“I'll take everything I can,” said Wimsey, “but if anything comes to you, block it. Don't bother about runs. I'll see to them.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Haagedorn, fervently. “I'll do anything you say. Keep it up, sir, only keep it up.”
“All right,” said Wimsey. “We'll beat the b––s yet. Don't be afraid of them. You're doing exactly right.”
Six balls later, Mr. Simmonds, having been hit to the boundary four times running, was removed, as being too expensive a luxury. He was replaced by a gentleman who was known at Brotherhood's as “Spinner.” Wimsey received him with enthusiasm, cutting him consistently and successfully to the off, till Brotherhood's captain moved up his fieldsmen and concentrated them about the off-side of the wicket. Wimsey looked at this grouping with an indulgent smile, and placed the next six balls consistently and successfully to leg. When, in despair, they drew a close net of fielders all round him, he drove everything that was drivable straight down the pitch. The score mounted to 150.
The aged Mr. Brotherhood was bouncing in his seat. He was in an ecstasy. “Oh, pretty, sir! Again! Oh, well played, indeed, sir!” His white whiskers fluttered like flags. “Why on earth, Mr. Tallboy,” he asked, severely, “did you send this man in ninth? He's a cricketer. He's the only cricketer among the whole damned lot of you. Oh, well placed!” as the ball skimmed neatly between two agitated fielders who nearly knocked their heads together in the effort to retrieve it. “Look at that! I'm always telling these lads that placing is nine-tenths of the game. This man knows it. Who is he?”
“He's a new member of the staff,” said Tallboy, “he's a public-school man and he said he'd done a good deal of country-house cricket, but I hadn't an idea he could play like that. Great Scott!” He paused to applaud a particularly elegant cut, “I never saw anything like it.”
“Didn't you?” said the old gentleman with asperity. “Well, now, I've been watching cricket, man and boy, for sixty years, and I've seen something very like it. Let me see, now. Before the War, that would be. Dear, dear–I sometimes think my memory for names isn't what it was, but I fancy that in the 'varsity match of 1910, or it might be 1911–no, not 1910, that was the year in which–”
His tinkling voice was drowned in a yell as the 170 appeared on the score-board.
“One more to win!” gasped Miss Rossiter. “Oh!” For at that moment, Mr. Haagedorn, left for an unfortunate moment to face the bowling, succumbed to a really nasty and almost unplayable ball which curled round his feet like a playful kitten and skittled his leg-stump.
Mr. Haagedorn came back almost in tears, and Mr. Wedderburn, quivering with nervousness, strode forward into the breach. He had nothing to do but to survive four balls and then, except for a miracle, the game was won. The first ball rose temptingly, a little short; he stepped out, missed it, and scuttled back to his crease only just in time. “Oh, be careful! Be careful!” moaned Miss Rossiter, and old Mr. Brotherhood swore. The next ball, Mr. Wedderburn contrived to poke a little way down the pitch. He wiped his forehead. The next was a spinner and, in trying to block it, he tipped it almost perpendicularly into the air. For a moment that seemed like hours the spectators saw the spinning ball–the outstretched hand–then the ball dropped, missed by a hair.
“I'm going to scream,” announced Mrs. Johnson to nobody in particular. Mr. Wedderburn, now thoroughly unnerved, wiped his forehead again. Fortunately, the bowler was also unnerved. The ball slipped in his sweating fingers and went down short and rather wide.
“Leave it alone! Leave it alone!” shrieked Mr. Brotherhood, hammering with his stick. “Leave it alone, you numb-skull! You imbecile! You–”
Mr. Wedderburn, who had lost his head completely, stepped across to it, raised his bat, made a wild swipe, which missed its object altogether, heard the smack of the leather as the ball went into the wicket-keeper's gloves, and did the only possible thing. He hurled himself bodily back and sat down on the crease, and as he fell he heard the snick of the flying bails.
“How's that?”
“Not out.”
“The nincompoop! The fat-headed, thick-witted booby!” yelled Mr. Brotherhood. He danced with fury, “Might have thrown the match away! Thrown it away! That man's a fool. I say he's a fool. He's a fool, I tell you.”
