Chapter 2

He told me that Mr. Varden was coming to
stay with him before he went, and that he hoped to get him to pose for
a figure before he left. He said he'd never seen a man so perfectly
formed. 'I meant to get him to do it before,' he said, 'but war broke
out, and he went and joined the army before I had time to start.'

"He was lolling on that beastly couch of his at the time, and,
happening to look round at him, I caught such a nasty sort of glitter
in his eye that it gave me quite a turn. He was stroking the figure
over the neck and grinning at it.

"'None of your efforts in Sheffield-plate, I hope,' said I.

"'Well,' he said, 'I thought of making a kind of companion to this,
_The Sleeping Athlete_, you know, or something of that sort.'

"'You'd much better cast it,' I said. 'Why did you put the stuff on so
thick? It destroys the fine detail.'

"That annoyed him. He never liked to hear any objection made to that
work of art.

"'This was experimental,' he said. 'I mean the next to be a real
masterpiece. You'll see.'

"We'd got to about that point when the butler came in to ask should he
make up a bed for me, as it was such a bad night. We hadn't noticed
the weather particularly, though it had looked a bit threatening when
I started from New York. However, we now looked out, and saw that it
was coming down in sheets and torrents. It wouldn't have mattered, only
that I'd only brought a little open racing car and no overcoat, and
certainly the prospect of five miles in that downpour wasn't altogether
attractive. Loder urged me to stay, and I said I would.

"I was feeling a bit fagged, so I went to bed right off. Loder said he
wanted to do a bit of work in the studio first, and I saw him depart
along the corridor.

"You won't allow me to mention Providence, so I'll only say it was a
very remarkable thing that I should have woken up at two in the morning
to find myself lying in a pool of water. The man had stuck a hot-water
bottle into the bed, because it hadn't been used just lately, and the
beastly thing had gone and unstoppered itself. I lay awake for ten
minutes in the deeps of damp misery before I had sufficient strength of
mind to investigate. Then I found it was hopeless--sheets, blankets,
mattress, all soaked. I looked at the arm-chair, and then I had a
brilliant idea. I remembered there was a lovely great divan in the
studio, with a big skin rug and a pile of cushions. Why not finish the
night there? I took the little electric torch which always goes about
with me, and started off.

"The studio was empty, so I supposed Loder had finished and trotted off
to roost. The divan was there, all right, with a screen drawn partly
across it, so I rolled myself up under the rug and prepared to snooze
off.

"I was just getting beautifully sleepy again when I heard footsteps,
not in the passage, but apparently on the other side of the room. I
was surprised, because I didn't know there was any way out in that
direction. I lay low, and presently I saw a streak of light appear from
the cupboard where Loder kept his tools and things. The streak widened,
and Loder emerged, carrying an electric torch. He closed the cupboard
door very gently after him, and padded across the studio. He stopped
before the easel and uncovered it; I could see him through a crack in
the screen. He stood for some minutes gazing at a sketch on the easel,
and then gave one of the nastiest gurgly laughs I've ever had the
pleasure of hearing. If I'd ever seriously thought of announcing my
unauthorised presence, I abandoned all idea of it then. Presently he
covered the easel again, and went out by the door at which I had come
in.

"I waited till I was sure he had gone, and then got up--uncommonly
quietly, I may say. I tiptoed over to the easel to see what the
fascinating work of art was. I saw at once it was the design for the
figure of _The Sleeping Athlete_, and as I looked at it I felt a sort
of horrid conviction stealing over me. It was an idea which seemed to
begin in my stomach, and work its way up to the roots of my hair.

"My family say I'm too inquisitive. I can only say that wild horses
wouldn't have kept me from investigating that cupboard. With the
feeling that something absolutely vile might hop out at me--I was a bit
wrought up, and it was a rotten time of night--I put a heroic hand on
the door knob.

"To my astonishment, the thing wasn't even locked. It opened at once,
to show a range of perfectly innocent and orderly shelves, which
couldn't possibly have held Loder.

"My blood was up, you know, by this time, so I hunted round for
the spring-lock which I knew must exist, and found it without much
difficulty. The back of the cupboard swung noiselessly inwards, and I
found myself at the top of a narrow flight of stairs.

