“Why?” asked Mr. Murbles. “What did you expect to find on the clothes?”
“My dear sir, consider what day it was. November 11th. Is it conceivable that, if the old man had been walking in the streets as a free agent on Armistice Day, he would have gone into the Club without his Flanders poppy? A patriotic, military old bird like that? It was really unthinkable.”
“Then where was he? And how did he get into the Club? He was there, you know.”
“True; he was there — in a state of advanced rigor. In fact, according to Penberthy’s account, which, by the way, I had checked by the woman who laid out the body later, the rigor was even then beginning to pass off. Making every possible allowance for the warmth of the room and so on, he must have been dead long before ten in the morning, which was his usual time for going to the Club.”
“But, my dear lad, bless my soul, that’s impossible. He couldn’t have been carried in there dead. Somebody would have noticed it.”
“So they would. And the odd thing is that nobody ever saw him arrive at all. What is more, nobody saw him leave for the last time on the previous evening. General Fentiman — one of the best-known figures in the Club! And he seems to have become suddenly invisible. That won’t do, you know.”
“What is your idea, then? That he slept the night in the Club?”
“I think he slept a very peaceful and untroubled sleep that night — in the Club.”
“You shock me inexpressibly,” said Mr. Murbles. “I understand you to suggest that he died—”
“Some time the previous evening. Yes.”
“But he couldn’t have sat there all night in the smoking-room. The servants would have been bound to — er — notice him.”
“Of course. But it was to somebody’s interest to see that they didn’t notice. Somebody who wanted it thought that he hadn’t died till the following day, after the death of Lady Dormer.”
“Robert Fentiman.”
“Precisely.”
“But how did Robert know about Lady Dormer?”
“Ah! That is a point I’m not altogether happy about. George had an interview with General Fentiman after the old man’s visit to his sister. George denies that the General mentioned anything to him about the will, but then, if George was in the plot he naturally would deny it. I am rather concerned about George.”
“What had he to gain?”
“Well, if George’s information was going to make a difference of half a million to Robert, he would naturally expect to be given a share of the boodle, don’t you think?”
Mr. Murbles groaned.
“Look here,” broke in Parker, “this is a very pretty theory, Peter, but, allowing that the General died, as you say, on the evening of the tenth, where was the body? As Mr. Murbles says, it would have been a trifle noticeable if left about.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Murbles, seized with an idea. “Repellent as the whole notion is to me, I see no difficulty about that. Robert Fentiman was at that time living in the Club. No doubt the General died in Robert’s bedroom and was concealed there till the next morning!”
Wimsey shook his head. “That won’t work. I think the General’s hat and coat and things were in Robert’s bedroom, but the corpse couldn’t have been. Think, sir. Here is a photograph of the entrance-hall, with the big staircase running up in full view of the front door and the desk and the bar-entrance. Would you risk carrying a corpse downstairs in the middle of the morning, with servants and members passing in and out continually? And the service stairs would be even worse. They are right round the other side of the building, with continual kitchen traffic going on all the time. No. The body wasn’t in Robert’s bedroom.”
“Where, then?”
“Yes, where? After all, Peter, we’ve got to make this story hold water.”
Wimsey spread the rest of the photographs out upon the table.
“Look for yourselves,” he said. “Here is the end bay of the library, where the General was sitting making notes about the money he was to inherit. A very nice, retired spot, invisible from the doorway, supplied with ink, blotter, writing-paper and every modern convenience, including the works of Charles Dickens elegantly bound in morocco. Here is a shot of the library taken from the smoking-room, clean through the ante-room and down the gangway — again a tribute to the convenience of the Bellona Club. Observe how handily the telephone cabinet is situated, in case—”
“The telephone cabinet?”
“Which, you will remember, was so annoyingly labelled ‘Out of Order’ when Wetheridge wanted to telephone. I can’t find anybody who remembers putting up that notice, by the way.”
“Good God, Wimsey. Impossible. Think of the risk.”
“What risk? If anybody opened the door, there was old General Fentiman, who had gone in, not seeing the notice, and died of fury at not being able to get his call. Agitation acting on a weak heart and all that. Not very risky, really. Unless somebody was to think to inquire about the notice, and probably it wouldn’t occur to any one in the excitement of the moment.”
“You’re an ingenious beast, Wimsey.”
“Aren’t I? But we can prove it. We’re going down to the Bellona Club to prove it now. Half-past eleven. A nice, quiet time. Shall I tell you what we are going to find inside that cabinet?”
“Finger-prints?” suggested Mr. Murbles, eagerly.
“Afraid that’s too much to hope for after all this time. What do you say, Charles?”
“I say we shall find a long scratch on the paint,” said Parker, “where the foot of the corpse rested and stiffened in that position.”
“Holed it in one, Charles. And that, you see, was when the leg had to be bent with violence in order to drag the corpse out.”
