‘Well, yes,’ said the other, seeing that his acquaintance’s boisterous manner was attracting attention. ‘I beg your pardon. It’s Lord Peter Wimsey, isn’t it? Yes, I’m joining the wife out there.’
‘And how is she?’ enquired Wimsey, steering the way into the bar and sitting down at a table. ‘Left last week, didn’t she? I saw it in the papers.’
‘Yes. She’s cabled me to join her. We’re — er — taking a holiday in — er — the lakes. Very pleasant there in summer.’
‘Cabled you, did she? And so here we are on the same boat. Odd how things turn out, what? I only got my sailing orders at the last minute. Chasing criminals — my hobby, you know.’
‘Oh, really?’ Mr Storey licked his lips.
‘Yes. This is Detective-Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard — great pal of mine. Yes. Very unpleasant matter, annoying and all that. Bag that ought to have been reposin’ peacefully at Paddington turns up at Eaton Socon. No business there, what?’
He smacked the bag on the table so violently that the lock sprang open.
Storey leapt to his feet with a shriek, flinging his arms across the opening of the bag as though to hide its contents.
‘How did you get that?’ he screamed. ‘Eaton Socon? It — I never —’
‘It’s mine,’ said Wimsey quietly, as the wretched man sank back, realising that he had betrayed himself. ‘Some jewellery of my mother’s. What did you think it was?’
Detective Parker touched his charge gently on the shoulder.
‘You needn’t answer that,’ he said. ‘I arrest you, Philip Storey, for the murder of your wife. Anything that you say may be used against you.’
The Unprincipled Affair of the Practical Joker
THE ZAMBESI, THEY SAID, was expected to dock at six in the morning. Mrs Ruyslaender booked a bedroom at the Magnifical with despair in her heart. A bare nine hours and she would be greeting her husband. After that would begin the sickening period of waiting — it might be days, it might be weeks, possibly even months — for the inevitable discovery.
The reception-clerk twirled the register towards her. Mechanically, as she signed it, she glanced at the preceding entry:
‘Lord Peter Wimsey and valet — London — Suite 24.’
Mrs Ruyslaender’s heart seemed to stop for a second. Was it possible that, even now, God had left a loophole? She expected little from Him — all her life He had shown Himself a sufficiently stern creditor. It was fantastic to base the frailest hope on this signature of a man she had never even seen.
Yet the name remained in her mind while she dined in her own room. She dismissed her maid presently, and sat for a long time looking at her own haggard reflection in the mirror. Twice she rose and went to the door — then turned back, calling herself a fool. The third time she turned the handle quickly and hurried down the corridor, without giving herself time to think.
A large golden arrow at the corner directed her to Suite 24. It was 11 o’clock, and nobody was within view. Mrs Ruyslaender gave a sharp knock on Lord Peter Wimsey’s door and stood back, waiting, with the sort of desperate relief one experiences after hearing a dangerous letter thump the bottom of the pillar-box. Whatever the adventure, she was committed to it.
The manservant was of the imperturbable sort. He neither invited nor rejected, but stood respectfully upon the threshold.
‘Lord Peter Wimsey?’ murmured Mrs Ruyslaender.
‘Yes, madam.’
‘Could I speak to him for a moment?’
‘His lordship has just retired, madam. If you will step in, I will enquire.’
Mrs Ruyslaender followed him into one of those palatial sitting-rooms which the Magnifical provides for the wealthy pilgrim.
‘Will you take a seat, madam?’
The man stepped noiselessly to the bedroom door and passed in, shutting it behind him. The lock, however, failed to catch, and Mrs Ruyslaender caught the conversation.
‘Pardon me, my lord, a lady has called. She mentioned no appointment, so I considered it better to acquaint your lordship.’
‘Excellent discretion,’ said a voice. It had a slow, sarcastic intonation, which brought a painful flush to Mrs Ruyslaender’s cheek. ‘I never make appointments. Do I know the lady?’
‘No, my lord. But — hem — I know her by sight, my lord. It is Mrs Ruyslaender.’
‘Oh, the diamond merchant’s wife. Well, find out tactfully what it’s all about, and, unless it’s urgent, ask her to call tomorrow.’
The valet’s next remark was inaudible, but the reply was:
‘Don’t be coarse, Bunter.’
The valet returned.
‘His lordship desires me to ask you, madam, in what way he can be of service to you.’