"I had the sense to stop and see that the door could be opened from
the inside before I went any farther, and I also selected a good stout
pestle which I found on the shelves as a weapon in case of accident.
Then I closed the door and tripped with elf-like lightness down that
jolly old staircase.

"There was another door at the bottom, but it didn't take me long to
fathom the secret of that. Feeling frightfully excited, I threw it
boldly open, with the pestle ready for action.

"However, the room seemed to be empty. My torch caught the gleam of
something liquid, and then I found the wall-switch.

"I saw a biggish square room, fitted up as a workshop. On the
right-hand wall was a big switchboard, with a bench beneath it. From
the middle of the ceiling hung a great flood-light, illuminating a
glass vat, fully seven feet long by about three wide. I turned on the
flood-light, and looked down into the vat. It was filled with a dark
brown liquid which I recognised as the usual compound of cyanide and
copper-sulphate which they use for copper-plating.

"The rods hung over it with their hooks all empty, but there was a
packing-case half-opened at one side of the room, and, pulling the
covering aside, I could see rows of copper anodes--enough of them to
put a plating over a quarter of an inch thick on a life-size figure.
There was a smaller case, still nailed up, which from its weight and
appearance I guessed to contain the silver for the rest of the process.
There was something else I was looking for, and I soon found it--a
considerable quantity of prepared graphite and a big jar of varnish.

"Of course, there was no evidence, really, of anything being on the
cross. There was no reason why Loder shouldn't make a plaster cast and
Sheffield-plate it if he had a fancy for that kind of thing. But then I
found something that _couldn't_ have come there legitimately.

"On the bench was an oval slab of copper about an inch and a half
long--Loder's night's work, I guessed. It was an electrotype of
the American Consular seal, the thing they stamp on your passport
photograph to keep you from hiking it off and substituting the picture
of your friend Mr. Jiggs, who would like to get out of the country
because he is so popular with Scotland Yard.

"I sat down on Loder's stool, and worked out that pretty little plot in
all its details. I could see it all turned on three things. First of
all, I must find out if Varden was proposing to make tracks shortly for
Australia, because, if he wasn't, it threw all my beautiful theories
out. And, secondly, it would help matters greatly if he happened to
have dark hair like Loder's, as he has, you see--near enough, anyway,
to fit the description on a passport. I'd only seen him in that Apollo
Belvedere thing, with a fair wig on. But I knew if I hung about I
should see him presently when he came to stay with Loder. And, thirdly,
of course, I had to discover if Loder was likely to have any grounds
for a grudge against Varden.

"Well, I figured out I'd stayed down in that room about as long as
was healthy. Loder might come back at any moment, and I didn't forget
that a vatful of copper sulphate and cyanide of potassium would be
a highly handy means of getting rid of a too-inquisitive guest. And
I can't say I had any great fancy for figuring as part of Loder's
domestic furniture. I've always hated things made in the shape of
things--volumes of Dickens that turn out to be a biscuit-tin, and
dodges like that; and, though I take no overwhelming interest in my own
funeral, I should like it to be in good taste. I went so far as to wipe
away any finger-marks I might have left behind me, and then I went back
to the studio and rearranged that divan. I didn't feel Loder would care
to think I'd been down there.

"There was just one other thing I felt inquisitive about. I tiptoed
back through the hall and into the smoking-room. The silver couch
glimmered in the light of the torch. I felt I disliked it fifty times
more than ever before. However, I pulled myself together and took a
careful look at the feet of the figure. I'd heard all about that second
toe of Maria Morano's.

"I passed the rest of the night in the arm-chair after all.

"What with Mrs. Bilt's job and one thing and another, and the enquiries
I had to make, I had to put off my interference in Loder's little game
till rather late. I found out that Varden had been staying with Loder a
few months before the beautiful Maria Morano had vanished. I'm afraid I
was rather stupid about that, Mr. Varden. I thought perhaps there _had_
been something."

"Don't apologise," said Varden, with a little laugh. "Cinema actors are
notoriously immoral."

