The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club lpw-5

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  “Which were the shoes General Fentiman was wearing at the time of his death?”

  “These, my lord.”

  “Have they been cleaned since?”

  Woodward looked a trifle stricken.

  “Not to say cleaned, my lord. I just wiped them over with a duster. They were not very dirty, and somehow — I hadn’t the heart — if you’ll excuse me, my lord.”

  “That’s very fortunate.” Wimsey turned them over and examined the soles very carefully, both with the lens and with the naked eye.

  With a small pair of tweezers, taken from his pocket, he delicately removed a small fragment of pile — apparently from a thick carpet — which was clinging to a projecting brad, and stored it carefully away in an envelope. Then, putting the right shoe aside, he subjected the left to a prolonged scrutiny, especially about the inner edge of the sole. Finally he asked for a sheet of paper, and wrapped the shoe up as tenderly as though it had been a piece of priceless Waterford glass.

  “I should like to see all the clothes General Fentiman was wearing that day — the outer garments, I mean — hat, suit, overcoat and so on.”

  The garments were produced, and Wimsey went over every inch of them with the same care and patience, watched by Woodward with flattering attention.

  “Have they been brushed?”

  “No, my lord — only shaken out.”

  This time Woodward offered no apology, having grasped dimly that polishing and brushing were not acts which called for approval under these unusual circumstances.

  “You see,” said Wimsey, pausing for a moment to note an infinitesimally small ruffling of the threads on the left-hand trouser leg, “we might be able to get some sort of a clew from the dust on the clothes, if any — to show us where the General spent the night. If — to take a rather unlikely example — we were to find a lot of sawdust, for instance, we might suppose that he had been visiting a carpenter. Or a dead leaf might suggest a garden or a common, or something of that sort. While a cobweb might mean a wine-cellar, or — or a potting-shed — and so on. You see?”

  “Yes, my lord” (rather doubtfully).

  “You don’t happen to remember noticing that little tear — well, it’s hardly a tear — just a little roughness. It might have caught on a nail.”

  “I can’t say I recollect it, my lord. But I might have overlooked it.”

  “Of course. It’s probably of no importance. Well — lock the things up carefully. It’s just possible I might have to have the dust extracted and analyzed. Just a moment — Has anything been removed from these clothes? The pockets were emptied, I suppose?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “There was nothing unusual in them?”

  “No, my lord. Nothing but what the General always took out with him. Just his handkerchief, keys, money and cigar case.”

  “H’m. How about the money?”

  “Well, my lord — I couldn’t say exactly as to that. Major Fentiman has got it all. There was two pound notes in his notecase, I remember. I believe he had two pounds ten when he went out, and some loose silver in the trouser pocket. He’d have paid his taxi-fare and his lunch at the Club out of the ten-shilling note.”

  “That shows he didn’t pay for anything unusual, then, in the way of train or taxis backwards and forwards, or dinner, or drinks.”

  “No, my lord.”

  “But naturally, this Oliver fellow would see to all that. Did the General have a fountain pen?”

  “No, my lord; He did very little writing, my lord. I was accustomed to write any necessary letters to tradesmen, and so on.”

  “What sort of nib did he use, when he did write?”

  “A ‘J’ pen, my lord. You will find it in the sitting-room. But mostly I believe he wrote his letters at the Club. He had a very small private correspondence — it might be a letter or so to the Bank or to his man of business, my lord.”

  “I see. Have you his chequebook?”

  “Major Fentiman has it, my lord.”

  “Do you remember whether the General had it with him when he last went out?”

  “No, my lord. It was kept in his writing-desk as a rule. He would write the cheques for the household here, my lord, and give them to me. Or occasionally he might take the book down to the Club with him.”

  “Ah! well, it doesn’t look as though the mysterious Mr. Oliver was one of those undesirable blokes who demand money. Right you are, Woodward. You’re perfectly certain that you removed nothing whatever from those clothes except what was in the pockets?”

  “I am quite positive of that, my lord.”

  “That’s very odd,” said Wimsey, half to himself. “I’m not sure that it isn’t the oddest thing about the case.”

  “Indeed, my lord? Might I ask why?”

  “Why,” said Wimsey, “I should have expected—” he checked himself. Major Fentiman was looking in at the door.

  “What’s odd, Wimsey?”

  “Oh, just a little thing struck me,” said Wimsey, vaguely. “I expected to find something among those clothes which isn’t there. That’s all.”

  “Impenetrable sleuth,” said the major, laughing. “What are you driving at?”

  “Work it out for yourself, my dear Watson,” said his lordship, grinning like a dog. “You have all the data. Work it out for yourself, and let me know the answer.”

  Woodward, a trifle pained by this levity, gathered up the garments and put them away in the wardrobe.

  “How’s Bunter getting on with those calls?”

  “No luck, at present.”

