Full download ebook at ebookmeta.

com

Room Service 1st Edition C M Steele

https://ebookmeta.com/product/room-service-1st-
edition-c-m-steele/

Download more ebook from https://ebookmeta.com

More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

Room Service 1st Edition C M Steele

https://ebookmeta.com/product/room-service-1st-edition-c-m-
steele/

Blade Steele Riders MC 8 1st Edition C M Steele Steele

CM

https://ebookmeta.com/product/blade-steele-riders-mc-8-1st-
edition-c-m-steele-steele-c-m/

Room Service 1st Edition Flora Madison

https://ebookmeta.com/product/room-service-1st-edition-flora-
madison/

Merciless Kings Boneyard Kings 1 1st Edition Becca

Steele C Lymari

https://ebookmeta.com/product/merciless-kings-boneyard-
kings-1-1st-edition-becca-steele-c-lymari/
Sam Steele a biography First Edition. Edition R. C.
Macleod

https://ebookmeta.com/product/sam-steele-a-biography-first-
edition-edition-r-c-macleod/

Using Computer Science in Military Service 1st Edition

Xina M. Uhl

https://ebookmeta.com/product/using-computer-science-in-military-
service-1st-edition-xina-m-uhl/

Lifemates The Conall Clan 3 1st Edition Donna Steele

Steele Donna

https://ebookmeta.com/product/lifemates-the-conall-clan-3-1st-
edition-donna-steele-steele-donna/

Awakened Magic Born of Light 3 1st Edition Raven Steele

Steele Raven

https://ebookmeta.com/product/awakened-magic-born-of-light-3-1st-
edition-raven-steele-steele-raven/

