he dined with? I found two of them at the club. They said that he seemed in the best of health and spirits, spoke of looking forward to joining Lady Levy later on, perhaps at Christmas, and referred with great satisfaction to this morning's business transaction, in which one of them, a man called Anderson of Wyndham's, was himself concerned. Then, up till about nine o'clock anyhow, he had no apparent intention or expectation of disappearing. None, unless he was a most consummate actor. Whatever happened to change his mind must have happened either at the mysterious appointment which he kept after dinner, or while he was in bed between midnight and 5.30 a.m. Well, Bunter, said Lord Peter, what do you make of it? Not in my department, my Lord, except that it is odd that a gentleman who was too flurried or unwell to fold his clothes as usual should remember to clean his teeth and put his boots out. Those are two things that quite frequently get overlooked, my Lord. If you mean anything personal, Bunter, said Lord Peter, I can only say that I think the speech an unworthy one. It's a sweet little problem, Parker mine. Look here, I don't want to butt in, but I should dearly love to see that bedroom tomorrow. It is not that I mistrust thee, dear, but I should uncommonly like to see it. Say me not, nay. Take another drop of brandy and a villar, villar, but say not, say not, nay. Of course you can come and see it. You'll probably find lots of things I've overlooked, said the other equibly, accepting the proffered hospitality. Parker, Akushla, you're an honor to Scotland Yard.  Sugg is too perfect to be possible. What does he make of the body, by the way? Sugg says, replied Parker with precision, that the body died from a blow on the back of the neck. The doctor told him that. He says it's been dead a day or two. The doctor told him that, too. He says it's the body of a well-to-do Hebrew of about 50. Anybody could have told him that. He says it's ridiculous to suppose it came in through the window without anybody knowing anything about it. He says it probably walked in through the front door and was murdered by the household. He's arrested the girl because she's short and frail looking and quite unequal to downing a tall and sturdy semite with a poker. He'd arrest the hips, only Thips was away in Manchester all yesterday, and the day before, and didn't come back till late last night. In fact, he wanted to arrest him, till I reminded him that if the body had been a day or two dead, little Thips couldn't have done him in at 10.30 last night. But he'll arrest him tomorrow as an accessory, and the old lady with the knitting, too, I shouldn't wonder. Well, I'm glad the little man has so much of an alibi, said Lord Peter. Though if you're only gluing your faith to cadaveric levidity, rigidity, and all the other quiddities, you must be prepared to have some skeptical beast of a prosecuting council walk slap bang through the medical evidence. Remember Impy Biggs defending in that Chelsea Tea Shop affair? Six bloomin' medicos contradicting each other in the box, and ol' Impy eloquent and abnormal cases from Glacier and Dixon Man till the eyes of the jury reeled in their heads. Are you prepared to swear, Dr. Thingam-Tite, that the onset of rigor mortis indicates the hour of death without the possibility of error? So far as my experience goes in the majority of cases, says the doctor all stiff. Ah, says Biggs, but this is a court of justice doctor, not a parliamentary election. We can't get on without a minority report. The law, Dr. Thingam-Tite, respects the rights of the minority, alive or dead.  Gentlemen, this is no laughing matter. My client, an upright and honorable gentleman, is being tried for his life, for his life, gentlemen, and it is the business of the prosecution to show his guilt, if they can, without a shadow of doubt. Now, Dr. Thingam-Tite, I ask you again, can you solemnly swear, without the least shadow of doubt, probable possible shadow of doubt, that this unhappy woman met her death neither sooner nor later than Thursday evening? A probable opinion? Gentlemen, we are not Jesuits. We are straightforward Englishmen. You cannot ask a British-born jury to convict any man on the authority of a probable opinion. Humb of applause. Biggs's man was guilty all the same, said Parker. Of course he was, but he was acquitted all the same, and what you've just said is liable. Whims, he walked over to the bookshelf and took down a volume of medical jurisprudence. Rigor mortis can only be stated in a very general way. Many factors determine the result. Cautious brute. On the average, however, stiffening will have begun. Neck and jaw, five to six hours after death. Hmm, in all likelihood, have passed off in the bulk of cases by the end of 36 hours. Under certain circumstances, however, it may appear unusually early, or be retarded unusually long. Helpful, ain't it, Parker? Brown's a card states, three and a half minutes after death, in certain cases, not until lapse of 16 hours after death, present as long as 21 days thereafter. Lord, modifying factors, age, muscular state, or febrile diseases, or where temperature of environment is high, and so on and so on. Any bloomin' thing, never mind. You can run the argument for what it's worth to suck. He won't know any better. He tossed the book away. Come back to facts. What did you make of the body? Well, said the detective. Not very much. I was puzzled, frankly. I should say he had been a rich man, but self-made, and that his good fortune had come to him fairly recently. Ah, you noticed the calluses on the hands. I thought you wouldn't miss that. Both his feet were badly blistered. He had been wearing tight shoes. Walking a long way in them, too, said Lord Peter, to get such blisters as that. Didn't that strike you as odd, in a person evidently well off? Well, I don't know. The blisters were two or three days old. You might have got stuck in the suburbs one night, perhaps. Last train gone, and no taxi, and had to walk home. Possibly. There were some little red marks all over his back, and one leg I couldn't quite account for. I saw them. What did you make of them? I'll tell you afterwards. Go on. He was very long-sighted. Oddly long-sighted for a man in the prime of life. The glasses were like a very old man's. By the way, they had a very beautiful and remarkable chain of flat links chased with a pattern. It struck me he might be traced through it. I've just put an advertisement in the times about it, said Lord Peter. Go on. He had had the glasses some time. They had been mended twice. Beautiful park, or beautiful. Do you realize the importance of that? Not especially, I'm afraid. Why? Never mind. Go on. He was probably a sullen, ill-tempered man. His nails were filed down to the quick, as though he habitually bit them, and his fingers were bitten as well. He smoked quantities of cigarettes without a holder. He was particular about his personal appearance. Did you examine the room at all? I didn't get a chance. I couldn't find much in the way of footprints. Sugg and company had tramped all over the place to say nothing of little thips and the maid, but I noticed a very indefinite patch just behind the head of the bath, as though something damp might have stood there. You could hardly call it a print. It rained hard all last night, of course. Yes, did you notice that the soot on the window sill was vaguely marked? I did, said whimsy, and I examined it hard with this little fellow, but I could make nothing of it except that something or other had rested on the sill. He drew out his monocle and handed it to Parker. My word, that's a powerful lens. It is, said whimsy, and jolly useful when you want to take a good squint at something and look like a ballet fool all the time. Only a don't do to wear it permanently. If people see you full face, they say, Dear me, how weak the sight of that eye must be. Still, it's useful. Saga and I explored the ground at the back of the building, went on Parker, but there wasn't a trace. That's interesting. Did you try the roof? No. We'll go over it tomorrow. The gutter is only a couple of feet off the top of the window and measured it with my stick. The gentlemen and scouts of our makeup, I call it, it's marked off in inches. Uncommonly handy companion at times. There's a sword inside and a compass in the head. Got it made specially. Anything more? Afraid not. Let's hear your version, whimsy. Well, I think you've got most of the points. There are just one or two little contradictions. For instance, here's a man wears expensive, gold-rimmed pence-nez and has had them long enough to be mended twice. Yet his teeth are not merely discolored but badly decayed and look as if he'd never cleaned them in his life. There are four molars missing on one side and three on the other and one front tooth broken right across. He's a man careful of his personal appearance as witness his hair and his hands. What do you say to that? Oh, these self-made men of low origin don't think much about teeth and are terrified of dentists. True, but one of the molars has a broken edge so rough that it had made a sore place on the tongue. Nothing's more painful. Do you mean to tell me a man would put up with that if he could afford to get the tooth filed? Well, people are queer. I've known servants in your agonies rather than step over a dentist's doormat. How did you see that, whimsy? Had a look inside. Electric torch, said Lord Peter. Handy little gadget. Looks like a matchbox. Well, I dare say it's all right, but I just draw your attention to it.  You've got me there, whimsy. I never noticed it.  Right, oh, put it down at that. Third point, gentlemen with the manicure and the brilliantine and all the rest of it suffers from fleas. By Jove, you're right. Fleabytes, it never occurred to me. No doubt about it, old son. The marks were faint and old, but unmistakable. Of course, now you mention it. Still, that might happen to anybody. I loosed a whopper in the best hotel in Lincoln the week before last. I hope it bit the next occupier. Oh, all these things might happen to anybody separately. Fourth point, gentlemen who uses parmaviolet for his hair, et cetera, et cetera, washes his body in strong, carbolic soap. So strong that the smell hangs about 24 hours later. Carbolic to get rid of the fleas. I will say for you, Parker, you've an answer for everything. Fifth point, carefully got up, gentlemen, with manicure, though masticated fingernails, has filthy black toenails, which look as if they hadn't been cut for years. All of a piece with habits as indicated. Yes, I know, but such habits. Now, sixth and last point, this gentleman, with the intermittently, gentlemanly habits, arrives in the middle of a pouring wet night, and apparently through the window, when he has already been 24 hours dead, and lies down quietly in Mr. Thip's bath, unseasonably dressed in a pair of pensioners, not a hair on his head is ruffled. The hair has been cut so recently that there are quite a number of little short hairs stuck on his neck and the sides of the bath, and he has shaved so recently that there is a line of dried soap on his cheek. Whimsy, wait a minute, and dried soap in his mouth. Bunter got up and appeared suddenly at the detective's elbow, the respectful man's servant all over. A little more brandy, sir, he murmured.  He emptied his glass, stared at it, as though he were surprised to find it empty, set it down, got up, walked across to the bookcase, turned round, stood with his back against it, and said, look here, Whimsy, you've been reading detective stories, you're talking nonsense. No, I ain't, said Lord Peter sleepily. Uncommon good incident for detective story, though. What? Bunter, we'll write one, and you shall illustrate it with photographs. Soap in his rubbish, said Parker. It was something else, some discoloration. No, said Lord Peter. There were hairs as well, bristly ones. He had a beard. He took his watch from his pocket and drew out a couple of longish, stiff hairs, which he had imprisoned between the inner and outer case.  