“I’ve got a better one, officer. We’re getting married again.”
“You wouldn’t need a new wedding ring, would you?” Michaels asked with filial devotion. “Michaels, Fifth between Spring and Broadway — fine stock.”
Mr. Quilter laid down the final draft of Tom Smith’s story, complete now with ending, and fixed the officer with a reproachful gaze. “You omitted, sir, the explanation of why such a misunderstanding should arise.”
Tom Smith shifted uncomfortably. “I’m afraid, Mr. Quilter, I couldn’t remember all that straight.”
“It is simple. The noun Maus in German is of feminine gender. Therefore a Mikki Maus is a female. The male, naturally, is a Mikki Mäuserich. I recall a delightful Viennese song of some seasons ago, which we once employed as background music, wherein the singer declares that he and his beloved will be forever paired, ‘wie die Mikki Mikki Mikki Mikki Mikki Maus und der Mikki Mäuserich.’ ”
“Gosh,” said Tom Smith. “You know a lot of things.”
Mr. Quilter allowed himself to beam. “Between us, sir, there should be little that we do not know.”
“We sure make a swell team as a detective.”
The beam faded. “As a detective? Damme, sir, do you think I cared about your robbery? I simply explained the inevitable denouement to this story.”
“But she didn’t confess and make a gesture. Michaels had to prove it on her.”
“All the better, sir. That makes her mysterious and deep. A Bette Davis role. I think we will first try for a magazine sale on this. Studios are more impressed by matter already in print. Then I shall show it to F. X., and we shall watch the squirmings of that genius Aram Melekian.”
Tom Smith looked out the window, frowning. They made a team, all right; but which way? He still itched to write, but the promotion Michaels had promised him sounded good, too. Were he and this strange lean old man a team for writing or for detection?
The friendly red and green lights of the neighborhood Christmas trees seemed an equally good omen either way.
Greedy Night
A Parody
by E. C. Bentley
A parody in literature is a humorous imitation, deliberately fashioned, of a serious work. One of the best-known of modern detective novels is “Gaudy Night,” by Dorothy L. Sayers. Here is a clever — a brilliantly clever — parody of “Gaudy Night” by one of the most eminent detective-story writers of our time, E. C. Bentley, author of “Trent’s Last Case” notably, and other distinguished worlds. Readers of “Gaudy Night” will recognize with delight some of the characters and scenes in that boo\. On the other hand, those unfamiliar with the original will still find “Greedy Night” a joy, since Mr. Bentley not only uses Lord Peter Wimsey himself as the detective, but has also contrived what the editors consider the best parody-plot within their ken.
“Yow ow ow,” observed Lord Peter Wimsey, opening his eyes; then, reclosing and feebly knuckling them, “Ow wow. Yah ah ow.”
“Very good, my lord,” his servant said, as he drew the curtains of the bedroom. “It is now twelve o’clock noon, my lord. At what hour would your lordship take breakfast?”
“Zero hour,” Lord Peter snarled. “Take the nasty breakfast away, I don’t want any breakfast today. Oh, Lord! Bunter, why did I drink all that Corton Clos du Roi 1904 on the top of a quart of Archdeacon ale last night? I’m old enough to know better. Anyhow, my inside is.”
“If I may make the suggestion, my lord, it may have been what your lordship had after coming home that is at the root of the trouble.”
Wimsey sat up in bed wild-eyed. “Bunter!” he gasped. “Don’t tell me I had whisky as well.”
“No, my lord. That may possibly have been your lordship’s intention; but I fear that what your lordship actually drank, in a moment of absent-mindedness, was a mixture of furniture-polish and Vichy water. I found the empty bottles on the floor this morning, my lord.”
Wimsey sank back with a moan; then rallied himself and swallowed a little tea from the cup which Bunter had filled.
“I don’t like this tea,” he said peevishly. “I don’t believe this is my specially grown Son-of-Heaven china.”
“It is, my lord; but in some circumstances the flavour of almost anything is apt to be sensibly impaired. May I urge, my lord, that an effort should be made to eat some breakfast? It is considered to be advisable on the morning after an occasion of festivity.”
“Oh, all right.” Wimsey held out his hand for the menu which Bunter produced, like a conjuror, apparently from the air. “Well, I won’t eat avoine secoueur, anyhow. Give it to the cat.”
“The cat has already tried it, my lord, during my momentary absence from the kitchen. The intelligent animal appears to be of your lordship’s opinion. I would recommend a little pâte gonfleur sur canapé, my lord, for the present emergency.”
Wimsey groaned. “I don’t believe I could taste even that,” he said. “Very well, I’ll have a stab at it.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Bunter laid an armful of newspapers on the bed and withdrew. When he returned with the breakfast tray Wimsey was reading with absorbed interest. “Bunter,” he said eagerly, “I see that at Sotheby’s on Monday they’re auctioning a thing I simply must have — the original manuscript of the Chanson de Roland, with marginal notes by Saint Louis. If I find I can’t go myself, I shall want you to pop round and bid for me. That is, of course, if it’s the genuine article. You could make sure of that, I suppose?”
“Without difficulty, my lord. I have always taken an interest in the technical study of mediaeval calligraphy. I should be sceptical, though, about those marginal notes, my lord. It has always been understood, your lordship, that His Most Christian Majesty was unable to write. However—”
At this point there came a long-continued ringing at the door-bell of the flat; and after a brief interval Bunter, with all the appearance of acting under protest, showed the Bishop of Glastonbury into the bedroom.
“I say, Peter, there’s the dickens to pay!” exclaimed that prelate. “Topsy’s pretty well off her onion, and Bill Mixer’s in a frightful dither. Have you heard what’s happened? But, of course, you couldn’t. They’ve been trying to get you on the ’phone this morning, but that man of yours kept on saying that he feared his lordship was somewhat closely engaged at the moment. So they rang me up, and asked me to tell you.”
“Well, why not tell me?” Wimsey snapped. Topsy, the Bishop’s favourite sister, was an old friend, and her husband was a man for whom Wimsey had a deep regard that dated from his years at Balliol.
“Dermot’s dead.”
“I say! What a ghastly thing!” Wimsey scrambled out of bed and into a dressing-gown. “What happened to poor old Dermot?”
“That’s just what they don’t know. There was absolutely nothing the matter with him, but he was found dead this morning — apparently uninjured, they say. Foul play is suspected, of course.”
“Of course,” Wimsey agreed, plying his hair-brushes vigorously.
“And Topsy and Bill would like you, if you can, to go down for the week-end—”
“Up,” Wimsey murmured.
“All right, up for the week-end,” said the Bishop a little testily. “And see what you can do to clear the mystery up, or down, or any dashed way you like.”