Family Ties The Conall Clan 2 1st Edition Donna Steele

Steele Donna

https://ebookmeta.com/product/family-ties-the-conall-clan-2-1st-
edition-donna-steele-steele-donna/
 Room Service
It’s Raining Men
C.M. Steele
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Epilogue
 Copyrighted © 2021
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, copied
or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage or retrieval
system without written expressed permission from
the author, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
businesses, places, events, and incidents are
products of the author’s imagination and are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover design: C.M. Steele
Cover Image: Deposit Photos
The use of actors, artists, movies, TV shows
and song titles/lyrics throughout this book are done
so for storytelling purposes and should in no way be
seen as advertisement. Trademark names are used
in an editorial fashion with no intention of
infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.
This book is licensed for your personal
enjoyment. This book may not be re-sold or given
away to other people. If you would like to share this
book with another person, please purchase an
additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading
this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not
purchased for your use only, then you should return it
to the seller and please purchase your own copy.
 Cassandra
A day of mishaps.
A convoluted plan.
A hot man in just a towel.
Yep, I’m in trouble.
Jamison
I watch her on camera, trying to determine her motivations, all
the while knowing mine. Little miss trespasser is going to learn that
I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and I always get what I want. As
soon as she’s standing in front of me, my little criminal understands
she’s been caught.
But she doesn’t know I’m never letting her go.
 Chapter One
Cassandra
“Mom, just relax. It’s just a short vacation.” I tiptoe closer to
the front door because I’ll miss my flight battling with her.
“You don’t need a vacation.” I roll my eyes at her which makes
her angry as always, but she’s pushing my buttons. I don’t know why
I bother even seeing her because we end up getting into an
argument.
“I can’t stay here and find any peace and quiet. I want to sit on
a beach, let the sun hit my face, and read my books.” I have so
many on my TBR that I’m dying to scratch off. I keep promising
myself I will, but work and new books to add just keep my to-be-read
pile growing instead of shrinking.
She scoffs, tipping her nose up in the air so high I can see her
damn brain. “You mean that trashy garbage they pawn off as
literature?”
“When is the last time you picked up a book, Mother?” I snipe.
She might not pick up a book with sex in it, but she sure as hell can’t
get enough of those shows on Netflix that are all the rage and full of
lusty plots. Hell, she’s watched a bare-chested Henry Cavill many
times.
“Who has time to read? You’re wasting your life looking for the
perfect man. They don’t exist. Marry a man like your stepbrother.
Charles is good-looking enough, and I’m sure you can train him to
spoil you,” she says, patting my cheek before giving it a pinch. “You
could use some color.”
 “I don’t want someone like Charles.” She looks as if I said
something evil. I shake my head and pat her hand. “Anyway, I’m
going on vacation, not running away, so relax. You stress me out
more than work does.” And work most certainly tests my patience,
especially because I’m working for my handsy stepbrother. We met
four years ago just before I turned eighteen and we hardly spoke
until he hired me, so it’s not that taboo feeling that bothers me. It’s
the fact that I don’t find him the least bit attractive, interesting, or
even a decent human being. He’s the definition of arrogant and
sleazy.
“You’re overreacting, as usual. I’m telling you it’s stupid to go
all the way to Nowheresville for a vacation all alone. Anything could
happen to you.”
“I have three days to enjoy my time alone.” I check my new
waterproof watch. “I have to go. I’ll see you next week.” Or maybe
not at all. I’ve considered dropping everything here in Chicago to
move somewhere quiet so I can read and take it easy.
Having worked for Charles for the past two years, I’ve saved
as much as I could over those years as well as my inheritance from
my father to enjoy working when I feel like it and find my own path.
For the past decade, I’ve done everything by my mother’s decree,
including working for my stepbrother. I’m just twenty-two with no
fundamental skills other than hiding away from my mother’s
demands.
“Come back here, Sandy,” she shouts as I march out to my
Jeep Patriot. I ignore her because I’ve never liked being called
Sandy, and she knows it. Hell, she didn’t like it until Charles, my
shithead stepbrother, started calling me that. Then suddenly it’s such
a cute nickname. I gag every time I hear it.
My flight leaves soon, so I need to get my ass moving. I pull
out of her driveway, regretting that I came to say goodbye. I’ve
packed cash and my cards, keeping some in my luggage and some
in my purse. I have everything I need, including my tablet full of
brand-new reads to fill my time on the sandy beach.
Turning up my music, I send the incoming call to voicemail.
My mom needs a chill pill. Seriously, it’s not like she cares about me
personally, but what my behavior can do to her reputation. I turned
down three different Ivy League schools and enrolled in community
college just out of high school, thinking smart. I still don’t know what
the hell I want to be. Having graduated in December with a degree in
Business Administration to have something to work with while I
figured out my life. I’m seconds from quitting my job with Charles, but
I’ve held onto it to protect my mom’s feelings. Although, I’m not sure
why I bother; it’s obvious she doesn’t care about mine.
I rock out to some Imagine Dragons and let the tension roll off
me. Once I arrive at my apartment, I call a cab because I don’t do
any of those ride-share programs. There are way too many scary
stories for my liking. It comes rather quickly, giving me two hours to
get through check-in before my flight takes off.
After I’m all settled in, I take out my tablet and look at my book
list. I can’t decide what to read, so I turn on one of my games on my
phone while listening to music in my headphones. The time passes
as I try to build up my gardens, so much so that I nearly miss my call
for my flight. Settling in my seat, I put my phone into airplane mode
and listen to music, peacefully falling asleep.
The flight attendant wakes me as we prepare to make our
descent. I rub my eyes with the back of my hand and then get my
things ready while enjoying the view of the ocean. We touch down
outside Spring, Florida into a busy airport. I hope that most of these
people are staying here and not heading toward Spring. I check the
signs and follow them over to the luggage return to wait for all the
suitcases to come down, which seems like forever. People come and
go, taking their luggage, but my bag isn’t here. What the
motherfuck? Tapping the shoulder of one of the attendants, I ask, “Is
this everything?”
He looks at the luggage carousel and back to me, clearly
seeing that it’s bare. “It should be, Miss. Did yours not come down?”
“Nope.”
He gives me a nervous smile. I school my expression
because he probably can read the annoyance off my face. “You can
head over to that desk and speak with Roger. He’ll get you squared
away.”
“Thank you,” I grumble, trying to not take my bad mood out on
him. I take a breath and then walk over to the guy at the desk. “Hello,
Roger. That guy over there told me to see you about my missing
suitcase.”
“I’m sorry to hear that ma’am. Please fill out this form and
hopefully we’ll be able to get it in your hands by tonight.”