You're mad. I don't tell you so, said Whimsy.  Only one idea in your skulls. Blessed if I can make out why you're ever appointed. He was shaved after he was dead. Pretty ain't it. Uncommonly jolly little job for the barber, what?  Worse things happen in war. This is only a blinkin' old shillin' shocker. But I'll tell you what, Parker. We're up against a criminal. The criminal. The real artist and blighter with imagination. Real artistic, finished stuff. I'm enjoying this, Parker. End of Chapter 2. Right by Kara Schallenberg, www.kray.org, on January 20, 2007 in Oceanside, California. Who's Body, Chapter 3 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, reading by Kristen Hughes. Who's Body, by Dorothy L. Sayers, Chapter 3 Lord Peter finished a Scarlatti Sonata and sat looking thoughtfully at his own hands. The fingers were long and muscular, with wide flat joints and square tips. When he was playing, his rather hard gray eyes softened, and his long indeterminate mouth hardened in compensation. At no other time had he any pretensions to good looks, and at all times he was spoiled by a long narrow chin and a long receding forehead, accentuated by the brushed back sleekness of his toe-colored hair. Labor papers, softening down the chin, caricatured him as a typical aristocrat. That's a wonderful instrument, said Parker. It ain't so bad, said Lord Peter. But Scarlatti was a harpsichord, pianos too modern, all thrills and overtones. No good for our job, Parker. Have you come to any conclusions? The man in the bath, said Parker methodically, was not a well-off man careful of his personal appearance. He was a laboring man, unemployed, but who had only recently lost his employment. He had been tramping about looking for a job when he met his end. Somebody killed him and washed him and scented him, and shaved him in order to disguise him, and put him into Thip's bath without leaving a trace. Conclusion.  A man of cool head and masterly intellect, since he did all that ghastly business without leaving a mark. A man of wealth and refinement, since he had all the apparatus of an elegant toilet handy. And a man of bizarre and almost perverted imagination, as is shown in the two horrible touches of putting the body in the bath, and of adorning it with a pair of pants-nay. He is a poet of crime, said Whimsy. By the way, your difficulty about the pants-nay is cleared up. Obviously, the pants-nay never belonged to the body. That only makes a fresh puzzle. One can't suppose the murderer left them in that obliging manner as a clue to his own identity. We can hardly suppose that. I'm afraid this man possessed what most criminals lack. A sense of humour. Rather macabre humour. True, but a man who can afford to be humorous at all in such circumstances is a terrible fellow. I wonder what he did with the body between the murder and depositing its sheath-thips. Then there are more questions. How did he get it there, and why? Was it brought in at the door, as Sugg of our heart suggests, or through the window, as we think, on the not very adequate testimony of a smudge on the windowsill? Had the murderer accomplices, is little Thipps really in it or the girl? It don't do to put the notion out of court merely because Sugg inclines to it.  If not, why was Thipps selected for such an abominable practical joke? Has anybody got a grudge against Thipps? Who are the people in the other flats? We must find that out. Does Thipps play the piano at midnight over their heads, or damage the reputation of the staircase by bringing home dubiously respectable ladies? Are there unsuccessful architects thirsting for his blood?  There must be a motive somewhere. Can't have a crime without a motive, you know. A madman, suggested Parker doubtfully. With a deuced lot of method in his madness, he hasn't made a mistake, not one. Unless leaving hairs in the corpse's mouth can be called a mistake. Well, anyhow, it's not levy, you're right there. I say old thing, neither your man nor mine has left much clue to go upon, has he. And there don't seem to be any motives knocking about, either. And we seem to be two suits of clothes short in last night's work. So Rubin makes tracks without so much as a fig leaf, and a mysterious individual turns up with a pantsnay, which is quite useless for purposes of decency. Dash it all! If only I had some good excuse for taking up this body case officially. The telephone bell rang. The silent bunter, whom the other two had almost forgotten, patted across to it. It's an elderly lady, my lord. He said, I think she's deaf. I can't make her hear anything, but she's asking for your lordship. Lord Peter sees the receiver and yelled into it a hello that might have cracked the vulcanite. He listened for some minutes with an incredulous smile, which gradually broadened into a grin of delight.  By Jove, he announced beaming. Sporton old bird, it's old Mrs. Thipps. Deaf is a post, never used the phone before, but determined, perfect Napoleon. The incomparable Sugg has made a discovery and arrested little Thipps. Old lady abandoned in the flat. Thipps last shrieked to her, tell Lord Peter Whimsy. Old girl, undaunted, wrestles with telephone book, wakes up the people at the exchange, won't take no for an answer, not being able to hear it, gets through, says, will I do what I can? Says she would feel safe in the hands of a real gentleman. Oh, Parker, Parker, I could kiss her. I really could, as Thipps says. I'll write to her instead. No, hang it, Parker, we'll go round. Bunter, get your infernal machine in the magnesium. I say, we'll all go into partnership. Pull the two cases and work them out together. You shall see my body tonight, Parker, and I'll look for your wandering Jew tomorrow. I feel so happy I shall explode. Oh, Suggs, Sugg, how art thou suggerfied. Bunter, my shoes. I say, Parker, I suppose yours are rubber-soled. Not? Tut, tut, you mustn't go out like that. We'll lend you a pair. Gloves? Here. My stick, my torch, the lamp-lack, the forceps, knife, pillboxes? All complete? Certainly, my lord. Oh, Bunter, don't look so offended. I mean no harm. I believe in you. I trust you. What money have I got? That'll do. I knew a man once, Parker, who let a world-famous poisoner slip through his fingers, because the machine on the underground took nothing but pennies. There was a queue at the booking office, and the man at the barrier stopped him, and while they were arguing about accepting a five-pound note, which was all he had, for a two-penny ride to Baker Street, the criminal had sprung into a circle train, and was next heard of in Constantinople, disguised as an elderly Church of England clergyman touring with his niece. Are we all ready? Go! They stepped out, Bunter carefully switching off the lights behind them. As they emerged into the gloom and gleam of Piccadilly, Whimsy stopped short with a little exclamation. Wait a second, he said. I've thought of something. If Sugg's there, he'll make trouble. I must short-circuit him. He ran back, and the other two men employed the few minutes of his absence in capturing a taxi. Inspector Sugg and his subordinate, Cerberus, were on guard at 59 Queen Carol Mansions, and showed no disposition to admit unofficial inquirers. Parker indeed they could not easily turn away, but Lord Peter found himself confronted with a surly manner, and what Lord Beaconsfield described as a masterly in activity. It was in vain that Lord Peter pleaded that he had been retained by Mrs. Thipps on behalf of her son. Retained, said Inspector Sugg, with a snort. She'll be retained if she doesn't look out. Shouldn't wonder if she wasn't in it herself. Only she's so deaf she's no good for anything at all. Look here, Inspector, said Lord Peter. What's the use of being so badly obstructive? You'd much better let me in. You know I'll get there in the end. Dash it all. It's not as if I was taken the bread out of your children's mouths. Nobody's paid me for finding Lord Attenbury's emeralds for you. It's my duty to keep out the public, said Inspector Sugg morosely, and it's going to stay out. I never said anything about your keeping out of the public, said Lord Peter easily, sitting down on the staircase to thrash the matter out comfortably. Though I've no doubt pussyfoot's a good thing, unprinciple, if not exaggerated.   I have. It would take a whole rose garden to cure me, Sugg. You are my garden of beautiful roses. My own rose, my one rose, that's you.  It's bad enough. Hello, draught that telephone. Here, Carthorne. Go and see what it is. If that old catamaran will let you into the room.  It's enough to make a man give up crime and take to hedging and ditching. The constable came back. It's from the yard, sir, he said, coughing apologetically. The chief says every facility is to be given to Lord Peter Wimsey, sir. Um. He stood apart, noncommittally, glazing his eyes. Five aces, said Lord Peter cheerfully. The chief's a dear friend of my mother's. No go, Sugg. It's no good bucking, you've got a full house. I'm going to make it a bit fuller. He walked in with his followers. The body had been removed a few hours previously and when the bathroom and the whole flat had been explored by the naked eye and the camera of the competent bunter, it became evident that the real problem of the household was old Mrs. Thipps. Her son and servant had both been removed and it appeared that they had no friends in town, beyond a few business acquaintances of Thipps, whose very addresses the old lady did not know. The other flats in the building were occupied respectively by a family of seven, at present departed to winter abroad. An elderly Indian colonel of ferocious manners, who lived alone with an Indian man-servant, and a highly respectable family on the third floor, whom the disturbance over their heads had outraged to the last degree. The husband indeed, when appealed to by Lord Peter, showed a little human weakness. But Mrs. Appledore, appearing suddenly in a warm dressing gown, extricated him from the difficulties into which he was carelessly wandering. I am sorry, she said. I am afraid we can't interfere in any way. This is a very unpleasant business, Mr. I am afraid I didn't catch your name, and we have always found it better not to be mixed up with the police. Of course, if the Thipps's are innocent, and I am sure I hope they are, it is very unfortunate for them, but I must say that the circumstances seem to me most suspicious, and to Theophilus too, and I should not like to have it said that we had assisted murderers. We might even be supposed to be accessories. Of course, you are young, Mr. This is Lord Peter Whimsy, my dear," said Theophilus mildly. She was unimpressed. Ah, yes, she said. I believe you are distantly related to my late cousin, the Bishop of Caresbrook. Poor man! He was always being taken in by impastors. He died without ever learning any better. I imagine you take after him, Lord Peter. I doubt it, said Lord Peter, so far as I know he is only connection, though it's a wise child that knows its own father. I congratulate you, dear lady, on taking after the other side of the family. You'll forgive my button-in upon you like this in the middle of the night, though as you say, it's all in the family, and I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you, and for permitting me to admire that awfully fetching thing you've got on. Now don't you worry, Mr. Appledore. I'm thinking the best thing I can do is to trundle the old lady down to my mother and take her out of your way.  