Lord Peter Views the Body

“I was sitting in the smoking room,” continued Varden, “waiting for Loder to come in. I had the house to myself, for Loder had given the servants leave to go to some show or lecture or other, and he himself was getting his things together for his European trip and had had to keep an appointment with his man of business. I must have been very nearly asleep, because it was dusk when I came to with a start and saw a young man quite close to me.

“He wasn’t at all like a housebreaker, and still less like a ghost. He was, I might almost say, exceptionally ordinary-looking. He was dressed in a grey English suit, with a fawn overcoat on his arm, and his soft hat and stick in his hand. He had sleek, pale hair, and one of those rather stupid faces, with a long nose and a monocle. I stared at him, for I knew the front door was locked, but before I could get my wits together he spoke. He had a curious, hesitating, husky voice and a strong English accent. He said, surprisingly:

“ ‘Are you Mr. Varden?’

“ ‘You have the advantage of me,’ I said.

“He said, ‘Please excuse my butting in; I know it looks like bad manners, but you’d better clear out of this place very quickly, don’t you know.’

“ ‘What the hell do you mean?’ I said.

“He said, ‘I don’t mean it in any impertinent way, but you must realise that Loder’s never forgiven you, and I’m afraid he means to make you into a hatstand or an electric-light fitting, or something of that sort.’

The Great North Road wound away like a flat, steel-grey ribbon. Up it, with the sun and wind behind them, two black specks moved swiftly. To the yokel in charge of the hay-wagon they were only two of “they dratted motorcyclists,” as they barked and zoomed past him in rapid succession. A little farther on, a family man, driving delicately with a two-seater sidecar, grinned as the sharp rattle of the o.h.v. Norton was succeeded by the feline shriek of an angry Scott Flying-Squirrel. He, too, in bachelor days, had taken a side in that perennial feud. He sighed regretfully as he watched the racing machines dwindle away northwards.

At that abominable and unexpected S-bend across the bridge above Hatfield, the Norton man, in the pride of his heart, turned to wave a defiant hand at his pursuer. In that second, the enormous bulk of a loaded charabanc loomed down upon him from the bridgehead. He wrenched himself away from it in a fierce wobble, and the Scott, cornering melodramatically, with left and right footrests alternately skimming the tarmac, gained a few triumphant yards. The Norton leapt forward with wide-open throttle. A party of children, seized with sudden panic, rushed helter-skelter across the road. The Scott lurched through them in drunken swerves. The road was clear, and the chase settled down once more.

The Zambesi, they said, was expected to dock at six in the morning. Mrs. Ruyslaender booked a bedroom at the Magnifical, with despair in her heart. A bare nine hours and she would be greeting her husband. After that would begin the sickening period of waiting⁠—it might be days, it might be weeks, possibly even months⁠—for the inevitable discovery.

The reception-clerk twirled the register towards her. Mechanically, as she signed it, she glanced at the preceding entry:

Lord Peter Wimsey and valet⁠—London⁠—Suite 24.

Mrs. Ruyslaender’s heart seemed to stop for a second. Was it possible that, even now, God had left a loophole? She expected little from Him⁠—all her life He had shown Himself a sufficiently stern creditor. It was fantastic to base the frailest hope on this signature of a man she had never even seen.

Yet the name remained in her mind while she dined in her own room. She dismissed her maid presently, and sat for a long time looking at her own haggard reflection in the mirror. Twice she rose and went to the door⁠—then turned back, calling herself a fool. The third time she turned the handle quickly and hurried down the corridor, without giving herself time to think.

A large golden arrow at the corner directed her to Suite 24. It was 11 o’clock, and nobody was within view. Mrs. Ruyslaender gave a sharp knock on Lord Peter Wimsey’s door and stood back, waiting, with the sort of desperate relief one experiences after hearing a dangerous letter thump the bottom of the pillar-box.

Up from under the dripping dark of the trees it came, shining with a thin, moony radiance. There was no clatter of hoofs, no rumble of wheels, no ringing of bit or bridle. He saw the white, sleek, shining shoulders with the collar that lay on each, like a faint fiery ring, enclosing nothing. He saw the gleaming reins, their cut ends slipping back and forward unsupported through the ring of the hames. The feet, that never touched earth, ran swiftly⁠—four times four noiseless hoofs, bearing the pale bodies by like smoke. The driver leaned forward, brandishing his whip. He was faceless and headless, but his whole attitude bespoke desperate haste. The coach was barely visible through the driving rain, but Wimsey saw the dimly spinning wheels and a faint whiteness, still and stiff, at the window. It went past at a gallop⁠—headless driver and headless horses and silent coach. Its passing left a stir, a sound that was less a sound than a vibration⁠—and the wind roared suddenly after it, with a great sheet of water blown up out of the south.

“Good God!” said Wimsey. And then: “How many whiskies did we have?”

He turned and looked back along the road, straining his eyes. Then suddenly he remembered the mare, and, without troubling further about the torch, picked up her foot and went to work by touch. The nut gave no more trouble, but dropped out into his hand almost immediately. Polly Flinders sighed gratefully and blew into his ear.

“Halte-là!⁠ ⁠… Attention!⁠ ⁠… F⁠⸺⁠e!”

The young man in the grey suit pushed his way through the protesting porters and leapt nimbly for the footboard of the guard’s van as the Paris-Evreux express steamed out of the Invalides. The guard, with an eye to a tip, fielded him adroitly from among the detaining hands.

“It is happy for monsieur that he is so agile,” he remarked. “Monsieur is in a hurry?”

“Somewhat. Thank you. I can get through by the corridor?”

“But certainly. The premières are two coaches away, beyond the luggage-van.”

The young man rewarded his rescuer, and made his way forward, mopping his face. As he passed the piled-up luggage, something caught his eye, and he stopped to investigate. It was a suitcase, nearly new, of expensive-looking leather, labelled conspicuously:

Lord Peter Wimsey, Hôtel Saumon d’Or, Verneuil-sur-Eure

and bore witness to its itinerary thus:

London⁠–⁠Paris (Waterloo) (Gare St. Lazare) via Southampton-Havre

Paris⁠–⁠Verneuil (Ch. de Fer de l’Ouest)

The young man whistled, and sat down on a trunk to think it out.

Somewhere there had been a leakage, and they were on his trail. Nor did they care who knew it. There were hundreds of people in London and Paris who would know the name of Wimsey, not counting the police of both countries. In addition to belonging to one of the oldest ducal families in England, Lord Peter had made himself conspicuous by his meddling with crime detection. A label like this was a gratuitous advertisement.

But the amazing thing was that the pursuers were not troubling to hide themselves from the pursued. That argued very great confidence.