"Why rub it in?" said Wimsey, a trifle hurt. "I apologise. Anyway,
it came to the same thing as far as Loder was concerned. Then there
was one bit of evidence I had to get to be absolutely certain.
Electro-plating--especially such a ticklish job as the one I had in
mind--wasn't a job that could be finished in a night; on the other
hand, it seemed necessary that Mr. Varden should be seen alive in New
York up to the day he was scheduled to depart. It was also clear that
Loder meant to be able to prove that a Mr. Varden had left New York
all right, according to plan, and had actually arrived in Sydney.
Accordingly, a false Mr. Varden was to depart with Varden's papers
and Varden's passport, furnished with a new photograph duly stamped
with the Consular stamp, and to disappear quietly at Sydney and be
retransformed into Mr. Eric Loder, travelling with a perfectly regular
passport of his own. Well, then, in that case, obviously a cablegram
would have to be sent off to Mystofilms Ltd., warning them to expect
Varden by a later boat than he had arranged. I handed over this part
of the job to my man, Bunter, who is uncommonly capable. The devoted
fellow shadowed Loder faithfully for getting on for three weeks, and at
length, the very day before Mr. Varden was due to depart, the cablegram
was sent from an office in Broadway, where, by a happy providence (once
more) they supply extremely hard pencils."

"By Jove!" cried Varden, "I remember now being told something about
a cablegram when I got out, but I never connected it with Loder. I
thought it was just some stupidity of the Western Electric people."

"Quite so. Well, as soon as I'd got that, I popped along to Loder's
with a picklock in one pocket and an automatic in the other. The good
Bunter went with me, and, if I didn't return by a certain time, had
orders to telephone for the police. So you see everything was pretty
well covered. Bunter was the chauffeur who was waiting for you, Mr.
Varden, but you turned suspicious--I don't blame you altogether--so all
we could do was to forward your luggage along to the train.

"On the way out we met the Loder servants _en route_ for New York in a
car, which showed us that we were on the right track, and also that I
was going to have a fairly simple job of it.

"You've heard all about my interview with Mr. Varden. I really don't
think I could improve upon his account. When I'd seen him and his traps
safely off the premises, I made for the studio. It was empty, so I
opened the secret door, and, as I expected, saw a line of light under
the workshop door at the far end of the passage."

"So Loder was there all the time?"

"Of course he was. I took my little pop-gun tight in my fist and
opened the door very gently. Loder was standing between the tank and
the switchboard, very busy indeed--so busy he didn't hear me come in.
His hands were black with graphite, a big heap of which was spread on
a sheet on the floor, and he was engaged with a long, springy coil
of copper wire, running to the output of the transformer. The big
packing-case had been opened, and all the hooks were occupied.

"'Loder!' I said.

"He turned on me with a face like nothing human. 'Wimsey!' he shouted,
'what the hell are you doing here?'

"'I have come,' I said, 'to tell you that I know how the apple gets
into the dumpling.' And I showed him the automatic.

"He gave a great yell and dashed at the switchboard, turning out the
light, so that I could not see to aim. I heard him leap at me--and then
there came in the darkness a crash and a splash--and a shriek such as I
never heard--not in five years of war--and never want to hear again.

"I groped forward for the switchboard. Of course, I turned on
everything before I could lay my hand on the light, but I got it at
last--a great white glare from the flood-light over the vat.

"He lay there, still twitching faintly. Cyanide, you see, is about the
swiftest and painfullest thing out. Before I could move to do anything,
I knew he was dead--poisoned and drowned and dead. The coil of wire
that had tripped him had gone into the vat with him. Without thinking,
I touched it, and got a shock that pretty well staggered me. Then I
realised that I must have turned on the current when I was hunting for
the light. I looked into the vat again. As he fell, his dying hands
had clutched at the wire. The coils were tight round his fingers, and
the current was methodically depositing a film of copper all over his
hands, which were blackened with the graphite.

"I had just sense enough to realise that Loder was dead, and that it
might be a nasty sort of look-out for me if the thing came out, for I'd
certainly gone along to threaten him with a pistol.