‘Will you say to him that I have heard of him in connection with the Attenbury diamond case, and am anxious to ask his advice.’
‘Certainly, madam. May I suggest that, as his lordship is greatly fatigued, he would be better able to assist you after he has slept.’
‘If tomorrow would have done, I would not have thought of disturbing him tonight. Tell him, I am aware of the trouble I am giving —’
‘Excuse me one moment, madam.’
This time the door shut properly. After a short interval Bunter returned to say, ‘His lordship will be with you immediately, madam,’ and to place a decanter of wine and a box of Sobranies beside her.
Mrs Ruyslaender lit a cigarette, but had barely sampled its flavour when she was aware of a soft step beside her. Looking round, she perceived a young man, attired in a mauve dressing-gown of great splendour, from beneath the hem of which peeped coyly a pair of primrose silk pyjamas.
‘You must think it very strange of me, thrusting myself on you at this hour,’ she said, with a nervous laugh.
Lord Peter put his head to one side.
‘Don’t know the answer to that,’ he said. ‘If I say, “Not at all,” it sounds abandoned. If I say, “Yes, very,” it’s rude. Supposin’ we give it a miss, what? and you tell me what I can do for you.’
Mrs Ruyslaender hesitated. Lord Peter was not what she had expected. She noted the sleek, straw-coloured hair, brushed flat back from a rather sloping forehead, the ugly, lean, arched nose, and the faintly foolish smile, and her heart sank within her.
‘I — I’m afraid it’s ridiculous of me to suppose you can help me,’ she began.
‘Always my unfortunate appearance,’ moaned Lord Peter, with such alarming acumen as to double her discomfort. ‘Would it invite confidence more, d’you suppose, if I dyed my hair black an’ grew a Newgate fringe? It’s very tryin’, you can’t think, always to look as if one’s name was Algy.’
‘I only meant,’ said Mrs Ruyslaender, ‘that I don’t think anybody could possibly help. But I saw your name in the hotel book, and it seemed just a chance.’ Lord Peter filled the glasses and sat down. ‘Carry on,’ he said cheerfully; ‘it sounds interestin’.’ Mrs Ruyslaender took the plunge.
‘My husband,’ she explained, ‘is Henry Ruyslaender, the diamond merchant. We came over from Kimberley ten years ago, and settled in England. He spends several months in Africa every year on business, and I am expecting him back on the Zambesi tomorrow morning. Now, this is the trouble. Last year he gave me a magnificent diamond necklace of a hundred and fifteen stones —’
‘The Light of Africa — I know,’ said Wimsey.
She looked a little surprised, but assented. ‘The necklace has been stolen from me, and I can’t hope to conceal the loss from him. No duplicate would deceive him for an instant.’
She paused, and Lord Peter prompted gently:
‘You have come to me, I presume, because it is not to be a police matter. Will you tell me quite frankly why?’
‘The police would be useless. I know who took it.’
‘Yes?’
‘There is a man we both know slightly — a man called Paul Melville.’
Lord Peter’s eyes narrowed. ‘M’m, yes, I fancy I’ve seen him about the club
s. New Army, but transferred himself into the Regulars. Dark. Showy. Bit of an ampelopsis, what?’
‘Ampelopsis?’
‘Suburban plant that climbs by suction. You know — first year, tender little shoots — second year, fine show — next year, all over the shop. Now tell me I am rude.’
Mrs Ruyslaender giggled. ‘Now you mention it, he is exactly like an ampelopsis. What a relief to be able to think of him as that.… Well, he is some sort of distant relation of my husband’s. He called one evening when I was alone. We talked about jewels, and I brought down my jewel-box and showed him the Light of Africa. He knows a good deal about stones. I was in and out of the room two or three times, but didn’t think to lock up the box. After he left, I was putting the things away, and I opened the jeweller’s case the diamonds were in — and they had gone!’
‘H’m — pretty barefaced. Look here, Mrs Ruyslaender, you agree he’s an ampelopsis, but you won’t call in the police. Honestly, now — forgive me; you’re askin’ my advice, you know — is he worth botherin’ about?’
‘It’s not that,’ said the woman, in a low tone. ‘Oh, no! But he took something else as well. He took — a portrait — a small painting set with diamonds.’
‘Oh!’