I nod and then I spend the next five minutes filling out a
missing luggage report and hand it over to the man. He reviews it
and works my nerves by asking me questions. This has been a day
from hell.
“Yes. I’ll be at The Jamison Hotel,” I confirm with the man at
the airport’s service desk. Roger seems nice, but I’m not in a
pleasant or forgiving mood. I nod and walk away before I say or do
something to show my true colors. Even though I’m sweet as pie
most days, I can turn into the damn devil if provoked, and that’s not
far away. I’m only in town for a few days to find some rest and
relaxation, and I’ve already gotten off on the wrong foot.
What I can’t understand is how they can lose my luggage on a
nonstop flight from Chicago to Florida? Something in my head
screams my mother has her hand in this.
I get in a cab and take the short trip to Spring, Florida. “Can
you take me to The Jamison Hotel in Spring?”
With a nod, he drives to the hotel. After paying my fare, I exit
the vehicle with just my purse. I do myself a favor and tuck my bag
close to me before someone robs me of that.
The hotel is gorgeous and large, but it’s not massive. I enter
the lobby to find it mostly empty. The receptionist at the desk gives
me a look as if she’s not ready to do her job. There’s a bitchy look to
it.
As I step up to the counter, the desk phone rings and she puts
her hand up to me, telling me to wait. Scanning the room to keep
from snapping on her, my heart and body freeze. Walking across the
lobby toward a hallway is a tall, sexy man in a charcoal grey suit that
fits his body perfectly, and I can’t take my eyes away. His profile
catches my attention, but then the clearing of a throat draws me
back to the lady at the counter.
I smile apologetically at her. “Excuse me, I’m checking in. My
name is Cassandra Tate.”
She clicks away then looks up at me with an arched brow.
“Sorry, but we don’t have anyone registered by that name.”
“What? I made the reservation a month ago.”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have you in our database.”
“Please check again. Cassandra C-A-S-S-A-N-D-R-A Tate T-
A-T-E.”
“I know how to spell,” she hisses as she types away. “I told
you we don’t have you listed.”
“Well, do you have a room available?” I question, feeling a
sense of dread.
“The only one we have is the villa, but I’m guessing that’s out
of your price range.”
“How much is it?” I bite out, hating her snobby tone.
“Two thousand dollars a night.”
“What the hell? Is someone washing your ass for that?
Nevermind. Is there another hotel in town?”
“Sorry. There isn’t. Now, please, before you draw any more
attention to yourself. We like our town to remain peaceful. Perhaps
you should go back to wherever you came from. There are other
spring break resorts all over the state to look for men to sleep with.”
 “Perhaps you should learn not to be a cunt,” I retort before
spinning on my heel and leaving the hotel. I should call a cab back to
the airport, but I refuse to let them win. Instead I want to go enjoy the
beach.
First, I need something to eat. After you get past the large
hotel, you step into this small town that looks straight out of a movie.
“The Munch Box,” I read aloud, looking at the sign outside a
restaurant. “Yep, a small-town feel,” I mutter before walking in. I
wonder if Mr. Suit will show up. Is he in town for business? Vacation?
Does he work for the hotel? From my one stolen glance it’s clear he
commands attention.
I step inside and take a seat, but I suddenly find myself not
hungry. Grabbing an order of fries, I take them to go with a pop.
Walking down the quiet streets, catching the attention from the locals
as I snack, makes me nervous. When you live in a major city, no one
stares unless they’re going to say something. Here, I feel eyes all
over me. Do they not get a ton of visitors? They must. Their hotel is
large, and it’s fully occupied—well, except the villas. Those babies
are pricey.
I walk down to a less crowded area and sit down on a bench.
My phone rings in my purse, so I set down my bag of fries and dig
for the damn thing. By the time I pull it out, the caller hung up. I
swipe my code to unlock it, only to have it ring again. It’s my mother.
Of course. I should have known.
“What, Mother?”
“Is that any way to talk to your mother?”
“Depends. Did you cancel my hotel reservations?”
 “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” her voice jumps an
octave, proving she’s a liar.
“You totally did. Where the hell did you think I’d sleep?” I
shout into the phone as I feel my blood boil.
“You could come home.”
“Oh my fucking God,” I scream, hanging up the phone and
tossing it in my bag before pulling out my tablet. I have to try to
control my temper. This is supposed to be a relaxing vacation.
Stalking toward the beach, I find myself going through an alleyway.
Of course, going down the wrong way in a place I’ve never been. I
take out my phone and hold it close just in case someone is lurking.
Seconds later, I’m clipped by a bicyclist. I fall to the ground
and then another man helps me to my feet. I start to thank him when
he cuts my purse. “Hey,” I shout. Going to give chase, I find that my
knee’s throbbing, and what’s worse is that no one could see it since
it happened in an isolated part right before the beach. “I can’t believe
this,” I hiss, slamming my hands down at my thighs. I’ve lived in
Chicago my entire life and have never been robbed. This vacation
has sucked ass.
At least I still have my phone. It’s one thing I’ve learned: never
carry everything together. Maybe I can call the airport to see if my
luggage has arrived. Checking the phone, I notice my battery’s
almost dead. I don’t have time to call and cancel anything before my
battery dies. Ugh. This is total bullshit.
I’m so over Spring. It’s now the worst season and town. I hold
back the tears I feel coming. I have to get away from this. My phone
buzzes again, and it’s Charles. I should answer and ask for his help,
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
was being taken on by the Walmisley-Hubbard outfit for a few weeks
to show what he could do.
"Oh, he'll do you all right," said Wimsey, "he's a damn fine driver.
Oh, lord, yes! He's all right."
"He looks a bit nervy," said the particular dear old pal attached to
the Walmisley-Hubbard show. "Wants bucking up, what? That
reminds me. What about a quick one?"
Wimsey submitted to a mild quick one and then wandered back to
look at a new type of clutch. He spun out this interesting interview
till one of the Walmisley-Hubbard "shop 'buses" came in with
Fentiman at the wheel.
"Hullo!" said Wimsey, "trying her out?"
"Yes. I've got the hang of her all right."
"Think you could sell her?" asked the old pal.
"Oh, yes. Soon learn to show her off. She's a jolly decent 'bus."
"That's good. Well, I expect you're about ready for a quick one. How
about it, Wimsey?"
They had a quick one together. After this, the dear old pal
remembered that he must buzz off because he'd promised to hunt
up a customer.
"You'll turn up to-morrow, then?" he said to George. "There's an old
bird down at Malden wants to have a trial trip. I can't go, so you can
have a shot at him. All right?"
"Perfectly."
"Righty-ho! I'll have the 'bus ready for you at eleven. Cheer-most-
frightfully-ho! So long."
"Little sunbeam about the house, isn't he?" said Wimsey.
"Rather. Have another?"
"I was thinking, how about lunch? Come along with me if you have
nothing better to do."
George accepted and put forward the names of one or two
restaurants.
"No," said Wimsey, "I've got a fancy to go to Gatti's to-day, if you
don't mind."
"Not at all, that will do splendidly. I've seen Murbles, by the bye, and
he's prepared to deal with the MacStewart man. He thinks he can
hold him off till it's all settled up—if it ever is settled."
"That's good," said Wimsey, rather absently.
