“That’s clear, too. He was the Rider from the Sea. But he still didn’t kill Paul Alexis. Who did?’
Well my lord,’ said Umpelty, ‘we’ll have to go back to our first idea. Weldon brought bad news about this here conspiracy, and Alexis killed himself.’
‘With Morecambe’s razor? No, it’s all wrong, Inspector. It’s all wrong:’
‘Hadn’t we better ask Weldon what he knows about it all? If we confront him with what we know about — Morecambe and the letter and all that, he may come clean. If he was along there at 12.15, he must have seen Alexis, anyhow.’
Wimsey shook his head.
‘Deep waters,’ he said, ‘deep waters. Look here! I’ve an idea we’ve been working this thing from the wrong end, If only we knew more about those papers that Alexis sent to “Boris”, they might tell us something. Where do you suppose they are? You may say, in Warsaw — but I don’t think so. I fancy Warsaw was only an accommodation address. Everything that went there probably came back to Morecambe.’
‘Then perhaps we’ll find them in London,’ suggested Glaisher, hopefully.
‘Very much perhaps. The man who planned this show is no fool. If he told Alexis to destroy all his papers, he’ll hardly have risked keeping anything of that sort himself. But we could try. Have we enough evidence against him to justify a search-warrant?’
‘Why, yes.’ Glaisher pondered. ‘If Morecambe’s identified as Bright, then he’s been giving false information to the police. We could detain him on suspicion and go through his place in Kensington. The London fellows are keeping tabs on him now, but we didn’t want to be in too much of a hurry. We thought, maybe, the real murderer might be getting in touch with hint. You see, there must be another party to the business — the chap who did the actual job, and we don’t know who he is from Adam. But of course, there’s this to it — the longer we leave Morecambe to himself, the more time he’s got to make away with the evidence.
It may be you’re right, my lord, and we ought to pull him in. Only you’ll bear in mind, my lord, that if we do detain him, we’ll have to make a charge. There’s such a thing as Habeas Corpus.’
‘All the same,’ said Wimsey, ‘I think’ you’ll have to risk that. I don’t suppose you’ll find any papers, but you may find something else. The paper and ink used to write the letters, perhaps, and books of reference about Russia. Books aren’t as easy to get rid of as papers. And we’ve got to find out the exact connection between Morecambe and Weldon.’
‘They’re working on that now, my lord.’
‘Good. After all, people don’t conspire to commit murder for the fun of the thing. Does Mrs Weldon know anything about the Morecambes?’
‘No,’ said Harriet. ‘I asked her. She’s never heard of them.’
‘Then the connection won’t go too far back. It’ll belong to London or Huntingdonshire. What is Morecambe, by the way?’
‘Described as a Commission Agent, my lord.’
‘Oh, is he? That’s a description that hides a multitude of sins. Well, go to it, Superintendent. As for me, I’ll have to do something drastic to restore my self-respect. Seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon’s mouth.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Harriet, grinner impishly. ‘When Lord Peter gets these fits of quotation he’s usually on to something.’
‘Sez you,’ retorted Wimsey. ‘I am going, straight away, to make love to Leila Garland.’
‘Well, look out for da Soto.’
‘I’ll chance da Soto,’ said Wimsey, Bunter!’
‘My lord?’
Bunter emerged from Wimpeys’ bedroom, looking as prim as though„he had never sleuthed in a bad bowler through the purlieus of South London.
‘I wish to appear in my famous impersonation of the perfect Lounge Lizard — imitation tres dificile.’
‘very good, my lord. I suggest the fawn-coloured suit we do not care for, with the autumn-leaf socks and our outsized amber cigarette-holder.’
‘As you will, Bunter; as you, will. We must stoop to conquer.’
He kissed his band gallantly to the assembly and vanished into his inner chamber.
Chapter XXXII. The Evidence Of The Family Tree
‘A hundred years hence, or, it may be, more,
I shall return and take my dukedom back.’
— Death’s Jest-Book
Monday, 6 July
THE conquest of Leila Garland followed the usual course. Wimsey pursued her into a tea-shop, cut her out neatly from the two girl-friends who accompanied her, fed her, took her to the pictures and carried her off to the Bellevue for a cocktail.
The young lady showed an almost puritanical discretion in clinging to the public rooms of that handsome hotel, and drove Wimsey almost to madness by the refinement of her table-manners. Eventually, however, he manoeuvred her into an angle of the lounge behind a palm-tree, where they could not be overlooked and where they were far enough from the orchestra to hear each other speak. The orchestra was one of the more infuriating features of the Bellevue, and kept up an incessant drivel of dance-tunes from four in the afternoon till ten at night. Miss Garland awarded it a moderate approval, but indicated that it did not quite reach the standard of the orchestra in which Mr da Soto played a leading part.
Wimsey gently led the conversation to the distressing publicity which Miss Garland had been obliged to endure in connection with the death of Alexis. Miss Garland agreed it had not been very pleasant at all. Mr da Soto had been very much upset. A gentleman did not like his girl-friend to have to undergo so much unpleasant questioning.
Lord Peter Wimsey commended Miss Garland on the discretion she had shown throughout.
Of course, said Leila,’ Mr Alexis was a dear boy, and always a perfect gentleman. And most devoted to her. But hardly a manly man. A girl could not help preferring manly men, who had done something Girls were like that! Even though a man might be of very good family and not obliged. to do anything, he might still do things, might he not? (Languishing glance at Lord Peter.) That was the kind of man Miss Garland liked. It was, she thought, much finer to be a noble-born person who did things than a nobly-born person who only talked about nobility.
‘But was Alexis nobly born?’ inquired Wimsey.
‘Well, he said he was — but how is a girl to know? I mean, it’s easy to talk, isn’t it? Paul — that is, Mr Alexis — used to tell wonderful stories about himself, but it’s my belief he was making it all up. He was such a boy for romances and storybooks. But I said to him, “What’s the good of it?” I said. “Here you are,” I said, “not earning half as much money as some people I could name, and what good does it do, even if you’re the Tsar of Russia?” I said.’
‘Did he say he was the Tsar of Russia?’
‘Oh, no — he only said that if his great-great-grandmother or somebody had married somebody he might have been somebody very important, but what I said was, “What’s the good of saying If,’ I said. “And anyhow,” I said, “they’ve done away with all these royalties now,” I said, “so what are you going to get out of it anyway?” He made me tired, talking about his great-grandmother, and in the end he shut up and didn’t say anything more about it. I suppose he tumbled to it that a girl couldn’t be terribly interested in people’s great-grandmothers.’