‘Yes. It was in a secret drawer in the jewel-box. I can’t imagine how he knew it was there, but the box was an old casket, belonging to my husband’s family, and I fancy he must have known about the drawer and — well, thought that investigation might prove profitable. Anyway, the evening the diamonds went, the portrait went too, and he knows I daren’t try to get the necklace back because they’d both be found together.’
‘Was there something more than just the portrait, then? A portrait in itself isn’t necessarily hopeless of explanation. It was given you to take care of, say.’
‘The names were on it — and — and an inscription which nothing, nothing could ever explain away. A — a passage from Petronius.’
‘Oh, dear!’ said Lord Peter, ‘dear me, yes. Rather a lively author.’
‘I was married very young,’ said Mrs Ruyslaender, ‘and my husband and I have never got on well. Then one year, when he was in Africa, it all happened. We were wonderful — and shameless. It came to an end. I was bitter. I wish I had not been. He left me, you see, and I couldn’t forgive it. I prayed day and night for revenge. Only now — I don’t want it to be through me!’
‘Wait a moment,’ said Wimsey, ‘you mean that, if the diamonds are found and the portrait is found too, all this story is bound to come out.’
‘My husband would get a divorce. He would never forgive me — or him. It is not so much that I mind paying the price myself, but —’
She clenched her hands.
‘I have cursed him again and again, and the clever girl who married him. She played her cards so well. This would ruin them both.’
‘But if you were the instrument of vengeance,’ said Wimsey gently, ‘you would hate yourself. And it would be terrible to you because he would hate you. A woman like you couldn’t stoop to get your own back. I see that. If God makes a thunderbolt, how awful and satisfying — if you help to make a beastly row, what a rotten business it would be.’
‘You seem to understand,’ said Mrs Ruyslaender. ‘How unusual.’
‘I understand perfectly. Though let me tell you,’ said Wimsey, with a wry little twist of the lips, ‘that it’s sheer foolishness for a woman to have a sense of honour in such matters. It only gives her excruciating pain, and nobody expects it, anyway. Look here, don’t let’s get all worked up. You certainly shan’t have your vengeance thrust on you by an ampelopsis. Why should you? Nasty fellow. We’ll have him up — root, branch, and little suckers. Don’t worry. Let’s see. My business here will only take a day. Then I’ve got to get to know Melville — say a week. Then I’ve got to get the doings — say another week, provided he hasn’t sold them yet, which isn’t likely. Can you hold your husband off ’em for a fortnight, d’you think?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ll say they’re in the country, or being cleaned, or something. But do you really think you can — ?’
‘I’ll have a jolly good try, anyhow, Mrs Ruyslaender. Is the fellow hard up, to start stealing diamonds?’
‘I fancy he has got into debt over horses lately. And possibly poker.’
‘Oh! Poker player, is he? That makes an excellent excuse for gettin’ to know him. Well, cheer up — we’ll get the goods, even if he have to buy ’em. But we won’t, if we can help it. Bunter!’
‘My lord?’ the valet appeared from the inner room.
‘Just go an’ give the “All Clear”, will you?’
Mr Bunter accordingly stepped into the passage, and, having seen an old gentleman safely away to the bathroom and a young lady in a pink kimono pop her head out of an adjacent door and hurriedly pop it back on beholding him, blew his nose with a loud, trumpeting sound.
‘Good night,’ said Mrs Ruyslaender, ‘and thank you.’
She slipped back to her room unobserved.
‘Whatever has induced you, my dear boy,’ said Colonel Marchbanks, to take up with that very objectionable fellow Melville?’
‘Diamonds,’ said Lord Peter. ‘Do you find him so, really?’
‘Perfectly dreadful man,’ said the Hon. Frederick Arbuthnot. ‘Hearts. What did you want to go and get him a room here for? This used to be a quite decent club.’
‘Two clubs?’ said Sir Impey Biggs, who had been ordering a whisky, and had only caught the last word.
‘No, no, one heart.’
‘I beg your pardon. Well, partner, how about spades? Perfectly good suit.’
‘Pass,’ said the Colonel. ‘I don’t know what the Army’s coming to nowadays.’
‘No trumps,’ said Wimsey. ‘It’s all right, children. Trust your Uncle Pete. Come on, Freddy, how many of those hearts are you going to shout for?’
‘None, the Colonel havin’ let me down so ’orrid,’ said the Hon. Freddy.
