Lord Peter Views the Body (23 page)

    ‘That sort doesn’t live in Bloomsbury,’ said the doctor.

    ‘It must be fascinatin’, diagnosin’ things,’ said Peter thoughtfully. ‘How d’you do it? I mean, is there a regular set of symptoms for each disease, like callin’ a club to show you want your partner to go no trumps? You don’t just say: “This fellow’s got a pimple on his nose, therefore he has fatty degeneration of the heart—”’

    ‘I hope not,’ said the doctor dryly.

    ‘Or is it more like gettin’ a clue to a crime?’ went on Peter. ‘You see somethin’ – a room, or a body, say, all knocked about anyhow, and there’s a damn sight of symptoms of somethin’ wrong, and you’ve got just to pick out the ones which tell the story?’

    ‘That’s more like it,’ said Dr Hartman. ‘Some symptoms are significant in themselves – like the condition of the gums in scurvy, let us say – others in conjunction with—’

    He broke off, and both sprang to their feet as a shrill scream sounded suddenly from the flat above, followed by a heavy thud. A man’s voice cried out lamentably; feet ran violently to and fro; then, as the doctor and his guests stood frozen in consternation, came the man himself – falling down the stairs in his haste, hammering at Hartman’s door.

    ‘Help! Help! Let me in! My wife! He’s murdered her!’

They ran hastily to the door and let him in. He was a big, fair man, in his shirt-sleeves and stockings. His hair stood up, and his face was set in bewildered misery.

    ‘She is dead – dead. He was her lover,’ he groaned. ‘Come and look – take her away – Doctor! I have lost my wife! My Maddalena –’ He paused, looked wildly for a moment, and then said hoarsely, ‘Someone’s been in – somehow – stabbed her – murdered her. I’ll have the law on him, doctor. Come quickly – she was cooking the chicken for my dinner – Ah-h-h!’

    He gave a long, hysterical shriek, which ended in a hiccupping laugh. The doctor took him roughly by the arm and shook him. ‘Pull yourself together, Mr Brotherton,’ he said sharply. ‘Perhaps she is only hurt. Stand out of the way!’

    ‘Only hurt?’ said the man, sitting heavily down on the nearest chair. ‘No – no – she is dead – little Maddalena – Oh, my God!’

    Dr Hartman had snatched a roll of bandages and a few surgical appliances from the consulting-room, and he ran upstairs, followed closely by Lord Peter. Bunter remained for a few moments to combat hysterics with cold water. Then he stepped across to the dining-room window and shouted.

    ‘Well, wot is it?
’
cried a voice from the street.

    ‘Would you be so kind as to step in here a minute, officer?’ said Bunter. ‘There’s been murder done!’

When Brotherton and Bunter arrived upstairs with the constable, they found Dr Hartman and Lord Peter in the little kitchen. The doctor was kneeling beside the woman’s body. At their entrance he looked up, and shook his head.

    ‘Death instantaneous,’ he said. ‘Clean through the heart. Poor child. She cannot have suffered at all. Oh, constable, it is very fortunate you are here. Murder appears to have been done – though I’m afraid the man has escaped. Probably Mr Brotherton can give us some help. He was in the flat at the time.’

    The man had sunk down on a chair, and was gazing at the body with a face from which all meaning seemed to have been struck out. The policeman produced a notebook.

    ‘Now, sir,’ he said, ‘don’t let’s waste any time. Sooner we can get to work the more likely we are to catch our man. Now, you was ’ere at the time, was you?’

    Brotherton stared a moment, then, making a violent effort, he answered steadily:

    ‘I was in the sitting-room, smoking and reading the paper. My –
she
– was getting the dinner ready in here. I heard her give a scream, and I rushed in and found her lying on the floor. She didn’t have time to say anything. When I found she was dead, I rushed to the window, and saw the fellow scrambling away over the glass roof there. I yelled at him, but he disappeared. Then I ran down—’

    ‘’Arf a mo’,’ said the policeman. ‘Now, see, ’ere, sir, didn’t you think to go after ’im at once?’

    ‘My first thought was for her,’ said the man. ‘I thought maybe she wasn’t dead. I tried to bring her round –’ His speech ended in a groan.

    ‘You say he came in through the window,’ said the policeman.

    ‘I beg your pardon, officer,’ interrupted Lord Peter, who had been apparently making a mental inventory of the contents of the kitchen. ‘Mr Brotherton suggested that the man went
out
through the window. It’s better to be accurate.’

