“Captain Cathcart’s death is very mysterious,” said the Duchess, “though when I think of the things that have come out about him it really seems quite providential, as far as my sister-in-law is concerned.”
“I s’pose you couldn’t get ’em to bring it in ‘Death by the Visitation of God,’ could you, Biggs?” suggested Lord Peter. “Sort of judgment for wantin’ to marry into our family, what?”
“I have known less reasonable verdicts,” returned Biggs dryly. “It’s wonderful what you can suggest to a jury if you try. I remember once at the Liverpool Assizes—”
He steered skillfully away into a quiet channel of reminiscence. Lord Peter watched his statuesque profile against the fire; it reminded him of the severe beauty of the charioteer of Delphi and was about as communicative.
It was not until after dinner that Sir Impey opened his mind to Wimsey. The Duchess had gone to bed, and the two men were alone in the library. Peter, scrupulously in evening dress, had been valeted by Bunter, and had been more than usually rambling and cheerful all evening. He now took a cigar, retired to the largest chair, and effaced himself in a complete silence.
Sir Impey Biggs walked up and down for some half-hour, smoking. Then he came across with determination, brutally switched on a reading-lamp right into Peter’s face, sat down opposite to him, and said:
“Now, Wimsey, I want to know all you know.”
“Do you, though?” said Peter. He got up, disconnected the reading-lamp, and carried it away to a side-table.
“No bullying of the witness, though,” he added, and grinned.
“I don’t care so long as you wake up,” said Biggs, unperturbed. “Now then.”
Lord Peter removed his cigar from his mouth, considered it with his head on one side, turned it carefully over, decided that the ash could hang on to its parent leaf for another minute or two, smoked without speaking until collapse was inevitable, took the cigar out again, deposited the ash entire in the exact center of the ashtray, and began his statement, omitting only the matter of the suitcase and Bunter’s information obtained from Ellen.
Sir Impey Biggs listened with what Peter irritably described as a cross-examining countenance, putting a sharp question every now and again. He made a few notes, and, when Wimsey had finished, sat tapping his notebook thoughtfully.
“I think we can make a case out of this,” he said, “even if the police don’t find your mysterious man. Denver’s silence is an awkward complication, of course.” He hooded his eyes for a moment. “Did you say you’d put the police on to find the fellow?”
“Yes.”
“Have you a very poor opinion of the police?”
“Not for that kind of thing. That’s in their line; they have all the facilities, and do it well.”
“Ah! You expect to find the man, do you?”
“I hope to.”
“Ah! What do you think is going to happen to my case if you do find him, Wimsey?”
“What do I—”
“See here, Wimsey,” said the barrister, “you are not a fool, and it’s no use trying to look like a country policeman. You are really trying to find this man?”
“Certainly.”
“Just as you like, of course, but my hands are rather tied already. Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps he’d better not be found?”
Wimsey stared at the lawyer with such honest astonishment as actually to disarm him.
“Remember this,” said the latter earnestly, “that if once the police get hold of a thing or a person it’s no use relying on my, or Murbles’s, or anybody’s professional discretion. Everything’s raked out into the light of common day, and very common it is. Here’s Denver accused of murder, and he refuses in the most categorical way to give me the smallest assistance.”
“Jerry’s an ass. He doesn’t realize—”
“Do you suppose,” broke in Biggs, “I have not made it my business to make him realize? All he says is, ‘They can’t hang me; I didn’t kill the man, though I think it’s a jolly good thing he’s dead. It’s no business of theirs what I was doing in the garden.’ Now I ask you, Wimsey, is that a reasonable attitude for a man in Denver’s position to take up?”
Peter muttered something about “Never had any sense.”
“Had anybody told Denver about this other man?”
“Something vague was said about footsteps at the inquest, I believe.”
“That Scotland Yard man is your personal friend, I’m told?”
“Yes.”
“So much the better. He can hold his tongue.”
“Look here, Biggs, this is all damned impressive and mysterious, but what are you gettin’ at? Why shouldn’t I lay hold of the beggar if I can?”
“I’ll answer that question by another.” Sir Impey leaned forward a little. “Why is Denver screening him?”
Sir Impey Biggs was accustomed to boast that no witness could perjure himself in his presence undetected. As he put the question, he released the other’s eyes from his, and glanced down with finest cunning at Wimsey’s long, flexible mouth and nervous hands. When he glanced up again a second later he met the eyes passing, guarded and inscrutable, through all the changes expressive of surprised enlightenment; but by that time it was too late; he had seen a little line at the corner of the mouth fade out, and the fingers relax ever so slightly. The first movement had been one of relief.
“B’Jove!” said Peter. “I never thought of that. What sleuths you lawyers are. If that’s so, I’d better be careful, hadn’t I? Always was a bit rash. My mother says—”
“You’re a clever devil, Wimsey,” said the barrister. “I may be wrong, then. Find your man by all means. There’s just one other thing I’d like to ask. Whom are you screening?”
“Look here, Biggs,” said Wimsey, “you’re not paid to ask that kind of question here, you know. You can jolly well wait till you get into court. It’s your job to make the best of the stuff we serve up to you, not to give us the third degree. Suppose I murdered Cathcart myself—”
“You didn’t.”
“I know I didn’t, but if I did
