Dorothy Sayers - The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club

“Army man?”

“No — something in the engineering line, I fancy.”

“What’s he like?”

“Oh, tall, thin, grey hair and spectacles. About sixty-five to look at. He may be older — must be, if he’s an old friend of grandfather’s. I gathered he was retired from whatever it is he did, and lived in some suburb, but I’m hanged if I can remember which.”

“Not very helpful,” said Wimsey. “D’you know, occasionally I think there’s quite a lot to be said for women.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Well, I mean, all this easy, uninquisitive way men have of makin’ casual acquaintances is very fine and admirable and all that — but look how inconvenient it is! Here you are. You admit you’ve met this bloke two or three times, and all you know about him is that he is tall and thin and retired into some unspecified suburb. A woman, with the same opportunities, would have found out his address and occupation, whether he was married, how many children he had, with their names and what they did for a living, what his favourite author was, what food he liked best, the name of his tailor, dentist and bootmaker, when he knew your grandfather and what he thought of him — screeds of useful stuff!”

“So she would,” said Fentiman, with a grin. “That’s why I never married.”

“I quite agree,” said Wimsey, “but the fact remains that as a source of information you’re simply a washout. Do, for goodness’ sake, pull yourself together and try to remember something a bit more definite about the fellow. It may mean half a million to you to know what time grand-pa set off in the morning from Tooting Bec or Finchley or wherever it was. If it was a distant suburb, it would account for his arriving rather late at the Club — which is rather in your favour, by the way.”

“I suppose it is. I’ll do my best to remember. But I’m not sure that I ever knew.”

“It’s awkward,” said Wimsey. “No doubt the police could find the man for us but it’s not a police case. And I don’t suppose you particularly want to advertise.”

“Well — it may come to that. But naturally, we’re not keen on publicity if we can avoid it. If only I could remember exactly what work he said he’d been connected with.”

“Yes — or the public dinner or whatever it was where you first met him. One might get hold of a list of the guests.”

“My dear Wimsey — that was two or three years ago!”

“Or maybe they know the blighter at Gatti’s.”

“That’s an idea. I’ve met him there several times. Tell you what, I’ll go along there and make inquiries, and if they don’t know him, I’ll make a point of lunching there pretty regularly. He’s almost bound to turn up again.”

“Right. You do that. And meanwhile, do you mind if I have a look round the flat?”

“Rather not. D’you want me? Or would you rather have Woodward? He really knows a lot more about things.”

“Thanks. I’ll have Woodward. Don’t mind me. I shall just be fussing about.”

“Carry on by all means. I’ve got one or two drawers full of papers to go through. If I come across anything bearing on the Oliver bloke I’ll yell out to you.”

“Right.”

Wimsey went out, leaving him to it, and joined Woodward and Bunter, who were conversing in the next room. A glance told Wimsey that this was the General’s bedroom.

On a table beside the narrow iron bedstead was an old-fashioned writing-desk. Wimsey took it up, weighed it in his hands a moment and then took it to Robert Fentiman in the other room. “Have you opened this?” he asked.

“Yes — only old letters and things.”

“You didn’t come across Oliver’s address, I suppose?”

“No. Of course I looked for that.”

“Looked anywhere else? Any drawers? Cupboards? That sort of thing?”

“Not so far,” said Fentiman, rather shortly.

“No telephone memorandum or anything — you’ve tried the telephone-book, I suppose?”

“Well, no — I can’t very well ring up perfect strangers and—”

“And sing ’em the Froth-Blowers’ Anthem? Good God, man, anybody’d think you were chasing a lost umbrella, not half a million of money. The man rang you up, so he may very well be on the ’phone himself. Better let Bunter tackle the job. He has an excellent manner on the line; people find it a positive pleasure to be tr-r-roubled by him.”

Robert Fentiman greeted this feeble pleasantry with an indulgent grin, and produced the telephone directory, to which Bunter immediately applied himself. Finding two-and-a-half columns of Olivers, he removed the receiver and started to work steadily through them in rotation. Wimsey returned to the bedroom. It was in apple-pie order — the bed neatly made, the wash-hand apparatus set in order, as though the occupant might return at any moment, every speck of dust removed — a tribute to Woodward’s reverent affection, but a depressing sight for an investigator.

Wimsey sat down, and let his eye rove slowly from the hanging wardrobe, with its polished doors, over the orderly line of boots and shoes arranged on their trees on a small shelf, the dressing table, the washstand, the bed and the chest of drawers which, with the small bedside table and a couple of chairs, comprised the furniture.

“Did the General shave himself, Woodward?”

“No, my lord; not latterly. That was my duty, my lord.”

“Did he brush his own teeth, or dental plate, or whatever it was?”

“Oh, yes, my lord. General Fentiman had an excellent set of teeth for his age.”

Wimsey fixed his powerful monocle into his eye, and carried the toothbrush over to the window. The result of the scrutiny was unsatisfactory. He looked round again.

“Is that his walking-stick?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“May I see it?”

Woodward brought it across, carrying it after the manner of a well-trained servant, by the middle. Lord Peter took it from him in the same manner, suppressing a slight, excited smile. The stick was a heavy malacca, with a thick crutch-handle of polished ivory, suitable for sustaining the feeble steps of old age.

The monocle came into play again, and this time its owner gave a chuckle of pleasure.

“I shall want to take a photograph of this stick presently, Woodward. Will you be very careful to see that it is not touched by anybody beforehand?”

“Certainly, my lord.”

Wimsey stood the stick carefully in its corner again, and then, as though it had put a new train of ideas into his mind, walked across to the shoe-shelf.

“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.