Wimsey entered the taxi with all the dignity he could summon, and was taken to Lincoln’s Inn.
Mr. Pritchard was nearly as remote and snubbing in his manner as Miss Dorland. He kept Lord Peter waiting for twenty minutes and received him glacially, in the presence of a beady-eyed clerk.
“Oh, good morning,” said Wimsey, affably. “Excuse my callin’ on you like this. More regular to do it through Murbles, I s’pose — nice old boy, Murbles, isn’t he? But I always believe in goin’ as direct to the point as may be. Saves time, what?”
Mr. Pritchard bowed his head and asked how he might have the pleasure of serving his lordship.
“Well, it’s about this Fentiman business. Survivorship and all that. Nearly said survival. Appropriate, what? You might call the old General a survival, eh?”
Mr. Pritchard waited without moving.
“I take it Murbles told you I was lookin’ into the business, what? Tryin’ to check up on the timetable and all that?”
Mr. Pritchard said neither yea nor nay but placed his fingers together and sat patiently.
“It’s a bit of a problem, you know. Mind if I smoke? Have one yourself?”
“I am obliged to you, I never smoke in business hours.”
“Very proper. Much more impressive. Puts the wind up the clients, what? Well, now, I just thought I’d let you know that it’s likely to be a close-ish thing. Very difficult to tell to a minute or so, don’t you know. May turn out one way — may turn out the other — may turn completely bafflin’ and all that. You get me?”
“Indeed?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely. P’raps you’d like to hear how far I’ve got.” And Wimsey recounted the history of his researches at the Bellona, in so far as the evidence of the commissionaires and the hall-porter were concerned. He said nothing of his interview with Penberthy, nor of the odd circumstances connected with the unknown Oliver, confining himself to stressing the narrowness of the time-limits between which the General must be presumed to have arrived at the Club. Mr. Pritchard listened without comment. Then he said:
“And what, precisely, have you come to suggest?”
“Well, what I mean to say is, don’t you know, wouldn’t it be rather a good thing if the parties could be got to come to terms? Give and take, you see — split the doings and share the proceeds? After all, half a million’s a goodish bit of money — quite enough for three people to live on in a quiet way, don’t you think? And it would save an awful lot of trouble and — ahem — lawyers’ fees and things.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Pritchard. “I may say that I have been expecting this. A similar suggestion was made to me earlier by Mr. Murbles, and I then told him that my client preferred not to entertain the idea; you will permit me to add, Lord Peter, that the reiteration of this proposal by you, after your employment to investigate the facts of the case in the interests of the other party, has a highly suggestive appearance. You will excuse me, perhaps, if I warn you further that your whole course of conduct in this matter seems to me open to a very undesirable construction.”
Wimsey flushed.
“You will perhaps permit me, Mr. Pritchard, to inform you that I am not ‘employed’ by anybody. I have been requested by Mr. Murbles to ascertain the facts. They are rather difficult to ascertain, but I have learned one very important thing from you this afternoon. I am obliged to you for your assistance. Good morning.”
The beady-eyed clerk opened the door with immense politeness.
“Good morning,” said Mr. Pritchard.
“Employed, indeed,” muttered his lordship, wrathfully. “Undesirable construction. I’ll construct him. That old brute knows something, and if he knows something, that shows there’s something to be known. Perhaps he knows Oliver; shouldn’t wonder. Wish I’d thought to spring the name on him and see what he said. Too late now. Never mind, we’ll get Oliver. Bunter didn’t have any luck with those ’phone calls, apparently. I think I’d better get hold of Charles.”
He turned into the nearest telephone-booth and gave the number of Scotland Yard. Presently an official voice replied, of which Wimsey inquired whether Detective-Inspector Parker was available.
A series of clicks proclaimed that he was being put through to Mr. Parker, who presently said: “Hallo!”
“Hallo, Charles. This is Peter Wimsey. Look here, I want you to do something for me. It isn’t a criminal job, but it’s important. A man calling himself Oliver rang up a number in Mayfair at a little after nine on the night of November 10th. Do you think you could get that call traced for me?”
“Probably. What was the number?”
Wimsey gave it.
“Right you are, old chap. I’ll have it looked up and let you know. How goes it? Anything doing?”
“Yes — rather a cosy little problem — nothing for you people — as far as I know, that is. Come round one evening and I’ll tell you about it, unofficially.”
“Thanks very much. Not for a day or two, though. We’re run off our feet with this crate business.”
“Oh, I know — the gentleman who was sent from Sheffield to Euston in a crate disguised as York hams. Splendid. Work hard and you will be happy. No, thanks, my child, I don’t want another twopenn’orth — I’m spending the money on sweets. Cheerio, Charles!”
The rest of the day Wimsey was obliged to pass in idleness, so far as the Bellona Club affair was concerned. On the following morning he was rung up by Parker.
“I say — that ’phone-call you asked me to trace.”
“Yes?”
“It was put through at 9.13 p.m. from a public call-box at Charing Cross Underground Station.”
“Oh, hell! — the operator didn’t happen to notice the bloke, I suppose?”
“There isn’t an operator. It’s one of those automatic boxes.”
“Oh! — may the fellow who invented them fry in oil. Thanks frightfully, all the same. It gives us a line on the direction, anyhow.”
“Sorry I couldn’t do better for you. Cheerio!”
“Oh, cheer-damnably-ho!” retorted Wimsey, crossly, slamming the receiver down. “What is it, Bunter?”
“A district messenger, with a note, my lord.”
“Ah, — from Mr. Murbles. Good. This may be something. Yes. Tell the boy to wait, there’s an answer.” He scribbled quickly. “Mr. Murbles has got an answer to that cabman advertisement, Bunter. There are two men turning up at six o’clock, and I’m arranging to go down and interview them.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“Let’s hope that means we get a move on. Get me my hat and coat — I’m running round to Dover Street for a moment.”
Robert Fentiman was there when Wimsey called, and welcomed him heartily.
“Any progress?”
“Possibly a little this evening. I’ve got a line on those cabmen. I just came round to ask if you could let me have a specimen of old Fentiman’s fist.”
“Certainly. Pick what you like. He hasn’t left much about. Not exactly the pen of a ready writer. There are a few interesting notes of his early campaigns, but they’re rather antiques by this time.”
“I’d rather have something quite recent.”
“There’s a bundle of cancelled cheques here, if that would do.”