Good night, sir. Good night, dear lady. It's simply ripping of you to let me drop in like this. Well, said Mrs. Appledore as the door closed behind him, and I thank the goodness and the grace that on my birth have smiled, said Lord Peter, and taught me to be bestially impertinent when I choose. Cat. 2 a.m. saw Lord Peter Whimsy arrive in a friend's car at the Dower House, Denver Castle, in company with a deaf and aged lady and an antique portmanteau. It's very nice to see you, dear, said the Dowager Duchess placidly.  In feature she was as unlike her son as she was like him in character. Her black eyes twinkled cheerfully, and her manners and movements were marked with a neat and rapid decision. She wore a charming wrap from Liberties, and sat watching Lord Peter eat cold beef and cheese as though his arrival in such incongruous circumstances and company were the most ordinary event possible, which with him indeed it was. Have you got the old lady to bed? asked Lord Peter. Oh yes, dear, such a striking old person isn't she, and very courageous. She tells me she has never been in a motor car before, but she thinks you are very nice lad, dear, that careful of her. You remind her of her own son. Poor little Mr. Thipps. Whatever made your friend the Inspector think he could have murdered anybody? My friend the Inspector, no, no more, thank you, mother, is determined to prove that the intrusive person in Thipp's bath is Sirubin Levy, who disappeared mysteriously from his house last night. His line of reasoning is, we've lost a middle-aged gentleman without any clothes on in Park Lane. We've found a middle-aged gentleman without any clothes on in Battersea. Therefore, they're one and the same person QED and put little Thipps in Quad. You're very elliptical, dear, said the Duchess mildly. Why should Mr. Thipps be arrested, even if they are the same? Sug must arrest somebody, said Lord Peter, but there is one odd little bit of evidence come out, which goes a long way to support Sug's theory. Only that I know it to be no go by the evidence of my own eyes. Last night, at about 9.15, a young woman was strolling up the Battersea Park Road for purposes best known to herself. When she saw a gentleman in a fur coat and top hat, sauntering along under an umbrella, looking at the names of all the streets. He looked a bit out of place, so not being a shy girl, you see, she walked up to him and said, Good evening. Can you tell me, please? says the mysterious stranger, whether this street leads into Prince of Wales Road. She said it did, and further asked him in a jocular manner what he was doing with himself and all the rest of it. Only she wasn't altogether so explicit about that part of the conversation, because she was unburdened in her heart to Sug, do you see? And he's paid by a grateful country to have very pure, high-minded ideals, what? Anyway, the old boy said he couldn't attend to her just then as he had an appointment. I've got to go and see a man, my dear, was how she said he put it, and he walked on up Alexandra Avenue toward Prince of Wales Road. She was staring after him, still rather surprised, when she was joined by a friend of hers, who said, It's no good wasting your time with him, that's levee. I knew him when I lived in the West End, and the girls used to call him P. Green Incorruptible, friend's name suppressed, owing to implications of story, but girl vouchers for what was said. She thought no more about it till the milkman brought news this morning of the excitement at Queen Caroline Manchin's. Then she went round, though not like in the police's a rule, and asked the man there whether the dead gentleman had a beard and glasses. Told he had glasses, but no beard. She unconsciously said, Oh, then it isn't him. And the man said, Isn't who? and collared her. That's her story. Suggs delighted, of course, and quadred Thipps on the strength of it. Dear me, said the Duchess, I hope the poor girl won't get into trouble. I shouldn't think so, said Lord Peter. Thipps is the one that's going to get it in the neck. Besides, he's done a silly thing. I got that out of Sugg too, though he was sitting tight on the information. Seems Thipps got into a confusion about the train he took back from Manchester. Said first he got home at ten thirty. Then they pumped Gladys Horrocks, who let out he wasn't back till after eleven forty-five. Then Thipps, being asked to explain the discrepancy, stammers and bungles and says, First that he missed the train. Then Sugg makes inquiries at St. Pancras and discovers that he left a bag in the cloakroom there at ten. Thipps, again, asked to explain. Stammers worse and says he walked about for a few hours, met a friend, can't say who, didn't meet a friend, can't say what he did with his time, can't explain why he didn't go back for his bag, can't say what time he did get in, can't explain how he got a bruise on his forehead, in fact, can't explain himself at all. Gladys Horrocks interrogated again, says this time Thipps came in at ten thirty. Then admits she didn't hear him come in, can't say why she didn't hear him come in, can't say why she said first of all that she did hear him, bursts into tears, contradicts herself. Everybody's suspicion roused. Quod them both. As you put it, dear, said the Duchess, it all sounds very confusing and not quite respectable. Poor little Mr. Thipps would be terribly upset by anything that wasn't respectable. I wonder what he did with himself, said Lord Peter thoughtfully. I really don't think he was committing a murder. Besides, I believe the fellow has been dead a day or two. Though it don't do to build too much on Doctor's evidence, it's an entertaining little problem. Very curious, dear. But so sad about poor Sir Rubin, I must write a few lines to Lady Levy. I used to know her quite well, you know, dear, down in Hampshire, when she was a girl. Christine Forge she was then, and I remember so well the trouble there was about her marrying a Jew. That was before he made his money, of course, in that oil business out in America. The family wanted her to marry Julian Freckie, who did so well afterwards and was connected with the family. But she fell in love with this Mr. Levy and eloped with him. He was very handsome, then, you know, dear, in a foreign-looking way. But he hadn't any means, and the Fords didn't like his religion. Of course, we're all Jews nowadays, and they wouldn't have minded so much if he'd pretended to be something else, like that Mr. Simons we met at Mrs. Porchester's, who always tells everybody that he got his nose in Italy at the Renaissance, and claims to be descended somehow or other from La Belle Simonetta. So foolish, you know, dear, as if anybody believed it. And I'm sure some Jews are very good people, and personally I'd much rather they believed something, though, of course, it must be very inconvenient. What with not working on Saturdays and circumcising the poor little babies and everything depending on the new moon and that funny kind of meat they have, with such a slang-sounding name, and never being able to have bacon for breakfast. Still, there it was, and it was much better for the girl to marry him if she was really fond of him, though I believe young Freckie was really devoted to her, and they're still good friends. Not that there was ever a real engagement. Only a sort of understanding with her father, but he's never married, you know, and lives all by himself in that big house next to the hospital, though he's very rich and distinguished now. And I know ever so many people have tried to get hold of him. There was Lady Manoring wanted him for that eldest girl of hers, though I remember saying at the time it was no use expecting a surgeon to be taken in by a figure that was all padding. They have so many opportunities of judging, you know, dear. Lady Levy seems to have had the knack of making people devoted to her, said Peter. Look at the pea-green incorruptible Levy. That's quite true, dear. She was a most delightful girl. They say her daughter is just like her. I rather lost sight of them when she married, and you know your father didn't care much about business people, but I know everybody always said they were a model couple. In fact, it was a proverb that Sir Rubin was as well loved at home as he was hated abroad. I don't mean in foreign countries, you know, dear, just the proverbial way of putting things, like a saint abroad and a devil at home, only the other way on, reminding one of the pilgrim's progress. Yes, said Peter, I dare say the old man made one or two enemies. Dozens, dear. Such a dreadful place the city, isn't it? Everybody ish-mails together, though I don't suppose Sir Rubin would like to be called that, would he? Doesn't it mean illegitimate, or not a proper Jew, anyway? I always did get confused with those Old Testament characters. Lord Peter laughed and yawned. I think I'll turn in for an hour or two, he said. I must be back in town at eight. Parker's coming to breakfast. The Duchess looked at the clock, which marked five minutes to three. I'll send up your breakfast at half past six, dear. She said, I hope you'll find everything all right. I told them just to slip a hot water-bottle in. Those linen sheets are so chilly. You can put it out if it's in your way. End of Chapter Three Whose Body Chapter Four This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, this reading by Kara Schellenberg. Whose Body by Dorothy Sayers Chapter Four So there it is, Parker, said Lord Peter, pushing his coffee cup aside and lighting his after breakfast pipe. You may find it leads you to something, though it don't seem to get me any further with my bathroom problem. Did you do anything more at that after I left? No, but I've been on the roof this morning. The deuce you have!  I say, Parker, I think this cooperative scheme is an uncommonly good one. It's much easier to work on someone else's job than one's own. Gives one that delightful feeling of interfering and bossing about. Combined with the glorious sensation that another fellow has taken all one's own work off one's hands. You scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours, what? Did you find anything? Not very much. I looked for any footmarks, of course, but naturally with all this rain, there wasn't a sign. Of course, if this were a detective story, there'd have been a convenient shower, exactly an hour before the crime, and a beautiful set of marks, which could only have come there between 2 and 3 in the morning. But this being real life in a London November, you might as well expect footprints in Niagara. I searched the roofs right along, and came to the jolly conclusion that any person in any blessed flat in the blessed row might have done it. All the staircases open onto the roof, and the leads are quite flat. You can walk along as easily as along Shaftsbury Avenue. Still, I've got some evidence that the body did walk along there. What's that? Parker brought out his pocketbook, and extracted a few shreds of material which he laid before his friend. One was caught in the gutter just above Phipps's bathroom window, another in a crack of the stone parapet just over it, and the rest came from the chimney stack behind, where they had caught in an iron stanchion. What do you make of them? Lord Peter scrutinized them very carefully through his lens. Interesting, he said. Damned interesting. Have you developed those plates, Bunter? he added, as that discreet assistant came in with the post. Yes, my lord. Caught anything? I don't know whether to call it anything or not, my lord, said Bunter dubiously. I'll bring the prints in. Do, said whimsy. Hello, here's our advertisement about the gold chain in the times. Very nice it looks. Write, phone, or call 110 Piccadilly. Perhaps it would have been safer to put a box number, though I always think that the franker you are with people, the more you're likely to deceive them. So unused is the modern world to the open hand and the guileless heart, what? But you don't think the fellow who left that chain on the body is going to give himself away by coming here and inquiring about it? I don't, fathead, said Lord Peter, with the easy politeness of the real aristocracy. That's why I've tried to get hold of the jeweler who originally sold the chain, see? He pointed to the paragraph. It's not an old chain, hardly worn at all. Oh, thanks Bunter. Now, see here, Parker, these are the finger marks you noticed yesterday on the window sash and on the far edge of the bath. I'd overlook them. I give you full credit for the discovery. I crawl, I grovel, my name is Watson, and you need not say what you were just going to say because I admit it all. Now we shall. Hello, hello, hello. The three men stared at the photographs. The criminal, said Lord Peter bitterly, climbed over the roofs in the wet and not unnaturally got soot on his fingers. He arranged the body in the bath and wiped away all traces of himself except two, which he obligingly left to show us how to do our job. We learn from a smudge on the floor that he wore India rubber boots, and from this admirable set of fingerprints on the edge of the bath that he had the usual number of fingers and wore rubber gloves. That's the kind of man he is.  