“You won’t,” said Waffles Newton “At least, you’ll have to be jolly quick.”
“Why?”
Newton waved an apologetic hand.
“They’re being married to-morrow,” he said, “special licence. I say, that’s not to go further, Sally.”
“That’s all right, old man.”
“Married?” said Parker. “Good lord! that forces our hand a bit. Perhaps I’d better pop off. So long — and thanks very much for the tip, old man.”
Wimsey followed him into the street.
“We’ll have to put the stopper on this marriage business, quick,” said Parker, madly waving to a taxi, which swooped past and ignored him. “I didn’t want to move just at present, because I wasn’t ready, but it’ll be the devil and all if the Rushworth girl gets hitched up to Penberthy and we can’t take her evidence. Devil of it is, if she’s determined to go on with it, we can’t stop it without arresting Penberthy. Very dangerous, when there’s no real proof. I think we’d better have him down to the Yard for interrogation and detain him.”
“Yes,” said Wimsey. “But — look here, Charles.”
A taxi drew up.
“What?” said Parker, sharply, with his foot on the step. “I can’t wait, old man. What is it?”
“I — look here, Charles — this is all wrong,” pleaded Wimsey. “You may have got the right solution, but the working of the sum’s all wrong. Same as mine used to be at school, when I’d looked up the answer in the crib and had to fudge in the middle part. I’ve been a fool. I ought to have known about Penberthy. But I don’t believe this story about bribing and corrupting him, and getting him to do the murder. It doesn’t fit.”
“Doesn’t fit what?”
“Doesn’t fit the portrait. Or the books. Or the way Nurse Armstrong described Ann Dorland. Or your description of her. It’s a mechanically perfect explanation, but I swear it’s all wrong.”
“If it’s mechanically perfect,” said Parker, “that’s good enough. It’s far more than most explanations are. You’ve got that portrait on the brain. It’s because you’re artistic, I suppose.”
For some reason, the word “artistic” produces the most alarming reactions in people who know anything about art.
“Artistic be damned!” said Wimsey, spluttering with fury, “it’s because I’m an ordinary person, and have met women, and talked to them like ordinary human beings.”
“You and your women,” said Parker, rudely.
“Well — I and my women, what about it? One learns something. You’re on the wrong tack about this girl.”
“I’ve met her and you haven’t,” objected Parker. “Unless you’re suppressing something. You keep on hinting things. Anyhow, I’ve met the girl, and she impressed me as being guilty.”
“And I haven’t met her, and I’ll swear she isn’t guilty.”
“You must know, of course.”
“I do happen to know about this.”
“I’m afraid your unsupported opinion will hardly be sufficient to refute the weight of evidence.”
“You haven’t any real evidence, if it comes to that. You don’t know that they were ever alone together; you don’t know that Ann Dorland knew about the will; you can’t prove that Penberthy administered the poison—”
“I don’t despair of getting all the evidence necessary,” said Parker, coldly, “provided you don’t keep me here all day.” He slammed the taxi-door.
“What a beast of a case this is,” thought Wimsey. “That makes two silly, sordid rows to-day. Well, what next?” He considered a moment.
“My spirit needs soothing,” he decided. “Feminine society is indicated. Virtuous feminine society. No emotions. I’ll go and have tea with Marjorie Phelps.”
Chapter XX
Ann Dorland Goes Misere
The studio door was opened by a girl he did not know. She was not tall, but compactly and generously built. He noticed the wide shoulders and the strong swing of the thighs before he had taken in her face. The uncurtained window behind her threw her features into shadow, he was only aware of thick black hair, cut in a square bob, with a bang across the forehead.
“Miss Phelps is out.”
“Oh! — will she be long?”
“Don’t know. She’ll be in to supper.”
“Do you think I might come in and wait?”
“I expect so, if you’re a friend of hers.”
The girl fell back from the doorway and let him pass. He laid his hat and stick on the table and turned to her. She took no notice of him, but walked over to the fireplace and stood with one hand on the mantelpiece. Unable to sit down, since she was still standing, Wimsey moved to the modelling-board, and raised the wet cloth that covered the little mound of clay.
He was gazing with an assumption of great interest at the half-modelled figure of an old flower-seller, when the girl said:
“I say!”
She had taken up Marjorie Phelps’ figurine of himself, and was twisting it over in her fingers.
“Is this you?”
“Yes — rather good of me, don’t you think?”
“What do you want?”
“Want?”
“You’ve come here to have a look at me, haven’t you?”
“I came to see Miss Phelps.”
“I suppose the policeman at the corner comes to see Miss Phelps too.”
Wimsey glanced out of the window.
There was a man at the corner — an elaborately indifferent lounger.