‘Art honest, or a man of many deeds
And many faces to them? Thou’rt a plotter,
a politician.’
— Death’s Jest-Book
Monday, 29 June
WIMSEY and the Inspector spent Sunday in. Town, and on the Monday started out for Shaftesbury Avenue. At the first two names on their list they drew blank; either the agent had given out no photographs of Olga Kohn or he could not remember anything of the circumstances. The third agent, a Mr Isaac J. Sullivan, had a smaller and dingier office than the other two. Its antechamber was thronged with the usual crowd, patiently waiting for notice. The Inspector sent his name by a mournful-eyed-secretary, who looked as though he had spent all his life saying ‘No’ to people and taking the blame for it. Nothing happened. Wimsey seated himself philosophically on the extreme end of a bench already occupied: by eight other people and began to work out a crossword, in the morning paper. The Inspector fidgeted. The secretary, emerging from the inner door, was promptly besieged by a rush of applicants. He pushed them away firmly but not harshly, and returned to his, desk.
‘Look here, young man,’ said the, Inspector, ‘I’ve got to see Mr Sullivan at once. This is a police matter.’
‘Mr Sullivan’s engaged,’ said the secretary, impassively.
‘He’s got to be disengaged then,’ said the Inspector. ‘’Presently,’ said the secretary, copying something into a large book.
‘I’ve no time to waste,’ said the Inspector, and strode across to the inner door.
‘Mr Sullivan’s not there,’ said the secretary, intercepting him with eel-like agility
‘Oh, yes, he is,’ replied the Inspector. ‘Now, don’t you go obstructing me in the performance of my duty.’ He, put the secretary aside with one hand and flung the door open, revealing a young lady in the minimum of clothing, who was displaying her charms to a couple of stout gentlemen with large cigars.
‘Shut the door, blast you,’ said one gentleman, without looking around. ‘Hell of a draught, and you’ll let all that lot in.’
‘Which of you is Mr Sullivan?’ demanded the Inspector, standing his ground, and glaring at a second door on the opposite side of the room.
‘Sullivan ain’t here. Shut that door, will you?’
The Inspector retired, discomfited, amid loud applause — from the ante-room.
‘I say old man,’ said Wimsey, ‘what: do you think the blighter means by this “Bright-eyed after swallowing a wingless biped?” Sounds like the tiger who conveyed the young lady of Riga.’
The Inspector snorted.
There was an interval. Presently the inner door opened again and the young lady emerged, clothed and apparently very much in her right mind, for she smiled round and observed to an acquaintance seated next to Wimsey:
‘O. K. darling. “Aeroplane Girl,’ first row, song and dance, start next week.’
The acquaintance offered suitable congratulations, the two men with cigars came out with their hats’ on and the assembly surged towards the inner room.
‘Now, ladies,’ protested the ‘secretary, ‘it’s not a bit of use. Mr Sullivan’s engaged.’
‘Look here,’ said the Inspector.
At this moment the door opened a fraction of an inch and an impatient voice bellowed: ‘Horrocks!’
‘I’ll tell him,’ said the secretary, hastily, and wormed himself neatly through the crack of the door, frustrating the efforts of a golden-haired sylph to rush the barrier.
Presently the door opened again and the bellowing voice was heard to observe:
‘I don’t care if he’s Godalmighty. He’s got to wait. Send that girl in, and-oh, Horrocks
The secretary turned back — fatally. The sylph was under his guard in a moment. There was an altercation on the threshold. Then, suddenly; the door opened to its full extent and disgorged, all in a heap, the sylph, the secretary, and an immensely stout man, wearing a benevolent expression entirely at variance with his hectoring voice.
‘Now, Grace, my; girl, don’t you get trying it on. There’s nothing for you today. You’re wasting my time. Be a good girl. I’ll let you know when, anything turns up. Hullo, Phyllis, back again? That’s right. Might want you next week. No, Mammy, no grey-haired mommas wanted today. I — hullo!’
His eye fell on Wimsey who had got stuck over his crossword and was gazing vaguely round in search of inspiration.,
‘Here, Horrocks! Why the hell didn’t you tell me? What do you think I pay you for? Wasting my time. Here, you, what’s your name? Never been here before, have you? I’m wanting your type. Hi! Rosencrantz!’
Another: gentleman, slightly less bulky but also inclined to embonpoint, appeared in the doorway.
‘Told you we should have something to suit you,’ bellowed the first gentleman, excitedly.
‘Vot for?’ demanded Mr Rosencrantz, languidly.
‘What for?’ Indignation quivered in the tone. ‘Why, for the Worm that Turned, to be sure! J’ever see such a perfect type? You’ve got the right thing here, my boy. Knock ’em flat, eh? The nose alone would carry the play for you.’
‘That’s all very well, Sullivan,’ replied Mr Rosencrantz, ‘but can he act?’
‘Act?’ exploded Mr Sullivan. ‘He don’t have to act. He’s only got to walk on. Look at it! Ain’t that the perfect Worm? Here, you, thingummy, speak up, can’t you?’
‘Well, really, don’t you know.’ Wimsey, screwed his monoocle more firmly into his eye. ‘Really, old fellow, you make me feel all of a doo-dab, what?’
‘There you, are!’ said Mr Sullivan, triumphantly. ‘Voice like a plum. Carries his clothes well, eh! I wouldn’t sell you a feller that wasn’t the goods, Rosencrantz, you know that’
‘Pretty fair,’ admitted Mr Rosencrantz, grudgingly. ‘Walk a bit, will you?’
Wimsey obliged by mincing delicately in the direction of the inner office. Mr Sullivan purred after, him. Mr Rosencrantz followed. Horrocks, aghast, caught Mr Sullivan by the sleeve.
‘I say,’ he said, ‘look out. I think there’s a mistake.’
‘Wotcher mean, mistake?’ retorted his employer in a fierce’ whisper. ‘I dunno who he is, but he’s got the goods, all right, so don’t come butting in.’
‘Ever played lead?’ demanded Mr Rosencrantz of Wimsey.
Lord Peter paused in the inner doorway, raking the petrified audience right and left with impertinent eyes.
‘I have played lead,’—he announced, ‘before all the crowned heads of Europe. Off with the mask! The Worm has Turned!’ I am Lord Peter Wimsey, the Piccadilly Sleuth, hot on the trail of Murder.’
‘He drew the two stout gentlemen into the room and shut the door behind them.
‘That’s a good curtain,’ said somebody,
‘Well!’ gasped the Inspector. ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’
He made for the door, and this time Horrocks offered no resistance.