He put the prints aside and returned to an examination of the shreds of material in his hand. Suddenly he whistled softly. Do you make anything of these, Parker? They seemed to me to be ravelings of some coarse cotton stuff, a sheet, perhaps, or an improvised rope. Yes, said Lord Peter. Yes, it may be a mistake. It may be our mistake. I wonder, tell me, do you think these tiny threads are long enough and strong enough to hang a man? He was silent, his long eyes narrowing into slits behind the smoke of his pipe. What do you suggest doing this morning? asked Parker. Well, said Lord Peter, it seems to me it's about time I took a hand in your job. Let's go around to Park Lane and see what larks Sir Ruben Levy was up to in bed last night. And now, Mrs. Penning, if you would be so kind as to give me a blanket, said Mr. Bunter, coming down into the kitchen, and permit of me hanging a sheet across the lower part of this window and drawing the screen across here so as to shut off any reflections, if you understand me, we'll get to work. Sir Ruben Levy's cook, with her eye upon Mr. Bunter's gentlemanly and well-tailored appearance, hastened to produce what was necessary. Her visitor placed on the table a basket containing a water bottle, a silver-backed hairbrush, a pair of boots, a small roll of linoleum, and the letters of a self-made merchant to his son bound in polished Morocco. He drew an umbrella from beneath his arm and added it to the collection. He then advanced a ponderous photographic machine and set it up in the neighbourhood of the kitchen range. Then, spreading a newspaper over the fair, scrubbed surface of the table, he began to roll up his sleeves and insinuate himself into a pair of surgical gloves. Sir Ruben Levy's valet, entering at the moment and finding him thus engaged, put aside the kitchen maid who was staring from a front row position and inspected the apparatus critically. Mr. Bunter nodded brightly to him and uncorked a small bottle of grey powder. Odd sort of fish your employer, isn't he? said the valet carelessly. Very singular indeed, said Mr. Bunter. Now, my dear, he added ingratiatingly to the parlor maid. I wonder if you'd just pour a little of this grey powder over the edge of the bottle while I'm holding it. And the same with this boot here at the top. Thank you, Miss. What is your name? Price? Oh, but you've got another name besides price, haven't you? Mabel, eh? That's a name I'm uncommonly partial to. That's very nicely done. You've a steady hand, Miss Mabel. See that? That's the finger marks. Three there and two here, and smudged over in both places.  We'll stand them up here till they're ready to have their portraits taken. Now then, let's take the hairbrush next. Perhaps, Mrs. Pemming, you'd like to lift him up very carefully by the bristles. By the bristles, Mr. Bunter? If you please, Mrs. Pemming, and lay him here.  No, we'll try lamp black this time. Perfect. Couldn't have done it better myself. Ah, there's a beautiful set. No smudges this time. Battle interest, his lordship. Now the little book. No, I'll pick that up myself with these gloves you see and by the edges. I'm a careful criminal, Mrs. Pemming. I don't want to leave any traces. Dust the cover all over, Miss Mabel. Now this side. That's the way to do it. Lots of prints and no smudges. All according to plan. Oh please, Mr. Graves, you mustn't touch it. It's as much as my place is worth to have it touched. Do you have to do much of this sort of thing, inquired Mr. Graves, from a superior standpoint? Any amount, replied Mr. Bunter, with a groan calculated to appeal to Mr. Graves' heart and unlock his confidence. If you'll kindly hold one end of this bit of linoleum, Mrs. Pemming, I'll hold up this end while Miss Mabel operates. Yes, Mr. Graves, it's a hard life, valeting by day and developing by night. Morning tea at any time, from six thirty to eleven, and criminal investigation at all hours. It's wonderful the ideas these rich men with nothing to do get into their heads. I wonder you stand it, said Mr. Graves. Now there's none of that here. A quiet, orderly, domestic life, Mr. Bunter, has much to be said for it. Meals at regular hours. Decent, respectable families to dinner. None of you are painted women, and know, valeting at night, there's much to be said for it. I don't hold with Hebrews as a rule, Mr. Bunter, and of course I understand that you may find it to your advantage to be in a titled family. But there's less thought of that these days, and I will say, for a self-made man, no one could call Sir Ruben Volger, and my lady, at any rate, is county. Miss Ford, she was, one of the Hampshire Fords, and both of them always most consider it. I agree with you, Mr. Graves. His lordship and me have never held with being narrow-minded. Oh, yes, my dear, of course it's a footmark. This is the wash-stand linoleum. A good Jew can be a good man, that's what I've always said, and regular hours and considerate habits have a great deal to recommend them. Very simple in his tastes now, Sir Ruben, isn't he? For such a rich man, I mean. Very simple indeed, said the cook. The meals he and her ladyship have when they're by themselves with Miss Rachel. Well, there now, if it wasn't for the dinners, which is always good when there's company, I'd be wasting my talents and education here, if you understand me, Mr. Bunter. Mr. Bunter added the handle of the umbrella to his collection, and began to pin a sheet across the window, aided by the housemaid. Admirable, said he. Now, if I might have this blanket on the table and another on a towel horse or something of that kind by way of a background—you're very kind, Mrs. Penning. Ah, I wish his lordship never wanted valeting at night. Many is the time I've sat up till three or four, and up again to call him early to go off surelocking at the other end of the country, and the mud he gets on his clothes and his boots. I'm sure it's a shame, Mr. Bunter, said Mrs. Penning warmly. Lo, I calls it. In my opinion, police work ain't no fit occupation for a gentleman, let alone a lordship. Everything made so difficult to, said Mr. Bunter, nobly sacrificing his employer's character and his own feelings in a good cause. Boots chucked into a corner, clothes hung up on the floor, as they say. That's often the case with these men, as they are born with a silver spoon in their mouths, said Mr. Graves. Now, Sir Rubin, he's never lost his good old-fashioned habits. Clothes folded up neat, boots put out in his dressing room, so as a man could get them in the morning, everything made easy. He forgot them the night before last, though. But clothes, not the boots, always thoughtful for others, is Sir Rubin. Ah, I hope nothing's happened to him. Indeed no, poor gentleman, chimed in the cook. And as for what they're saying, that he'd have gone out surreptious like to do something he did not, well, I'd never believe it of him, Mr. Bunter, not if I was to take my dying oath upon it. Ah, said Mr. Bunter, adjusting his arc lamps and connecting them with the nearest electric light. And that's more than most of us could say of them as Paisas. Five foot ten, said Lord Peter, and not an inch more. He peered dubiously at the depression in the bedclothes and measured it a second time with the gentlemen scouts of Aramaicum. Parker entered this particular, in a neat pocketbook. I suppose, he said, a six foot two man might leave a five foot ten depression if he curled himself up.  Not that I know of, replied Parker, why? Because of all the cautious, ungenerous, deliberate and cold-blooded devils I know, said Lord Peter. You are the most cautious, ungenerous, deliberate and cold-blooded.  Well, it's no good jumping at conclusions. Jump! You don't even crawl distantly within sight of a conclusion. I believe if you caught the cat with her head in the cream jug, you'd say it was conceivable that the jug was empty when she got there. Well, it would be conceivable, wouldn't it? Curse you, said Lord Peter. He screwed his monocle into his eye and bent over the pillow, breathing hard and tightly through his nose. Here, give me the tweezers, he said presently. Good heavens, man, don't blow like that. You might be a whale. He nipped up an almost invisible object from the linen. What is it? asked Parker. It's a hair, said whimsy grimly, his hard eyes growing harder. Let's go and look at Levy's hats, shall we? And you might just ring for that fellow with the churchyard name, do you mind? Mr. Graves, when summoned, found Lord Peter whimsy squatting on the floor of the dressing room before a row of hats arranged upside down before him. Here you are, said that nobleman cheerfully. Now, Graves, this is a guessing competition, a sort of three-hat trick to mix metaphors. Here are nine hats, including three top hats. Do you identify all of these hats as belonging to Sir Ruben Levy? You do? Very good. Now, I have three guesses as to which hat he wore the night he disappeared. And if I guess right, I win. If I don't, you win, see? Ready? Go. I suppose you know the answer yourself, by the way. Do I understand your lordship to be asking which hat Sir Ruben wore when he went out on Monday night your lordship? No, you don't understand a bit, said Lord Peter. I'm asking if you know, don't tell me, I'm going to guess. I do know your lordship, said Mr. Graves, reprovingly. Well, said Lord Peter. As he was dying at the ritz, he wore a topper. Here are three toppers. In three guesses, I'd be bound to hit the right one, wouldn't I? That don't seem very sportive. I'll take one guess. It was this one. He indicated the hat next to the window. Am I right, Graves? Have I got the prize? That is the hat in question, my lord, said Mr. Graves, without excitement. Thanks, said Lord Peter. That's all I wanted to know. Ask Bunter to step up, would you? Mr. Bunter stepped up with an aggrieved air, and his usually smooth hair ruffled by the focusing cloth. Oh, there you are, Bunter, said Lord Peter. Oh, there you are, Bunter, said Lord Peter. Look here. Here I am, my lord, said Mr. Bunter, with respectful reproach. But if you'll excuse me saying so downstairs is where I ought to be with all those young women about. They'll be fingering the evidence, my lord. I cry you mercy, said Lord Peter, but I've quarreled hopelessly with Mr. Parker and distracted the estimable Graves, and I want you to tell me what fingerprints you have found. I shan't be happy till I get it, so don't be harsh with me, Bunter. Well, my lord, your lordship understands I haven't photographed them yet, but I won't deny that their appearance is interesting, my lord. The little book off the night table, my lord, has only the marks of one set of fingers. There's a little scar on the right thumb which makes them easy recognized. The hairbrush, too, my lord, has only the same set of marks. The umbrella, the tooth glass, and the boots all have two sets. The hand with the scarred thumb, which I take to be Sir Rubens, my lord, and a set of smudges superimposed upon them, if I may put it that way, my lord, which may or may not be the same hand in rubber gloves. I could tell you better when I've got the photographs made to measure them, my lord. The linoleum in front of the wash stand is very gratifying indeed, my lord, if you will excuse my mentioning it. Besides the marks of Sir Rubens' boots, which your lordship pointed out, there's the print of a man's naked foot, a much smaller one, my lord, not much more than a ten-inch sock, I should say if you asked me. Lord Peter's face became irradiated with almost a dim religious light.  