“Dash it, don’t I know it? That inspired tippler, Salcombe Hardy, got hold of it somehow. I think he bribes the cemetery officials to give him advance news of exhumations. He’s worth his weight in pound notes to the Yell. Cheerio! Speak your bit nicely. You don’t mind if I’m not in the front row, do you? I always take up a strategic position near the door that leads to the grub.”
Penberthy’s paper struck Wimsey as being original and well-delivered. The subject was not altogether unfamiliar to him, for Wimsey had a number of distinguished scientific friends who found him a good listener, but some of the experiments mentioned were new and the conclusions suggestive. True to his principles, Wimsey made a bolt for the supper-room, while polite hands were still applauding. He was not the first, however. A large figure in a hard-worked looking dress-suit was already engaged with a pile of savory sandwiches and a whisky-and-soda. It turned at his approach and beamed at him from its liquid and innocent blue eyes. Sally Hardy—never quite drunk and never quite sober—was on the job, as usual. He held out the sandwich-plate invitingly.
“Damn good, these are,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you, if it comes to that?” asked Wimsey.
Hardy laid a fat hand on his sleeve.
“Two birds with one stone,” he said, impressively. “Smart fellow, that Penberthy. Glands are news, you know. He knows it. He’ll be one of these fashionable practitioners”—Sally repeated this phrase once or twice, as it seemed to have got mixed up with the soda—“before long. Doing us poor bloody journalists out of a job like ⸻ and ⸻.” (He mentioned two gentlemen whose signed contributions to popular dailies were a continual source of annoyance to the G.M.C.)
“Provided he doesn’t damage his reputation over this Fentiman affair,” rejoined Wimsey, in a refined shriek which did duty for a whisper amid the noisy stampede which had followed them up to the refreshment-table.
“Ah! there you are,” said Hardy. “Penberthy’s news in himself. He’s a story, don’t you see. We’ll have to sit on the fence a bit, of course, till we see which way the cat jumps. I’ll have a par. about it at the end, mentioning that he attended old Fentiman. Presently we’ll be able to work up a little thing on the magazine page about the advisability of a p.m. in all cases of sudden death. You know—even experienced doctors may be deceived. If he comes off very badly in cross-examination, there can be something about specialists not always being trustworthy—a kind word for the poor downtrodden G.P. and all that. Anyhow, he’s worth a story. It doesn’t matter what you say about him, provided you say something. You couldn’t do us a little thing—about eight hundred words, could you—about rigor mortis or something? Only make it snappy.”
“I could not,” said Wimsey. “I haven’t time and I don’t want the money. Why should I? I’m not a dean or an actress.”
“No, but you’re news. You can give me the money, if you’re so beastly flush. Look here, have you got a line on this case at all? That police friend of yours won’t give anything away. I want to get something in before there’s an arrest, because after that it’s contempt. I suppose it’s the girl you’re after, isn’t it? Can you tell me anything about her?”
“No—I came here tonight to get a look at her but she hasn’t turned up. I wish you could dig up her hideous past for me. The Rushworths must know something about her, I should think. She used to paint or something. Can’t you get on to that?”
Hardy’s face lighted up.
“Waffles Newton will probably know something,” he said. “I’ll see what I can dig out. Thanks very much, old man. That’s given me an idea. We might get one of her pictures on the back pages. The old lady seems to have been a queer old soul. Odd will, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, I can tell you all about that,” said Wimsey. “I thought you probably knew.”
He gave Hardy the history of Lady Dormer as he had heard it from Mr. Murbles. The journalist was enthralled.
“Great stuff!” he said. “That’ll get ’em. Romance there! This’ll be a scoop for the Yell. Excuse me. I want to phone it through to ’em before somebody else gets it. Don’t hand it out to any of the other fellows.”
“They can get it from Robert or George Fentiman,” warned Wimsey.
“Not much, they won’t,” said Salcombe Hardy, feelingly. “Robert Fentiman gave old Barton of the Banner such a clip under the ear this morning that he had to go and see a dentist. And George has gone down to the Bellona, and they won’t let anybody in. I’m all right on this. If there’s anything I can do for you, I will, you bet. So long.”
He faded away. A hand was laid on Peter’s arm.
“You’re neglecting me shockingly,” said Marjorie Phelps. “And I’m frightfully hungry. I’ve been doing my best to find things out for you.”
“That’s top-hole of you. Look here. Come and sit out in the hall; it’s quieter. I’ll scrounge some grub and bring it along.”
He secured a quantity of curious little stuffed buns, four petits-fours, some dubious claret-cup and some coffee and brought them with him on a tray, snatched while the waitress’s back was turned.
“Thanks,” said Marjorie. “I deserve all I can get for having talked to Naomi Rushworth. I cannot like that girl. She hints things.”
“What, particularly?”
“Well, I started to ask about Ann Dorland. So she said she wasn’t coming. So I said, ‘Oh, why?’ and she said, ‘She said she wasn’t well.’ ”
“Who said?”
“Naomi Rushworth said Ann Dorland said she couldn’t come because she wasn’t well. But she said that was only an excuse, of course.”
“Who said?”
“Naomi said. So
