Lord Peter Views the Body · The Vindictive Story of the Footsteps That Ran (2/3)

“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 windowsill,” said the constable triumphantly, pointing to some blurred traces among the London soot. “That’s right. Down he goes by that drainpipe, 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 suchlike seems to come nateral to them, as you might say. Well, this ’ere Marinetti climbs in ’ere, sees the poor young lady standin’ ’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 in with 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—?”

“Really, Lord Peter,” said the doctor, “don’t you think you’re going a bit beyond the limit?”

“Sorry you feel like that,” said Peter, “but I really want to know about the window-cleaner. Look how clear these panes are.”

“He came yesterday, if you want to know,” said Dr. Hartman, rather stiffly.

“You are sure?”

“He did mine at the same time.”

“I thought as much,” said Lord Peter. “In the words of the song:

“ ‘I thought as much,

It was a little⁠—window-cleaner.’

“In that case,” he added, “it is absolutely imperative that Brotherton should not be left alone for a moment. Bunter! Confound it all, where’s that fellow got to?”

The door into the bedroom opened.

“My lord?” Mr. Bunter unobtrusively appeared, as he had unobtrusively stolen out to keep an unobtrusive eye upon the patient.

“Good,” said Wimsey. “Stay where you are.” His lackadaisical manner had gone, and he looked at the doctor as four years previously he might have looked at a refractory subaltern.

“Dr. Hartman,” he said, “something is wrong. Cast your mind back. We were talking about symptoms. Then came the scream. Then came the sound of feet running. Which direction did they run in?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Don’t you? Symptomatic, though, doctor. They have been troubling me all the time, subconsciously. Now I know why. They ran from the kitchen.”

“Well?”

“Well! And now the window-cleaner⁠—”

“What about him?”

“Could you swear that it wasn’t the window-cleaner who made those marks on the sill?”

“And the man Brotherton saw⁠—?”

“Have we examined your laboratory roof for his footsteps?”

“But the weapon? Wimsey, this is madness! Someone took the weapon.”

“I know. But did you think the edge of the wound was clean enough to have been made by a smooth stiletto? It looked ragged to me.”

“Wimsey, what are you driving at?”

“There’s a clue here in the flat⁠—and I’m damned if I can remember it. I’ve seen it⁠—I know I’ve seen it. It’ll come to me presently. Meanwhile, don’t let Brotherton⁠—”

“What?”

“Do whatever it is he’s going to do.”

“But what is it?”

“If I could tell you that I could show you the clue. Why couldn’t he make up his mind whether the bedroom door was open or shut? Very good story, but not quite thought out. Anyhow⁠—I say, doctor, make some excuse, and strip him, and bring me his clothes. And send Bunter to me.”

The doctor stared at him, puzzled. Then he made a gesture of acquiescence and passed into the bedroom. Lord Peter followed him, casting a ruminating glance at Brotherton as he went. Once in the sitting-room, Lord Peter sat down on a red velvet armchair, fixed his eyes on a gilt-framed oleograph, and became wrapped in contemplation.

Presently Bunter came in, with his arms full of clothing. Wimsey took it, and began to search it, methodically enough, but listlessly. Suddenly he dropped the garments, and turned to the manservant.

“No,” he said, “this is a precaution, Bunter mine, but I’m on the wrong tack. It wasn’t here I saw⁠—whatever I did see. It was in the kitchen. Now, what was it?”

“I could not say, my lord, but I entertain a conviction that I was also, in a manner of speaking, conscious⁠—not consciously conscious, my lord, if you understand me, but still conscious of an incongruity.”

“Hurray!” said Wimsey suddenly. “Cheer-oh! for the subconscious what’s-his-name! Now let’s remember the kitchen. I cleared out of it because I was gettin’ obfuscated. Now then. Begin at the door. Fryin’-pans and saucepans on the wall. Gas-stove⁠—oven goin’⁠—chicken inside. Rack of wooden spoons on the wall, gas-lighter, pan-lifter. Stop me when I’m gettin’ hot. Mantelpiece. Spice-boxes and stuff. Anything wrong with them? no. Dresser. Plates. Knives and forks⁠—all clean; flour dredger⁠—milk-jug⁠—sieve on the wall⁠—nutmeg-grater. Three-tier steamer. Looked inside⁠—no grisly secrets in the steamer.”

