Lord Peter Views the Body · The Vindictive Story of the Footsteps That Ran (1/3)

The Vindictive Story of the Footsteps That Ran

Mr. Bunter withdrew his head from beneath the focusing cloth.

“I fancy that will be quite adequate, sir,” he said deferentially, “unless there are any further patients, if I may call them so, which you would wish put on record.”

“Not today,” replied the doctor. He took the last stricken rat gently from the table, and replaced it in its cage with an air of satisfaction. “Perhaps on Wednesday, if Lord Peter can kindly spare your services once again⁠—”

“What’s that?” murmured his lordship, withdrawing his long nose from the investigation of a number of unattractive-looking glass jars. “Nice old dog,” he added vaguely. “Wags his tail when you mention his name, what? Are these monkey-glands, Hartman, or a southwest elevation of Cleopatra’s duodenum?”

“You don’t know anything, do you?” said the young physician, laughing. “No use playing your bally-fool-with-an-eyeglass tricks on me, Wimsey. I’m up to them. I was saying to Bunter that I’d be no end grateful if you’d let him turn up again three days hence to register the progress of the specimens⁠—always supposing they do progress, that is.”

“Why ask, dear old thing?” said his lordship. “Always a pleasure to assist a fellow-sleuth, don’t you know. Trackin’ down murderers⁠—all in the same way of business and all that. All finished? Good egg! By the way, if you don’t have that cage mended you’ll lose one of your patients⁠—Number 5. The last wire but one is workin’ loose⁠—assisted by the intelligent occupant. Jolly little beasts, ain’t they? No need of dentists⁠—wish I was a rat⁠—wire much better for the nerves than that fizzlin’ drill.”

Dr. Hartman uttered a little exclamation.

“How in the world did you notice that, Wimsey? I didn’t think you’d even looked at the cage.”

“Built noticin’⁠—improved by practice,” said Lord Peter quietly. “Anythin’ wrong leaves a kind of impression on the eye; brain trots along afterwards with the warnin’. I saw that when we came in. Only just grasped it. Can’t say my mind was glued on the matter. Shows the victim’s improvin’, anyhow. All serene, Bunter?”

“Everything perfectly satisfactory, I trust, my lord,” replied the manservant. He had packed up his camera and plates, and was quietly restoring order in the little laboratory, whose fittings⁠—compact as those of an ocean liner⁠—had been disarranged for the experiment.

“Well,” said the doctor, “I am enormously obliged to you, Lord Peter, and to Bunter too. I am hoping for a great result from these experiments, and you cannot imagine how valuable an assistance it will be to me to have a really good series of photographs. I can’t afford this sort of thing⁠—yet,” he added, his rather haggard young face wistful as he looked at the great camera, “and I can’t do the work at the hospital. There’s no time; I’ve got to be here. A struggling G.P. can’t afford to let his practice go, even in Bloomsbury. There are times when even a half-crown visit makes all the difference between making both ends meet and having an ugly hiatus.”

“As Mr. Micawber said,” replied Wimsey, “ ‘Income twenty pounds, expenditure nineteen, nineteen, six⁠—result: happiness; expenditure twenty pounds, ought, six⁠—result: misery.’ Don’t prostrate yourself in gratitude, old bean; nothin’ Bunter loves like messin’ round with pyro and hyposulphite. Keeps his hand in. All kinds of practice welcome. Fingerprints and process plates spell seventh what-you-may-call-it of bliss, but focal-plane work on scurvy-ridden rodents (good phrase!) acceptable if no crime forthcoming. Crimes have been rather short lately. Been eatin’ our heads off, haven’t we, Bunter? Don’t know what’s come over London. I’ve taken to prying into my neighbour’s affairs to keep from goin’ stale. Frightened the postman into a fit the other day by askin’ him how his young lady at Croydon was. He’s a married man, livin’ in Great Ormond Street.”

“How did you know?”

“Well, I didn’t really. But he lives just opposite to a friend of mine⁠—Inspector Parker; and his wife⁠—not Parker’s; he’s unmarried; the postman’s, I mean⁠—asked Parker the other day whether the flyin’ shows at Croydon went on all night. Parker, bein’ flummoxed, said ‘No,’ without thinkin’. Bit of a giveaway, what? Thought I’d give the poor devil a word in season, don’t you know. Uncommonly thoughtless of Parker.”

The doctor laughed. “You’ll stay to lunch, won’t you?” he said. “Only cold meat and salad, I’m afraid. My woman won’t come Sundays. Have to answer my own door. Deuced unprofessional, I’m afraid, but it can’t be helped.”

“Pleasure,” said Wimsey, as they emerged from the laboratory and entered the dark little flat by the back door. “Did you build this place on?”

“No,” said Hartman; “the last tenant did that. He was an artist. That’s why I took the place. It comes in very useful, ramshackle as it is, though the glass roof is a bit sweltering on a hot day like this. Still, I had to have something on the ground floor, cheap, and it’ll do till times get better.”

“Till your vitamin experiments make you famous, eh?” said Peter cheerfully. “You’re goin’ to be the comin’ man, you know. Feel it in my bones. Uncommonly neat little kitchen you’ve got, anyhow.”

“It does,” said the doctor. “The lab makes it a bit gloomy, but the woman’s only here in the daytime.”

He led the way into a narrow little dining-room, where the table was laid for a cold lunch. The one window at the end farthest from the kitchen looked out into Great James Street. The room was little more than a passage, and full of doors⁠—the kitchen door, a door in the adjacent wall leading into the entrance-hall, and a third on the opposite side, through which his visitor caught a glimpse of a moderate-sized consulting-room.