"And I'm damned glad about this chance of a job," went on George.
"If it turns out any good, it'll make things a lot easier—in more than
one way."
Wimsey said heartily that he was sure it would, and then relapsed
into a silence unusual with him, which lasted all the way to the
Strand.
At Gatti's he left George in a corner while he went to have a chat
with the head waiter, emerging from the interview with a puzzled
expression which aroused even George's curiosity, full as he was of
his own concerns.
"What's up? Isn't there anything you can bear to eat?"
"It's all right. I was just wondering whether to have moules
marinières or not."
"Good idea."
Wimsey's face cleared, and for some time they absorbed mussels
from the shell with speechless, though not altogether silent,
satisfaction.
"By the way," said Wimsey, suddenly, "you never told me that you
had seen your grandfather the afternoon before he died."
George flushed. He was struggling with a particularly elastic mussel,
firmly rooted to the shell, and could not answer for a moment.
"How on earth?—confound it all, Wimsey, are you behind this
infernal watch that's being kept on me?"
"Watch?"
"Yes, I said watch. I call it a damn rotten thing to do. I never
thought for a moment you had anything to do with it."
"I haven't. Who's keeping a watch on you?"
"There's a fellow following me about. A spy. I'm always seeing him. I
don't know whether he's a detective or what. He looks like a
criminal. He came down in the 'bus with me from Finsbury Park this
morning. He was after me all day yesterday. He's probably about
now. I won't have it. If I catch sight of him again I shall knock his
dirty little head off. Why should I be followed and spied on? I haven't
done anything. And now you begin."
"I swear I've nothing to do with anybody following you about.
Honestly, I haven't. I wouldn't employ a man, anyway, who'd let a
bloke see that he was being followed. No. When I start huntin' you, I
shall be as silent and stealthy as a gas-leak. What's this incompetent
bloodhound like to look at?"
"Looks like a tout. Small, thin, with his hat pulled down over his eyes
and an old rain-coat with the collar turned up. And a very blue chin."
"Sounds like a stage detective. He's a silly ass anyway."
"He gets on my nerves."
"Oh, all right. Next time you see him, punch his head."
"But what does he want?"
"How should I know? What have you been doing?"
"Nothing, of course. I tell you, Wimsey, I believe there's some sort of
conspiracy going on to get me into trouble, or do away with me, or
something. I can't stand it. It's simply damnable. Suppose this fellow
starts hanging round the Walmisley-Hubbard place. Look nice, won't
it, for their salesman to have a 'tec on his heels all the time? Just as
I hoped things were coming right——"
"Bosh!" said Wimsey. "Don't let yourself get rattled. It's probably all
imagination, or just a coincidence."
"It isn't. I wouldn't mind betting he's outside in the street now."
"Well, then, we'll settle his hash when we get outside. Give him in
charge for annoying you. Look here, forget him for a bit. Tell me
about the old General. How did he seem, that last time you saw
him?"
"Oh, he seemed fit enough. Crusty, as usual."
"Crusty, was he? What about?"
"Private matters," said George, sullenly.
Wimsey cursed himself for having started his questions tactlessly.
The only thing now was to retrieve the situation as far as possible.
"I'm not at all sure," he said, "that relations shouldn't all be
painlessly put away after threescore and ten. Or at any rate
segregated. Or have their tongues sterilized, so that they can't be
poisonously interferin'."
"I wish they were," growled George. "The old man—damn it all, I
know he was in the Crimea, but he's no idea what a real war's like.
He thinks things can go on just as they did half a century ago. I
daresay he never did behave as I do. Anyway, I know he never had
to go to his wife for his pocket-money, let alone having the inside
gassed out of him. Coming preaching to me—and I couldn't say
anything, because he was so confoundedly old, you know."
"Very trying," murmured Wimsey, sympathetically.
"It's all so damned unfair," said George. "Do you know," he burst
out, the sense of grievance suddenly overpowering his wounded
vanity, "the old devil actually threatened to cut me out of the
miserable little bit of money he had to leave me if I didn't 'reform my
domestic behavior.' That's the way he talked. Just as if I was
carrying on with another woman or something. I know I did have an
awful row with Sheila one day, but of course I didn't mean half I
said. She knows that, but the old man took it all seriously."
"Half a moment," broke in Wimsey, "did he say all this to you in the
taxi that day?"
"Yes, he did. A long lecture, all about the purity and courage of a
good woman, driving round and round Regent's Park. I had to
promise to turn over a new leaf and all that. Like being back at one's
prep. school."
"But didn't he mention anything about the money Lady Dormer was
leaving to him?"
"Not a word. I don't suppose he knew about it."
"I think he did. He'd just come from seeing her, you know, and I've a
very good idea she explained matters to him then."
"Did she? Well, that rather explains it. I thought he was being very
pompous and stiff about it. He said what a responsibility money was,
you know, and how he would like to feel that anything he left to me
was being properly used and all that. And he rubbed it in about my
not having been able to make good for myself—that was what got
my goat—and about Sheila. Said I ought to appreciate a good
woman's love more, my boy, and cherish her and so on. As if I
needed him to tell me that. But of course, if he knew he was in the
running for this half-million, it makes rather a difference. By jove,
yes! I expect he would feel a bit anxious at the idea of leaving it all
to a fellow he looked on as a waster."
"I wonder he didn't mention it."
"You didn't know grandfather. I bet he was thinking over in his mind
whether it wouldn't be better to give my share to Sheila, and he was
sounding me, to see what sort of disposition I'd got. The old fox!
Well, I did my best to put myself in a good light, of course, because
just at the moment I didn't want to lose my chance of his two
thousand. But I don't think he found me satisfactory. I say," went on
George, with rather a sheepish laugh, "perhaps it's just as well he
popped off when he did. He might have cut me off with a shilling,
eh?"
"Your brother would have seen you through in any case."
"I suppose he would. Robert's quite a decent sort, really, though he
does get on one's nerves so."
"Does he?"
"He's so thick-skinned; the regular unimaginative Briton. I believe
Robert would cheerfully go through another five years of war and
think it all a very good rag. Robert was proverbial, you know, for
never turning a hair. I remember Robert, at that ghastly hole at
Carency, where the whole ground was rotten with corpses—ugh!—
potting those swollen great rats for a penny a time, and laughing at
them. Rats. Alive and putrid with what they'd been feeding on. Oh,
yes. Robert was thought a damn good soldier."
"Very fortunate for him," said Wimsey.
"Yes. He's the same sort as grandfather. They liked each other. Still,
grandfather was very decent about me. A beast, as the school-boy
said, but a just beast. And Sheila was a great favorite of his."
"Nobody could help liking her," said Wimsey, politely.
Lunch ended on a more cheerful note than it had begun. As they
came out into the street, however, George Fentiman glanced round
uneasily. A small man in a buttoned-up overcoat and with a soft hat
pulled down over his eyes, was gazing into the window of a shop
near at hand.
George strode up to him.
"Look here, you!" he said. "What the devil do you mean by following
me about? You clear off, d'you hear?"
"I think you are mistaken, sir," said the man, quietly enough. "I have
