“But naturally, this Oliver fellow would see to all that. Did the General have a fountain pen?”
“No, my lord; He did very little writing, my lord. I was accustomed to write any necessary letters to tradesmen, and so on.”
“What sort of nib did he use, when he did write?”
“A ‘J’ pen, my lord. You will find it in the sitting-room. But mostly I believe he wrote his letters at the Club. He had a very small private correspondence — it might be a letter or so to the Bank or to his man of business, my lord.”
“I see. Have you his chequebook?”
“Major Fentiman has it, my lord.”
“Do you remember whether the General had it with him when he last went out?”
“No, my lord. It was kept in his writing-desk as a rule. He would write the cheques for the household here, my lord, and give them to me. Or occasionally he might take the book down to the Club with him.”
“Ah! well, it doesn’t look as though the mysterious Mr. Oliver was one of those undesirable blokes who demand money. Right you are, Woodward. You’re perfectly certain that you removed nothing whatever from those clothes except what was in the pockets?”
“I am quite positive of that, my lord.”
“That’s very odd,” said Wimsey, half to himself. “I’m not sure that it isn’t the oddest thing about the case.”
“Indeed, my lord? Might I ask why?”
“Why,” said Wimsey, “I should have expected—” he checked himself. Major Fentiman was looking in at the door.
“What’s odd, Wimsey?”
“Oh, just a little thing struck me,” said Wimsey, vaguely. “I expected to find something among those clothes which isn’t there. That’s all.”
“Impenetrable sleuth,” said the major, laughing. “What are you driving at?”
“Work it out for yourself, my dear Watson,” said his lordship, grinning like a dog. “You have all the data. Work it out for yourself, and let me know the answer.”
Woodward, a trifle pained by this levity, gathered up the garments and put them away in the wardrobe.
“How’s Bunter getting on with those calls?”
“No luck, at present.”
“Oh! — well, he’d better come in now and do some photographs. We can finish the telephoning at home. Bunter! — Oh, and, I say, Woodward — d’you mind if we take your finger-prints? ”
“Fingerprints, my lord?”
“Good God, you’re not trying to fasten anything on Woodward?”
“Fasten what?”
“Well — I mean, I thought it was only burglars and people who had fingerprints taken.”
“Not exactly. No — I want the General’s fingerprints, really, to compare them with some others I got at the Club. There’s a very fine set on that walking-stick of his, and I want Woodward’s, just to make sure I’m not getting the two sets mixed up. I’d better take yours, too. It’s just possible you might have handled the stick without noticing.”
“Oh, I get you, Steve. I don’t think I’ve touched the thing, but it’s as well to make sure, as you say. Funny sort of business, what? Quite the Scotland Yard touch. How d’you do it?”
“Bunter will show you.”
Bunter immediately produced a small inking-pad and roller, and a number of sheets of smooth, white paper. The fingers of the two candidates were carefully wiped with a clean cloth, and pressed first on the pad and then on the paper. The impressions thus obtained were labelled and put away in envelopes, after which the handle of the walking-stick was lightly dusted with grey powder, bringing to light an excellent set of prints of a right-hand set of fingers, superimposed here and there, but quite identifiable. Fentiman and Woodward gazed fascinated at this entertaining miracle.
“Are they all right?”
“Perfectly so, sir; they are quite unlike either of the other two specimens.”
“Then presumably they’re the General’s. Hurry up and get a negative.”
Bunter set up the camera and focussed it.
“Unless,” observed Major Fentiman, “they are Mr. Oliver’s. That would be a good joke, wouldn’t it?”
“It would, indeed,” said Wimsey, a little taken aback. “A very good joke — on somebody. And for the moment, Fentiman, I’m not sure which of us would do the laughing.”
Chapter VII
The Curse of Scotland
What with telephone calls and the development of photographs, it appeared obvious that Bunter was booked for a busy afternoon. His master, therefore, considerately left him in possession of the flat in Piccadilly, and walked abroad to divert himself in his own peculiar way.
His first visit was to one of those offices which undertake to distribute advertisements to the press. Here he drew up an advertisement addressed to taxi-drivers and arranged for it to appear, at the earliest possible date, in all the papers which men of that profession might be expected to read. Three drivers were requested to communicate with Mr. J. Murbles, Solicitor, of Staple Inn, who would recompense them amply for their time and trouble. First: any driver who remembered taking up an aged gentleman from Lady Dormer’s house in Portman Square or the near vicinity on the afternoon of November 10th. Secondly: any driver who recollected taking up an aged gentleman at or near Dr. Penberthy’s house in Harley Street at some time in the afternoon or evening of November 10th. And thirdly: any driver who had deposited a similarly aged gentleman at the door of the Bellona Club between 10 and 12.30 in the morning of November 11th.
“Though probably,” thought Wimsey, as he footed the bill for the insertions, to run for three days unless cancelled, “Oliver had a car and ran the old boy up himself. Still, it’s just worth trying.”
He had a parcel under his arm, and his next proceeding was to hail a cab and drive to the residence of Sir James Lubbock, the well-known analyst. Sir James was fortunately at home and delighted to see Lord Peter. He was a square-built man, with a reddish face and strongly-curling grey hair, and received his visitor in his laboratory, where he was occupied in superintending a Marsh’s test for arsenic.
“D’ye mind just taking a pew for a moment, while I finish this off?”
Wimsey took the pew and watched, interested, the flame from the Bunsen burner playing steadily upon the glass tube, and the dark brown deposit slowly forming and deepening at the narrow end. From time to time, the analyst poured down the thistle-funnel a small quantity of a highly disagreeable-looking liquid from a stoppered phial; once his assistant came forward to add a few more drops of what Wimsey knew must be hydrochloric acid. Presently, the disagreeable liquid having all been transferred to the flask, and the deposit having deepened almost to black at its densest part, the tube was detached and taken away, and the burner extinguished, and Sir James Lubbock, after writing and signing a brief note, turned round and greeted Wimsey cordially.
“Sure I am not interrupting you, Lubbock?”
“Not a scrap. We’ve just finished. That was the last mirror. We shall be ready in good time for our appearance in Court. Not that there’s much doubt about it. Enough of the stuff to kill an elephant. Considering the obliging care we take in criminal prosecutions to inform the public at large that two or three grains of arsenic will successfully account for an unpopular individual, however tough, it’s surprising how wasteful people are with their drugs. You can’t teach ’em. An office-boy who was as incompetent as the average murderer would be sacked with a kick in the bottom. Well, now! and what’s your little trouble?”
“A small matter,” said Wimsey, unrolling his parcel and producing General Fentiman’s left boot, “it’s cheek to come to you about it. But I want very much to know what this is, and as it’s strictly a private matter, I took the liberty of bargin’ round to you in a friendly way. Just along the inside of the sole, there — on the edge.”
“Blood?” suggested the analyst, grinning.
“Well, no — sorry to disappoint you. More like paint, I fancy.”
Sir James looked closely at the deposit with a powerful lens.