"I searched about till I found some solder and an iron. Then I went
upstairs and called in Bunter, who had done his ten miles in record
time. We went into the smoking-room and soldered the arm of that
cursed figure into place again, as well as we could, and then we took
everything back into the workshop. We cleaned off every finger-print
and removed every trace of our presence. We left the light and the
switchboard as they were, and returned to New York by an extremely
round-about route. The only thing we brought away with us was the
facsimile of the Consular seal, and that we threw into the river.

"Loder was found by the butler next morning. We read in the papers
how he had fallen into the vat when engaged on some experiments in
electro-plating. The ghastly fact was commented upon that the dead
man's hands were thickly coppered over. They couldn't get it off
without irreverent violence, so he was buried like that.

"That's all. Please, Armstrong, may I have my whisky-and-soda now?"

"What happened to the couch?" enquired Smith-Hartington presently.

"I bought it in at the sale of Loder's things," said Wimsey, "and got
hold of a dear old Catholic priest I knew, to whom I told the whole
story under strict vow of secrecy. He was a very sensible and feeling
old bird; so one moonlight night Bunter and I carried the thing out in
the car to his own little church, some miles out of the city, and gave
it Christian burial in a corner of the graveyard. It seemed the best
thing to do."

THE ENTERTAINING EPISODE OF THE ARTICLE IN QUESTION

The unprofessional detective career of Lord Peter Wimsey was regulated
(though the word has no particular propriety in this connection) by a
persistent and undignified inquisitiveness. The habit of asking silly
questions--natural, though irritating, in the immature male--remained
with him long after his immaculate man, Bunter, had become attached
to his service to shave the bristles from his chin and see to the due
purchase and housing of Napoleon brandies and Villar y Villar cigars.
At the age of thirty-two his sister Mary christened him Elephant's
Child. It was his idiotic enquiries (before his brother, the Duke of
Denver, who grew scarlet with mortification) as to what the Woolsack
was really stuffed with that led the then Lord Chancellor idly to
investigate the article in question, and to discover, tucked deep
within its recesses, that famous diamond necklace of the Marchioness
of Writtle, which had disappeared on the day Parliament was opened and
been safely secreted by one of the cleaners. It was by a continual and
personal badgering of the Chief Engineer at 2LO on the question of "Why
is Oscillation and How is it Done?" that his lordship incidentally
unmasked the great Ploffsky gang of Anarchist conspirators, who were
accustomed to converse in code by a methodical system of howls,
superimposed (to the great annoyance of listeners in British and
European stations) upon the London wave-length and duly relayed by 5XX
over a radius of some five or six hundred miles. He annoyed persons of
more leisure than decorum by suddenly taking into his head to descend
to the Underground by way of the stairs, though the only exciting
things he ever actually found there were the bloodstained boots of the
Sloane Square murderer; on the other hand, when the drains were taken
up at Glegg's Folly, it was by hanging about and hindering the plumbers
at their job that he accidentally made the discovery which hanged that
detestable poisoner, William Girdlestone Chitty.

Accordingly, it was with no surprise at all that the reliable Bunter,
one April morning, received the announcement of an abrupt change of
plan.

They had arrived at the Gare St. Lazare in good time to register
the luggage. Their three months' trip to Italy had been purely for
enjoyment, and had been followed by a pleasant fortnight in Paris. They
were now intending to pay a short visit to the Duc de Sainte-Croix in
Rouen on their way back to England. Lord Peter paced the Salle des Pas
Perdus for some time, buying an illustrated paper or two and eyeing
the crowd. He bent an appreciative eye on a slim, shingled creature
with the face of a Paris _gamin_, but was forced to admit to himself
that her ankles were a trifle on the thick side; he assisted an elderly
lady who was explaining to the bookstall clerk that she wanted a map of
Paris and not a _carte postale_, consumed a quick cognac at one of the
little green tables at the far end, and then decided he had better go
down and see how Bunter was getting on.

In half an hour Bunter and his porter had worked themselves up to
the second place in the enormous queue--for, as usual, one of the
weighing-machines was out of order. In front of them stood an agitated
little group--the young woman Lord Peter had noticed in the Salle des
Pas Perdus, a sallow-faced man of about thirty, their porter, and the
registration official, who was peering eagerly through his little
_guichet_.