Lord Peter Wimsey and his host sat down to table, and the doctor expressed a hope that Mr. Bunter would sit down with them. That correct person, however, deprecated any such suggestion.

“If I might venture to indicate my own preference, sir,” he said, “it would be to wait upon you and his lordship in the usual manner.”

“It’s no use,” said Wimsey. “Bunter likes me to know my place. Terrorisin’ sort of man, Bunter. Can’t call my soul my own. Carry on, Bunter; we wouldn’t presume for the world.”

Mr. Bunter handed the salad, and poured out the water with a grave decency appropriate to a crusted old tawny port.

It was a Sunday afternoon in that halcyon summer of 1921. The sordid little street was almost empty. The ice-cream man alone seemed thriving and active. He leaned luxuriously on the green post at the corner, in the intervals of driving a busy trade. Bloomsbury’s swarm of able-bodied and able-voiced infants was still; presumably within-doors, eating steamy Sunday dinners inappropriate to the tropical weather. The only disturbing sounds came from the flat above, where heavy footsteps passed rapidly to and fro.

“Who’s the merry-and-bright bloke above?” enquired Lord Peter presently. “Not an early riser, I take it. Not that anybody is on a Sunday mornin’. Why an inscrutable Providence ever inflicted such a ghastly day on people livin’ in town I can’t imagine. I ought to be in the country, but I’ve got to meet a friend at Victoria this afternoon. Such a day to choose.⁠ ⁠… Who’s the lady? Wife or accomplished friend? Gather she takes a properly submissive view of woman’s duties in the home, either way. That’s the bedroom overhead, I take it.”

Hartman looked at Lord Peter in some surprise.

“ ’Scuse my beastly inquisitiveness, old thing,” said Wimsey. “Bad habit. Not my business.”

“How did you⁠—?”

“Guesswork,” said Lord Peter, with disarming frankness. “I heard the squawk of an iron bedstead on the ceiling and a heavy fellow get out with a bump, but it may quite well be a couch or something. Anyway, he’s been potterin’ about in his stocking feet over these few feet of floor for the last half-hour, while the woman has been clatterin’ to and fro, in and out of the kitchen and away into the sittin’-room, with her high heels on, ever since we’ve been here. Hence deduction as to domestic habits of the first-floor tenants.”

“I thought,” said the doctor, with an aggrieved expression, “you’d been listening to my valuable exposition of the beneficial effects of Vitamin B, and Lind’s treatment of scurvy with fresh lemons in 1755.”

“I was listenin’,” agreed Lord Peter hastily, “but I heard the footsteps as well. Fellow’s toddled into the kitchen⁠—only wanted matches, though; he’s gone off into the sittin’-room and left her to carry on the good work. What was I sayin’? Oh, yes! You see, as I was sayin’ before, one hears a thing or sees it without knowin’ or thinkin’ about it. Then afterwards one starts meditatin’, and it all comes back, and one sorts out one’s impressions. Like those plates of Bunter’s. Picture’s all there, l⁠—la⁠—what’s the word I want, Bunter?”

“Latent, my lord.”

“That’s it. My right-hand man, Bunter; couldn’t do a thing without him. The picture’s latent till you put the developer on. Same with the brain. No mystery. Little grey books all my respected grandmother! Little grey matter’s all you want to remember things with. As a matter of curiosity, was I right about those people above?”

“Perfectly. The man’s a gas-company’s inspector. A bit surly, but devoted (after his own fashion) to his wife. I mean, he doesn’t mind hulking in bed on a Sunday morning and letting her do the chores, but he spends all the money he can spare on giving her pretty hats and fur coats and whatnot. They’ve only been married about six months. I was called in to her when she had a touch of flu in the spring, and he was almost off his head with anxiety. She’s a lovely little woman, I must say⁠—Italian. He picked her up in some eating-place in Soho, I believe. Glorious dark hair and eyes: Venus sort of figure; proper contours in all the right places; good skin⁠—all that sort of thing. She was a bit of a draw to that restaurant while she was there, I fancy. Lively. She had an old admirer round here one day⁠—awkward little Italian fellow, with a knife⁠—active as a monkey. Might have been unpleasant, but I happened to be on the spot, and her husband came along. People are always laying one another out in these streets. Good for business, of course, but one gets tired of tying up broken heads and slits in the jugular. Still, I suppose the girl can’t help being attractive, though I don’t say she’s what you might call standoffish in her manner. She’s sincerely fond of Brotherton, I think, though⁠—that’s his name.”

Wimsey nodded inattentively. “I suppose life is a bit monotonous here,” he said.

“Professionally, yes. Births and drunks and wife-beatings are pretty common. And all the usual ailments, of course. Just at present I’m living on infant diarrhoea chiefly⁠—bound to, this hot weather, you know. With the autumn, flu and bronchitis set in. I may get an occasional pneumonia. Legs, of course, and varicose veins⁠—God!” cried the doctor explosively, “if only I could get away and do my experiments!”

“Ah!” said Peter, “where’s that eccentric old millionaire with a mysterious disease, who always figures in the novels? A lightning diagnosis⁠—a miraculous cure⁠—‘God bless you, doctor; here are five thousand pounds’⁠—Harley Street⁠—”

“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 drily.

“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 shirtsleeves 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 Mr. 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.”