Lord Peter Views the Body (10 page)

    ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ said Mr Walters, handing it over. ‘I saw it fall off and –’ His voice died away in his throat, and his eyes became fixed upon one corner of the bag, where something damp and horrible was seeping darkly through.

    ‘Did you notice this ’ere corner when you picked it up?’ asked the constable. He prodded it gingerly and looked at his fingers.

    ‘I don’t know – no – not particularly,’ stammered Walters. ‘I didn’t notice anything. I – I expect it burst when it hit the road.’

    The constable probed the split seam in silence, and then turned hurriedly round to wave away a couple of young women who had stopped to stare. The A.A. man peered curiously, and then started back with a sensation of sickness.

    ‘Ow, Gawd!’ he gasped. ‘It’s curly – it’s a woman’s.’

    ‘It’s not me,’ screamed Simpkins. ‘I swear to heaven it’s not mine. This man’s trying to put it across me.’

    ‘Me?’ gasped Walters. ‘Me? Why you filthy, murdering brute, I tell you I saw it fall off your carrier. No wonder you blinded off when you saw me coming. Arrest him, constable. Take him away to prison—’

    ‘Hullo, officer!’ said a voice behind them. ‘What’s all the excitement? You haven’t seen a motor-cyclist go by with a little bag on his carrier, I suppose?’

    A big open car with an unnaturally long bonnet had slipped up to them, silent as an owl. The whole agitated party with one accord turned upon the driver.

    ‘Would this be it, sir?’

    The motorist pushed off his goggles, disclosing a long, narrow nose and a pair of rather cynical-looking grey eyes.

    ‘It looks rather –’ he began; and then, catching sight of the horrid relic protruding from one corner, ‘In God’s name, he enquired, ‘what’s that?’

    ‘That’s what we’d like to know, sir,’ said the constable grimly.

    ‘H’m,’ said the motorist, ‘I seem to have chosen an uncommonly suitable moment for enquirin’ after my bag. Tactless. To say now that it is not my bag is simple, though in no way convincing. As a matter of fact, it is not mine, and I may say that, if it had been, I should not have been at any pains to pursue it.’

    The constable scratched his head.

    ‘Both these gentlemen –’ he began.

    The two cyclists burst into simultaneous and heated disclaimers. By this time a small crowd had collected, which the A.A. scout helpfully tried to shoo away.

    ‘You’ll all ’ave to come with me to the station,’ said the harassed constable. ‘Can’t stand ’ere ’oldin’ up the traffic. No tricks, now. You wheel them bikes, and I’ll come in the car with you, sir.’

    ‘But supposing I was to let her rip and kidnap you,’ said the motorist, with a grin. ‘Where’d you be? Here,’ he added, turning to the A.A. man, ‘can you handle this outfit?’

    ‘You bet,’ said the scout, his eye running lovingly over the long sweep of the exhaust and the rakish lines of the car.

    ‘Right. Hop in. Now, officer, you can toddle along with the other suspects and keep an eye on them. Wonderful head I’ve got for detail. By the way, that foot-brake’s on the fierce side. Don’t bully it, or you’ll surprise yourself.’

    The lock of the bag was forced at the police-station in the midst of an excitement unparalleled in the calm annals of Eaton Socon, and the dreadful contents laid reverently upon a table. Beyond a quantity of cheese-cloth in which they had been wrapped, there was nothing to supply any clue to the mystery.

    ‘Now,’ said the superintendent, ‘what do you gentlemen know about this?’

    ‘Nothing whatever,’ said Mr Simpkins, with a ghastly countenance, ‘except that this man tried to palm it off on me.’

    ‘I saw it fall off this man’s carrier just the other side of Hatfield,’ repeated Mr Walters firmly, ‘and I rode after him for thirty miles trying to stop him. That’s all I know about it, and I wish to God I’d never touched the beastly thing.’

    ‘Nor do I know anything about it personally,’ said the car-owner, ‘but I fancy I know what it is.’

    ‘What’s that?’ asked the superintendent sharply.

    ‘I rather imagine it’s the head of the Finsbury Park murderer – though, mind you, that’s only a guess.’