never seen you before."
"Haven't you, by jove? Well, I've seen you hanging about, and if you
do it any more, I'll give you something to remember me by. D'you
hear?"
"Hullo!" said Wimsey, who had stopped to speak to the
commissionaire, "what's up?—Here, you, wait a moment!"
But at sight of Wimsey, the man had slipped like an eel among the
roaring Strand traffic, and was lost to view.
George Fentiman turned to his companion triumphantly.
"Did you see that? That lousy little beggar! Made off like a shot
when I threatened him. That's the fellow who's been dogging me
about for three days."
"I'm sorry," said Wimsey, "but it was not your prowess, Fentiman. It
was my awful aspect that drove him away. What is it about me?
Have I a front like Jove to threaten and command? Or am I wearing
a repulsive tie?"
"He's gone, anyway."
"I wish I'd had a better squint at him. Because I've got a sort of idea
that I've seen those lovely features before, and not so long ago,
either. Was this the face that launched a thousand ships? No, I don't
think it was that."
"All I can say is," said George, "that if I see him again, I'll put such a
face on him that his mother won't know him."
"Don't do that. You might destroy a clue. I—wait a minute—I've got
an idea. I believe it must be the same man who's been haunting the
Bellona and asking questions. Oh, hades! and we've let him go. And
I'd put him down in my mind as Oliver's minion. If ever you see him
again, Fentiman, freeze on to him like grim death. I want to talk to
him."
 CHAPTER X
Lord Peter Forces A Card
"Hullo!"
"Is that you, Wimsey? Hullo! I say, is that Lord Peter Wimsey. Hullo!
I must speak to Lord Peter Wimsey. Hullo!"
"All right. I've said hullo. Who're you? And what's the excitement?"
"It's me. Major Fentiman. I say—is that Wimsey?"
"Yes. Wimsey speaking. What's up?"
"I can't hear you."
"Of course you can't if you keep on shouting. This is Wimsey. Good
morning. Stand three inches from the mouth-piece and speak in an
ordinary voice. Do not say hullo! To recall the operator, depress the
receiver gently two or three times."
"Oh, shut up! don't be an ass. I've seen Oliver."
"Have you, where?"
"Getting into a train at Charing Cross."
"Did you speak to him?"
"No—it's maddening. I was just getting my ticket when I saw him
passing the barrier. I tore down after him. Some people got in my
way, curse them. There was a Circle train standing at the platform.
He bolted in and they clanged the doors. I rushed on, waving and
shouting, but the train went out. I cursed like anything."
"I bet you did. How very sickening."
"Yes, wasn't it? I took the next train——"
"What for?"
"Oh, I don't know. I thought I might spot him on a platform
somewhere."
"What a hope! You didn't think to ask where he'd booked for?"
"No. Besides, he probably got the ticket from an automatic."
"Probably. Well, it can't be helped, that's all. He'll probably turn up
again. You're sure it was he?"
"Oh, dear, yes. I couldn't be mistaken. I'd know him anywhere. I
thought I'd just let you know."
"Thanks awfully. It encourages me extremely. Charing Cross seems
to be a haunt of his. He 'phoned from there on the evening of the
tenth, you know."
"So he did."
"I'll tell you what we'd better do, Fentiman. The thing is getting
rather serious. I propose that you should go and keep an eye on
Charing Cross station. I'll get hold of a detective——"
"A police detective?"
"Not necessarily. A private one would do. You and he can go along
and keep watch on the station for, say a week. You must describe
Oliver to the detective as best you can, and you can watch turn and
turn about."
"Hang it all, Wimsey—it'll take a lot of time. I've gone back to my
rooms at Richmond. And besides, I've got my own duties to do."
"Yes, well, while you're on duty the detective must keep watch."
"It's a dreadful grind, Wimsey." Fentiman's voice sounded
dissatisfied.
"It's half a million of money. Of course, if you're not keen——"
"I am keen. But I don't believe anything will come of it."
"Probably not; but it's worth trying. And in the meantime, I'll have
another watch kept at Gatti's."
"At Gatti's?"
"Yes. They know him there. I'll send a man down——"
"But he never comes there now."
"Oh, but he may come again. There's no reason why he shouldn't.
We know now that he's in town, and not gone out of the country or
anything. I'll tell the management that he's wanted for an urgent
business matter, so as not to make unpleasantness."
"They won't like it."
"Then they'll have to lump it."
"Well, all right. But, look here—I'll do Gatti's."
"That won't do. We want you to identify him at Charing Cross. The
waiter or somebody can do the identifying at Gatti's. You say they
know him."
"Yes, of course they do. But——"
"But what?—By the way, which waiter is it you spoke to. I had a talk
with the head man there yesterday, and he didn't seem to know
anything about it."
"No—it wasn't the head waiter. One of the others. The plump, dark
one."
"All right. I'll find the right one. Now, will you see to the Charing
Cross end?"
"Of course—if you really think it's any good."
"Yes, I do. Right you are. I'll get hold of the 'tec and send him along
to you, and you can arrange with him."
"Very well."
"Cheerio!"
Lord Peter rang off and sat for a few moments, grinning to himself.
Then he turned to Bunter.
"I don't often prophesy, Bunter, but I'm going to do it now. Your
fortune told by hand or cards. Beware of the dark stranger. That sort
of thing."
"Indeed, my lord?"
"Cross the gypsy's palm with silver. I see Mr. Oliver. I see him taking
a journey in which he will cross water. I see trouble. I see the ace of
spades—upside-down, Bunter."
"And what then, my lord?"
"Nothing. I look into the future and I see a blank. The gypsy has
spoken."
"I will bear it in mind, my lord."
"Do. If my prediction is not fulfilled, I will give you a new camera.
And now I'm going round to see that fellow who calls himself Sleuths
Incorporated, and get him to put a good man on to keep watch at
Charing Cross. And after that, I'm going down to Chelsea and I don't
quite know when I shall be back. You'd better take the afternoon off.
Put me out some sandwiches or something, and don't wait up if I'm
late."
Wimsey disposed quickly of his business with Sleuths Incorporated,
and then made his way to a pleasant little studio overlooking the
river at Chelsea. The door, which bore a neat label "Miss Marjorie
Phelps," was opened by a pleasant-looking young woman with curly
hair and a blue overall heavily smudged with clay.
"Lord Peter! How nice of you. Do come in."
"Shan't I be in the way?"
"Not a scrap. You don't mind if I go on working."
"Rather not."
"You could put the kettle on and find some food if you liked to be
really helpful. I just want to finish up this figure."
"That's fine. I took the liberty of bringing a pot of Hybla honey with
me."
"What sweet ideas you have! I really think you are one of the nicest
people I know. You don't talk rubbish about art, and you don't want
your hand held, and your mind always turns on eating and drinking."
"Don't speak too soon. I don't want my hand held, but I did come
here with an object."
"Very sensible of you. Most people come without any."
"And stay interminably."
"They do."
Miss Phelps cocked her head on one side and looked critically at the
little dancing lady she was modeling. She had made a line of her
own in pottery figurines, which sold well and were worth the money.
"That's rather attractive," said Wimsey.
"Rather pretty-pretty. But it's a special order, and one can't afford to
be particular. I've done a Christmas present for you, by the way.
You'd better have a look at it, and if you think it offensive we'll
smash it together. It's in that cupboard."
Wimsey opened the cupboard and extracted a little figure about nine
inches high. It represented a young man in a flowing dressing-gown,