“Did you look in all the dresser drawers, my lord?”

“No. That could be done. But the point is, I did notice somethin’. What did I notice? That’s the point. Never mind. On with the dance⁠—let joy be unconfined! Knife-board. Knife-powder. Kitchen table. Did you speak?”

“No,” said Bunter, who had moved from his attitude of wooden deference.

“Table stirs a chord. Very good. On table. Choppin’-board. Remains of ham and herb stuffin’. Packet of suet. Another sieve. Several plates. Butter in a glass dish. Bowl of drippin’⁠—”

“Ah!”

“Drippin’⁠—! Yes, there was⁠—”

“Something unsatisfactory, my lord⁠—”

“About the drippin’! Oh, my head! What’s that they say in Dear Brutus, Bunter? ‘Hold on to the workbox.’ That’s right. Hold on to the drippin’. Beastly slimy stuff to hold on to⁠—Wait!”

There was a pause.

“When I was a kid,” said Wimsey, “I used to love to go down into the kitchen and talk to old cookie. Good old soul she was, too. I can see her now, gettin’ chicken ready, with me danglin’ my legs on the table. She used to pluck an’ draw ’em herself. I revelled in it. Little beasts boys are, ain’t they, Bunter? Pluck it, draw it, wash it, stuff it, tuck its little tail through its little what-you-may-call-it, truss it, grease the dish-Bunter?”

“My lord!”

“Hold on to the dripping!”

“The bowl, my lord⁠—”

“The bowl⁠—visualise it⁠—what was wrong?”

“It was full, my lord!”

“Got it⁠—got it⁠—got it! The bowl was full⁠—smooth surface. Golly! I knew there was something queer about it. Now why shouldn’t it be full? Hold on to the⁠—”

“The bird was in the oven.”

“Without dripping!”

“Very careless cookery, my lord.”

“The bird⁠—in the oven⁠—no dripping. Bunter! Suppose it was never put in till after she was dead? Thrust in hurriedly by someone who had something to hide⁠—horrible!”

“But with what object, my lord?”

“Yes, why? That’s the point. One more mental association with the bird. It’s just coming. Wait a moment. Pluck, draw, wash, stuff, tuck up, truss⁠—By God!”

“My lord?”

“Come on, Bunter. Thank Heaven we turned off the gas!”

He dashed through the bedroom, disregarding the doctor and the patient, who sat up with a smothered shriek. He flung open the oven door and snatched out the baking-tin. The skin of the bird had just begun to discolour. With a little gasp of triumph, Wimsey caught the iron ring that protruded from the wing, and jerked out⁠—the six-inch spiral skewer.

The doctor was struggling with the excited Brotherton in the doorway. Wimsey caught the man as he broke away, and shook him into the corner with a jiujitsu twist.

“Here is the weapon,” he said.

“Prove it, blast you!” said Brotherton savagely.

“I will,” said Wimsey. “Bunter, call in the policeman whom you will find at the door. Doctor, we shall need your microscope.”

In the laboratory the doctor bent over the microscope. A thin layer of blood from the skewer had been spread upon the slide.

“Well?” said Wimsey impatiently.

“It’s all right,” said Hartman. “The roasting didn’t get anywhere near the middle. My God, Wimsey, yes, you’re right⁠—round corpuscles, diameter ¹⁄₃₆₂₁⁠—mammalian blood⁠—probably human⁠—”

“Her blood,” said Wimsey.

“It was very clever, Bunter,” said Lord Peter, as the taxi trundled along the way to his flat in Piccadilly. “If that fowl had gone on roasting a bit longer the blood-corpuscles might easily have been destroyed beyond all hope of recognition. It all goes to show that the unpremeditated crime is usually the safest.”

“And what does your lordship take the man’s motive to have been?”