‘No, it wouldn’t,’ said Wimsey, eagerly. ‘Ever seen ’em stick a pig, Inspector? Ever reckoned how much blood there was to the job? If Pollock had cut Alexis’ throat on board, it would take a devil of a lot of swabbing to get the boat properly clean again.’
‘That’s quite-true,’-said the-Superintendent. ‘But in any case, how about Pollock’s clothes? I’m afraid we haven’t got evidence enough to get a warrant and search his place for bloodstains.’
‘You: could wash ’em off oil-skins pretty easily, too,’ remarked Wimsey.
The two policemen acquiesced gloomily.
‘And if you stood behind your man and cut his throat that way, you’d stand a reasonable chance of not getting so very heavily splashed. It’s my belief the man was killed in the place where he was found, murder or no murder. And if you don’t mind, Superintendent, I’ve got a little suggestion which might work and tell us definitely whether it really was murder or suicide.’
He again outlined the suggestion, and the Superintendent nodded.
‘I see no objection whatever, my lord. Something might quite well come of it. In fact,’ said Mr Glaisher, ‘something of the same kind had passed through my own mind, as you might say. But I don’t mind it’s appearing to come from your lordship. Not at all.’
Wimsey grinned and went in search of Salcombe Hardy, the Morning Star reporter, whom he found, as he expected, taking refreshment, in the hotel bar. Most of the pressmen had withdrawn by this time, but Hardy, with a touching faith in Lord Peter, had clung to his post.
‘Though you’re treating me damn badly, old man,’ he said, raising his mournful violet eyes to Wimsey’s grey ones, ‘I know you must have something up your sleeve, or you wouldn’t be hanging round the scene of the crime like this. Unless it’s the girl. For God’s sake, Wimsey, say it isn’t the girl. You wouldn’t play such a shabby trick on a poor, hardworking journalist. Or, look here! If there’s nothing else doing, give, me a story about the girl. Anything’ll do, so long as it’s a story. “Romantic Engagement of Peer’s Son”—that’d be better than nothing. But I must have a story.’
‘Pull yourself together, Sally,’ said his lordship, ‘and keep your inky paws off my private affairs. Come right away out of this haunt of vice and sit down quietly in a corner of the lounge and I’ll give you a nice, pretty story all to yourself.’,
‘That’s right,’ said Mr Hardy, in a burst of emotion. ‘That’s what I expected from a dear old friend. Never let down a pal, even if he’s only a poor bloody journalist. Noblesse oblige. That’s what I said to those other blighters. “I’m sticking to old Peter, I said, “Peter’s the man for my money. He won’t see a hardworking man lose a job for want of a good news story.” But these new men — they’ve no push, no guts. Fleet Street’s going to the dogs, curse it. There’s nobody left now of the old gang except me. I know where the news is, and I know how, to get it. I said to myself, You hang on to old Peter, I said, and one of these days he’ll give you a story.’
‘Splendid fellow!’ said Wimsey. ‘May we ne’er lack a friend or a ‘story to give him. Are you reasonably sober, Sally?’
Sober?’ exclaimed the journalist indignantly. ‘J’ever know a pressman who wasn’t sober when somebody had a story to give him? I may not be a blasted pussyfoot, but my legs are always steady enough to go after a story, and what more could anybody want?’
Wimsey pushed his friend gently into position before a’ table in the lounge.
‘Here you are, then,’ he said. ‘You take this stuff down and see that it gets a good show in your beastly rag. You can put in trimmings to suit yourself.’
Hardy glanced up sharply.
‘Oh!’ said he. ‘Ulterior motive, eh? Not all pure friendship. Patriotism is not enough. Oh, well! as long as it’s exclusive and news, the motive is imma — imma — damn the word — immaterial.’
‘Quite,’ said Wimsey. ‘Now then, take this down. ‘The mystery surrounding’ the horrible tragedy at the Flat-Iron deepens steadily with every effort made to solve it. Far from being a simple case of suicide, as at first seemed probable, the horrible death—”‘
‘All right,’ interjected Hardy. ‘I can do that part on my head. What I want is the story.’
‘Yes; but work up the mystery part of it. Go on, now: “Lord Peter Wimsey, the celebrated amateur of crime — detection, interviewed by, our special correspondent in his pleasant sitting — room at the Hotel Bellevue
‘Is the sitting-room important?’
‘The address is. I want them to know where to find me.’
‘Right you are. Go ahead.’
‘—at the Hotel Bellevue, Wilvercombe, said that while the police still held strongly to the suicide theory, he himself was by no means satisfied. The point that particularly troubled him was that, whereas the deceased wore a full beard and had never been known to shave, the crime was committed—
‘Crime?’, ‘Suicide is a crime.’
‘So it is. Well?’
‘—“committed with an ordinary cut-throat razor, which shows signs of considerable previous hard wear.” Rub that in well, Sally. “The history of this razor has been traced up to a point—”‘
‘Who traced it?’
‘I did.’
‘Can I say that?’
‘If you like.’’
‘That makes it better. “Lord Peter Wimsey explained, with his characteristically modest smile, that he had himself been at pains to trace the previous history of the razor, a search which led him—” Where did’ it lead you, Wimsey?’
‘I don’t want to tell ’em that. Say that the search covered many hundred miles.’
‘All — right. I can make that sound very important. Anything else?’
‘Yes. This is the important bit. Get ’em to put it in black lettering — you know.’
‘Not my business. Sub-editor. But. I’ll try. Carry on. “Leaning over the table and emphasising the point with an eloquent gesture of his artistic hands, Lord Peter said—”‘
‘The trail,” ‘ dictated Wimsey, ‘ “breaks off at the crucial’ point. How did the razor get into the hands, of Paul Alexis? If once I could be satisfied of that, the answer might at once set at rest all my doubt. If Paul Alexis can be proved to have bought the razor, I shall consider the suicide theory to have, been proved up to the hilt. But until that missing link in the chain of evidence is reconstructed, I shall hold that Paul Alexis was foully and brutally murdered, and I shall spare no efforts to bring the murderer to the judgement he has so richly deserved,” How’s that, Sally?’
‘Not too bad. I can work that up into something. I shall add, of course, that you, knowing the enormous circulation of the Morning Star, are relying on the wide publicity it will give to this statement to etcetera, etcetera. I might even get them to offer a reward.’
‘Why not? Anyway, pitch it to ’em hot and strong, Sally.’
‘I will, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer. between you and me, would you be satisfied that it was suicide; if the reward was claimed?’