“And as the body was in a sitting position,” pursued Parker, “we shall, of course, find a seat inside the cabinet.”
“Yes, and, with luck, we may find a projecting nail or something which caught the General’s trouser-leg when the body was removed.”
“And possibly a bit of carpet.”
“To match the fragment of thread I got off the corpse’s right boot? I hope so.”
“Bless my soul,” said Mr. Murbles. “Let us go at once. Really, this is most exciting. That is, I am profoundly grieved. I hope it is not as you say.”
They hastened downstairs and stood for a few moments waiting for a taxi to pass. Suddenly Wimsey made a dive into a dark corner by the porch. There was a scuffle, and out into the light came a small man, heavily muffled in an overcoat, with his hat thrust down to his eyebrows in the manner of a stage detective. Wimsey unbonneted him with the air of a conjuror producing a rabbit from a hat.
“So it’s you, is it? I thought I knew your face. What the devil do you mean by following people about like this?”
The man ceased struggling and glanced sharply up at him with a pair of dark, beady eyes.
“Do you think it wise, my lord, to use violence?”
“Who is it?” asked Parker.
“Pritchard’s clerk. He’s been hanging round George Fentiman for days. Now he’s hanging round me. He’s probably the fellow that’s been hanging round the Bellona. If you go on like this, my man, you’ll find yourself hanging somewhere else one of these days. Now, see here. Do you want me to give you in charge?”
“That is entirely as your lordship pleases,” said the clerk, with a cunning sneer. “There is a police-man just round the corner, if you wish to attract publicity.”
Wimsey looked at him for a moment, and then began to laugh.
“When did you last see Mr. Pritchard? Come on, out with it! Yesterday? This morning? Have you seen him since lunch time?”
A shadow of indecision crossed the man’s face.
“You haven’t? I’m sure you haven’t! Have you?”
“And why not, my lord?”
“You go back to Mr. Pritchard,” said Wimsey, impressively, and shaking his captive gently by the coat-collar to add force to his words, “and
if he doesn’t countermand your instructions and call you off this sleuthing business (which, by the way, you do very amateurishly), I’ll give you a fiver. See? Now, hop it. I know where to find you and you know where to find me. Good-night and may Morpheus hover over your couch and bless your slumbers. Here’s our taxi.”
Chapter XIII
Spades Are Trumps
It was close on one o’clock when the three men emerged from the solemn portals of the Bellona Club. Mr. Murbles was very much subdued. Wimsey and Parker displayed the sober elation of men whose calculations have proved satisfactory. They had found the scratches. They had found the nail in the seat of the chair. They had even found the carpet. Moreover, they had found the origin of Oliver. Reconstructing the crime, they had sat in the end bay of the library, as Robert Fentiman might have sat, casting his eyes around him while he considered how he could best hide and cover up this extremely inopportune decease. They had noticed how the gilt lettering on the back of a volume caught the gleam from the shaded reading lamp. “Oliver Twist.” The name, not consciously noted at the time, had yet suggested itself an hour or so later to Fentiman, when, calling up from Charing Cross, he had been obliged to invent a surname on the spur of the moment.
And, finally, placing the light, spare form of the unwilling Mr. Murbles in the telephone cabinet, Parker had demonstrated that a fairly tall and strong man could have extricated the body from the box, carried it into the smoking-room and arranged it in the armchair by the fire, all in something under four minutes.
Mr. Murbles made one last effort on behalf of his client.
“There were people in the smoking-room all morning, my dear Lord Peter. If it were as you suggest, how could Fentiman have made sure of four, or even three minutes secure from observation while he brought the body in?”
“Were people there all morning, sir? Are you sure? Wasn’t there just one period when one could be certain that everybody would be either out in the street or upstairs on the big balcony that runs along in front of the first-floor windows, looking out — and listening? It was Armistice Day, remember.”
Mr. Murbles was horror-struck.
“The two-minutes’ silence? — God bless my soul! How abominable! How — how blasphemous! Really, I cannot find words. This is the most disgraceful thing I ever heard of. At the moment when all our thoughts should be concentrated on the brave fellows who laid down their lives for us — to be engaged in perpetrating a fraud — an irreverent crime—”
“Half a million is a good bit of money,” said Parker, thoughtfully.
“Horrible!” said Mr. Murbles.
“Meanwhile,” said Wimsey, “what do you propose to do about it?”
“Do?” spluttered the old solicitor, indignantly. “Do? — Robert Fentiman will have to confess to this disgraceful plot immediately. Bless my soul! To think that I should be mixed up in a thing like this! He will have to find another man of business in future. We shall have to explain matters to Pritchard and apologise — I really hardly know how to tell him such a thing.”
“I rather gather he suspects a good deal of it already,” said Parker, mildly. “Else why should he have sent that clerk of his to spy on you and George Fentiman? I daresay he has been keeping tabs on Robert, too.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Wimsey. “He certainly treated me like a conspirator when I called on him. The only thing that puzzles me now is why he should have suddenly offered to compromise.”