    ‘It’s the same thing,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s the only way he could have come in. These flats are all alike. The staircase door leads into the sitting-room, and Mr Brotherton was there, so the man couldn’t have come that way.’

    ‘And,’ said Peter, ‘he didn’t get in through the bedroom window, or we should have seen him. We were in the room below. Unless, indeed, he let himself down from the roof. Was the door between the bedroom and the sitting-room open?’ he asked suddenly, turning to Brotherton.

    The man hesitated a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘Yes, I’m sure it was.’

    ‘Could you have seen the man if he had come through the bedroom window?’

    ‘I couldn’t have helped seeing him.’

    ‘Come, come, sir,’ said the policeman, with some irritation, ‘better let
me
ask the questions. Stands to reason the fellow wouldn’t get in through the bedroom window in full view of the street.’

    ‘How clever of you to think of that,’ said Wimsey. ‘Of course not. Never occurred to me. Then it must have been this window, as you say.’

    ‘And, what’s more, here’s his marks on the window-sill,’ said the constable triumphantly, pointing to some blurred traces among the London soot. ‘That’s right. Down he goes by that drain-pipe, over the glass roof down there – what’s that the roof of?’

    ‘My laboratory,’ said the doctor. ‘Heavens! to think that while we were there at dinner this murdering villain—’

    ‘Quite so, sir,’ agreed the constable. ‘Well, he’d get away over the wall into the court be’ind. ’E’ll ’ave been seen there, no fear; you needn’t anticipate much trouble in layin’ ’ands on ’im, sir. I’ll go round there in
’
arf a tick. Now then, sir’ – turning to Brotherton – ‘’ave you any idea wot this party might have looked like?’

    Brotherton lifted a wild face, and the doctor interposed.

    ‘I think you ought to know, constable,’ he said, ‘that there was – well, not a murderous attack, but what might have been one, made on this woman before – about eight weeks ago – by a man named Marinetti – an Italian waiter – with a knife.’

    ‘Ah!’ The policeman licked his pencil eagerly. ‘Do you know this party as ’as been mentioned?’ he enquired of Brotherton.

    ‘That’s the man,’ said Brotherton, with concentrated fury. ‘Coming here after my wife – God curse him! I wish to God I had him dead here beside her!’

    ‘Quite so,’ said the policeman. ‘Now, sir’ – to the doctor – ‘’ave you got the weapon wot the crime was committed with?’

    ‘No,’ said Hartman, ‘there was no weapon in the body when I arrived.’

    ‘Did
you
take it out?’ pursued the constable to Brotherton.

    ‘No,’ said Brotherton, ‘he took it with him.’

    ‘Took it with ’im,’ the constable entered the fact in his notes. ‘Phew! Wonderful ’ot it is in ’ere ain’t it, sir?’ he added, mopping his brow.

    ‘It’s the gas-oven, I think,’ said Peter mildly. ‘Uncommon hot thing, a gas-oven, in the middle of July. D’you mind if I turn it out? There’s the chicken inside, but I don’t suppose you want—’

    Brotherton groaned, and the constable said: ‘Quite right, sir. A man wouldn’t ’ardly fancy ’is dinner after a thing like this. Thank you, sir. Well now, doctor, wot kind of weapon do you take this to ’ave been?’

    ‘It was a long, narrow weapon – something like an Italian stiletto, I imagine,’ said the doctor, ‘about six inches long. It was thrust in with great force under the fifth rib, and I should say it had pierced the heart centrally. As you see, there has been practically no bleeding. Such a wound would cause instant death. Was she lying just as she is now when you first saw her, Mr Brotherton?’

    ‘On her back, just as she is,’ replied the husband.

    ‘Well, that seems clear enough,’ said the policeman. ‘This ’ere Marinetti, or wotever ’is name is, ’as a grudge against the poor young lady—’

    ‘I believe he was an admirer,’ put in the doctor.

    ‘Quite so,’ agreed the constable. ‘Of course, these foreigners are like that – even the decentest of ’em. Stabbin’ and such-like seems to come nateral to them, as you might say. Well, this ’ere Marinetti climbs in ’ere, sees the poor young lady stendin’ ’ere by the table all alone, gettin’ the dinner ready; ’e comes in be’ind, catches ’er round the waist, stabs ’er – easy job, you see; no corsets nor nothink – she shrieks out, ’e pulls ’is stiletty out of ’er an’ makes tracks. Well, now we’ve got to find ’im, and by your leave, sir, I’ll be gettin’ along. We’ll ’ave ’im by the ’eels before long, sir, don’t you worry. I’ll ’ave to put a man in charge ’ere, sir, to keep folks out, but that needn’t worry you. Good mornin’, gentlemen.’