    ‘That’s just what I’ve been thinking myself,’ agreed the superintendent, glancing at a daily paper which lay on his desk, its headlines lurid with the details of that very horrid crime, ‘and, if so, you are to be congratulated, constable, on a very important capture.’

    ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the gratified officer, saluting.

    ‘Now I’d better take all your statements,’ said the superintendent. ‘No, no; I’ll hear the constable first. Yes, Briggs?’

    The constable, the A.A. man, and the two motor-cyclists having given their versions of the story, the superintendent turned to the motorist.

    ‘And what have you got to say about it?’ he enquired. ‘First of all, your name and address.’

    The other produced a card, which the superintendent copied out and returned to him respectfully.

    ‘A bag of mine, containing some valuable jewellery, was stolen from my car yesterday, in Piccadilly,’ began the motorist. ‘It is very much like this, but has a cipher lock. I made enquiries through Scotland Yard, and was informed today that a bag of precisely similar appearance had been cloak-roomed yesterday afternoon at Paddington, main line. I hurried round there, and was told by the clerk that just before the police warning came through the bag had been claimed by a man in motor-cycling kit. A porter said he saw the man leave the station, and a loiterer observed him riding off on a motor-bicycle. That was about an hour before. It seemed pretty hopeless, as, of course, nobody had noticed even the make of the bike, let alone the number. Fortunately, however, there was a smart little girl. The smart little girl had been dawdling round outside the station, and had heard a motor-cyclist ask a taxi-driver the quickest route to Finchley. I left the police hunting for the taxi-driver, and started off, and in Finchley I found an intelligent boy-scout. He had seen a motor-cyclist with a bag on the carrier, and had waved and shouted to him that the strap was loose. The cyclist had got off and tightened the strap, and gone straight on up the road towards Chipping Barnet. The boy hadn’t been near enough to identify the machine – the only thing he knew for certain was that it wasn’t a Douglas, his brother having one of that sort. At Barnet I got an odd little story of a man in a motor-coat who had staggered into a pub with a ghastly white face and drunk two double brandies and gone out and ridden off furiously. Number? – of course not. The barmaid told me.
She
didn’t notice the number. After that it was a tale of furious driving all along the road. After Hatfield, I got the story of a road-race. And here we are.’

    ‘It seems to me, my lord,’ said the superintendent, ‘that the furious driving can’t have been all on one side.’

    ‘I admit it,’ said the other, ‘though I do plead in extenuation that I spared the women and children and hit up the miles in the wide, open spaces. The point at the moment is—’

    ‘Well, my lord,’ said the superintendent, ‘I’ve got your story, and, if it’s all right, it can be verified by enquiry at Paddington and Finchley and so on. Now, as for these two gentlemen—’

    ‘It’s perfectly obvious,’ broke in Mr Walters, ‘the bag dropped off this man’s carrier, and, when he saw me coming after him with it, he thought it was a good opportunity to saddle me with the cursed thing. Nothing could be clearer.’

    ‘It’s a lie,’ said Mr Simpkins. ‘Here’s this fellow has got hold of the bag – I don’t say how, but I can guess – and he has the bright idea of shoving the blame on me. It’s easy enough to
say a
thing’s fallen off a man’s carrier. Where’s the proof? Where’s the strap? If his story’s true, you’d find the broken strap on my ’bus. The bag
was
on
his
machine – tied on, tied on, tight.’

    ‘Yes, with string,’ retorted the other. ‘If I’d gone and murdered someone and run off with their head, do you think I’d be such an ass as to tie it on with a bit of twopenny twine? The strap’s worked loose and fallen off on the road somewhere; that’s what’s happened to that.’

    ‘Well, look here,’ said the man addressed as ‘my lord’, ‘I’ve got an idea for what it’s worth. Suppose, superintendent, you turn out as many of your men as you think adequate to keep an eye on three desperate criminals, and we all tool down to Hatfield together. I can take two in my ’bus at a pinch, and no doubt you have a police car. If this thing
did
fall off the carrier, somebody beside Mr Walters may have seen it fall.’

    ‘They didn’t,’ said Mr Simpkins.

    ‘There wasn’t a soul,’ said Mr Walters, ‘but how do
you
know there wasn’t, eh? I thought you didn’t know anything about it.’

    ‘I mean, it didn’t fall off, so nobody
could
have seen it,’ gasped the other.