When was the linoleum washed last, bunter? Monday morning, my lord, the housemaid did it and remembered to mention it, only remark she's made yet, and it's to the point, the other domestics, his features expressed disdain. What did I say, Parker? Five foot ten and not an inch longer, and he didn't dare to use the hairbrush, beautiful, but he had to risk the top hat. Gentlemen can't walk home in the rain late at night without a hat, you know, Parker. Look what do you make of it? Two sets of fingerprints on everything but the book and the brush, two sets of feet on the linoleum, and two kinds of hair in the hat. He lifted the top hat to the light and extracted the evidence with tweezers. Think of it, Parker, to remember the hairbrush and forget the hat, to remember his fingers all the time, and to make that one careless step on the telltale linoleum.  And then, just to make certain that we're on the right track, just one little auburn hair on the pillow, on this pillow, Parker, which isn't quite in the right place. It almost brings tears to my eyes. Do you mean to say, said the detective slowly? I mean to say, said Lord Peter, that it was not Sir Reuben Levy whom the cook saw last night on the doorstep. I say that it was another man, perhaps a couple of inches shorter, who came here in Levy's clothes and let himself in with Levy's latchkey. Oh, he was a bold, cunning devil, Parker. He had on Levy's boots and every stitch of Levy's clothing down to the skin. He had rubber gloves on his hands, which he never took off, and he did everything he could to make us think that Levy slept here last night. He took his chances and won. He walked upstairs, he undressed, he even washed and cleaned his teeth, though he didn't use the hairbrush for fear of leaving red hairs in it. He had to guess what Levy did with boots and clothes. One guess was wrong and the other right as it happened. The bed must look as if it had been slept in, so he gets in, and lies there in his victim's very pajamas. Then in the morning sometime, probably in the deadest hour between two and three, he gets up, dresses himself in his own clothes that he has brought with him in a bag, and creeps downstairs. If anybody wakes, he is lost, but he is a bold man and he takes his chance. He knows that people do not wake as a rule, and they don't wake. He opens the street door, which he left on the latch when he came in. He listens for the stray passerby or the policeman on his beat. He slips out. He pulls the door quietly to with the latch key. He walks briskly away in rubber-soled shoes. He's the kind of criminal who isn't complete without rubber-soled shoes. In a few minutes he is at Hyde Park Corner. After that, he paused and added. He did all that, and unless he had nothing at stake, he had everything at stake. Either Sir Ruben Levy had been spirited away for some silly practical joke, or the man with the auburn hair has the guilt of murder upon his soul. Dear me, ejaculated the detective, you're very dramatic about it. Lord Peter passed his hand rather wearily over his hair. My true friend, he murmured in a voice supercharged with emotion. You recall to me the nursery rhymes of my youth, the sacred duty of flippancy. There was an old man of Whitehaven who danced a quadril with a raven, but they said it's absurd to encourage that bird, so they smashed that old man of Whitehaven. That's the correct attitude, Parker.  That makes it funnier. Do you know, Parker, I don't care frightfully about this case after all. Which, this, or yours? Both. I say, Parker, shall we go quietly home and have lunch and go to the Coliseum? You can if you like, replied the detective, but you forget, I do this for my bread and butter. And I haven't even that excuse, said Lord Peter. Well, what's the next move? What would you do in my case? I'd do some good-heart grind, said Parker. I'd distrust every bit of work Sugg ever did, and I'd get the family history of every tenant of every flat in Queen Caroline Mansions. I'd examine all their box rooms and roof traps, and I would invagle them into conversations and suddenly bring in the words, body and pence-nez, and see if they wriggled like those modern psycho-whatsis names. You would, would you? said Lord Peter with a grin. Well, we've exchanged cases, you know, so just you toggle off and do it. I'm going to have a jolly time at Windham's. Parker made a grimace. Well, he said, I don't suppose you'd ever do it, so I'd better. You'll never become a professional till you learn to do a little work, whimsy. How about lunch? I'm invited out, said Lord Peter magnificently. I'll run round and change at the club. Can't feed with Freddie Arbuth not in these bags. Bunter. Yes, my lord. Pack up if you're ready and come round and wash my face and hands for me at the club. Work here for another two hours, my lord. Can't do with less than 30 minutes exposure. The currents none too strong. You see how I'm bullied by my own man, Parker. Well, I must bear it, I suppose. Ta-ta. He whistled his way downstairs. The conscientious Mr. Parker, with a groan, settled down to a systematic search through Sir Ruben Levy's papers with the assistance of a plate of ham sandwiches and a bottle of bass. Lord Peter and the honourable Freddie Arbuthnot, looking together like an advertisement for gents' trouserings, strolled into the dining-room at Wyndham's. Haven't seen you for an age, said the honourable Freddie. What have you been doing with yourself? Oh, foolin' about, said Lord Peter languidly. Thick or clear, sir, inquired the waiter of the honourable Freddie. Which'll you have, Whimsy, said that gentleman, transferring the burden of selection to his guest. They're both equally poisonous. Well, clear is less trouble to lick out of the spoon, said Lord Peter. Clear, said the honourable Freddie. Consumé Poulonet, agreed the waiter, very nice, sir. Conversation languished until the honourable Freddie found a bone in the filleted soul and sent for the head waiter to explain its presence. When this matter had been adjusted, Lord Peter found energy to say, Sorry to hear about your governor, old man. Yes, poor old buffer, said the honourable Freddie. They say he can't last long now. What? Oh, the Montrachet, oh, eight. There's nothing fit to drink in this place, he added gloomily. After this deliberate insult to a noble vintage, there was a further pause till Lord Peter said, How's change? Rotten, said the honourable Freddie. Rotten, said the honourable Freddie. He helped himself gloomily to Salamis of Game. Can I do anything, asked Lord Peter. Oh, no thanks, very decent of you, but it'll pan out all right in time. This isn't a bad Salamis, said Lord Peter. I've eaten worse, admitted his friend. What about those Argentines, inquired Lord Peter. Here, waiter, there's a bit of cork in my glass. Cork, cried the honourable Freddie, with something approaching animation. You'll hear about this, waiter. It's an amazing thing a fellow who's paid to do the job can't manage to take a cork out of a bottle. What do you say? Argentines?  Old levy bunking off like that's knocked the bottom out of the market. You don't say so, said Lord Peter. What do you suppose has happened to the old man? Cursed if I know, said the honourable Freddie, knocked on the head by the bears, I should think. Perhaps he's gone off on his own, suggested Lord Peter. Double life, you know, giddy old blighters, some of these city men. Oh, no, said the honourable Freddie, faintly roused. No, hang it all, whimsy, I wouldn't care to say that. He's a decent old domestic bird, and his daughter's a charming girl. Besides, he's straight enough, he'd do you down fast enough, but he wouldn't let you down. Old Anderson is badly cut up about it. Who's Anderson? Chap with property out there. He belongs here. He was going to meet Levy on Tuesday. He's afraid those railway people will get in now, and then it'll be all you pee. Who's running the railway people over here? Enquired Lord Peter. Yankee blighter, John P. Milligan. He's got an option, or says he has. You can't trust these brutes. Can't Anderson hold on? Anderson isn't Levy. Hasn't got the shekels. Besides, he's only one. Levy covers the ground. He could boycott Milligan's beastly railway if he liked. That's where he's got the pull, you see. Believe I met the Milligan man somewhere, said Lord Peter thoughtfully.  You're thinking of somebody else, said the honourable Freddie. Milligan don't stand any higher than I do, unless you call five feet ten hulking, and he's bald anyway. Lord Peter considered this over the gorgonzola. Then he said, Didn't know Levy had a charming daughter. Oh yes, said the honourable Freddie with an elaborate detachment. Met her and Mama last year abroad. That's how I got to know the old man. He's been very decent. Let me into this Argentine business on the ground floor, don't you know? Well, said Lord Peter. You might do worse. Money's money ain't it, and Lady Levy is quite a redeeming point. At least my mother knew her people. Oh, she's all right, said the honourable Freddie, and the old man's nothing to be ashamed of nowadays. He's self-made, of course, but he don't pretend to be anything else. No side. Toddles off to business on a 96 bus every morning. Can't make up my mind to taxis, my boy, he says. I had to look at every half penny when I was a young man, and I can't get out of the way of it now. Though, if he's taken his family out, nothing's too good. Rachel, that's the girl, always laughs at the old man's little economies. I suppose they've sent for Lady Levy, said Lord Peter. I suppose so, agreed the other. I'd better pop round and express sympathy or something, what? Wouldn't look well not to, do you think? But it's deuced awkward. What am I to say? I don't think it matters much what you say, said Lord Peter, helpfully. I should ask if you can do anything. Thanks, said the lover. I will. Energetic young man, count on me, always at your service, ring me up any time of the day or night. That's the line to take, don't you think? That's the idea, said Lord Peter. Mr. John P. Milligan, the London representative of the great Milligan Railroad and Shipping Company, was dictating code cables to his secretary in an office in Lombard Street when a card was brought up to him, bearing the simple legend, Lord Peter Wimsey, Marlborough Club. Mr. Milligan was annoyed at the interruption, but like many of his nation, if he had a weak point, it was the British aristocracy. He postponed for a few minutes the elimination from the map of a modest but promising farm and directed that the visitor should be shown up. Good afternoon, said that nobleman, ambling genially in. It's most uncommonly good of you to let me come round, wasting your time like this. I'll try not to be too long about it, though I'm not awfully good at coming to the point. My brother never would let me stand for the county, you know, said I wandered on, so nobody know what I was talking about. Pleased to meet you, Lord Wimsey, said Mr. Milligan. Won't you take a seat? Thanks, said Lord Peter, but I'm not the Duke, you know, that's my brother Denver. My name's Peter, and it's a silly name, I always think, so old world and full of homely virtue and that sort of thing, but my godfathers and godmothers in my baptism are responsible for that, I suppose, officially, which is rather hard on them, you know, as they didn't actually choose it. But we always have a Peter, after the third Duke, who betrayed five kings somewhere about the Wars of the Roses, though come to think of it, it ain't anything to be proud of. Still, one has to make the best of it. Mr. Milligan, thus ingeniously placed at that disadvantage which attends ignorance, maneuvered for position, and offered his interrupter a corona-corona. Thanks awfully, said Lord Peter, though you really mustn't tempt me to stay here barbling all afternoon. By Jove, Mr. Milligan, if you offer people such comfortable chairs and cigars like these, I wonder they don't come and live in your office. He added mentally, I wish to goodness I could get those long-toed boots off you.  