Have His Carcase (43 page)

Having thus, as he supposed, restored confidence in the mind of Miss Olga

Kohn, the Inspector shepherded his companion away, but it was to Wimsey

that the girl turned while Umpelty was hunting in the little hal for his hat.

‘That policeman doesn’t believe a word I’ve been saying,’ she whispered

anxiously, ‘but you do, don’t you?’

‘I do,’ replied Wimsey. ‘But you see, I can believe a thing without

understanding it. It’s al a matter of training.’

XXIII

THE EVIDENCE OF THE THEATRICAL AGENT

’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.

Sulivan, had a smaler 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 al his life saying ‘No’ to people and taking the blame for it. Nothing

happened. Wimsey seated himself philosophicaly 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 Sulivan at

once. This is a police matter.’

‘Mr Sulivan’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 Sulivan’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 eigars.

‘Shut the door, blast you,’ said one gentleman, without looking around. ‘Hel

of a draught, and you’l let al that lot in.’

‘Which of you is Mr Sulivan?’ demanded the Inspector, standing his ground,

and glaring at a second door on the opposite side of the room.

‘Sulivan ain’t here. Shut that door, wil 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 swalowing 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 Sulivan’s

engaged.’

‘Look here,’ said the Inspector.

At this moment the door opened a fraction of an inch and an impatient voice

belowed: ‘Horrocks!’

‘I’l tel 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 belowing 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 – fataly. The sylph was under his guard in a

moment. There was an altercation on the threshold. Then, suddenly, the door

opened to its ful extent and disgorged, al 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’l let you know when anything

turns up. Hulo, Phylis, back again? That’s right. Might want you next week.

No, Mammy, no grey-haired mommas wanted today. I – hulo!’

His eye fel on Wimsey, who had got stuck over his crossword and was

gazing vaguely round in search of inspiration.

‘Here, Horrocks! Why the hel didn’t you tel 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,’ belowed 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 al very wel, Sulivan,’ replied Mr Rosencrantz, ‘but can he act?’

‘Act?’ exploded Mr Sulivan. ‘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?’

‘Wel, realy, don’t you know.’ Wimsey screwed his monocle more firmly

into his eye. ‘Realy, old felow, you make me feel al of a doo-dah, what?’

‘There you are!’ said Mr Sulivan, triumphantly. ‘Voice like a plum. Carries

his clothes wel, eh! I wouldn’t sel you a feler that wasn’t the goods,

Rosencrantz, you know that.’

‘Pretty fair,’ admitted Mr Rosencrantz, grudgingly. ‘Walk a bit, wil you?’

Wimsey obliged by mincing delicately in the direction of the inner office. Mr

Sulivan purred after him. Mr Rosencrantz folowed. Horrocks, aghast, caught

Mr Sulivan 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, al 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 al the crowned heads of

Europe. Off with the mask! The Worm has Turned! I am Lord Peter Wimsey,

the Piccadily 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.

‘Wel!’ gasped the Inspector. ‘Wel, I’l be damned!’

He made for the door, and this time Horrocks offered no resistance.

‘Wel, wel, wel,’ said Mr Sulivan, ‘Wel,
well
!’ He turned Wimsey’s card

over and stared at it. ‘Dear, dear, what a pity. Such a waste, eh, Rosencrantz?

With your face, you ought to be makin’ a fortune.’

‘There ain’t nothing in this for me, anyhow,’ said Mr Rosencrantz, ‘so I’d

better be pushin’ along. The Vorm is a good Vorm, Sulivan, as Shakespeare

says, but he ain’t on the market. Unless Lord Peter has a fancy for the thing. It

’ud go vel, eh? Lord Peter Vimsey in the title rôle? The nobility ain’t much cop

these days, but Lord Peter is vel known. He does somethings. Nowadays, they

al vant somebody as does somethings. A lord is nothing, but a lord that flies the

Atlantic or keeps a hatshop or detects murders – there might be a draw in that,

vot you think?’

Mr Sulivan looked hopefuly at Wimsey.

‘Sorry,’ said his lordship. ‘Can’t be done.’

‘Times are bad,’ said Mr Rosencrantz, who seemed to grow more

enthusiastic as the desired article was withdrawn from his grasp, ‘but I make

you a good offer. Vot you say to two hundred a veek, eh?’

Wimsey shook his head.

‘Three hundred?’ suggested Mr Rosencrantz.

‘Sorry, old horse. I’m not seling.’

