Dorothy Sayers - The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club

“Don’t do that. You might destroy a clue. I — wait a minute — I’ve got an idea. I believe it must be the same man who’s been haunting the Bellona and asking questions. Oh, Hades! and we’ve let him go. And I’d put him down in my mind as Oliver’s minion. If ever you see him again, Fentiman, freeze on to him like grim death. I want to talk to him.”

Chapter X

Lord Peter Forces a Card

“Hallo!”

“Is that you, Wimsey? Hallo! I say, is that Lord Peter Wimsey. Hallo! I must speak to Lord Peter Wimsey. Hallo!”

“All right. I’ve said hallo. Who’re you? And what’s the excitement?”

“It’s me. Major Fentiman. I say— is that Wimsey?”

“Yes. Wimsey speaking. What’s up?”

“I can’t hear you.”

“Of course you can’t if you keep on shouting. This is Wimsey. Good morning. Stand three inches from the mouthpiece and speak in an ordinary voice. Do not say hallo! To recall the operator, depress the receiver gently two or three times.”

“Oh, shut up! don’t be an ass. I’ve seen Oliver.”

“Have you, where?”

“Getting into a train at Charing Cross.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“No — it’s maddening. I was just getting my ticket when I saw him passing the barrier. I tore down after him. Some people got in my way, curse them. There was a Circle train standing at the platform. He bolted in and they clanged the doors. I rushed on, waving and shouting, but the train went out. I cursed like anything.”

“I bet you did. How very sickening.”

“Yes, wasn’t it? I took the next train—”

“What for?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought I might spot him on a platform somewhere.”

“What a hope! You didn’t think to ask where he’d booked for?”

“No. Besides, he probably got the ticket from an automatic.”

“Probably. Well, it can’t be helped, that’s all. He’ll probably turn up again. You’re sure it was he?”

“Oh, dear, yes. I couldn’t be mistaken. I’d know him anywhere. I thought I’d just let you know.”

“Thanks awfully. It encourages me extremely. Charing Cross seems to be a haunt of his. He ’phoned from there on the evening of the tenth, you know.”

“So he did.”

“I’ll tell you what we’d better do, Fentiman. The thing is getting rather serious. I propose that you should go and keep an eye on Charing Cross station. I’ll get hold of a detective—”

“A police detective?”

“Not necessarily. A private one would do. You and he can go along and keep watch on the station for, say a week. You must describe Oliver to the detective as best you can, and you can watch turn and turn about.”

“Hang it all, Wimsey — it’ll take a lot of time. I’ve gone back to my rooms at Richmond. And besides, I’ve got my own duties to do.”

“Yes, well, while you’re on duty the detective must keep watch.”

“It’s a dreadful grind, Wimsey.” Fentiman’s voice sounded dissatisfied.

“It’s half a million of money. Of course, if you’re not keen—”

“I am keen. But I don’t believe anything will come of it.”

“Probably not; but it’s worth trying. And in the meantime, I’ll have another watch kept at Gatti’s.”

“At Gatti’s?”

“Yes. They know him there. I’ll send a man down—”

“But he never comes there now.”

“Oh, but he may come again. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t. We know now that he’s in town, and not gone out of the country or anything. I’ll tell the management that he’s wanted for an urgent business matter, so as not to make unpleasantness.”

“They won’t like it.”

“Then they’ll have to lump it.”

“Well, all right. But, look here— I’ll do Gatti’s.”

“That won’t do. We want you to identify him at Charing Cross. The waiter or somebody can do the identifying at Gatti’s. You say they know him.”

“Yes, of course they do. But—”

“But what? — By the way, which waiter is it you spoke to. I had a talk with the head man there yesterday, and he didn’t seem to know anything about it.”

“No — it wasn’t the head waiter. One of the others. The plump, dark one.”

“All right. I’ll find the right one. Now, will you see to the Charing Cross end?”

“Of course — if you really think it’s any good.”

“Yes, I do. Right you are. I’ll get hold of the ’tec and send him along to you, and you can arrange with him.”

“Very well.”

“Cheerio!”

Lord Peter rang off and sat for a few moments, grinning to himself. Then he turned to Bunter.

“I don’t often prophesy, Bunter, but I’m going to do it now. Your fortune told by hand or cards. Beware of the dark stranger. That sort of thing.”

“Indeed, my lord?”

“Cross the gipsy’s palm with silver. I see Mr. Oliver. I see him taking a journey in which he will cross water. I see trouble. I see the ace of spades — upside-down, Bunter.”

“And what then, my lord?”

“Nothing. I look into the future and I see a blank. The gipsy has spoken.”

“I will bear it in mind, my lord.”

“Do. If my prediction is not fulfilled, I will give you a new camera. And now I’m going round to see that fellow who calls himself Sleuths Incorporated, and get him to put a good man on to keep watch at Charing Cross. And after that, I’m going down to Chelsea and I don’t quite know when I shall be back. You’d better take the afternoon off. Put me out some sandwiches or something, and don’t wait up if I’m late.”

Wimsey disposed quickly of his business with Sleuths Incorporated, and then made his way to a pleasant little studio overlooking the river at Chelsea.

The door, which bore a neat label “Miss Marjorie Phelps,” was opened by a pleasant-looking young woman with curly hair and a blue overall heavily smudged with clay.

“Lord Peter! How nice of you. Do come in.”

“Shan’t I be in the way?”

“Not a scrap. You don’t mind if I go on working.”

“Rather not.”

“You could put the kettle on and find some food if you liked to be really helpful. I just want to finish up this figure.”

“That’s fine. I took the liberty of bringing a pot of Hybla honey with me.”

“What sweet ideas you have! I really think you are one of the nicest people I know. You don’t talk rubbish about art, and you don’t want your hand held, and your mind always turns on eating and drinking.”

“Don’t speak too soon. I don’t want my hand held, but I did come here with an object.”

“Very sensible of you. Most people come without any.”

“And stay interminably.”

“They do.”

Miss Phelps cocked her head on one side and looked critically at the little dancing lady she was modelling. She had made a line of her own in pottery figurines, which sold well and were worth the money.

“That’s rather attractive,” said Wimsey.

“Rather pretty-pretty. But it’s a special order, and one can’t afford to be particular. I’ve done a Christmas present for you, by the way. You’d better have a look at it, and if you think it offensive we’ll smash it together. It’s in that cupboard.”

Wimsey opened the cupboard and extracted a little figure about nine inches high. It represented a young man in a flowing dressing-gown, absorbed in the study of a huge volume held on his knee. The portrait was life-like. He chuckled.

“It’s damned good, Marjorie. A very fine bit of modelling. I’d love to have it. You aren’t multiplying it too often, I hope? I mean, it won’t be on sale at Selfridges?”

“I’ll spare you that. I thought of giving one to your mother.”