Say now, Lord Peter, said Mr. Milligan, can I do anything for you? Well, do you know, said Lord Peter, I'm wondering if you would. It's damned cheek to ask you, but fact is it's my mother, you know. Wonderful woman, but don't realize what it means. Demands on the time of a busy man like you. We don't understand hustle over here, you know, Mr. Milligan. Now, don't you mention that, said Mr. Milligan, I'd be surely charmed to do anything to oblige the duchess. He felt a momentary qualm as to whether a Duke's mother were also a duchess, but breathed more freely as Lord Peter went on. Thanks, that's uncommonly good of you. Well, now it's like this. My mother, most energetic self-sacrifice in woman, don't you see, is thinking of getting up a sort of a charity bazaar down at Denver this winter in aid of the church roof, you know. Very sad case, Mr. Milligan. Fine old antique, early English windows and decorated angel roof and all that. All tumbling to pieces, rain pouring in and so on. Vicar catching rheumatism at early service owing to the draught blowing in over the altar. You know the sort of thing. They've got a man down starting on it.  At this point Lord Peter watched his interlocutor narrowly, but finding that this rigmarole produced in him no reaction more startling than polite interest, tinged with faint bewilderment, he abandoned this line of investigation and proceeded. I say, I beg your pardon frightfully. I'm afraid I'm being beastly long-winded. Fact is, my mother is getting up this bazaar and she thought it'd be all awfully interesting sideshow to have some lectures, sort of little talks, you know, by eminent businessmen of all nations. How I did it, kind of touch, you know. A drop of oil with Mr. Rockefeller, cash and conscience by Cadbury's cocoa and so on. It would interest people down there no end. You see, all my mother's friends will be there and we've none of us any money. Not what you'd call money, I mean. I expect our incomes wouldn't pay your telephone calls, would they? But we like awfully to hear about the people who can make money. Gives us a sort of uplifted feeling, don't you know? Well, anyway, I mean, my mother'd be frightfully pleased and grateful to you, Mr. Melgen, if you'd come down and give us a few words as a representative American. It needn't take more than ten minutes or so, you know, because the local people can't understand much beyond shooting and hunting and my mother's crowd can't keep their minds on anything more than ten minutes together. But we'd really appreciate it very much if you'd come and stay a day or two and just give us a little breezy word on the almighty dollar. Why, yes, said Mr. Melgen. I'd like to, Lord Peter. It's kind of the duchess to suggest it. It's a very sad thing when these fine old antiques begin to wear out. I'll come with great pleasure. And perhaps you'd be kind enough to accept a little donation to the Restoration Fund. This unexpected development nearly brought Lord Peter up all standing to pump by means of an ingenious lie a hospitable gentleman whom you are inclined to suspect of a peculiarly malicious murder and to accept from him in the course of the proceedings a large check for a charitable object has something about it unpalatable to any but the hardened secret service agent. Lord Peter temporized. That's awfully decent of you, he said. I'm sure they'd be no end grateful. But you'd better not give it to me, you know. I might spend it or lose it. I'm not very reliable, I'm afraid. The vicar's the right person. The Reverend Constantine Throgmorton. St. John before the Latin Gate vicarage. Duke's Denver, if you'd like to send it there. I will, said Mr. Melgen. Will you write it out now for a thousand pounds, scoot, in case it slips my mind later? The secretary. A sandy-haired young man with a long chin and no eyebrows silently did as he was requested. Lord Peter looked from the bald head of Mr. Melgen to the red head of the secretary, hardened his heart and tried again. Well, I'm no end grateful to you, Mr. Melgen and so'll my mother be when I tell her. I'll let you know the date of the bazaar. It's not quite settled yet and I've got to see some other businessmen, don't you know? I thought of asking Lord Northcliff to represent English newspapers, you know, and a friend of mine promises me a lead in German. Very interesting if there ain't too much feeling against it down in the country. And I'd better get a Rothschild, I suppose, to do the Hebrew point of view. I thought of asking Levy, you know, only he's floated off in this inconvenient way. Yes, said Mr. Melgen. That's a very curious thing, though I don't mind saying, Lord Peter, that it's a convenience to me. He had a cinch on my railroad combine but I'd nothing against him personally and if he turns up after I've brought off a little deal I've got on, I'll be happy to give him the right hand of welcome. A vision passed through Lord Peter's mind of Sir Rubin kept somewhere in custody till a financial crisis was over. This was exceedingly possible and far more agreeable than his earlier conjecture. It also agreed better with the impression he was forming of Mr. Melgen. Well, it's a rum go, said Lord Peter, but I daresay he had his reasons. Much better not inquire into people's reasons, you know, what? Especially as a police friend of mine who's connected with the case says the old Johnny dyed his hair before he went. Out of the tale of his eye, Lord Peter saw the red-headed secretary add up five columns of figures simultaneously and jot down the answer. Died his hair, did he? said Mr. Melgen. Died it red, said Lord Peter. The secretary looked up. Odd thing is, continued whimsy. They can't lay hands on the bottle.  The secretary's interest seemed to have evaporated. He inserted a fresh sheet into his loose leaf ledger and carried forward a row of digits from the preceding page. I daresay there's nothing in it, said Lord Peter, rising to go. Well, it's uncommonly good of you to be bothered with me like this, Mr. Melgen. My mother'll be no end pleased. She'll write you about the date. I'm charmed, said Mr. Melgen. Very pleased to have met you. Mr. Scoot rose silently to open the door, uncoiling as he did so a portentous length of thin leg hitherto hidden by the desk. With a mental sigh, Lord Peter estimated him at six foot four. It's a pity I can't put Scoot's head on Milligan's shoulders, said Lord Peter, emerging into the swirl of the city. And what will my mother say? End of Chapter 4, read by Kara Schellenberg on January 25th, 2007, in Oceanside, California. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, reading by Christian Hughes. Whose Body, by Dorothy L. Sayers, Chapter 5 Mr. Parker was a bachelor and occupied a Georgian but inconvenient flat at Number 12 Great Ormond Street, for which he paid a pound a week. His exertions in the cause of civilization were rewarded not by the gift of diamond rings from empresses or munificent checks from grateful prime ministers, but by a modest though sufficient salary, drawn from the pockets of the British taxpayer. He awoke after a long day of arduous and inconclusive labor to the smell of burnt porridge. Through his bedroom window, hygienically open top and bottom, a raw fog was rolling slowly in, and the sight of a pair of winter pants flung hastily over a chair the previous night, fretted him with a sense of the sordid absurdity of the human form. The telephone bell rang, and he crawled wretchedly out of bed and into the sitting room, where Mrs. Muns, who did for him by the day, was laying the table, sneezing as she went. Mr. Bunter was speaking. His lordship says he'd be very glad, sir, if you could make it convenient to step around to breakfast. If the odor of kidneys and bacon had been wafted along the wire, Mr. Parker could not have experienced a more vivid sense of consolation. Tell his lordship I'll be with him in half an hour. He said, thankfully, and plunging into the bathroom, which was also the kitchen, he informed Mrs. Muns, who was just making tea from a kettle which had gone off the boil, that he should be out to breakfast. You can take the porridge home for the family, he added viciously and flung off his dressing-gown with such determination that Mrs. Muns could only scuddle away with a snort. A nineteen-bust deposited him in Piccadilly, only fifteen minutes later than his rather sanguine impulse had prompted him to suggest, and Mr. Bunter served him with glorious food, incomparable coffee, and the daily mail, before a blazing fire of wood and coal, a distant voice singing the et-iterum venturis est, from Bach's Mass in B Minor, proclaimed that for the owner of the flat, cleanliness and godliness met at least once a day, and presently, Lord Peter roamed in, moist and verbina-scented, in a bathrobe cheerfully patterned with unnaturally variegated peacocks. Morning, old dear, said that gentleman, beast of a day, ain't it? Very good of you to trundle out in it, but I had a letter I wanted you to see, and I hadn't the energy to come round to your place. Bunter and I have been making a night of it. What's the letter? asked Parker.  