‘Five hundred, then.’

‘Excuse
me
,’ said Mr Umpelty.

‘It’s no go,’ said Mr Sulivan. ‘Very sad, but it’s no go. Suppose you are

rich, eh? Great pity. It won’t last, you know. Super-tax and death-duties.

Better take what you can while you can. No?’

‘Definitely, no,’ said Wimsey.

Mr Rosencrantz sighed.

‘Oh, vel – I’d best be moving. See you tomorrow, Suly. You have

something for me then, eh?’

He retired, not through the antechamber, but through the private door on the

opposite side of the room. Mr Sulivan turned to his visitors.

‘You want me? Tel me what you want and make it snappy. I’m busy.’

The Inspector produced Olga’s photograph.

‘The Kohn girl, eh? Yes, what about her? No trouble, eh? A good girl.

Works hard. Nothing against her here.’

The Inspector explained that they wanted to know whether Mr Sulivan had

distributed any photographs of Olga recently.

‘Wel now, let me think. She hasn’t been round here for a good time. Doing

mannequin work, I rather think. Better for her. A good girl and a good-looker,

but she can’t act, poor child. Just a minute, though. Where’s Horrocks?’

He surged to the door, set it cautiously ajar and bawled ‘Horrocks!’ through

the crack. The secretary sidled in.

‘Horrocks! You know this photograph of the little Kohn? Have we sent it

out lately?’

‘Why, yes, sir. Don’t you remember? That felow who said he wanted

Russian types for the provinces.’

‘That’s right, that’s right. I knew there was somebody. Tel these gentlemen

about him. We didn’t know him, did we?’

‘No, sir. Said he was starting management on his own. Name of – wait a

minute.’ He puled a book from a shelf and turned the leaves with a wetted

finger. ‘Yes, here we are. Maurice Vavasour.’

‘Fine sort of name,’ grunted Mr Sulivan. ‘Not his own, naturaly. Never is.

Probably caled Potts or Spink. Can’t run a company as Potts or Spink. Not

classy enough. I’ve got the felow now. Little chap with a beard. Said he was

casting for romantic drama and wanted a Russian type. We gave him the

Livinsky girl and the little Petrovna and one or two more. He seemed struck

with this photograph, I remember. I told him Petrovna had more experience,

but he said he didn’t mind about that. I didn’t like the felow.’

‘No?’

‘No. Never like ’em when they want pretty girls without experience. Old

Uncle Sulivan may be a hard nut, but he ain’t standing for anything of that sort.

Told him the girl was fitted up with a job, but he said he’d have a shot at her.

She never came to me about it, though, so I suppose she turned him down. If

she had come, I’d have put her wise. I ain’t that keen on my commission, and if

you ask any of the girls they’l tel you so. What’s the matter, eh? Has this

Vavasour got her into a hole?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Wimsey. ‘She’s stil in her mannequin job. But Vavasour

– show Mr Sulivan that other photograph, Inspector. Is that the man?’

Mr Sulivan and Horrocks put their heads together over the photograph of

Paul Alexis and shook them simultaneously.

‘No,’ said Horrocks, ‘that’s not the man.’

‘Nothing like him,’ said Mr Sulivan.

‘Sure?’

‘Nothing like him,’ repeated Mr Sulivan with emphasis. ‘How old’s that

felow? Wel, Vavasour was forty if he was a day. Holow-cheeked beggar with

a voice like Mother Siegel’s Syrup. Make a good Judas, if you were wanting

such a thing.’

‘Or a Richard III,’ suggested Mr Horrocks.

‘If you read the part smarmy,’ said Mr Sulivan. ‘Can’t see him in Act V,

though. Al right for the bit with the citizens. You know. Enter Richard above,

reading, between two monks. Matter of fact,’ he added, ‘that’s a difficult part

to cast for. Inconsistent, to my mind. You mightn’t think it, but I do a bit of

reading and thinking now and again, and what I say is, I don’t believe W.

Shakespeare had his mind on the job when he wrote that part. Too slimy at the

beginning and too tough at the end. It ain’t nature. Not but what the play always

acts wel. Plenty of pep in it, that’s why. Keeps moving. But he’s made Richard

two men in one, that’s what I complain of. One of ’em’s a wormy, plotting sort

of felow and the other’s a bold, bustling sort of chap who chops people’s

heads off and flies into tempers. It don’t seem to fit, somehow, eh?’