‘To town?’ she repeated.
‘It will not have escaped your notice,’ said Wimsey, skimming with horrible dexterity between a bath-chair and a butcher’s van, ‘that the matter of the razor requires investigation.’
‘Of course — a visit to the Ruritanian Legation is indicated.’
‘H’m — well; I don’t know that I shall get any farther than Jermyn Street.’
‘In search of the middle-aged man of careless habits?’ ‘Yes, ultimately.’
‘He really exists, then?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t swear’ to his exact age.’
‘Or his habits?’
‘No, they might be the habits of his valet’
‘Or his stiff beard and, short temper?’
‘Well, I think one may be reasonably certain about the beard.’
‘I give in,’ said Harriet, meekly. ‘Please explain.’
Wimsey drew up the car at the entrance to the Hotel Resplendent, and looked at his watch.
‘I can give you ten minutes,’ he remarked, in an aloof tone. ‘Let us take a seat in the lounge and order some refreshment. It is a little early, to be sure, but I always drive more mellowly on a pint of beer. Good. Now, as to the razor.’ You will have observed that it is an instrument of excellent and expensive quality by a first-class maker, and that, in addition to the names of the manufacturer, it is engraved on the reverse side with the mystic word “Endicott”
‘Yes; what is Endicott?’
‘Endicott is, or was, one of the most exclusive hairdressers in the West End. So fearfully exclusive and grand that he won’t even call himself a hairdresser in the snobbish modern way, but prefers to be known by the old-world epithet of “barber”. He will, or would, hardly condescend to shave anybody who has not been, in Debrett for the last three hundred years. Other people, however rich or titled, have the misfortune to find his chairs always occupied and his basins engaged. His shop has the rarefied atmosphere of one of the more aristocratic mid-Victorian clubs. It is said of Endicott’s that a certain peer, who made his money during the War by cornering bootlaces or buttons or something, was once accidentally admitted to one of the sacred chairs by a new assistant who had been most unfortunately taken on with insufficient West End experience during, the temporary war-time, shortage of barbers. After ten minutes in that dreadful atmosphere, his hair froze, his limbs became perfectly petrified, and he had to be removed to the Crystal Palace and placed among the antediluvian monsters.’
‘Well?’
‘Well! Consider first of all the anomaly of the man who buys his razor from Endicott’s and yet wears the regrettable shoes and mass-production millinery found on the corpse. Mind you,’ added Wimsey, ’it is not a question of expense, exactly. The shoes are hand-made — which merely proves that a dancer has to take care of his feet. But could a man who is shaved by Endicott possibly order — deliberately order — shoes of that colour and shape? A thing imagination boggles at,’
‘I’m afraid,’ admitted Harriet, ‘that I have never managed to learn all the subtle rules and regulations about male clothing. That’s why I made Robert Templeton one of those untidy dressers.’
‘Robert Templeton’s clothes have always pained me,’ confessed Wimsey., ‘The one blot on your otherwise fascinating tales. But to leave that distressing subject and come back to the razor. That razor has seen a good deal of hard wear. It has been re-ground a considerable number of times, as you can tell by the edge. Now, a really first-class razor like that needs very little in the way of grinding and setting, provided it is mercifully used and kept carefully stropped. Therefore, either the man who used it was very clumsy and careless about using the strop, or his beard was abnormally stiff, or both — probably both. I visualise him as one of those men who are heavy-handed with tools — you know the kind. Their fountain pens always make blots and their watches get over-wound. They neglect to strop their razors until the strop gets hard and dry, and then they strop them ferociously and jag the edge of the blade. Then they lose their tempers and curse the razor and send it away to be ground and set. The new edge only lasts them for a few weeks and then back the razor goes again, accompanied by a rude message.’
‘I see. Well, I didn’t know all that. But why did you say the man was middle-aged?’
‘That was rather guess-work. But I suggest that a young man who had so much difficulty with his razor would be more likely to change over to a safety and use a new blade every few days. But a man of middle-age would not be so likely to change his habits. In any case, I’m sure that razor has had more than three years’ hard wear. And if the dead man is only twenty-two now, and has a full beard, then I don’t see how he could very well have worn the blade down to that extent, with any amount of grinding and setting. We must find out from the hotel manager here whether he was already wearing the beard when he came a year ago. That would narrow the time down still further. But the first thing to do is to trace old Endicott and find out from him whether it was possible for one of his razors to have been sold later than 5925.’
‘Why 1925?’
‘Because that was the date at which old Endicott sold his premises and retired with varicose veins and a small fortune.’
‘And who kept on the business?’
‘Nobody. The shop is now a place where you buy the most recherche kind of hams and potted meats. There were no sons to carry on — the only young Endicott was killed in the Salient, poor chap. Old Endicott, said he wouldn’t sell his name to anybody. And anyhow, Endicott’s without an
Endicott wouldn’t be Endicott’s. So that was that.’
‘But he might have sold the stock?’
‘That’s what I want to find out. I’ll have to be off now. I’ll try and-be back tonight, so don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worrying,’ retorted Harriet, ‘indignantly. ‘I’m perfectly happy.’
‘Splendid. Oh! While I’m about it, shall I see about getting a marriage-licence?’
‘Don’t, trouble, thank you.’
Very well; I just thought I’d ask. I say, while I’m away, how would it be if you put in some good work with the other professional dancers here? You might get hold of some gossip about Paul Alexis.’
‘There’s something in that. But I’ll have to get a decent frock if there is such a thing in Wilvercombe.’
‘Well, get, a wine-coloured one, then. I’ve always wanted to see you in wine-colour. It suits people with honey-coloured skin. (What an ugly word “skin” is.) “Blossoms of the honey sweet and honey-coloured menuphar”—‘I: always have a quotation for everything — it saves original thinking.’
‘Blast the man!’ said Harriet, left abruptly alone in the blue-plush lounge. Then she suddenly ran out down the steps and leapt upon the Daimler’s running-board.—
‘Port or sherry?’ she demanded. ‘What?’ said Wimsey, taken aback. ‘The frock — port or sherry?’
‘Claret,’ said Wimsey. ‘Chateau Margaux 1893 or thereabouts. I’m not particular to a year or two.’