“Army man?”
“No—something in the engineering line, I fancy.”
“What’s he like?”
“Oh, tall, thin, gray hair and spectacles. About sixty-five to look at. He may be older—must be, if he’s an old friend of grandfather’s. I gathered he was retired from whatever it is he did, and lived in some suburb, but I’m hanged if I can remember which.”
“Not very helpful,” said Wimsey. “D’you know, occasionally I think there’s quite a lot to be said for women.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Well, I mean, all this easy, uninquisitive way men have of makin’ casual acquaintances is very fine and admirable and all that—but look how inconvenient it is! Here you are. You admit you’ve met this bloke two or three times, and all you know about him is that he is tall and thin and retired into some unspecified suburb. A woman, with the same opportunities, would have found out his address and occupation, whether he was married, how many children he had, with their names and what they did for a living, what his favorite author was, what food he liked best, the name of his tailor, dentist and bootmaker, when he knew your grandfather and what he thought of him—screeds of useful stuff!”
“So she would,” said Fentiman, with a grin. “That’s why I’ve never married.”
“I quite agree,” said Wimsey, “but the fact remains that as a source of information you’re simply a washout. Do, for goodness’ sake, pull yourself together and try to remember something a bit more definite about the fellow. It may mean half a million to you to know what time grandpa set off in the morning from Tooting Bee or Fichley or wherever it was. If it was a distant suburb, it would account for his arriving rather late at the Club—which is rather in your favor, by the way.”
“I suppose it is. I’ll do my best to remember. But I’m not sure that I ever knew.”
“It’s awkward,” said Wimsey. “No doubt the police could find the man for us, but it’s not a police case. And I don’t suppose you particularly want to advertise.”
“Well—it may come to that. But naturally, we’re not keen on publicity if we can avoid it. If only I could remember exactly what work he said he’d been connected with.”
“Yes—or the public dinner or whatever it was where you first met him. One might get hold of a list of the guests.”
“My dear Wimsey—that was two or three years ago!”
“Or maybe they know the blighter at Gatti’s.”
“That’s an idea. I’ve met him there several times. Tell you what, I’ll go along there and make inquiries, and if they don’t know him, I’ll make a point of lunching there pretty regularly. He’s almost bound to turn up again.”
“Right. You do that. And meanwhile, do you mind if I have a look round the flat?”
“Rather not. D’you want me? Or would you rather have Woodward? He really knows a lot more about things.”
“Thanks. I’ll have Woodward. Don’t mind me. I shall just be fussing about.”
“Carry on by all means. I’ve got one or two drawers full of papers to go through. If I come across anything bearing on the Oliver bloke I’ll yell out to you.”
“Right.”
Wimsey went out, leaving him to it, and joined Woodward and Bunter, who were conversing in the next room. A glance told Wimsey that this was the General’s bedroom.
On a table beside the narrow iron bedstead was an old-fashioned writing-desk. Wimsey took it up, weighed it in his hands a moment and then took it to Robert Fentiman in the other room.
“Have you opened this?” he asked.
“Yes—only old letters and things.”
“You didn’t come across Oliver’s address, I suppose?”
“No. Of course I looked for that.”
“Looked anywhere else? Any drawers? Cupboards? That sort of thing?”
“Not so far,” said Fentiman, rather shortly.
“No telephone memorandum or anything—you’ve tried the telephone-book, I suppose?”
“Well, no—I can’t very well ring up perfect strangers and—”
“And sing ’em the Froth-Blowers’ Anthem? Good God, man, anybody’d think you were chasing a lost umbrella, not half a million of money. The man rang you up, so he may very well be on the phone himself. Better let Bunter tackle the job. He has an excellent manner on the line; people find it a positive pleasure to be tr-r-roubled by him.”
Robert Fentiman greeted this feeble pleasantry with an indulgent grin, and produced the telephone directory, to which Bunter immediately applied himself. Finding two-and-a-half columns of Olivers, he removed the receiver and started to work steadily through them in rotation. Wimsey returned to the bedroom. It was in apple-pie order—the bed neatly made, the wash-hand apparatus set in order, as though the occupant might return at any moment, every speck of dust removed—a tribute to Woodward’s reverent affection, but a depressing sight for an investigator. Wimsey sat down, and let his eye rove slowly from the hanging wardrobe, with its polished doors, over the orderly line of boots and shoes arranged on their trees on a small shelf, the dressing table, the washstand, the bed and the chest of drawers which, with the small bedside table and a couple of chairs, comprised the furniture.
“Did the General shave himself, Woodward?”
“No, my lord; not latterly. That was my duty, my lord.”
“Did he brush his own teeth, or dental plate or whatever it was?”
“Oh, yes, my lord. General Fentiman had an excellent set of teeth for his age.”
Wimsey fixed his powerful monocle into his eye, and carried the toothbrush over to the window. The result of the scrutiny was unsatisfactory. He looked round again.
“Is that his walking-stick?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“May I see it?”
Woodward brought it across, carrying it, after the manner of a well-trained servant, by the middle. Lord Peter took it from him in the same manner, suppressing a slight, excited smile. The stick was a heavy malacca, with a