  “Oh! — well, he’d better come in now and do some photographs. We can finish the telephoning at home. Bunter! — Oh, and, I say, Woodward — d’you mind if we take your finger-prints? ”

  “Fingerprints, my lord?”

  “Good God, you’re not trying to fasten anything on Woodward?”

  “Fasten what?”

  “Well — I mean, I thought it was only burglars and people who had fingerprints taken.”

  “Not exactly. No — I want the General’s fingerprints, really, to compare them with some others I got at the Club. There’s a very fine set on that walking-stick of his, and I want Woodward’s, just to make sure I’m not getting the two sets mixed up. I’d better take yours, too. It’s just possible you might have handled the stick without noticing.”

  “Oh, I get you, Steve. I don’t think I’ve touched the thing, but it’s as well to make sure, as you say. Funny sort of business, what? Quite the Scotland Yard touch. How d’you do it?”

  “Bunter will show you.”

  Bunter immediately produced a small inking-pad and roller, and a number of sheets of smooth, white paper. The fingers of the two candidates were carefully wiped with a clean cloth, and pressed first on the pad and then on the paper. The impressions thus obtained were labelled and put away in envelopes, after which the handle of the walking-stick was lightly dusted with grey powder, bringing to light an excellent set of prints of a right-hand set of fingers, superimposed here and there, but quite identifiable. Fentiman and Woodward gazed fascinated at this entertaining miracle.

  “Are they all right?”

  “Perfectly so, sir; they are quite unlike either of the other two specimens.”

  “Then presumably they’re the General’s. Hurry up and get a negative.”

  Bunter set up the camera and focussed it.

  “Unless,” observed Major Fentiman, “they are Mr. Oliver’s. That would be a good joke, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would, indeed,” said Wimsey, a little taken aback. “A very good joke — on somebody. And for the moment, Fentiman, I’m not sure which of us would do the laughing.”

  Chapter VII

  The Curse of Scotland

  What with telephone calls and the development of photographs, it appeared obvious that Bunter was booked for a busy afternoon. His master, therefore, considerately left him in possession of the flat in Piccadilly, and walked abroad to divert himself in his own
peculiar way.

  His first visit was to one of those offices which undertake to distribute advertisements to the press. Here he drew up an advertisement addressed to taxi-drivers and arranged for it to appear, at the earliest possible date, in all the papers which men of that profession might be expected to read. Three drivers were requested to communicate with Mr. J. Murbles, Solicitor, of Staple Inn, who would recompense them amply for their time and trouble. First: any driver who remembered taking up an aged gentleman from Lady Dormer’s house in Portman Square or the near vicinity on the afternoon of November 10th. Secondly: any driver who recollected taking up an aged gentleman at or near Dr. Penberthy’s house in Harley Street at some time in the afternoon or evening of November 10th. And thirdly: any driver who had deposited a similarly aged gentleman at the door of the Bellona Club between 10 and 12.30 in the morning of November 11th.

  “Though probably,” thought Wimsey, as he footed the bill for the insertions, to run for three days unless cancelled, “Oliver had a car and ran the old boy up himself. Still, it’s just worth trying.”

  He had a parcel under his arm, and his next proceeding was to hail a cab and drive to the residence of Sir James Lubbock, the well-known analyst. Sir James was fortunately at home and delighted to see Lord Peter. He was a square-built man, with a reddish face and strongly-curling grey hair, and received his visitor in his laboratory, where he was occupied in superintending a Marsh’s test for arsenic.

  “D’ye mind just taking a pew for a moment, while I finish this off?”

  Wimsey took the pew and watched, interested, the flame from the Bunsen burner playing steadily upon the glass tube, and the dark brown deposit slowly forming and deepening at the narrow end. From time to time, the analyst poured down the thistle-funnel a small quantity of a highly disagreeable-looking liquid from a stoppered phial; once his assistant came forward to add a few more drops of what Wimsey knew must be hydrochloric acid. Presently, the disagreeable liquid having all been transferred to the flask, and the deposit having deepened almost to black at its densest part, the tube was detached and taken away, and the burner extinguished, and Sir James Lubbock, after writing and signing a brief note, turned round and greeted Wimsey cordially.

  “Sure I am not interrupting you, Lubbock?”

  “Not a scrap. We’ve just finished. That was the last mirror. We shall be ready in good time for our appearance in Court. Not that there’s much doubt about it. Enough of the stuff to kill an elephant. Considering the obliging care we take in criminal prosecutions to inform the public at large that two or three grains of arsenic will successfully account for an unpopular individual, however tough, it’s surprising how wasteful people are with their drugs. You can’t teach ’em. An office-boy who was as incompetent as the average murderer would be sacked with a kick in the bottom. Well, now! and what’s your little trouble?”

  “A small matter,” said Wimsey, unrolling his parcel and producing General Fentiman’s left boot, “it’s cheek to come to you about it. But I want very much to know what this is, and as it’s strictly a private matter, I took the liberty of bargin’ round to you in a friendly way. Just along the inside of the sole, there — on the edge.”