    ‘Well, my lord,’ said the superintendent, ‘I’m inclined to accept your suggestion, as it gives us a chance of enquiring into your story at the same time. Mind you, I’m not saying I doubt it, you being who you are. I’ve read about some of your detective work, my lord, and very smart I considered it. But, still, it wouldn’t be my duty not to get corroborative evidence if possible.’

    ‘Good egg! Quite right,’ said his lordship. ‘Forward the light brigade. We can do it easily in – that is to say, at the legal rate of progress it needn’t take us much over an hour and a half.’

About three-quarters of an hour later, the racing car and the police car loped quietly side by side into Hatfield. Henceforward, the four-seater, in which Walters and Simpkins sat glaring at each other, took the lead, and presently Walters waved his hand and both cars came to a stop.

    ‘It was just about here, as near as I can remember, that it fell off,’ he said. ‘Of course, there’s no trace of it now.’

    ‘You’re quite sure as there wasn’t a strap fell off with it?’ suggested the superintendent, ‘because, you see, there must ’a’ been something holding it on.’

    ‘Of course there wasn’t a strap,’ said Simpkins, white with passion. ‘You haven’t any business to ask him leading questions like that.’

    ‘Wait a minute,’ said Walters slowly. ‘No, there was no strap. But I’ve got a sort of recollection of seeing something on the road about a quarter of a mile farther up.’

    ‘It’s a lie!’ screamed Simpkins. ‘He’s inventing it.’

    ‘Just about where we passed that man with the side-car a minute or two ago,’ said his lordship. ‘I told you we ought to have stopped and asked him if we could help him, superintendent. Courtesy of the road, you know, and all that.’

    ‘He couldn’t have told us anything,’ said the superintendent. ‘He’d probably only just stopped.’

    ‘I’m not so sure,’ said the other. ‘Didn’t you notice what he was doing? Oh, dear, dear, where were your eyes? Hullo! here he comes.’

    He sprang out into the road and waved to the rider, who, seeing four policemen, thought it better to pull up.

    ‘Excuse me,’ said his lordship. ‘Thought we’d just like to stop you and ask if you were all right, and all that sort of thing, you know. Wanted to stop in passing, throttle jammed open, couldn’t shut the confounded thing. Little trouble, what?’

    ‘Oh, yes, perfectly all right, thanks, except that I would be glad if you could spare a gallon of petrol. Tank came adrift. Beastly nuisance. Had a bit of a struggle. Happily, Providence placed a broken strap in my way and I’ve fixed it. Split a bit, though, where that bolt came off. Lucky not to have an explosion, but there’s a special cherub for motor-cyclists.’

    ‘Strap, eh?’ said the superintendent. ‘Afraid I’ll have to trouble you to let me have a look at that.’

    ‘What?’ said the other. ‘And just as I’ve got the damned thing fixed? What the –? All right, dear, all right’ – to his passenger. ‘Is it something serious, officer?’

    ‘Afraid so, sir. Sorry to trouble you.’

    ‘Hi!’ yelled one of the policemen, neatly fielding Mr Simpkins as he was taking a dive over the back of the car. ‘No use doin’ that. You’re for it, my lad.’

    ‘No doubt about it,’ said the superintendent triumphantly, snatching at the strap which the side-car rider held out to him. ‘Here’s his name on it, “J. Simpkins,” written on in ink as large as life. Very much obliged to
you
, sir, I’m sure. You’ve helped us effect a very important capture.’

    ‘No!
Who
is it?’ cried the girl in the side-car. ‘How frightfully thrilling! Is it murder?’

    ‘Look in your paper tomorrow, miss,’ said the superintendent, ‘and you may see something. Here, Briggs, better put the handcuffs on him.’

    ‘And how about my tank?’ said the man mournfully. ‘It’s all right for you to get excited, Babs, but you’ll have to get out and help push.’

    ‘Oh, no,’ said his lordship. ‘Here’s a strap. A
much
nicer strap. A really superior strap. And petrol.
And
a pocket-flask. Everything a young man ought to know. And, when you’re in town, mind you both look me up. Lord Peter Wimsey, 110A Piccadilly. Delighted to see you any time. Chin, chin!’