LITMIR.BIZ

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of me. D’you mind puttin’ back to where we came from?”

      “To the Savile Club, sir?”

      “No – 110 Piccadilly – just beyond – thank you.”

      “Thought you was in a hurry,” said the man, overcome with a sense of injury.

      “I’m afraid it’s an awkward place to turn in,” said Lord Peter, answering the thought rather than the words. His long, amiable face looked as if it had generated spontaneously from his top hat, as white maggots breed from Gorgonzola.

      The taxi, under the severe eye of a policeman, revolved by slow jerks, with a noise like the grinding of teeth.

      The block of new, perfect and expensive flats in which Lord Peter dwelt upon the second floor, stood directly opposite the Green Park, in a spot for many years occupied by the skeleton of a frustrate commercial enterprise. As Lord Peter let himself in he heard his man’s voice in the library, uplifted in that throttled stridency peculiar to well-trained persons using the telephone.

      “I believe that’s his lordship just coming in again – if your Grace would kindly hold the line a moment.”

      “What is it, Bunter?”

      “Her Grace has just called up from Denver, my lord. I was just saying your lordship had gone to the sale when I heard your lordship’s latchkey.”

      “Thanks,” said Lord Peter; “and you might find me my catalogue, would you? I think I must have left it in my bedroom, or on the desk.”

      He sat down to the telephone with an air of leisurely courtesy, as though it were an acquaintance dropped in for a chat.

      “Hullo, Mother – that you?”

      “Oh, there you are, dear,” replied the voice of the Dowager Duchess. “I was afraid I’d just missed you.”

      “Well, you had, as a matter of fact. I’d just started off to Brocklebury’s sale to pick up a book or two, but I had to come back for the catalogue. What’s up?”

      “Such a quaint thing,” said the Duchess. “I thought I’d tell you. You know little Mr. Thipps?”

      “Thipps?” said Lord Peter. “Thipps? Oh, yes, the little architect man who’s doing the church roof. Yes. What about him?”

      “Mrs. Throgmorton’s just been in, in quite a state of mind.”

      “Sorry, Mother, I can’t hear. Mrs. Who?”

      “Throgmorton – Throgmorton – the vicar’s wife.”

      “Oh, Throgmorton, yes?”

      “Mr. Thipps rang them up this morning. It was his day to come down, you know.”

      “Yes?”

      “He rang them up to say he couldn’t. He was so upset, poor little man. He’d found a dead body in his bath.”

      “Sorry, Mother, I can’t hear; found what, where?”

      “A dead body, dear, in his bath.”

      “What? – no, no, we haven’t finished. Please don’t cut us off. Hullo! Hullo! Is that you, Mother? Hullo! – Mother! – Oh, yes – sorry, the girl was trying to cut us off. What sort of body?”

      “A dead man, dear, with nothing on but a pair of pince-nez. Mrs. Throgmorton positively blushed when she was telling me. I’m afraid people do get a little narrow-minded in country vicarages.”

      “Well, it sounds a bit unusual. Was it anybody he knew?”

      “No, dear, I don’t think so, but, of course, he couldn’t give her many details. She said he sounded quite distracted. He’s such a respectable little man – and having the police in the house and so on, really worried him.”

      “Poor little Thipps! Uncommonly awkward for him. Let’s see, he lives in Battersea, doesn’t he?”

      “Yes, dear; 59, Queen Caroline Mansions; opposite the Park. That big block just round the corner from the Hospital. I thought perhaps you’d like to run round and see him and ask if there’s anything we can do. I always thought him a nice little man.”

      “Oh, quite,” said Lord Peter, grinning at the telephone. The Duchess was always of the greatest assistance to his hobby of criminal investigation, though she never alluded to it, and maintained a polite fiction of its non-existence.

      “What time did it happen, Mother?”

      “I think he found it early this morning, but, of course, he didn’t think of telling the Throgmortons just at first. She came up to me just before lunch – so tiresome, I had to ask her to stay. Fortunately, I was alone. I don’t mind being bored myself, but I hate having my guests bored.”

      “Poor old Mother! Well, thanks awfully for tellin’ me. I think I’ll send Bunter to the sale and toddle round to Battersea now an’ try and console the poor little beast. So-long.”

      “Good-bye, dear.”

      “Bunter!”

      “Yes, my lord.”

      “Her Grace tells me that a respectable Battersea architect has discovered a dead man in his bath.”

      “Indeed, my lord? That’s very gratifying.”

      “Very, Bunter. Your choice of words is unerring. I wish Eton and Balliol had done as much for me. Have you found the catalogue?”

      “Here it is, my lord.”

      “Thanks. I am going to Battersea at once. I want you to attend the sale for me. Don’t lose time – I don’t want to miss the Folio Dante[1] nor the de Voragine – here you are – see? ‘Golden Legend’ – Wynkyn de Worde, 1493 – got that? – and, I say, make a special effort for the Caxton folio of the ‘Four Sons of Aymon’ – it’s the 1489 folio and unique. Look! I’ve marked the lots I want, and put my outside offer against each. Do your best for me. I shall be back to dinner.”

      “Very good, my lord.”

      “Take my cab and tell him to hurry. He may for you; he doesn’t like me very much. Can I,” said Lord Peter, looking at himself in the eighteenth-century mirror over the mantelpiece, “can I have the heart to fluster the flustered Thipps further – that’s very difficult to say quickly – by appearing in a top-hat and frock-coat? I think not. Ten to one he will overlook my trousers and mistake me for the undertaker. A grey suit, I fancy, neat but not gaudy, with a hat to tone, suits my other self better. Exit the amateur of first editions; new motive introduced by solo bassoon; enter Sherlock Holmes, disguised as a walking gentleman. There goes Bunter. Invaluable fellow – never offers to do his job when you’ve told him to do somethin’ else. Hope he doesn’t miss the ‘Four Sons of Aymon.’ Still, there is another copy of that – in the Vatican.[2] It might become available, you never know  – if the Church of Rome went to pot or Switzerland invaded Italy – whereas a strange corpse doesn’t turn up in a suburban bathroom more than once in a lifetime – at least, I should think not – at any rate, the number of times it’s happened, with a pince-nez, might be counted on the fingers of one hand, I imagine. Dear me! it’s a dreadful mistake to ride two hobbies at once.”

      He had drifted across the passage into his bedroom, and was changing with a rapidity one might not have expected from a man of his mannerisms. He selected a dark-green tie to match his socks and tied it accurately without hesitation or the slightest compression of his lips; substituted a pair of brown shoes for his black ones, slipped a monocle into a breast pocket, and took up a beautiful Malacca walking-stick with a heavy silver knob.

      “That’s all, I think,” he murmured to himself. “Stay – I may as well have you – you may come in useful – one never knows.” He added a flat silver matchbox to his equipment, glanced at his watch, and seeing that it was already a quarter to three, ran briskly downstairs, and, hailing a taxi, was carried to Battersea Park.

      Mr. Alfred Thipps was a small, nervous man, whose flaxen hair was beginning to abandon the unequal struggle with destiny. One might say that his only really marked feature was a large bruise over the left eyebrow, which gave him a faintly dissipated air incongruous with the rest of his appearance. Almost in the same breath with his first greeting, he made a self-conscious apology for

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