  “Blood?” suggested the analyst, grinning.

  “Well, no — sorry to disappoint you. More like paint, I fancy.”

  Sir James looked closely at the deposit with a powerful lens.

  “Yes; some sort of brown varnish. Might be off a floor or a piece of furniture. Do you want an analysis?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Not at all. I think we’ll get Saunders to do it; he has made rather a specialty of this kind of thing. Saunders, would you scrape this off carefully and see what it is? Get a slide of it, and make an analysis of the rest, if you can. How soon is it wanted?”

  “Well, I’d like it as soon as possible. I don’t mean within the next five minutes.”

  “Well, stay and have a spot of tea with us, and I dare say we can get something ready for you by then. It doesn’t look anything out of the way. Knowing your tastes, I’m still surprised it isn’t blood. Have you no blood in prospect?”

  “Not that I know of. I’ll stay to tea with pleasure, if you’re certain I’m not being a bore.”

  “Never that. Besides, while you’re here you might give me your opinion on those old medical books of mine. I don’t suppose they’re particularly valuable, but they’re quaint. Come along.”

  Wimsey passed a couple of hours agreeably with Lady Lubbock and crumpets and a dozen or so antiquated anatomical treatises. Presently Saunders returned with his report. The deposit was nothing more nor less than an ordinary brown paint and varnish of a kind well known to joiners and furniture-makers. It was a modern preparation, with nothing unusual about it; one might find it anywhere. It was not a floor-varnish — one would expect to meet it on a door or partition or something of that sort. The chemical formula followed.

  “Not very helpful, I’m afraid,” said Sir James.

  “You never know your luck,” replied Wimsey. “Would you be good enough to label the slide and sign your name to it, and to the analysis, and keep them both by you for reference in case they’re wanted?”

  “Sure thing. How do you want ’em labelled?”

  “Well — put down ‘Varnish from General Fentiman’s left boot,’ and ‘Analysis of varnish from General Fentiman’s left boot,’ and the date, and I’ll sign it, and you and Saunders can sign it, and then I think we shall be all right.”

  “Fentiman? Was that the old boy who died suddenly the other day?”

  “It was. But it’s no use looking at me with that child-like air of intelligent taking-notice, because I haven’t got any gory yarn to spin. It’s only a question of where the old man spent the night, if you must know.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser. Never mind, it’s nothing to do with me. Perhaps when it’s all over, you’ll tell me what it’s about. Meanwhile the labels shall go on. You, I take it, are ready to witness to the identity of the boot, and I can witness to having seen the varnish on the boot, and Saunders can witness that he removed the varnish from the boot and analyzed it and that this is the varnish he analyzed. All according to Cocker. Here you are. Sign here and here, and that will be eight-and-sixpence, please.”

  “It might be cheap at eight-and-sixpence,” said Wimsey. “It might even turn out to be cheap at eight hundred and sixty quid — or eight thousand and sixty.”

  Sir James Lubbock looked properly thrilled.

  “You’re only doing it to annoy, because you know it teases. Well, if you must be sphinx-like, you must. I’ll keep these things under lock and key for you. Do you want the boot back?

  “I don’t suppose the executor will worry. And a fellow looks such a fool carrying a boot about. Put it away with the other things till called for, there’s a good man.”

  So the boot was put away in a cupboard, and Lord Peter was free to carry on with his afternoon’s entertainment.

  His first idea was to go on up to Finsbury Park, to see the George Fentimans. He remembered in time, however, that Sheila would not yet be home from her work — she was employed as a cashier in a fashionable tea-shop — and further (with a forethought rare in the well-to-do) that if he arrived too early he would have to be asked to supper and that there would be very little supper and that Sheila would be worried about it and George annoyed. So he turned in to one of his numerous Clubs, and had a Sole Colbert very well cooked, with a bottle of Liebfraumilch; an Apple Charlotte and light savoury to follow, and black coffee and a rare old brandy to top up with — a simple and satisfactory meal which left him in the best of tempers.

  The George Fentimans lived in two ground-floor rooms with use of kitchen and bathroom in a semi-detached house with a blue and yellow fanlight over the door and Madras muslin over the windows. They were really furnished apartments, but the landlady always referred to them as a flat, because that meant that tenants had to do their own work and provide
their own service. The house felt stuffy as Lord Peter entered it, because somebody was frying fish in oil at no great distance, and a slight unpleasantness was caused at the start by the fact that he had rung only once, thus bringing up the person in the basement, whereas a better-instructed caller would have rung twice, to indicate that he wanted the ground floor.

  Hearing explanations in the hall, George put his head out of the dining-room and said, “Oh! hallo!”

  “Hallo,” said Wimsey, trying to find room for his belongings on an overladen hat-stand, and eventually disposing of them on the handle of a perambulator. “Thought I’d just come and look you up. Hope I’m not in the way.”