“Probably Miss Dorland lost patience, or they despaired of proving anything,” said Parker. “While Robert stuck to that Oliver story, it would be very hard to prove anything.”
“Exactly,” said Wimsey. “That is why I had to hang on so long, and press Robert so hard about it. I might suspect Oliver to be non-existent, but one can’t prove a negative.”
“And suppose he still sticks to the story now?”
“Oh! I think we can put the wind up him all right,” said Wimsey. “By the time we’ve displayed our proofs and told him exactly what he was doing with himself on November 10th and 11th, he’ll have no more spirit in him than the Queen of Sheba.”
“It must be done at once,” said Mr. Murbles. “And of course this exhumation business will have to be stopped. I will go round and see Robert Fentiman tomorrow — this morning, that is.”
“Better tell him to trot round to your place,” said Wimsey. “I’ll bring all the evidence round there, and I’ll have the varnish on the cabinet analyzed and shown to correspond with the sample I took from the General’s boots. Make it for two o’clock, and then we can all go round and interview Pritchard afterwards.”
Parker supported this suggestion. Mr. Murbles was so wrought up that he would gladly have rushed away to confront Robert Fentiman immediately. It being, however, pointed out to him that Fentiman was in Richmond, that an alarm at this ungodly hour might drive him to do something desperate, and also that all three investigators needed repose, the old gentleman gave way and permitted himself to be taken home to Staple Inn.
Wimsey went round to Parker’s flat in Great Ormond Street to have a drink before turning in, and the session was prolonged till the small hours had begun to grow into big hours and the early workman was abroad.
* * *
Lord Peter, having set the springe for his woodcock, slept the sleep of the just until close upon eleven o’clock the next morning. He was aroused by voices without, and presently his bedroom door was flung open to admit Mr. Murbles, of all people, in a high state of agitation, followed by Bunter, protesting.
“Hallo, sir!” said his lordship, much amazed. “What’s up?”
“We have been outwitted,” cried Mr. Murbles, waving his umbrella, “we have been forestalled! We should have gone to Major Fentiman last night. I wished to do so, but permitted myself to be persuaded against my better judgment. It will be a lesson to me.”
He sat down, panting a little.
“My dear Mr. Murbles,” said Wimsey, pleasantly, “your method of recalling one to the dull business of the day is as delightful as it is unexpected. Anything better calculated to dispel that sluggish feeling I can scarcely imagine. But pardon me — you are somewhat out of breath. Bunter! a whisky-and-soda for Mr. Murbles.”
“Indeed no!” ejaculated the solicitor, hurriedly. “I couldn’t touch it. Lord Peter—”
“A glass of sherry?” suggested his lordship, helpfully.
“No, no — nothing, thanks. A shocking thing has occurred. We are left—”
“Better and better. A shock is exactly what I feel to need. My café-au-lait, Bunter — and you may turn the bath on. Now, sir — out with it. I am fortified against anything.”
“Robert Fentiman,” announced Mr. Murbles, impressively, “has disappeared.”
He thumped his umbrella.
“Good God!” said Wimsey.
“He has gone,” repeated the solicitor. “At ten o’clock this morning I attended in person at his rooms in Richmond — in person—in order to bring him the more effectually to a sense of his situation. I rang the bell. I asked for him. The maid told me he had left the night before. I asked where he had gone. She said she did not know. He had taken a suit-case with him. I interviewed the landlady. She told me that Major Fentiman had received an urgent message during the evening and had informed her that he was called away. He had not mentioned where he was going nor how soon he would return. I left a note addressed to him, and hastened back to Dover Street. The flat there was shut up and untenanted. The man Woodward was nowhere to be found. I then came immediately to you. And I find you—”
Mr. Murbles waved an expressive hand at Wimsey, who was just taking from Bunter’s hands a chaste silver tray, containing a Queen Anne coffee-pot and milk-jug, a plate of buttered toast, a delicate china coffee-cup and a small pile of correspondence.
“So you do,” said Wimsey. “A depraved sight, I am afraid. H’m! It looks very much as though Robert had got wind of trouble and didn’t like to face the music.”
&n
bsp; He sipped his café-au-lait delicately, his rather bird-like face cocked sideways. “But why worry? He can’t have got very far.”
“He may have gone abroad.”
“Possibly. All the better. The other party won’t want to take proceedings against him over there. Too much bother — however spiteful they may feel. Hallo! Here’s a writing I seem to recognise. Yes. It is my sleuth from Sleuths Incorporated. Wonder what he wants. I told him to go home and send the bill in. — Whew!”
“What is it?”
“This is the bloke who chased Fentiman to Southampton. Not the one who went on to Venice after the innocent Mr. Postlethwaite; the other. He’s writing from Paris. He says:
The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club lpw-5 Page 13