"Mais je te répète que je ne les ai pas," said the sallow man heatedly.
"Voyons, voyons. C'est bien toi qui les as pris, n'est-ce-pas? Eh bien,
alors, comment veux-tu que je les aie, moi?"

"Mais non, mais non, je te les ai bien donnés là-haut, avant d'aller
chercher les journaux."

"Je t'assure que non. Enfin, c'est évident! J'ai cherché partout, que
diable! Tu ne m'as rien donné, du tout, du tout."

"Mais puisque je t'ai dit d'aller faire enrégistrer les bagages! Ne
faut-il pas que je t'aie bien remis les billets? Me prends-tu pour un
imbécile? Va! On n'est pas dépourvu de sens! Mais regarde l'heure! Le
train part à 11 h. 20 m. Cherche un peu, au moins."

"Mais puisque j'ai cherché partout--le gilet, rien! Le jacquet rien,
rien! Le pardessus--rien! rien! rien! C'est toi----"

Here the porter, urged by the frantic cries and stamping of the queue,
and the repeated insults of Lord Peter's porter, flung himself into the
discussion.

"P't-être qu' m'sieur a bouté les billets dans son pantalon," he
suggested.

"Triple idiot!" snapped the traveller, "je vous le demande--est-ce
qu'on a jamais entendu parler de mettre des billets dans son pantalon?
Jamais----"

The French porter is a Republican, and, moreover, extremely ill-paid.
The large tolerance of his English colleague is not for him.

"Ah!" said he, dropping two heavy bags and looking round for moral
support. "Vous dîtes? En voila du joli! Allons, mon p'tit, ce n'est pas
parce qu'on porte un faux col qu'on a le droit d'insulter les gens."

The discussion might have become a full-blown row, had not the young
man suddenly discovered the missing tickets--incidentally, they were in
his trousers-pocket after all--and continued the registration of his
luggage, to the undisguised satisfaction of the crowd.

"Bunter," said his lordship, who had turned his back on the group and
was lighting a cigarette, "I am going to change the tickets. We shall
go straight on to London. Have you got that snapshot affair of yours
with you?"

"Yes, my lord."

"The one you can work from your pocket without anyone noticing?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Get me a picture of those two."

"Yes, my lord."

"I will see to the luggage. Wire to the Duc that I am unexpectedly
called home."

"Very good, my lord."

Lord Peter did not allude to the matter again till Bunter was putting
his trousers in the press in their cabin on board the _Normannia_.
Beyond ascertaining that the young man and woman who had aroused
his curiosity were on the boat as second-class passengers, he had
sedulously avoided contact with them.

"Did you get that photograph?"

"I hope so, my lord. As your lordship knows, the aim from the
breast-pocket tends to be unreliable. I have made three attempts, and
trust that one at least may prove to be not unsuccessful."

"How soon can you develop them?"

"At once, if your lordship pleases. I have all the materials in my suit
case."

"What fun!" said Lord Peter, eagerly tying himself into a pair of mauve
silk pyjamas. "May I hold the bottles and things?"

Mr. Bunter poured 3 ounces of water into an 8-ounce measure, and handed
his master a glass rod and a minute packet.

"If your lordship would be so good as to stir the contents of the white
packet slowly into the water," he said, bolting the door, "and, when
dissolved, add the contents of the blue packet."

"Just like a Seidlitz powder," said his lordship happily. "Does it
fizz?"

"Not much, my lord," replied the expert, shaking a quantity of hypo
crystals into the hand-basin.

"That's a pity," said Lord Peter. "I say, Bunter, it's no end of a bore
to dissolve."

"Yes, my lord," returned Bunter sedately. "I have always found that
part of the process exceptionally tedious, my lord."

Lord Peter jabbed viciously with the glass rod.

"Just you wait," he said, in a vindictive tone, "till we get to
Waterloo."