Have some Oxford marmalade, and then I'll show you my Dante. They brought it round last night. What haught I to read this morning, Bunter? Lord Aerith's collection is going to be sold, my lord. There is a column about it in the morning post. I think your lordship should look at this review of Sir Julian Frecky's new book on the psychological basis of the Conscience in the Times' literary supplement. Then there is a very singular little burglary in the Chronicle, my lord, and an attack on titled Families in the Herald. Rather ill-written, if I may say so, but not without unconscious humor, which your lordship will appreciate. All right, give me that in the burglary, said his lordship. I have looked over the other papers, pursued Mr. Bunter indicating a formidable pile, and marked your lordship's after-breakfast reading. Oh, pray don't allude to it, said Lord Peter, you take my appetite away. There was silence, but for the crunching of toast and the crackling of paper. I see they adjourned the inquest, said Parker pray. Said Parker presently. Nothing else to do, said Lord Peter, but Lady Levy arrived last night, and will have to go and fail to identify the body this morning for Sugg's benefit. Time, too, said Mr. Parker shortly. Silence fell again. I don't think much of your burglary, Bunter, said Lord Peter. Competent, of course, but no imagination. I want imagination in a criminal. Where's the morning post? After a further silence, Lord Peter said, you might send for the catalog, Bunter, that Apollonius Rhodius might be worth looking at. No, I am damned if I'm going to stodge through that review, but you can stick the book on the library list if you like. His book on crime was entertained enough as far as it went, but the fellow's got a bee in his bonnet, thinks God's a secretion of the liver. All right once, in a way, but there's no need to keep on about it. There's nothing you can't prove if your outlook is only sufficiently limited. Look at Sugg. I beg your pardon, said Parker. I wasn't attending. Argentines are steadying a little, I see. Milligan, said Lord Peter. Oil's in a bad way. Levies made a difference there. That funny little boom in Peruvians that came on just before he disappeared has died away again. I wonder if he was concerned in it. Do you know it all? I'll find out, said Lord Peter. What was it? Oh, an absolutely dud enterprise that hadn't been heard of for years. It suddenly took a little lease of life last week. I happened to notice it because my mother got led in for a couple of hundred shares a long time ago. It never paid a dividend. Now it's petered out again. Whimsy pushed his plate aside and lit a pipe. Having finished, I don't mind doing some work. He said, How did you get on yesterday? I didn't, replied Parker. I sleuthed up and down those flats in my own bodily shape and two different disguises. I was a gas meter man and a collector for a home of lost doggies. I didn't get a thing to go on, except a servant in the top flat at the Battersea Bridge road end of the row, who said she thought she'd heard a bump on the roof one night. Asked which night she couldn't rightly say. Asked if it was Monday night, she thought it very likely. Asked if it mightn't have been in that high wind on Saturday night that blew the chimney pot off. She couldn't say, but what it might have been. Asked if she was sure it was on the roof and not inside the flat. Said to be sure they did not find a picture tumbled down next morning. Very suggestible girl. I saw your friends, Mr. and Mrs. Appledore, who received me coldly, but could make no definite complaint about Thipps, except that his mother dropped her H's. And that he once called on them uninvited, armed with a pamphlet about anti-vivisection. The Indian Colonel on the first floor was loud, but unexpectedly friendly. He gave me Indian curry for supper and some very good whisky. But he's a sort of hermit, and all he could tell me was that he couldn't stand Mrs. Appledore. Did you get nothing at the house? Only Levy's private diary. I brought it away with me. Here it is. It doesn't tell one much, though. It's full of entries like Tom and Annie to dinner, and my dear wife's birthday gave her an old opal ring. Mr. Arbuthnot dropped into tea. He wants to marry Rachel, but I should like someone steadier for my treasure. Still, I thought it would show who came to the house and so on. He evidently wrote it up at night. There's no entry for Monday. I expect it'll be useful, said Lord Peter turning over the pages. Poor old buffer. I say I'm not so certain now he was done away with. He detailed to Mr. Parker his day's work. Arbuthnot? said Parker. Is that the Arbuthnot of the diary? I suppose so. I hunted him up because I knew he was fond of fooling around the stock exchange. As for Milligan, he looks all right, but I believe he's pretty ruthless in business, and you never can tell. Then there's the red-haired secretary. Lightning calculated a man with a face like a fish. Keeps on saying nothing. Got the tar baby in his family, I should think. Milligan's got a jolly good motive for, at any rate, suspending Levy for a few days. Then there's the new man. What new man? Ah, that's the letter I mentioned to you. Where did I put it? Here we are. Good parchment paper, printed address of Solicitor's Office in Salisbury, and postmarked to Correspond. Very precisely written, with a fine nib by an elderly businessman of old-fashioned habits. Parker took the letter in red. Salisbury. Solicitor's. Milford Hill, Salisbury. 17 November, 1920, Blank. Sir, with reference to your advertisement today in the personal column of the Times, I am disposed to believe that the eyeglasses and chain in question may be those I lost on the LB and SC Electric Railway while visiting London last Monday. I left Victoria by the 545 train and did not notice my loss till I arrived at Balham. This indication and the optician's specification of the glasses which I enclose should suffice at once as an identification and a guarantee of my bona fides. If the glasses should prove to be mine, I should greatly oblige you if you would kindly forward them to me by registered post, as the chain was a present for my daughter and is one of my dearest possessions. Thank you in advance for this kindness and regretting the trouble which I shall be putting you to, I am, yours very truly, Thomas Cripplesham. Lord Peter Whimsy, 110 Piccadilly West Enclosure. Dear me, said Parker, this is what you might call unexpected. Either it is some extraordinary misunderstanding, said Lord Peter, or Mr. Cripplesham is a very bold and cunning villain, or possibly, of course, they are the wrong glasses. We may as well get a ruling on that point at once. I suppose the glasses are at the yard. I wish you'd just ring them up and ask him to send round an optician's description of them at once. You might ask at the same time whether it's a very common prescription. Right you are, said Parker and took the receiver off its hook. And now, said his friend, when the message was delivered, just come into the library for a moment. On the library table, Lord Peter had spread out a series of bromide prints, some dry, some damp, and some but half washed. These little ones are the originals of the photos we've been taking, said Lord Peter, and these big ones are enlargements all made to precisely the same scale. This one here is the footmark on the linoleum. We'll put that by itself at present. Now, these fingerprints can be divided into five lots. I've numbered them on the prints, see, and made a list. A. The fingerprints of Levy himself.  This and this. You can't mistake the little scar on the thumb. B. The smudge is made by the gloved fingers of the man who slept in Levy's room on Monday night. They show clearly on the water bottle and on the boots, superimposed on Levy's. They are very distinct on the boots, surprisingly so for gloved hands, and I deduced that the gloves were rubber ones and had recently been in water. Here's another interesting point. Levy walked in the rain on Monday night, as we know, and these dark marks are mud splashes. You see they lie over Levy's fingerprints in every case? Now see, on this left boot, we find the stranger's thumb mark over the mud on the leather above the heel. That's a funny place to find a thumb mark on a boot, isn't it? That is, if Levy took off his own boots. But it's the place where you'd expect to see it if somebody forcibly removed his boots for him. Again, most of the stranger's finger marks come over the mud marks, but here's one splashed of mud which comes up on top of them again. Which makes me infer that the stranger came back to Park Lane wearing Levy's boots, in a cab, carriage or car, but that at some point or other he walked a little way, just enough to tread in a puddle and get a splash on the boots. What do you say? Very pretty, said Parker, a bit intricate though, and the marks are not at all that I could wish a fingerprint to be. Well, I won't lay too much stress on it, but it fits in with our previous ideas. Now, let's turn to C. The Prince obligingly left by my own particular villain on the further edge of Thip's bath, where you spotted them, and I ought to be scourged for not having spotted them. The left hand, you notice, the base of the palm and the fingers, but not the tips. Looking as though he had steadied himself on the edge of the bath while leaning down to adjust something at the bottom. The pants-nay, perhaps. Gloved, you see, but showing no ridgess seam of any kind. I say rubber, you say rubber, that's all, now see here. D and E come off a visiting card of mine. There's this thing at the corner marked F, but that you can disregard. In the original document, it's a sticky mark left by the thumb of the youth who took it from me, after first removing a piece of chewing gum from his teeth with his finger to tell me that Mr. Milligan might or might not be disengaged. D and E are the thumb marks of Mr. Milligan and his red-headed secretary. I'm not clear which is which, but I saw the youth with the chewing gum hand the card to the secretary, and when I got into the inner shrine, I saw John P. Milligan standing with it in his hand, so it's one or the other, and for the moment it's immaterial to our purpose which is which. I boned the card from the table when I left. Well now, Parker, here's what's been keeping Bunter in me up till the small hours. I've measured and measured every way backwards and forwards till my head's spinning, and I've stared till I'm nearly blind, but I'm hanged if I can make my mind up. Question one, is C identical with B? Question two, is D or E identical with B? There's nothing to go on but the size and shape of course, and the marks are so faint. What do you think? Parker shook his head doubtfully. I think E might almost be put out of the question, he said. It seems such an excessively long and narrow thumb, but I think there is a decided resemblance between the span of B on the water bottle and C on the bath, and I don't see any reason why D shouldn't be the same as B, only there is so little to judge from. Your untutored judgment and my measurements have brought us both to the same conclusion. If you can call it a conclusion, said Lord Peter bitterly. Another thing, said Parker, why on earth should we try to connect B with C? The fact that you and I happen to be friends doesn't make it necessary to conclude that the two cases we happen to be interested in have any organic connection with one another. Why should they? The only person who thinks they have is Sug, and he's nothing to go by. It would be different if there were any truth in the suggestion that the man in the bath was Levy, but we know for a certainty he wasn't. It's ridiculous to suppose that the same man was employed in committing two totally distinct crimes on the same night, one in Battersea and the other in Park Lane. I know, said Whimsy, though of course we mustn't forget that Levy was in Battersea at the time, and now we know he didn't return home at twelve as was supposed, we've no reason to think he ever left Battersea at all. True, but there are other places in Battersea besides Thips's bathroom, and he wasn't in Thips's bathroom. In fact, come to think of it, that's the one place in the universe where we know definitely that he wasn't. So what's Thips's bath got to do with it? I don't know, said Lord Peter. Well, perhaps we shall get something better to go on today. He leaned back in his chair and smoked thoughtfully for some time over the papers which Bunter had marked for him. They've got you out in the limelight, he said. Thank heaven, Sugg hates me too much to give me any publicity.  