absorbed in the study of a huge volume held on his knee. The
portrait was life-like. He chuckled.
"It's damned good, Marjorie. A very fine bit of modeling. I'd love to
have it. You aren't multiplying it too often, I hope? I mean, it won't
be on sale at Selfridges?"
"I'll spare you that. I thought of giving one to your mother."
"That'll please her no end. Thanks ever so. I shall look forward to
Christmas, for once. Shall I make some toast?"
"Rather!"
Wimsey squatted happily down before the gasfire, while the modeler
went on with her work. Tea and figurine were ready almost at the
same moment, and Miss Phelps, flinging off her overall, threw
herself luxuriously into a battered arm-chair by the hearth.
"And what can I do for you?"
"You can tell me all you know about Miss Ann Dorland."
"Ann Dorland? Great heavens! You haven't fallen for Ann Dorland,
have you? I've heard she's coming into a lot of money."
"You have a perfectly disgusting mind, Miss Phelps. Have some more
toast. Excuse me licking my fingers. I have not fallen for the lady. If
I had, I'd manage my affairs without assistance. I haven't even seen
her. What's she like?"
"To look at?"
"Among other things."
"Well, she's rather plain. She has dark, straight hair, cut in a bang
across the forehead and bobbed—like a Flemish page. Her forehead
is broad and she has a square sort of face and a straight nose—quite
good. Also, her eyes are good—gray, with nice heavy eyebrows, not
fashionable a bit. But she has a bad skin and rather sticky-out teeth.
And she's dumpy."
"She's a painter, isn't she?"
"M'm—well! she paints."
"I see. A well-off amateur with a studio."
"Yes. I will say that old Lady Dormer was very decent to her. Ann
Dorland, you know, is some sort of far-away distant cousin on the
female side of the Fentiman family, and when Lady Dormer first got
to hear of her she was an orphan and incredibly poverty-stricken.
The old lady liked to have a bit of young life about the house, so she
took charge of her, and the wonderful thing is that she didn't try to
monopolize her. She let her have a big place for a studio and bring in
any friends she liked and go about as she chose—in reason, of
course."
"Lady Dormer suffered a good deal from oppressive relations in her
own youth," said Wimsey.
"I know, but most old people seem to forget that. I'm sure Lady
Dormer had time enough. She must have been rather unusual. Mind
you, I didn't know her very well, and I don't really know a great deal
about Ann Dorland. I've been there, of course. She gave parties—
rather incompetently. And she comes round to some of our studios
from time to time. But she isn't really one of us."
"Probably one has to be really poor and hard-working to be that."
"No. You, for instance, fit in quite well on the rare occasions when
we have the pleasure. And it doesn't matter not being able to paint.
Look at Bobby Hobart and his ghastly daubs—he's a perfect dear
and everybody loves him. I think Ann Dorland must have a complex
of some kind. Complexes explain so much, like the blessed word
hippopotamus."
Wimsey helped himself lavishly to honey and looked receptive.
"I think really," went on Miss Phelps, "that Ann ought to have been
something in the City. She has brains, you know. She'd run anything
awfully well. But she isn't creative. And then, of course, so many of
our little lot seem to be running love-affairs. And a continual
atmosphere of hectic passion is very trying if you haven't got any of
your own."
"Has Miss Dorland a mind above hectic passion?"
"Well, no. I daresay she would quite have liked—but nothing ever
came of it. Why are you interested in having Ann Dorland analyzed?"
"I'll tell you some day. It isn't just vulgar curiosity."
"No, you're very decent as a rule, or I wouldn't be telling you all this.
I think, really, Ann has a sort of fixed idea that she couldn't ever
possibly attract any one, and so she's either sentimental and
tiresome, or rude and snubbing, and our crowd does hate
sentimentality and simply can't bear to be snubbed. Ann's rather
pathetic, really. As a matter of fact, I think she's gone off art a bit.
Last time I heard about her, she had been telling some one she was
going in for social service, or sick-nursing, or something of that kind.
I think it's very sensible. She'd probably get along much better with
the people who do that sort of thing. They're so much more solid
and polite."
"I see. Look here, suppose I ever wanted to run across Miss Dorland
accidentally on purpose—where should I be likely to find her?"
"You do seem thrilled about her! I think I should try the Rushworths.
They go in rather for science and improving the submerged tenth
and things like that. Of course, I suppose Ann's in mourning now,
but I don't think that would necessarily keep her away from the
Rushworth's. Their gatherings aren't precisely frivolous."
"Thanks very much. You're a mine of valuable information. And, for
a woman, you don't ask many questions."
"Thank you for those few kind words, Lord Peter."
"I am now free to devote my invaluable attention to your concerns.
What is the news? And who is in love with whom?"
"Oh, life is a perfect desert. Nobody is in love with me, and the
Schlitzers have had a worse row than usual and separated."
"No!"
"Yes. Only, owing to financial considerations, they've got to go on
sharing the same studio—you know, that big room over the mews. It
must be very awkward having to eat and sleep and work in the same
room with somebody you're being separated from. They don't even
speak, and it's very awkward when you call on one of them and the
other has to pretend not to be able to see or hear you."
"I shouldn't think one could keep it up under those circumstances."
"It's difficult. I'd have had Olga here, only she is so dreadfully bad-
tempered. Besides, neither of them will give up the studio to the
other."
"I see. But isn't there any third party in the case?"
"Yes—Ulric Fiennes, the sculptor, you know. But he can't have her at
his place because his wife's there, and he's really dependent on his
wife, because his sculping doesn't pay. And besides, he's at work on
that colossal group for the Exhibition and he can't move it; it weighs
about twenty tons. And if he went off and took Olga away, his wife
would lock him out of the place. It's very inconvenient being a
sculptor. It's like playing the double-bass; one's so handicapped by
one's baggage."
"True. Whereas, when you run away with me, we'll be able to put all
the pottery shepherds and shepherdesses in a handbag."
"Of course. What fun it will be. Where shall we run to?"
"How about starting to-night and getting as far as Oddenino's and
going on to a show—if you're not doing anything?"
"You are a loveable man, and I shall call you Peter. Shall we see
'Betwixt and Between?'"
"The thing they had such a job to get past the censor? Yes, if you
like. Is it particularly obscene?"
"No, epicene, I fancy."
"Oh, I see. Well, I'm quite agreeable. Only I warn you that I shall
make a point of asking you the meaning of all the risky bits in a very
audible voice."
"That's your idea of amusement, is it?"
"Yes. It does make them so wild. People say 'Hush!' and giggle, and
if I'm lucky I end up with a gorgeous row in the bar."
"Then I won't risk it. No. I'll tell you what I'd really love. We'll go and
see 'George Barnwell' at the Elephant and have a fish-and-chips
supper afterwards."
This was agreed upon, and was voted in retrospect a most profitable
evening. It finished up with grilled kippers at a friend's studio in the
early hours. Lord Peter returned home to find a note upon the hall-
table.
 "My lord,
"The person from Sleuths Incorporated rang up to-day
that he was inclined to acquiesce in your lordship's
opinion, but that he was keeping his eye upon the
party and would report further to-morrow. The
sandwiches are on the dining-room table, if your
lordship should require refreshment.