    ‘May we move the poor girl now?’ asked the doctor.

    ‘Certainly. Like me to ’elp you, sir?’

    ‘No. Don’t lose any time. We can manage.’ Dr Hartman turned to Peter as the constable clattered downstairs. ‘Will you help me, Lord Peter?’

    ‘Bunter’s better at that sort of thing,’ said Wimsey, with a hard mouth.

    The doctor looked at him in some surprise, but said nothing, and he and Bunter carried the still form away. Brotherton did not follow them. He sat in a grief-stricken heap, with his head buried in his hands. Lord Peter walked about the little kitchen, turning over the various knives and kitchen utensils, peering into the sink bucket, and apparently taking an inventory of the bread, butter, condiments, vegetables, and so forth which lay about in preparation for the Sunday meal. There were potatoes in the sink, half peeled, a pathetic witness to the quiet domestic life which had been so horribly interrupted. The colander was filled with green peas. Lord Peter turned these things over with an inquisitive finger, gazed into the smooth surface of a bowl of dripping as though it were a divining-crystal, ran his hands several times right through a bowl of flour – then drew his pipe from his pocket and filled it slowly.

    The doctor returned, and put his hand on Brotherton’s shoulder.

    ‘Come,’ he said gently, ‘we have laid her in the other bedroom. She looks very peaceful. You must remember that, except for that moment of terror when she saw the knife, she suffered nothing. It is terrible for you, but you must try not to give way. The police—’

    ‘The police can’t bring her back to life,’ said the man savagely. ‘She’s dead. Leave me alone, curse you! Leave me alone, I say!’

    He stood up, with a violent gesture.

    ‘You must not sit here,’ said Hartman firmly. ‘I will give you something to take, and you must try to keep calm. Then we will leave you, but if you don’t control yourself—’

    After some further persuasion, Brotherton allowed himself to be led away.

    ‘Bunter,’ said Lord Peter, as the kitchen door closed behind them, ‘do you know why I am doubtful about the success of those rat experiments?’

    ‘Meaning Dr Hartman’s, my lord?’

    ‘Yes. Dr Hartman has a theory. In any investigation, my Bunter, it is most damnably dangerous to have a theory.’

    ‘I have heard you say so, my lord.’

    ‘Confound you – you know it as well as I do! What is wrong with the doctor’s theories, Bunter?’

    ‘You wish me to reply, my lord, that he only sees the facts which fit into the theory.’

    ‘Thought-reader!’ exclaimed Lord Peter bitterly.

    ‘And that he supplies them to the police, my lord.’

    ‘Hush!’ said Peter, as the doctor returned.

‘I have got him to lie down,’ said Dr Hartman, ‘and I think the best thing we can do is to leave him to himself.’

    ‘D’you know,’ said Wimsey, ‘I don’t cotton to that idea, somehow.’

    ‘Why? Do you think he’s likely to destroy himself?’

    ‘That’s as good a reason to give as any other, I suppose,’ said Wimsey, ‘when you haven’t got any reason which can be put into words. But my advice is, don’t leave him for a moment.’

    ‘But why? Frequently, with a deep grief like this, the presence of other people is merely an irritant. He begged me to leave him.’

    ‘Then for God’s sake go back to him,’ said Peter.

    ‘Really, Lord Peter,’ said the doctor, ‘I think I ought to know what is best for my patient.’

    ‘Doctor,’ said Wimsey, ‘this is not a question of your patient. A crime has been committed.’

    ‘But there is no mystery.’

    ‘There are twenty mysteries. For one thing, when was the window-cleaner here last?’

    ‘The window-cleaner?’

    ‘Who shall fathom the ebony-black enigma of the window-cleaner?’ pursued Peter lightly, putting a match to his pipe. ‘You are quietly in your bath, in a state of more or less innocent nature, when an intrusive head appears at the window, like the ghost of Hamilton Tighe, and a gruff voice, suspended between earth and heaven, says “Good morning, sir.” Where do window-cleaners go between visits? Do they hibernate, like busy bees? Do they –?’