* * * * *

Three days later Lord Peter Wimsey sat in his book-lined sitting-room
at 110A Piccadilly. The tall bunches of daffodils on the table
smiled in the spring sunshine, and nodded to the breeze which danced
in from the open window. The door opened, and his lordship glanced up
from a handsome edition of the Contes de la Fontaine, whose handsome
hand-coloured Fragonard plates he was examining with the aid of a lens.

"Morning, Bunter. Anything doing?"

"I have ascertained, my lord, that the young person in question has
entered the service of the elder Duchess of Medway. Her name is
Célestine Berger."

"You are less accurate than usual, Bunter. Nobody off the stage is
called Célestine. You should say 'under the name of Célestine Berger.'
And the man?"

"He is domiciled at this address in Guilford Street, Bloomsbury, my
lord."

"Excellent, my Bunter. Now give me _Who's Who_. Was it a very tiresome
job?"

"Not exceptionally so, my lord."

"One of these days I suppose I shall give you something to do which you
_will_ jib at," said his lordship, "and you will leave me and I shall
cut my throat. Thanks. Run away and play. I shall lunch at the club."

The book which Bunter had handed his employer indeed bore the words
_Who's Who_ engrossed upon its cover, but it was to be found in no
public library and in no bookseller's shop. It was a bulky manuscript,
closely filled, in part with the small print-like handwriting of Mr.
Bunter, in part with Lord Peter's neat and altogether illegible hand.
It contained biographies of the most unexpected people, and the most
unexpected facts about the most obvious people. Lord Peter turned to
a very long entry under the name of the Dowager Duchess of Medway. It
appeared to make satisfactory reading, for after a time he smiled,
closed the book, and went to the telephone.

"Yes--this is the Duchess of Medway. Who is it?"

The deep, harsh old voice pleased Lord Peter. He could see the
imperious face and upright figure of what had been the most famous
beauty in the London of the 'sixties.

"It's Peter Wimsey, duchess."

"Indeed, and how do you do, young man? Back from your Continental
jaunting?"

"Just home--and longing to lay my devotion at the feet of the most
fascinating lady in England."

"God bless my soul, child, what do you want?" demanded the duchess.
"Boys like you don't flatter an old woman for nothing."

"I want to tell you my sins, duchess."

"You should have lived in the great days," said the voice
appreciatively. "Your talents are wasted on the young fry."

"That is why I want to talk to you, duchess."

"Well, my dear, if you've committed any sins worth hearing I shall
enjoy your visit."

"You are as exquisite in kindness as in charm. I am coming this
afternoon."

"I will be at home to you and to no one else. There."

"Dear lady, I kiss your hands," said Lord Peter, and he heard a deep
chuckle as the duchess rang off.

* * * * *

"You may say what you like, duchess," said Lord Peter from his
reverential position on the fender-stool, "but you are the youngest
grandmother in London, not excepting my own mother."

"Dear Honoria is the merest child," said the duchess. "I have twenty
years more experience of life, and have arrived at the age when we
boast of them. I have every intention of being a great-grandmother
before I die. Sylvia is being married in a fortnight's time, to that
stupid son of Attenbury's."

"Abcock?"

"Yes. He keeps the worst hunters I ever saw, and doesn't know still
champagne from sauterne. But Sylvia is stupid, too, poor child, so I
dare say they will get on charmingly. In my day one had to have either
brains or beauty to get on--preferably both. Nowadays nothing seems to
be required but a total lack of figure. But all the sense went out of
society with the House of Lords' veto. I except you, Peter. You have
talents. It is a pity you do not employ them in politics."

"Dear lady, God forbid."

"Perhaps you are right, as things are. There were giants in my day.
Dear Dizzy. I remember so well, when his wife died, how hard we all
tried to get him--Medway had died the year before--but he was wrapped
up in that stupid Bradford woman, who had never even read a line of one
of his books, and couldn't have understood 'em if she had. And now we
have Abcock standing for Midhurst, and married to Sylvia!"

"You haven't invited me to the wedding, duchess dear. I'm so hurt,"
sighed his lordship.

"Bless you, child, _I_ didn't send out the invitations, but I suppose
your brother and that tiresome wife of his will be there.