‘Cautious blighter. All content? Righty-ho! Bring out your dead, partner. Oh, very pretty indeed. We’ll make it a slam this time. I’m rather glad to hear that expression of opinion from you, Colonel, because I particularly want you and Biggy to hang on this evening and take a hand with Melville and me.’
‘What happens to me?’ enquired the Hon. Freddy.
‘You have an engagement and go home early, dear old thing. I’ve specially invited friend Melville to meet the redoubtable Colonel Marchbanks and our greatest criminal lawyer. Which hand am I supposed to be playin’ this from? Oh, yes. Come on, Colonel — you’ve got to hike that old king out some time, why not now?’
‘It’s a plot,’ said Mr Arbuthnot, with an exaggerated expression of mystery. ‘Carry on, don’t mind me.’
‘I take it you have your own reasons for cultivating the man,’ said Sir Impey.
‘The rest are mine, I fancy. Well, yes, I have. You and the Colonel would really do me a favour by letting Melville cut in tonight.’
‘If you wish it,’ growled the Colonel, ‘but I hope the impudent young beggar won’t presume on the acquaintance.’
‘I’ll see to that,’ said his lordship. ‘Your cards, Freddy. Who had the ace of hearts? Oh! I had it myself, of course. Our honours Hullo! Evenin’, Melville.’
The ampelopsis was rather a good-looking creature in his own way. Tall and bronzed, with a fine row of very persuasive teeth. He greeted Wimsey and Arbuthnot heartily, the Colonel with a shade too much familiarity, and expressed himself delighted to be introduced to Sir Impey Biggs.
‘You’re just in time to hold Freddy’s hand,’ said Wimsey; ‘he’s got a date. Not his littly paddy-paw, I don’t mean — but the dam’ rotten hand he generally gets dealt him. Joke.’
‘Oh, well,’ said the obedient Freddy, rising, ‘I s’pose I’d better make a noise like a hoop and roll away. Night, night, everybody.’
Melville took his place, and the game continued with varying fortunes for two hours, at the end of whic
h time Colonel Marchbanks, who had suffered much under his partner’s eloquent theory of the game, was beginning to wilt visibly.
Wimsey yawned.
‘Gettin’ a bit bored, Colonel? Wish they’d invent somethin’ to liven this game up a bit.’
Oh, Bridge is a one-horse show, anyway,’ said Melville. ‘Why not have a little flutter at poker, Colonel? Do you all the good in the world. What d’you say, Biggs?’
Sir Impey turned on Wimsey a thoughtful eye, accustomed to sizing-up the witnesses. Then he replied:
‘I’m quite willing, if the others are.’
‘Damn good idea,’ said Lord Peter. ‘Come now, Colonel, be a sport. You’ll find the chips in that drawer, I think. I always lose money at poker, but what’s the odds so long as you’re happy. Let’s have a new pack.’
‘Any limit?’
‘What do you say, Colonel?’
The Colonel proposed a twenty-shilling limit. Melville, with a grimace, amended this to one-tenth of the pool. The amendment was carried and the cards cut, the deal falling to the Colonel.
Contrary to his own prophecy, Wimsey began by winning considerably, and grew so garrously imbecile in the process that even the experienced Melville began to wonder whether this indescribable fatuity was the cloak of ignorance or the mask of the hardened poker-player. Soon, however, he was reassured. The luck came over to his side, and he found himself winning hands down, steadily from Sir Impey and the Colonel, who played cautiously and took little risk — heavily from Wimsey, who appeared reckless and slightly drunk, and was staking foolishly on quite impossible cards.
‘I never knew such luck as yours,’ Melville,’ said Sir Impey, when that young man had scooped in the proceeds from a handsome straight-flush.
‘My turn tonight, yours tomorrow,’ said Melville, pushing the cards across to Biggs, whose deal it was.
Colonel Marchbanks required one card. Wimsey laughed vacantly and demanded an entirely fresh hand; Briggs asked for three; and Melville, after a pause for consideration, took one.
It seemed as though everybody had something respectable this time — though Wimsey was not to be depended upon, frequently going the limit upon a pair of jacks in order, as he expressed it, to keep the pot a-boiling. He became particularly obstinate now, throwing his chips in with a flushed face, in spite of Melville’s confident air.
Dorothy L. Sayers - [Lord Peter Wimsey 04] Page 8
