‘That,’ said Mr Endicott, ‘I could not say. There isn’t a great deal of business done in second-hand razors, without it’s one of these tramp-hairdressers now and again.’
‘What’s a tramp-hairdresser?’
‘Well, my lord, they’re hairdressers out of a job, and they go about from place to place looking to be taken on as extra hands when there’s a press of work. We didn’t see much of them in our place, of course. They’re not first-class men as a rule, and I wouldn’t have taken it upon me to engage any but a first-class man for my gentlemen. But in a place like Eastbourne, where there’s a big seasonal custom, you would have them round pretty frequently. It might be worth while asking my late assistant. Plumer, his name is, in Belvedere Road. If you like, I will send him a line.’
‘Don’t bother; I’ll run down and see him. Just one other thing. Was any of the customers you’ve mentioned a clumsy handed fellow who took a lot out of his razor and was always sending it back to be re-set?’
Mr Endicott chuckled.
‘Ah! now you’re talking,’ he said. ‘Colonel Belfridge — oh, dear! oh, dear! He, was a terribly hard man on his razors — is still, for all I know. Time and again he’d say to me, “‘Pon my word, Endicott, I don’t know what you do to my razors. They won’t keep their edge a week. Steel isn’t what is was before the War.” But it wasn’t the steel, or the War either. He was always the same. I think he took the edge off with the strop, instead of putting it on; I do indeed. He didn’t keep a man, you know. The Colonel belongs to one of our best families, but not a wealthy man, by any means. A very fine soldier, I believe.’
‘One of the old school, eh?’ said Wimsey. ‘Good-hearted but peppery. I know. Where did you say he was living now?’
‘Stamford,’ replied Mr Endicott, promptly. ‘He sent me a card last Christmas. Very kind of him, I thought it, to remember me. But my old customers are very thoughtful in those ways. They know I value their kind remembrance.
Well, my lord, I am; exceedingly pleased to have seen you,’ he added, as Wimsey rose and took up his hat, ‘and I’m sure I hope I may have been of some assistance to you. You keep very fit, I hope. You’re looking well.’
‘I’m getting old,’ said Lord Peter.; ‘My hair is turning grey over the temples.’
Mr Endicott emitted a concerned cluck.
‘But that’s’ nothing,’ he hastened to assure his visitor. ‘Many ladies think it looks more distinguished that way. Not getting thin on top, I hope and trust.”
‘Not that I know of. Take a look at it’
Mr Endicott pushed the straw-coloured thatch apart and peered earnestly at the roots.
‘No sign of it,’ he pronounced, confidently, ‘Never saw a healthier scalp. At the same time, my lord, if you should notice any slight weakening or falling-off, let me know, I should be proud to advise you. I’ve still got the recipe for Endicott’s Special Tonic, and.though I say so myself, I’ve never’ found anything: to beat it’
Wimsey laughed, and promised to call on Mr Endicott for help at the first symptom of trouble. The old barber saw him to the door, clasping his hand affectionately and begging him to come again. Mrs Endicott would be so sorry to have missed him.
Seated behind the steering-wheel, Wimsey debated the three courses open to him. He could go to Eastbourne; he could go to Stamford; he could return to Wilvercombe. A natural inclination pointed to Wilvercombe. It was, surely, only justifiable to return at once to the scene of the crime, if it was a crime. The fact that Harriet was also there was a purely accidental complication. On the other hand, his obvious duty was to clear up this razor business as quickly as possible. Musing, he drove to his own flat in Piccadilly, where he found his man, Bunter, mounting photographs in a large album.
To Bunter he laid bare his problem, requesting his advice. Bunter, revolving the matter in his mind, took a little time for consideration and then delivered himself respectfully of his opinion.
‘In your lordship’s place, my lord, I fancy I should be inclined to go to Stamford. For a variety of reasons.’
‘You would, would you?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Well, perhaps you are right, Bunter.’
‘Yes, thank you, my lord. Would your lordship wish me to accompany you?’
‘No,’ said Wimsey. ‘You’ can go down to Eastbourne.’ ‘Very good, my lord.’
‘Tomorrow morning. I shall stay the night in Town. You might send off a telegram for me — no, on second thoughts, I’ll send it myself.’
Telegram from Lord Peter Wimsey to Miss Harriet Vane:
FOLLOWING RAZOR CLUE TO STAMFORD REFUSE RESEMBLE THRILLER HERO WHO HANGS ROUND HEROINE TO NEGLECT OF DUTY BUT WILL YOU MARRY ME — PETER.
Telegram from Miss Harriet Vane to Lord Peter Wimsey:
GOOD HUNTING CERTAINLY NOT, SOME DEVELOPMENTS HERE — VANE.
Chapter VII. The Evidence Of The Gigolos
‘A worthless life, A life ridiculous.
— Death’s Jest-Book
Friday, 19 June — Evening
Miss HARRIET VANE, in a claret-coloured frock, swayed round the dance-lounge of the Hotel Resplendent in the arms of Mr Antoine, the fair-haired gigolo.
‘I’m afraid I am not a.very good dancer,’ she remarked, apologetically.
Mr Antoine, who was, rather surprisingly, neither Jew nor South-American dago, nor Central European mongrel, but French, clasped her a very little more firmly in his competent professional arm, and replied:
‘You dance very correctly, mademoiselle. It is only the entrain that is a little lacking. It is possible that you are awaiting the perfect partner. When the heart dances with the feet, then it will be a merveille.’ He met her eyes with a delicately calculated expression of encouragement.
‘Is that the kind of thing you have to say to all these old ladies?’ asked Harriet, smiling.
Antoine opened his eyes a trifle and then, mocking back to her mockery, said:
‘I am afraid so. That is part of our job, you know.’
‘It must be very tedious.’
Antoine contrived to shrug his exquisite shoulders without in anyway affecting the lithe grace of his motion.
‘Que voulez-vous? All work has its tedious moments, which are repaid by those that are more agreeable. One may say truthfully to mademoiselle what might in another case be a mere politeness.!
‘Don’t bother about me,’, said Harriet. ‘There’s something else I want to talk about. I wanted to ask you about Mr Alexis.’
‘Ce pauvre Alexis! It was mademoiselle who found him, I understand?’
‘Yes. I just wondered what sort of person he was, and why he should have done away with himself like that.’
‘Ahl that is what we are all wondering. It is, no doubt, the Russian temperament’