Darling Pipsy, come back soon to your distracted popsy, and the usual young man in need of financial assistance, and the usual injunction to remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth. Hello, there's the bell. Oh, it's our answer from Scotland Yard. The note from Scotland Yard enclosed an optician's specification identical with that sent by Mr. Crimplesham, and added that it was an unusual one, owing to the peculiar strength of the lenses and the marked difference between the sight of the two eyes. That's good enough, said Parker. Yes, said Whimsy. Then possibility number three is knocked on the head. There remain possibility number one, accident or misunderstanding, and number two, deliberate villainy, of a remarkably bold and calculating kind, of a kind, in fact, characteristic of the author or authors of our two problems. Following the methods inculcated at that university, of which I have the honor to be a member, we will now examine severally the various suggestions afforded by possibility number two. This possibility may be again subdivided into two or more hypotheses. On hypothesis one, strongly advocated by my distinguished colleague, Professor Snapshed, the criminal whom we may designate as X is not identical with Crimplesham, but is using the name of Crimplesham as his shield or aegis. This hypothesis may be further subdivided into two alternatives. Alternative A, Crimplesham is an innocent and unconscious accomplice, and X is in his employment. X writes in Crimplesham's name on Crimplesham's office paper and obtains that the object in question, i.e. the eyeglasses, be dispatched to Crimplesham's address. He is in a position to intercept the parcel before it reaches Crimplesham. The presumption is that X is Crimplesham's child woman office boy clock secretary or porter. This offers a wide field of investigation. The method of inquiry will be to interview Crimplesham and discover whether he sent the letter, and if not, who has access to his correspondence. Alternative B, Crimplesham is under X's influence or in his power, and has been induced to write the letter by A bribery, B misrepresentation, or C threats. X may, in that case, be a persuasive relation or friend, or else a creditor, blackmailer, or assassin.  The method of inquiry in this case, I would tentatively suggest, is again to interview Crimplesham, put the facts of the case strongly before him, and assure him in the most intimidating terms that he is liable to a prolonged term of penal servitude as an accessory after the fact in the crime of murder. Ahem. Trusting gentlemen that you have followed me thus far, we will pass to the consideration of hypothesis number two, to which I personally incline, and according to which X is identical with Crimplesham. In this case, Crimplesham, who is, in the words of an English classic, a man of infinite resource and sagacity, correctly deduces that, of all people, the last whom we shall expect to find answering our advertisement is the criminal himself. Accordingly, he plays a bold game of bluff. He invents an occasion on which the glasses may very easily have been lost or stolen, and applies for them. If confronted, nobody will be more astonished than he to learn where they were found. He will produce witnesses to prove that he left Victoria at 5.45 and emerged from the train at Balm at the scheduled time, and sat up all Monday night playing chess with a respectable gentleman well known in Balm. In this case, the method of inquiry will be to pump the respectable gentleman in Balm, and if he should happen to be a single gentleman with a deaf housekeeper, it may be no easy matter to impugn the alibi since, outside detective romances, few ticket collectors and bus company conductors keep an exact remembrance of all the passengers passing between Balm and London on any and every evening of the week. Finally, gentlemen, I will frankly point out the weak point of all these hypotheses, namely, that none of them offers any explanation as to why the incriminating article was left so conspicuously on the body in the first instance. Mr. Parker had listened with commendable patience to this academic exposition. Might not X, he suggested, be an enemy of Crimpleschums, who designed to throw suspicion upon him? He might, in that case he should be easy to discover, since he obviously lives in close proximity to Crimpleschum and his glasses, and Crimpleschum in fear of his life will then be a valuable ally for the prosecution. How about the first possibility of all misunderstanding or accident? Well, well, for purposes of discussion, nothing, because it really doesn't afford any data for discussion. In any case, said Parker, the obvious course appears to be to go to Salisbury. That seems indicated, said Lord Peter. Very well, said the detective. Is it to be you or me or both of us? It is to be me, said Lord Peter, and that for two reasons. First, because if, by possibility number two, hypothesis one, alternative A, Crimpleschum is an innocent cat's paw, the person who put in the advertisement is the proper person to hand over the property. Secondly, because if we are to adopt hypothesis two, we must not overlook the sinister possibility that Crimpleschum, X, is laying a careful trap to rid himself the person who so unwarily advertised in the daily press his interest in the solution of the Battersea Park mystery. That appears to me to be an argument for our both going, objected the detective. Far from it, said Lord Peter, why play into the hands of Crimpleschum X by delivering over to him the only two men in London with the evidence, such as it is, and shall I say the wits, to connect him with the Battersea body? But if we told the yard where we were going, and we both got knobbled, said Mr Parker, it would afford strong presumptive evidence of Crimpleschum's guilt, and anyhow, if he didn't get hanged for murdering the man in the bath, he'd at least get hanged for murdering us. Well, said Lord Peter, if he only murdered me, you could still hang him. What's the good of wasting a sound marriageable young man like yourself? Besides, how about old Levy? If you're incapacitated, do you think anybody else is going to find him? But we could frighten Crimpleschum by threatening him with the yard. Well, dash it all if it comes to that. I can frighten him by threatening him with you, which seeing you hold what evidence there is is much more to the point. And then, suppose it's a wild goose chase after all, you'll have wasted time when you might have been getting on with the case. There are several things that need doing. Well, said Parker, silenced but reluctant. Why can't I go in that case? Bosh, said Lord Peter, I am retained by old Mrs Thipps for whom I entertain the greatest respect, to deal with this case, and it's only by courtesy I allow you to have anything to do with it. Mr Parker groaned. Will you at least take Bunter? he said. Indeference to your feelings, replied Lord Peter. I will take Bunter, though he could be far more usefully employed taking photographs or overhauling my wardrobe. When is there a good train to Salisbury Bunter? There is an excellent train at 10.50, my lord. Kindly make arrangements to catch it, said Lord Peter, throwing off his bathrobe and trailing away with it into his bedroom. And Parker, if you have nothing else to do, you might get hold of Levy's secretary and look into that little matter of the Peruvian oil. Lord Peter took with him for light reading in the train, Sirubin Levy's diary. It was a simple and in the light of recent facts rather a pathetic document. The terrible fighter of the stock exchange, who could with one nod set the surly bear dancing or bring the savage bull to feed out of his hand, whose breath devastated whole districts with famine or swept financial potentates from their seats, was revealed in private life as kindly, domestic, innocently proud of himself and his belongings, confiding, generous, and a little dull. His own small economies were duly chronicled side by side with the extravagant presence to his wife and daughter. Small incidents of household routine appeared, such as, man came to mend the conservatory roof, or the new butler Simpson has arrived, recommended by the Goldbergs. I think he will be satisfactory. All visitors and entertainments were duly entered, from a very magnificent lunch to Lord Duisbury, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, and Dr. Jabez K. Watt, the American plenipotentiary, through a series of diplomatic dinners to eminent financiers, down to intimate family gatherings of persons designated by Christian names or nicknames. About May, there came a mention of Lady Levy's nerves, and further reference was made to the subject in subsequent months. In September it was stated that Freckie came to see my dear wife and advised complete rest and change of scene. She thinks of going abroad with Rachel. The name of the famous nerve specialist occurred as a diner or luncher about once a month, and it came into Lord Peter's mind that Freckie would be a good person to consult about Levy himself. People sometimes tell things to the doctor, he murmured to himself. And by Jove, if Levy was simply going round to see Freckie on Monday night, that rather disposes of the Battersea incident, doesn't it? He made a note to look up Sir Julian and turned on further. On September 18th, Lady Levy and her daughter had left for the south of France. Then suddenly, under the date October 5th, Lord Peter found what he was looking for. Goldberg, Schreiner and Milligan to dinner. There was the evidence that Milligan had been in that house. There had been a formal entertainment, a meeting as of two dualists shaking hands before the fight. Schreiner was a well-known picture dealer. Lord Peter imagined an after-dinner excursion upstairs to see the two cross in the dining room and the portrait of the eldest Levy girl, who had died at the age of sixteen. It was by Augustus John and hung in the bedroom. The name of the red-head secretary was nowhere mentioned, unless the initial S, occurring in another entry, referred to him. Throughout September and October, Anderson of Windams had been a frequent visitor. Lord Peter shook his head over the diary and turned to the consideration of the Battersea Park mystery. Whereas in the Levy affair it was easy enough to supply a motive for the crime, if crime it were, and the difficulty was to discover the method of its carrying out and the whereabouts of the victim. In the other case, the chief obstacle to inquiry was the entire absence of any imaginable motive. It was odd that, although the papers had carried news of the affair, from one end of the country to the other, and a description of the body had been sent to every police station in the country, nobody had as yet come forward to identify the mysterious occupant of Mr. Thips's bath. It was true that the description, which mentioned the clean shaven chin, elegantly cut hair in the pants-nay, was rather misleading, but on the other hand, the police had managed to discover the number of molars missing, and the height, complexion, and other data were correctly enough stated, as also the date at which the death had presumably occurred. It seemed, however, as though the man had melted out of society without leaving a gap or so much as a ripple. Assigning a motive for the murder of a person without relations or antecedents, or even clothes, is like trying to visualize the fourth dimension, admirable exercise for the imagination, but arduous and inconclusive. Even if the day's interview should disclose black spots in the past or present of Mr. Krimpelscham, how were they to be brought into connection with a person apparently without a past, and whose present was confined to the narrow limits of a bath and a police mortuary? Bunter, said Lord Peter, I beg that in the future you will restrain me from starting two hairs at once. These cases are getting to be a strain on my constitution. One hair has nowhere to run from, and the other has nowhere to run to. It's a kind of mental D.T., Bunter. When this is all over, I shall turn pussyfoot, force swear the police news, and take to an emollient diet of the works of the late Charles Garvis. It was its comparative proximity to Milford Hill that induced Lord Peter to lunch at the Minster Hotel, rather than at the White Heart or some other more picturesquely situated hostel. It was not a lunch calculated to cheer his mind. As in all cathedral cities, the atmosphere of the close pervades every nook and corner of Salisbury, and