"Yours obediently,
"M. Bunter."

"Cross the gypsy's palm with silver," said his lordship, happily, and
rolled into bed.

CHAPTER XI
Lord Peter Clears Trumps
"Sleuths Incorporated's" report, when it came, might be summed up
as "Nothing doing and Major Fentiman convinced that there never
will be anything doing; opinion shared by Sleuths Incorporated."
Lord Peter's reply was: "Keep on watching and something will
happen before the week is out."
His lordship was justified. On the fourth evening, "Sleuths
Incorporated" reported again by telephone. The particular sleuth in
charge of the case had been duly relieved by Major Fentiman at 6
P.M. and had gone to get his dinner. On returning to his post an hour
later, he had been presented with a note left for him with the ticket-
collector at the stair-head. It ran: "Just seen Oliver getting into taxi.
Am following. Will communicate to refreshment-room. Fentiman."
The sleuth had perforce to return to the refreshment room and hang
about waiting for a further message. "But all the while, my lord, the
second man I put on as instructed by you, my lord, was a-following
the Major unbeknownst." Presently a call was put through from
Waterloo. "Oliver is on the Southampton train. I am following." The
sleuth hurried down to Waterloo, found the train gone and followed
on by the next. At Southampton he made inquiries and learned that
a gentleman answering to Fentiman's description had made a violent
disturbance as the Havre boat was just starting, and had been
summarily ejected at the instance of an elderly man whom he
appeared to have annoyed or attacked in some way. Further
investigation among the Port authorities made it clear that Fentiman
had followed this person down, made himself offensive on the train
and been warned off by the guard, collared his prey again on the
gangway and tried to prevent him from going aboard. The
gentleman had produced his passport and pièces d'identité, showing
him to be a retired manufacturer of the name of Postlethwaite, living
at Kew. Fentiman had insisted that he was, on the contrary, a man
called Oliver, address and circumstances unknown, whose testimony
was wanted in some family matter. As Fentiman was unprovided with
a passport and appeared to have no official authority for stopping
and questioning travelers, and as his story seemed vague and his
manner agitated, the local police had decided to detain Fentiman.
Postlethwaite was allowed to proceed on his way, after leaving his
address in England and his destination, which, as he contended, and
as he produced papers and correspondence to prove, was Venice.
The sleuth went round to the police-station, where he found
Fentiman, apoplectic with fury, threatening proceedings for false
imprisonment. He was able to get him released, however, on bearing
witness to Fentiman's identity and good faith, and after persuading
him to give a promise to keep the peace. He had then reminded
Fentiman that private persons were not entitled to assault or arrest
peaceable people against whom no charge could be made, pointing
out to him that his proper course, when Oliver denied being Oliver,
would have been to follow on quietly and keep a watch on him,
while communicating with Wimsey or Mr. Murbles or Sleuths
Incorporated. He added that he was himself now waiting at
Southampton for further instructions from Lord Peter. Should he
follow to Venice, or send his subordinate, or should he return to
London? In view of the frank behavior of Mr. Postlethwaite, it
seemed probable that a genuine mistake had been made as to
identity, but Fentiman insisted that he was not mistaken.
Lord Peter, holding the trunk line, considered for a moment. Then he
laughed.
"Where is Major Fentiman?" he asked.
"Returning to town, my lord. I have represented to him that I have
now all the necessary information to go upon, and that his presence
in Venice would only hamper my movements, now that he had made
himself known to the party."
"Quite so. Well, I think you might as well send your man on to
Venice, just in case it's a true bill. And listen".... He gave some
further instructions, ending with: "And ask Major Fentiman to come
and see me as soon as he arrives."
"Certainly, my lord."
"What price the gypsy's warning now?" said Lord Peter, as he
communicated this piece of intelligence to Bunter.
Major Fentiman came round to the flat that afternoon, in a whirl of
apology and indignation.
"I'm sorry, old man. It was damned stupid of me, but I lost my
temper. To hear that fellow calmly denying that he had ever seen me
or poor old grandfather, and coming out with his bits of evidence so
pat, put my bristles up. Of course, I see now that I made a mistake.
I quite realize that I ought to have followed him up quietly. But how
was I to know that he wouldn't answer to his name?"
"But you ought to have guessed when he didn't, that either you had
made a mistake or that he had some very good motive for trying to
get away," said Wimsey.
"I wasn't accusing him of anything."
"Of course not, but he seems to have thought you were."
"But why?—I mean, when I first spoke to him, I just said, 'Mr. Oliver,
I think?' And he said, 'You are mistaken.' And I said, 'Surely not. My
name's Fentiman, and you knew my grandfather, old General
Fentiman.' And he said he hadn't the pleasure. So I explained that
we wanted to know where the old boy had spent the night before he
died, and he looked at me as if I was a lunatic. That annoyed me,
and I said I knew he was Oliver, and then he complained to the
guard. And when I saw him just trying to hop off like that, without
giving us any help, and when I thought about that half-million, it
made me so mad I just collared him. 'Oh, no, you don't,' I said—and
that was how the fun began, don't you see."
"I see perfectly," said Wimsey. "But don't you see, that if he really is
Oliver and has gone off in that elaborate manner, with false
passports and everything, he must have something important to
conceal."
Fentiman's jaw dropped.
"You don't mean—you don't mean there's anything funny about the
death? Oh! surely not."
"There must be something funny about Oliver, anyway, mustn't
there? On your own showing?"
"Well, if you look at it that way, I suppose there must. I tell you
what, he's probably got into some bother or other and is clearing
out. Debt, or a woman, or something. Of course that must be it. And
I was beastly inconvenient popping up like that. So he pushed me
off. I see it all now. Well, in that case, we'd better let him rip. We
can't get him back, and I daresay he won't be able to tell us
anything after all."
"That's possible, of course. But when you bear in mind that he
seems to have disappeared from Gatti's, where you used to see him,
almost immediately after the General's death, doesn't it look rather
as though he was afraid of being connected up with that particular
incident?"
Fentiman wriggled uncomfortably.
"Oh, but, hang it all! What could he have to do with the old man's
death?"
"I don't know. But I think we might try to find out."
"How?"
"Well, we might apply for an exhumation order."
"Dig him up!" cried Fentiman, scandalized.
"Yes. There was no post-mortem, you know."
"No, but Penberthy knew all about it and gave the certificate."
"Yes; but at that time there was no reason to suppose that anything
was wrong."
"And there isn't now."
"There are a number of peculiar circumstances, to say the least."
"There's only Oliver—and I may have been mistaken about him."
"But I thought you were so sure?"
"So I was. But—this is preposterous, Wimsey! Besides, think what a
scandal it would make!"
"Why should it? You are the executor. You can make a private
application and the whole thing can be done quite privately."
"Yes, but surely the Home Office would never consent, on such
flimsy grounds."
"I'll see that they do. They'll know I wouldn't be keen on anything
flimsy. Little bits of fluff were never in my line."
"Oh, do be serious. What reason can we give?"
"Quite apart from Oliver, we can give a very good one. We can say
that we want to examine the contents of the viscera to see how
soon the General died after taking his last meal. That might be of
great assistance in solving the question of the survivorship. And the
law, generally speaking, is nuts on what they call the orderly
devolution of property."
"Hold on! D'you mean to say you can tell when a bloke died just by
looking inside his tummy?"
"Not exactly, of course. But one might get an idea. If we found, that
is, that he'd only that moment swallowed his brekker, it would show
that he'd died not very long after arriving at the Club."
"Good lord!—that would be a poor look-out for me."
"It might be the other way, you know."
"I don't like it, Wimsey. It's very unpleasant. I wish to goodness we
could compromise on it."
"But the lady in the case won't compromise. You know that. We've
got to get at the facts somehow. I shall certainly get Murbles to
suggest the exhumation to Pritchard."
"Oh, lord! What'll he do?"
"Pritchard? If he's an honest man and his client's an honest woman,
they'll support the application. If they don't, I shall fancy they've
something to conceal."
"I wouldn't put it past them. They're a low-down lot. But they can't
do anything without my consent, can they?"
"Not exactly—at least, not without a lot of trouble and publicity. But
if you're an honest man, you'll give your consent. You've nothing to
conceal, I suppose?"
"Of course not. Still, it seems rather——"
"They suspect us already of some kind of dirty work," persisted
Wimsey. "That brute Pritchard as good as told me so. I'm expecting
every day to hear that he has suggested exhumation off his own
bat. I'd rather we got in first with it."
"If that's the case, I suppose we must do it. But I can't believe it'll
do a bit of good, and it's sure to get round and make an upheaval.
Isn't there some other way—you're so darned clever——"
"Look here, Fentiman. Do you want to get at the facts? Or are you
out to collar the cash by hook or by crook? You may as well tell me
frankly which it is."
"Of course I want to get at the facts."
"Very well; I've told you the next step to take."
"Damn it all," said Fentiman, discontentedly; "I suppose it'll have to
be done, then. But I don't know whom to apply to or how to do it."
"Sit down, then, and I'll dictate the letter for you."
From this there was no escape, and Robert Fentiman did as he was
told, grumbling.
"There's George. I ought to consult him."
"It doesn't concern George, except indirectly. That's right. Now write
to Murbles, telling him what you're doing and instructing him to let
the other party know."
"Oughtn't we to consult about the whole thing with Murbles first?"
"I've already consulted Murbles, and he agrees it's the thing to do."
"These fellows would agree to anything that means fees and
trouble."
"Just so. Still, solicitors are necessary evils. Is that finished?"
"Yes."
"Give the letters to me; I'll see they're posted. Now you needn't
worry any more about it. Murbles and I will see to it all, and the
detective-wallah is looking after Oliver all right, so you can run away
and play."
"You——"
"I'm sure you're going to say how good it is of me to take all this
trouble. Delighted, I'm sure. It's of no consequence. A pleasure, in
fact. Have a drink."
The disconcerted major refused the drink rather shortly and
prepared to depart.
"You mustn't think I'm not grateful, Wimsey, and all that. But it is
rather unseemly."
"With all your experience," said Wimsey, "you oughtn't to be so
sensitive about corpses. We've seen many things much unseemlier
than a nice, quiet little resurrection in a respectable cemetery."
"Oh, I don't care twopence about the corpse," retorted the Major,
"but the thing doesn't look well. That's all."
"Think of the money," grinned Wimsey, shutting the door of the flat
upon him.
He returned to the library, balancing the two letters in his hand.
"There's many a man now walking the streets of London," said he,
"through not clearing trumps. Take these letters to the post, Bunter.
And Mr. Parker will be dining here with me this evening. We will have
a perdrix aux choux and a savory to follow, and you can bring up
two bottles of the Chambertin."
"Very good, my lord."
Wimsey's next proceeding was to write a little confidential note to an
official whom he knew very well at the Home Office. This done, he
returned to the telephone and asked for Penberthy's number.
"That you, Penberthy?... Wimsey speaking.... Look here, old man,
you know that Fentiman business?... Yes, well, we're applying for an
exhumation."
"For a what?"
"An exhumation. Nothing to do with your certificate. We know that's
all right. It's just by way of getting a bit more information about
when the beggar died."
He outlined his suggestion.
"Think there's something in it?"
"There might be, of course."
"Glad to hear you say that. I'm a layman in these matters, but it
occurred to me as a good idea."
"Very ingenious."
"I always was a bright lad. You'll have to be present, of course."
"Am I to do the autopsy?"
"If you like. Lubbock will do the analysis."
"Analysis of what?"
"Contents of the doings. Whether he had kidneys on toast or eggs
and bacon and all that."
"Oh, I see. I doubt if you'll get much from that, after all this time."
"Possibly not, but Lubbock had better have a squint at it."
"Yes, certainly. As I gave the certificate, it's better that my findings
should be checked by somebody."
"Exactly. I knew you'd feel that way. You quite understand about it?"
"Perfectly. Of course, if we'd had any idea there was going to be all
this uncertainty, I'd have made a post-mortem at the time."
"Naturally you would. Well, it can't be helped. All in the day's work.
I'll let you know when it's to be. I suppose the Home Office will send
somebody along. I thought I ought just to let you know about it."
"Very good of you. Yes. I'm glad to know. Hope nothing unpleasant
will come out."
"Thinking of your certificate?"
"Oh, well—no—I'm not worrying much about that. Though you never
know, of course. I was thinking of that rigor, you know. Seen Captain
Fentiman lately?"
"Yes. I didn't mention—"
"No. Better not, unless it becomes absolutely necessary. Well, I'll
hear from you later, then?"
"That's the idea. Good-bye."
That day was a day of incident.
About four o'clock a messenger arrived, panting, from Mr. Murbles.
(Mr. Murbles refused to have his chambers desecrated by a
telephone.) Mr. Murbles' compliments, and would Lord Peter be good
enough to read this note and let Mr. Murbles have an immediate
answer.
The note ran:
"Dear Lord Peter,
"In re Fentiman deceased. Mr. Pritchard has called. He
informs me that his client is now willing to compromise
on a division of the money if the Court will permit.
Before I consult my client, Major Fentiman, I should be
greatly obliged by your opinion as to how the
investigation stands at present.