“Well, it's all right, Mr. Brotherhood,” said Mr. Hankin, soothingly. “At least, it's all wrong for your side, I'm afraid.”
“Our side be damned,” ejaculated Mr. Brotherhood. “I'm here to see cricket played, not tiddlywinks. I don't care who wins or who loses, sir, provided they play the game. Now, then!”
With five minutes to go, Wimsey watched the first ball of the over come skimming down towards him. It was a beauty. It was jam. He smote it as Saul smote the Philistines. It soared away in a splendid parabola, struck the pavilion roof with a noise like the crack of doom, rattled down the galvanized iron roofing, bounced into the enclosure where the scorers were sitting and broke a bottle of lemonade. The match was won.
Mr. Bredon, lolloping back to the pavilion at 6.30 with 83 runs to his credit, found himself caught and cornered by the ancient Mr. Brotherhood.
“Beautifully played, sir, beautifully played indeed,” said the old gentleman. “Pardon me–the name has just come to my recollection. Aren't you Wimsey of Balliol?”
Wimsey saw Tallboy, who was just ahead of them, falter in his stride and look round, with a face like death. He shook his head.
“My name's Bredon,” he said.
“Bredon?” Mr. Brotherhood was plainly puzzled. “Bredon? I don't remember ever hearing the name. But didn't I see you play for Oxford in 1911? You have a late cut which is exceedingly characteristic, and I could have taken my oath that the last time I saw you play it was at Lords in 1911, when you made 112. But I thought the name was Wimsey–Peter Wimsey of Balliol–Lord Peter Wimsey–and, now I come to think of it–”
At this very awkward moment an interruption occurred. Two men in police uniform were seen coming across the field, led by another man in mufti. They pushed their way through the crowd of cricketers and guests, and advanced upon the little group by the pavilion fence. One of the uniformed men touched Lord Peter on the arm.
“Are you Mr. Death Bredon?”
“I am,” said Wimsey, in some astonishment.
“Then you'll have to come along of us. You're wanted on a charge of murder, and it is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.”
“Murder?” ejaculated Wimsey. The policeman had spoken in unnecessarily loud and penetrating tones, and the whole crowd had frozen into fascinated attention. “Whose murder?”
“The murder of Miss Dian de Momerie.”
“Good God!” said Wimsey. He looked round and saw that the man in mufti was Chief-Inspector Parker, who gave a nod of confirmation.
“All right,” said Wimsey. “I'll come with you, but I don't know a thing about it. You'd better come with me while I change.”
He walked away between the two officers. Mr. Brotherhood detained Parker as he was about to follow them.
“You say that man's called Bredon?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Parker, with emphasis. “Bredon is his name. Mister Death Bredon.”
“And you want him for murder?”
“For murder of a young woman, sir. Very brutal business.”
“Well,” said the old gentleman, “you surprise me. Are you sure you've got the right man?”
“Dead sure, sir. Well known to the police.”
Mr. Brotherhood shook his head.
“Well,” he said again, “his name may be Bredon. But he's innocent. Innocent as day, my good fellow. Did you see him play? He's a damned fine cricketer and he'd no more commit a murder than I would.”
“That's as may be, sir,” said Inspector Parker, stolidly.
“Just fancy that!” exclaimed Miss Rossiter. “I always knew there was something. Murder! Only think! We might all have had our throats cut! What do you think
, Miss Meteyard? Were you surprised?”
“Yes, I was,” said Miss Meteyard. “I was never so surprised in my life. Never!”
CHAPTER XIX
DUPLICATE APPEARANCES OF A NOTORIOUS PERSONALITY
“It's a fact, old man,” said Parker, as the police-car sped Londonwards. “Dian de Momerie was found this morning with her throat cut in a wood near Maidenhead. Beside the body was a penny whistle and a few yards away there was a black mask caught on a bramble bush, as if some one had flung it away in a hurry. Inquiry among her friends elicited the fact that she had been going about at night with a masked harlequin, one Bredon by name. Strong suspicion was accordingly directed against the said Mr. Bredon, and Scotland Yard, acting with commendable promptitude, tracked the gentleman down to Romford and secured his person. Accused, when charged, replied–”
“I done it,” said Wimsey, concluding the sentence for him. “And so, in a sense, I have, Charles. If that girl had never seen me, she'd be alive today.”
