Wimsey, with a beating heart, turned it over in his hands. It was the exact duplicate of the razor that Harriet had, found on the shore. He examined it carefully, but found no crack in the ivory. But what, he asked, almost afraid to put — the question for fear of disappointment, what had become of the fellow to it?
‘Now that, my lord,’ said Mr Merryweather, ‘I unfortunately cannot show you. Had I known it would be wanted, I certainly would never have parted with it I sold that razor, my lord, only a few weeks ago, to one of these tramping fellows that came here looking for a job. I had no work for him here, and to tell you the truth, my lord, I wouldn’t have given it to him if I had. You’d be surprised, the number of these men who come round, and half of them are no more skilled hairdressers than my tom-cat. Just out for what they can pick up, that’s what they are. We generally give them a few razors to set, just to see what they’re made of, and the way they set about it, you can tell, nine times out of ten, that they’ve never set a razor their lives.’ Well, this one was like that, and I told him he could push off. Then he asked me if I could sell him a second-hand razor, so I sold him this one to get rid of him. He paid for it and away he went, and that’s the last I saw of him.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Oh, a little rat of a fellow. Sandy-haired and too smooth in his manner by half. Not so tall as your lordship, he wasn’t, and if I remember rightly he was a bit — not deformed, but what I might call crooked. He might have had one shoulder a trifle higher than the other. Nothing very noticeable, but he, gave me that impression. No, he wasn’t lame or anything of that kind.; Quite spry, he seemed, and quick in his movements. He had rather pale eyes, with sandy eyelashes — an ugly little devil, if you’ll excuse me. Very well-kept hands — one notices that, because, of course, when a man asks, for a job in this kind of establishment, that’s one of the first things one looks for. Dirty or bitten nails, for instance, are what one couldn’t stand for for a moment. Let me see, now. Oh, yes — he spoke very well. Spoke like a gentleman, very refined and quiet. That’s a thing one notices, too. Not that it’s of any great account in a neighbourhood like this. Our customers are sometimes a roughish lot. But one can’t help notice, you see, when one’s been used to it. Besides, it gives one an idea what kind of place a man has been used to.’
‘Did this man say anything about where he had been employed previously?’
‘Not that I remember. My impression of him was that he’d been; out of employment for a goodish time, and wasn’t too, keen on giving details. He said he was on his own. There’s plenty of them do that — want you to believe they have their own place in Bond Street and only lost their money through unexampled misfortunes. You know the sort, I expect, my lord. But I didn’t pay a lot of attention to the man, not liking the look of him.’
‘I suppose he gave a name.’
‘I suppose he did, come to think of it, but I’m dashed if I know what it was, Henry! What did that sneaking little red-haired fellow that came here the other day say his name was? The man that bought that razor off me?’
Henry, a youth with a crest like a cockatoo, who apparently lodged with his employer, laid aside the Sunday paper which he had been unsuccessfully pretending to read.
‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘I don’t remember, Mr Merryweather. Some ordinary name. Was it Brown, now? I think it was Brown.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ said Mr — Merryweather, suddenly enlightened. ‘It was Bright, that’s what it was. Because don’t you remember me saying he didn’t act up to his name when it came to setting razors?’
‘That’s right,’ said Henry. ‘Of course. Bright. What’s’ the matter with him? Been getting into trouble?’
‘I shouldn’t wonder if he had,’ said Wimsey.
‘Police?’ suggested Henry, with a sparkling countenance.
‘Now, Henry,’ said Mr Merryweather. ‘Does his lordship here look as if he was the police? I’m surprised at you. You’ll never make your way in this profession if you ‘don’t know better than that’
Henry blushed.
‘I’m not the police,’ said Wimsey, ‘but I shouldn’t be surprised if the police did want to get hold of Mr Bright one of these days. But don’t you say anything about that. Only, if you should happen to see Mr Bright again, at any time, you might let me know. I’m staying at Wilvercombe at the moment — at the Bellevue but in case I’m not’ there, this address will always find me.’
He proffered a card, thanked Mr Merryweather and Henry, and withdrew, triumphant. He felt that he had made progress. Surely there could not be two white Endicott razors, bearing the same evidence of misuse and the same little crack in the ivory. Surely he had tracked the right one, and if so—
Well, then he had only to find Mr Bright. A tramp-barber with sandy hair and a crooked shoulder ought not to be so very difficult to find. But there was always the disagreeable possibility that Mr Bright had been a barber for that one performance only. In which case, his name was almost certainly not Bright.
He thought for a moment, then went into a telephone call-box and rang up the Wilvercombe police.
Superintendent Glaisher answered him. He was interested to hear that Wimsey had traced the early history of the razor. He had not personally observed the crack in the ivory, but if his lordship would hold the line for a moment…. Hullo! was Wimsey there?… Yes, his lordship was quite right. There was a crack. Almost indistinguishable, but it was, there. Certainly it was an odd coincidence. It really looked as thought it might bear investigation.
Wimsey spoke again.
Yes, by all means. The Seahampton police should be asked, to trace Bright. No doubt it would turn out that Alexis had got the razor off Bright, but it was funny that he couldn’t have bought one in Wilvercombe if he wanted one. About three weeks ago, was it? Very good. He would see what could, be done. He would also find out whether Alexis had been to Seahampton within that period or whether, alternatively, Bright had been seen in Wilvercombe. He was obliged to Lord Peter for the trouble he had, taken in the matter and if his lordship thought of coming back to Wilvercombe, there had been recent developments which might interest him. It was now pretty, certain that it was a case of suicide. Still, one had to go into these matters pretty carefully. Had the body been found? No. — The body had not come ashore, and the wind was still holding the tide up and making it impossible to undertake any operations off the Grinders.
Chapter IX. The Evidence Of The Flat-Iron
‘Come, tell me now,
How sits this ring?’
— The Bride’s Tragedy
Sunday, 21 June
HARRIET VANE and Lord Peter Wimsey sat side by side on the beach, looking out towards the Devil’s Flat-Iron. The fresh salt wind blew strongly in from the sea, ruffling Harriet’s dark hair. The weather was fine, but the sunshine came only in brilliant bursts, as the driven clouds rolled tumultuously across the bellowing vault of the sky. Over the Grinders, the sea broke in furious patches of white. It, was about three o’clock in the afternoon, and the tide was at its lowest, but even so, the Flat-Iron was hardly uncovered, and the Atlantic waves, roaring’ in, made a heavy breath against its foot. A basket of food lay between the pair, not yet unpacked. Wimsey was drawing plans in the damp sand.