“Then they’ll have to lump it.”
“Well, all right. But, look here—I’ll do Gatti’s.”
“That won’t do. We want you to identify him at Charing Cross. The waiter or somebody can do the identifying at Gatti’s. You say they know him.”
“Yes, of course they do. But—”
“But what? — By the way, which waiter is it you spoke to. I had a talk with the head man there yesterday, and he didn’t seem to know anything about it.”
“No — it wasn’t the head waiter. One of the others. The plump, dark one.”
“All right. I’ll find the right one. Now, will you see to the Charing Cross end?”
“Of course — if you really think it’s any good.”
“Yes, I do. Right you are. I’ll get hold of the ’tec and send him along to you, and you can arrange with him.”
“Very well.”
“Cheerio!”
Lord Peter rang off and sat for a few moments, grinning to himself. Then he turned to Bunter.
“I don’t often prophesy, Bunter, but I’m going to do it now. Your fortune told by hand or cards. Beware of the dark stranger. That sort of thing.”
“Indeed, my lord?”
“Cross the gipsy’s palm with silver. I see Mr. Oliver. I see him taking a journey in which he will cross water. I see trouble. I see the ace of spades — upside-down, Bunter.”
“And what then, my lord?”
“Nothing. I look into the future and I see a blank. The gipsy has spoken.”
“I will bear it in mind, my lord.”
“Do. If my prediction is not fulfilled, I will give you a new camera. And now I’m going round to see that fellow who calls himself Sleuths Incorporated, and get him to put a good man on to keep watch at Charing Cross. And after that, I’m going down to Chelsea and I don’t quite know when I shall be back. You’d better take the afternoon off. Put me out some sandwiches or something, and don’t wait up if I’m late.”
Wimsey disposed quickly of his business with Sleuths Incorporated, and then made his way to a pleasant little studio overlooking the river at Chelsea.
The door, which bore a neat label “Miss Marjorie Phelps,” was opened by a pleasant-looking young woman with curly hair and a blue overall heavily smudged with clay.
“Lord Peter! How nice of you. Do come in.”
“Shan’t I be in the way?”
“Not a scrap. You don’t mind if I go on working.”
“Rather not.”
“You could put the kettle on and find some food if you liked to be really helpful. I just want to finish up this figure.”
“That’s fine. I took the liberty of bringing a pot of Hybla honey with me.”
“What sweet ideas you have! I really think you are one of the nicest people I know. You don’t talk rubbish about art, and you don’t want your hand held, and your mind always turns on eating and drinking.”
“Don’t speak too soon. I don’t want my hand held, but I did come here with an object.”
“Very sensible of you. Most people come without any.”
“And stay interminably.”
“They do.”
Miss Phelps cocked her head on one side and looked critically at the little dancing lady she was modelling. She had made a line of her own in pottery figurines, which sold well and were worth the money.
“That’s rather attractive,” said Wimsey.
“Rather pretty-pretty. But it’s a special order, and one can’t afford to be particular. I’ve done a Christmas present for you, by the way. You’d better have a look at it, and if you think it offensive we’ll smash it together. It’s in that cupboard.”
Wimsey opened the cupboard and extracted a little figure about nine inches high. It represented a young man in a flowing dressing-gown, absorbed in the study of a huge volume held on his knee. The portrait was life-like. He chuckled.
“It’s damned good, Marjorie. A very fine bit of modelling. I’d love to have it. You aren’t multiplying it too often, I hope? I mean, it won’t be on sale at Selfridges?”
“I’ll spare you that. I thought of giving one to your mother.”
“That’ll please her no end. Thanks ever so. I shall look forward to Christmas, for once. Shall I make some toast?”
“Rather!”
Wimsey squatted happily down before the gas-fire, while the modeller went on with her work. Tea and figurine were ready almost at the same moment, and Miss Phelps, flinging off her overall, threw herself luxuriously into a battered arm-chair by the hearth.
“And what can I do for you?”
“You can tell me all you know about Miss Ann Dorland.”
“Ann Dorland? Great heavens! You haven’t fallen for Ann Dorland, have you? I’ve heard she’s coming into a lot of money.”
“You have a perfectly disgusting mind, Miss Phelps. Have some more toast. Excuse me licking my fingers. I have not fallen for the lady. If I had, I’d manage my affairs without assistance. I haven’t even seen her. What’s she like?”
“To look at?”
“Among other things.”
“Well, she’s rather plain. She has dark, straight hair, cut in a bang across the forehead and bobbed — like a Flemish page. Her forehead is broad and she has a square sort of face and a straight nose — quite good. Also, her eyes are good — grey, with nice heavy eyebrows, not fashionable a bit. But she has a bad skin and rather sticky-out teeth. And she’s dumpy.”
“She’s a painter, isn’t she?”