“Well, she's no great loss,” said the Chief-Inspector, callously. “I'm beginning to see their game. They've not yet tumbled to the fact that you're not Death Bredon, and their idea is to put you on ice quietly till they've had time to settle up their affairs. They know you can't get bail on a murder charge.”
“I see. Well, they're not quite as smart as I took them to be, or they'd have identified me long since. What happens next?”
“My idea is, that we take immediate steps to establish that Mr. Death Bredon and Lord Peter Wimsey are not one person but two. Is that chap still following us, Lumley?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take care he doesn't lose us in the traffic through Stratford. We're taking you to be questioned at Scotland Yard, and this josser shall see you safely into the building. I've arranged for some pressmen to be there, and we'll prime them with full details of the arrest and a lot about your hideous past. You, as Mr. Bredon, will then telephone to yourself, as Lord Peter Wimsey, to come and see you, with a view to arranging your defence. You will be smuggled out by the back entrance–”
“Disguised as a policeman? Oh, Charles, do let me be a policeman! I should adore it.”
“Well, you're a bit under the regulation height, but we might be able to manage it; the helmet is very disguising. Anyway, you go home, or else to your club–”
“Not my club; I couldn't go to the Marlborough dressed up as a cop. Stop a bit, though–the Egotists'–I could go there. I've got a room there, and the Egotists don't care what one does. I like this. Go on.”
“All right. You change there, and come down to the Yard in a temper, grumbling loudly about the trouble Mr. Bredon puts you to. You can give an interview about it if you like. Then you go home. The Sunday papers have a long bit about you, with photographs of you both.”
“Splendid!”
“And on Monday you go before the magistrate and reserve your defence. It's a pity you can't be in court to hear yourself, but I'm afraid that's rather beyond our powers. Still, you can be seen immediately afterwards doing something conspicuous. You might ride in the Row and fall off–”
“No,” said Wimsey. “I absolutely refuse to fall off. There are limits. I don't mind being run away with, and only saving myself by consummate horsemanship.”
“Very well; I'll leave that to you. The point is that you must be in the papers.”
“I will. I will advertise myself in some way. Advertising is my long suit. By the way, though, that'll mean I can't be at the office on Monday.”
“Naturally.”
“But that won't do. I've got to get that Whifflets campaign finished. Armstrong wants it particularly; I can't let him down. And besides, I've got interested in the thing.”
Parker gazed at him in astonishment.
“Is it possible, Peter, that you are developing a kind of business morality?”
“Dash it all, Charles! You don't understand. It's a really big scheme. It'll be the biggest advertising stunt since the Mustard Club. But if that doesn't stir you, here's another thing. If I'm not at the office, you won't know the Nutrax headline next Tuesday, and won't catch the supplies being delivered.”
“We can find that out without you, old man. It won't help us in the least to have you murdered, will it?”
“I suppose not. What I can't understand is, why they haven't murdered Tallboy yet.”
“No; I can't understand that, either.”
“I'll tell you what I think. They haven't matured their new plans yet. They're leaving him till after next Tuesday, because they've got to deliver one more consignment by the old route. They think that if I'm out of the way they can take the risk.”
“Perhaps that's it. We must hope so, any way. Well, here we are. Out you come, and try and look as much like a baffled villain as possible.”
“Right-ho!” said Wimsey, distorting his face into a disagreeable sneer. The car turned into the entrance to New Scotland Yard and drew up. The sergeant got out; Wimsey followed, and, glancing round, observed three obvious newspaper men hanging about the courtyard. Just as Parker emerged in his turn from the car, Wimsey tapped the sergeant lightly but efficiently under the chin and sent him staggering, tripped Parker neatly as he jumped from the running-board, and made for the gate like a hare. Two policemen and a reporter dived to intercept him; he dodged the bobbies, tackled the pressman and left him sprawling, swerved through the gateway and led a beautiful ding-dong chase down Whitehall. As he sped, he heard shouts and the blowing of whistles. Foot-passengers joined in the pursuit; motorists accelerated to cut him off; people in buses crowded to the windows and stared. He slipped nimbly into the whirl of traffic, dodged three times round the Cenotaph, doubled back on the opposite side of the street and finally staged a magnificent and sensational capture in the middle of Trafalgar Square. Parker and Lumley came up panting.