"Yours faithfully,
"Jno. Murbles."

Lord Peter replied as follows:

"Dear Mr. Murbles,
"Re Fentiman deceased. Too late to compromise now,
unless you are willing to be party to a fraud. I warned
you, you know. Robert has applied for exhumation.
Can you dine with me at 8?

"P. W."

Having sent this off his lordship rang for Bunter.

"Bunter, as you know, I seldom drink champagne. But I am inclined
to do so now. Bring a glass for yourself as well."
The cork popped merrily, and Lord Peter rose to his feet.
"Bunter," said he, "I give you a toast. The triumph of Instinct over
Reason!"

CHAPTER XII
Lord Peter Turns A Trick
Detective-Inspector Parker came to dinner encircled in a comfortable
little halo of glory. The Crate Mystery had turned out well and the
Chief Commissioner had used expressions suggestive of promotion
in the immediate future. Parker did justice to his meal and, when the
party had adjourned to the library, gave his attention to Lord Peter's
account of the Bellona affair with the cheerful appreciation of a
connoisseur sampling a vintage port. Mr. Murbles, on the other hand,
grew more and more depressed as the story was unfolded.
"And what do you think of it?" inquired Wimsey.
Parker opened his mouth to reply, but Mr. Murbles was beforehand
with him.
"This Oliver appears to be a very elusive person," said he.
"Isn't he?" agreed Wimsey, dryly. "Almost as elusive as the famous
Mrs. Harris. Would it altogether surprise you to learn that when I
asked a few discreet questions at Gatti's, I discovered not only that
nobody there had the slightest recollection of Oliver, but that no
inquiries about him had ever been made by Major Fentiman?"
"Oh, dear me!" said Mr. Murbles.
"You forced Fentiman's hand very ingeniously by sending him down
with your private sleuth to Charing Cross," remarked Parker,
approvingly.
"Well, you see, I had a feeling that unless we did something pretty
definite, Oliver would keep vanishing and reappearing like the
Cheshire Cat, whenever our investigations seemed to be taking an
awkward turn."
"You are intimating, if I understand you rightly," said Mr. Murbles,
"that this Oliver has no real existence."
"Oliver was the carrot on the donkey's nose," said Peter, "my noble
self being cast for the part of the donkey. Not caring for the rôle, I
concocted a carrot of my own, in the person of Sleuths
Incorporated. No sooner did my trusting sleuth depart to his lunch
than, lo and behold! the hue and cry is off again after Oliver. Away
goes friend Fentiman—and away goes Sleuth Number Two, who was
there all the time, neatly camouflaged, to keep his eye on Fentiman.
Why Fentiman should have gone to the length of assaulting a perfect
stranger and accuse him of being Oliver, I don't know. I fancy his
passion for thoroughness made him over-reach himself a bit there."
"But what exactly has Major Fentiman been doing?" asked Mr.
Murbles. "This is a very painful business, Lord Peter. It distresses me
beyond words. Do you suspect him of—er—?"
"Well," said Wimsey, "I knew something odd had happened, you
know, as soon as I saw the General's body—when I pulled the
Morning Post away so easily from his hands. If he had really died
clutching it, the rigor would have made his clutch so tight that one
would have had to pry the fingers open to release it. And then, that
knee-joint!"
"I didn't quite follow about that."
"Well, you know that when a man dies, rigor begins to set in after a
period of some hours, varying according to the cause of death,
temperature of the room and a lot of other conditions. It starts in
the face and jaw and extends gradually over the body. Usually it
lasts about twenty-four hours and then passes off again in the same
order in which it started. But if, during the period of rigidity, you
loosen one of the joints by main force, then it doesn't stiffen again,
but remains loose. Which is why, in a hospital, if the nurses have
carelessly let a patient die and stiffen with his knees up, they call in
the largest and fattest person on the staff to sit on the corpse's
knees and break the joints loose again."
Mr. Murbles shuddered distastefully.
"So that, taking the loose knee-joint and the general condition of the
body together, it was obvious from the start that somebody had
been tampering with the General. Penberthy knew that too, of
course, only, being a doctor, he wasn't going to make any indiscreet
uproar if he could avoid it. It doesn't pay, you know."
"I suppose not."
"Well, then, you came round to me, sir, and insisted on making the
uproar. I warned you, you know, to let sleeping dogs lie."
"I wish you had spoken more openly."
"If I had, would you have cared to hush the matter up?"
"Well, well," said Mr. Murbles, polishing his eye-glasses.
"Just so. The next step was to try and find out what had actually
happened to the General on the night of the 10th, and morning of
the 11th. And the moment I got round to his flat I was faced with
two entirely contradictory pieces of evidence. First, there was the
story about Oliver, which appeared more or less remarkable upon
the face of it. And secondly, there was Woodward's evidence about
the clothes."
"What about them?"
"I asked him, you remember, whether anything at all had been
removed from the clothes after he had fetched them away from the
cloak-room at the Bellona, and he said, nothing. His memory as to
other points seemed pretty reliable, and I felt sure that he was
honest and straightforward. So I was forced to the conclusion that,
wherever the General had spent the night, he had certainly never set
foot in the street the next morning."
"Why?" asked Mr. Murbles. "What did you expect to find on the
clothes?"
"My dear sir, consider what day it was. November 11th. Is it
conceivable that, if the old man had been walking in the streets as a
free agent on Armistice Day, he would have gone into the Club
without his Flanders poppy? A patriotic, military old bird like that? It
was really unthinkable."
"Then where was he? And how did he get into the Club? He was
there, you know."
"True; he was there—in a state of advanced rigor. In fact, according
to Penberthy's account, which, by the way, I had checked by the
woman who laid out the body later, the rigor was even then
beginning to pass off. Making every possible allowance for the
warmth of the room and so on, he must have been dead long before
ten in the morning, which was his usual time for going to the Club."
"But, my dear lad, bless my soul, that's impossible. He couldn't have
been carried in there dead. Somebody would have noticed it."
"So they would. And the odd thing is that nobody ever saw him
arrive at all. What is more, nobody saw him leave for the last time
on the previous evening. General Fentiman—one of the best-known
figures in the Club! And he seems to have become suddenly
invisible. That won't do, you know."
"What is your idea, then? That he slept the night in the Club?"
"I think he slept a very peaceful and untroubled sleep that night—in
the Club."
"You shock me inexpressibly," said Mr. Murbles. "I understand you to
suggest that he died—"
"Some time the previous evening. Yes."
"But he couldn't have sat there all night in the smoking-room. The
servants would have been bound to—er—notice him."