The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club by Dorothy L. Sayers

Author:Dorothy L. Sayers [Sayers, Dorothy L.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery, Classics, Fiction
ISBN: 9781453258880
Publisher: Open Road
Published: 2012-07-05T23:27:00+00:00

CHAPTER XIV

GRAND SLAM IN SPADES

ON THE SEVENTH MORNING after the exhumation—which happened to be a Tuesday—Lord Peter walked briskly into Mr. Murbles’s chambers in Staple Inn, with Detective-Inspector Parker at his heels.

“Good morning,” said Mr. Murbles, surprised.

“Good morning,” said Wimsey. “Hark! Hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings. He is coming, my own, my sweet, were it ever so airy a tread. He will be here in a quarter of an hour.”

“Who will?” demanded Mr. Murbles, somewhat severely.

“Robert Fentiman.”

Mr. Murbles gave a little ejaculation of surprise.

“I had almost given up hope in that direction,” he said.

“So had not I. I said to myself, he is not lost but gone before. And it was so. Charles, we will lay out the pièces de conviction on the table. The boots. The photographs. The microscopic slides showing the various specimens. The paper of notes from the library. The outer garments of the deceased. Just so. And Oliver Twist. Beautiful. Now, as Sherlock Holmes says, we shall look imposing enough to strike terror into the guilty breast, though armed in triple steel.”

“Did Fentiman return of his own accord?”

“Not altogether. He was, if I may so express myself, led. Almost, in fact, led on. O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent till, don’t you know. What is that noise in the outer room? It is—it is the cannon’s opening roar.”

It was, indeed, the voice of Robert Fentiman, not in the best of tempers. In a few seconds he was shown in. He nodded curtly to Mr. Murbles, who replied with a stiff bow, and then turned violently upon Wimsey.

“Look here, what’s the meaning of all this? Here’s that damned detective fellow of yours leading me a devil of a dance all over Europe and home again, and then this morning he suddenly turns round and tells me that you want to see me here with news about Oliver. What the devil do you know about Oliver?”

“Oliver?” said Wimsey. “Oh, yes—he’s an elusive personality. Almost as elusive in Rome as he was in London. Wasn’t it odd, Fentiman, the way he always seemed to bob up directly your back was turned? Wasn’t it funny, the way he managed to disappear from places the moment you set foot in ’em? Almost like the way he used to hang about Gatti’s and then give you and me the slip. Did you have a jolly time abroad, old man? I suppose you didn’t like to tell your companion that he and you were chasing a will-o’-the-wisp?”

Robert Fentiman’s face was passing through phases ranging from fury to bewilderment and back again. Mr. Murbles interrupted.

“Has this detective vouchsafed any explanation of his extraordinary behaviour, in keeping us in the dark for nearly a fortnight as to his movements?”

“I’m afraid I owe you the explanation,” said Wimsey airily. “You see, I thought it was time the carrot was dangled before the other donkey. I knew that if we pretended to find Oliver in Paris, Fentiman would be in honour bound to chase after him.

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