“'Ere 'e is, mister,” said the man who had grabbed hold of him–a large and powerful navvy, with a bag of tools. “'Ere 'e is. Wot's 'e done?”
“He's wanted for murder,” announced Parker, briefly and loudly.
A murmur of admiration arose. Wimsey cast an offensively contemptuous glance at Sergeant Lumley.
“You ruddy bobbies are all too fat,” he said. “You can't run.”
“That's all right,” said the sergeant, grimly. “Hold out your hands, my lad. We're taking no more chances.”
“As you please, as you please. Are your hands clean? I don't want my cuffs dirtied.”
“That's quite enough of it, my lad,” said Parker, as the handcuffs snapped home, “we don't want any more trouble from you. Pass along there, please, pass along.”
The little procession returned to Scotland Yard.
“Rather prettily done, I flatter myself,” said Wimsey.
“Ar!” said Lumley, caressing his jaw. “You didn't need to have hit quite so hard, my lord.”
“Verisimilitude,” said Wimsey, “verisimilitude. You looked lovely as you went over.”
“Ar!” said Sergeant Lumley.
A quarter of an hour later, a policeman whose uniform trousers were a little long for him and whose tunic was slightly too large in the waist, came out from Scotland Yard by a side-entrance, entered a car and was driven along Pall Mall to the discreet entrance of the Egotists' Club. Here he disappeared, and was never seen again, but presently an immaculately dressed gentleman, in evening dress and a silk hat, tripped out and stood on the steps to await a taxi. An elderly gentleman of military appearance stood beside him.
“You will forgive me, Colonel? I shall not be many minutes. This fellow Bredon is an abominable nuisance, but what can one do? I mean to say, one has to do something.”
“Quite, quite,” said the Colonel.
“I only hope this is the last time. If he's done what they say he has, it will be the last.”
“Oh, quite,” said the Colonel, “my dear Wimsey, quite.”
The taxi appeared.
“Scotland Yard,” said Wimsey, in very aud
ible tones.
The taxi span away.
Miss Meteyard, skimming the papers in bed on Sunday morning, found her attention held by enormous headlines:
DE MOMERIE MURDER CASE ARREST
FAMOUS DUCAL HOUSE INVOLVED
INTERVIEW WITH LORD PETER WIMSEY
and again:
PENNY WHISTLE MURDER
ARREST OF MASKED MUMMER
CHIEF-INSPECTOR PARKER INTERVIEWED
and once more:
WHISTLING HARLEQUIN CAUGHT
DESPERATE MELEE IN WHITEHALL
PEER'S BROTHER VISITS SCOTLAND YARD
There followed lengthy and picturesque descriptions of the arrest; pictures of the place where the body was found; articles on Lord Peter Wimsey, on the Wimsey family, on their historic seat in Norfolk; on night-life in London and on penny whistles. The Duke of Denver had been interviewed, but refused to say anything; Lord Peter Wimsey, on the other hand, had said a good deal. Finally–and this puzzled Miss Meteyard very much, there was a photograph of Lord Peter and of Death Bredon standing side by side.
“It would be useless,” said Lord Peter Wimsey in an interview, “in view of the remarkable resemblance between us, to deny that there is a relationship between this man and myself. In fact, he has on various occasions given trouble by impersonating me. If you were to see us together, you would notice that he is the darker of the two; there are also, of course, slight differences of feature; but, when we are seen separately, it is easy to mistake one of us for the other.”
The Death Bredon of the photograph had certainly very much darker hair than the Peter Wimsey; his mouth was set in an unpleasing sneer, and he had that indefinable air of raffish insolence which is the hall-mark of the chevalier d'industrie. The newspaper article wandered on to give various unverifiable details.
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