Whose Body?

Mr. Parker groaned.

«Will you at least take Bunter?» he said.

«In deference to your feelings,» replied Lord Peter, «I will take Bunter, though he could be far more usefully employed taking photographs or overhauling my wardrobe. When is there a good train to Salisbury, Bunter?»

«There is an excellent train at 10:50, my lord.»

«Kindly make arrangements to catch it,» said Lord Peter, throwing off his bathrobe and trailing away with it into his bedroom. «And Parker — if you have nothing else to do you might get hold of Levy's secretary and look into that little matter of the Peruvian oil.»

Lord Peter took with him, for light reading in the train, Sir Reuben Levy's diary. It was a simple, and in the light of recent facts, rather a pathetic document. The terrible fighter of the Stock Exchange, who could with one nod set the surly bear dancing, or bring the savage bull to feed out of his hand, whose breath devastated whole districts with famine or swept financial potentates from their seats, was revealed in private life as kindly, domestic, i

There was the evidence that Milligan had been in that house. There had been a formal entertainment — a meeting as of two duellists shaking hands before the fight. Skriner was a well-known picture-dealer; Lord Peter imagined an after-di

Lord Peter shook his head over the diary, and turned to the consideration of the Battersea Park mystery. Whereas in the Levy affair it was easy enough to supply a motive for the crime, if crime it were, and the difficulty was to discover the method of its carrying out and the whereabouts of the victim, in the other case the chief obstacle to enquiry was the entire absence of any imaginable motive. It was odd that, although the papers had carried news of the affair from one end of the country to the other and a description of the body had been sent to every police station in the country, nobody had as yet come forward to identify the mysterious occupant of Mr. Thipps's bath. It was true that the description, which mentioned the clean-shaven chin, elegantly cut hair and the pince-nez, was rather misleading but on the other hand, the police had managed to discover the number of molars missing, and the height, complexion and other data were correctly enough stated, as also the date at which death had presumably occurred. It seemed, however, as though the man had melted out of society without leaving a gap or so much as a ripple. Assigning a motive for the murder of a person without relations or antecedents or even clothes is like trying to visualize the fourth dimension — admirable exercise for the imagination, but arduous and inconclusive. Even if the day's interview should disclose black spots in the past or present of Mr. Crimplesham, how were they to be brought into co

«Bunter,» said Lord Peter, «I beg that in the future you will restrain me from starting two hares at once. These cases are gettin' to be a strain on my constitution. One hare has nowhere to run from, and the other has nowhere to run to. It's a kind of mental D.T., Bunter. When this is over I shall turn pussyfoot, forswear the police news, and take to an emollient diet of the works of the late Charles Garvice.»

It was its comparative proximity to Milford Hill that induced Lord Peter to lunch at the Minster Hotel rather than at the White Hart or some other more picturesquely situated hostel. It was not a lunch calculated to cheer his mind; as in all Cathedral cities, the atmosphere of the Close pervades every nook and corner of Salisbury, and no food in that city but seems faintly flavoured with prayer-books. As he sat sadly consuming that impassive pale substance known to the English as «cheese» unqualified (for there are cheeses which go openly by their names, as Stilton, Camembert, Gruyere, Wensleydale or Gorgonzola, but «cheese» is cheese and everywhere the same), he enquired of the waiter the whereabouts of Mr. Crimplesham's office.

The waiter directed him to a house rather further up the street on the opposite side, adding, «But anybody'll tell you, sir; Mr. Crimplesham's very well known hereabouts.»

«He's a good solicitor, I suppose?» said Lord Peter.

«Oh, yes, sir,» said the waiter, «you couldn't do better than trust to Mr. Crimplesham, sir. There's folk say he's old-fashioned, but I'd rather have my little bits of business done by Mr. Crimplesham than by one of these fly-away young men. Not but what Mr. Crimplesham'll be retiring soon, sir, I don't doubt, for he must be close on eighty, sir, if he's a day, but then there's young Mr. Wicks to carry on the business, and he's a very nice, steady-like young gentleman.»

«Is Mr. Crimplesham really as old as that?» said Lord Peter. «Dear me! He must be very active for his years. A friend of mine was doing business with him in town last week.»

«Wonderful active, sir,» agreed the waiter, «and with his game leg, too, you'd be surprised. But there, sir, I often think, when a man's once past a certain age, the older he grows the tougher he gets, and women the same or more so.»

«Very likely,» said Lord Peter, calling up and dismissing the mental picture of a gentleman of eighty with a game leg carrying a dead body over the roof of a Battersea flat at midnight. «“He's tough, sir, tough, is old Joey Bagstock, tough and devilish sly”», he added, thoughtlessly.

«Indeed, sir?» said the waiter. «I couldn't say, I'm sure.»

«I beg your pardon,» said Lord Peter, «I was quoting poetry. Very silly of me. I got the habit at my mother's knee and I can't break myself of it.»

«No, sir,» said the waiter, pocketing a liberal tip. «Thank you very much, sir. You'll find the house easy. Just afore you come to Pe