Whose Body? by Dorothy L. Sayers (best ereader for pdf TXT) 📕

now, Lord Peter,” said Mr. Milligan, “can I do anything for you?”

“Well, d’you know,” said Lord Peter, “I’m wonderin’ if you would. It’s damned cheek to ask you, but fact is, it’s my mother, you know. Wonderful woman, but don’t realize what it means, demands on the time of a busy man like you. We don’t understand hustle over here, you know, Mr. Milligan.”

“Now don’t you mention that,” said Mr. Milligan; “I’d be surely charmed to do anything to oblige the Duchess.”

He felt a momentary qualm as to whether a duke’s mother were also a duchess, but breathed more freely as Lord Peter went on:

“Thanks⁠—that’s uncommonly good of you. Well, now, it’s like this. My mother⁠—most energetic, self-sacrificin’ woman, don’t you see, is thinkin’ of gettin’ up a sort of a charity bazaar down at Denver this winter, in aid of the church roof, y’know. Very sad case, Mr. Milligan⁠—fine old antique⁠—early English windows and decorated angel roof, and all that⁠—all tumblin’ to pieces, rain pourin’ in and so on⁠—vicar catchin’ rheumatism at early service, owin’ to the draught blowin’ in over the altar⁠—you know the sort of thing. They’ve got a man down startin’ on it⁠—little beggar called Thipps⁠—lives with an aged mother in Battersea⁠—vulgar little beast, but quite good on angel roofs and things, I’m told.”

At this point, Lord Peter watched his interlocutor narrowly, but finding that this rigmarole produced in him no reaction more startling than polite interest tinged with faint bewilderment, he abandoned this line of investigation, and proceeded:

“I say, I beg your pardon, frightfully⁠—I’m afraid I’m bein’ beastly long-winded. Fact is, my mother is gettin’ up this bazaar, and she thought it’d be an awfully interestin’ sideshow to have some lectures⁠—sort of little talks, y’know⁠—by eminent business men of all nations. ‘How I Did It’ kind of touch, y’know⁠—‘A Drop of Oil with a Kerosene King’⁠—‘Cash Conscience and Cocoa’ and so on. It would interest people down there no end. You see, all my mother’s friends will be there, and we’ve none of us any money⁠—not what you’d call money, I mean⁠—I expect our incomes wouldn’t pay your telephone calls, would they?⁠—but we like awfully to hear about the people who can make money. Gives us a sort of uplifted feelin’, don’t you know. Well, anyway, I mean, my mother’d be frightfully pleased and grateful to you, Mr. Milligan, if you’d come down and give us a few words as a representative American. It needn’t take more than ten minutes or so, y’know, because the local people can’t understand much beyond shootin’ and huntin’, and my mother’s crowd can’t keep their minds on anythin’ more than ten minutes together, but we’d really appreciate it very much if you’d come and stay a day or two and just give us a little breezy word on the almighty dollar.”

“Why, yes,” said Mr. Milligan, “I’d like to, Lord Peter. It’s kind of the Duchess to suggest it. It’s a very sad thing when these fine old antiques begin to wear out. I’ll come with great pleasure. And perhaps you’d be kind enough to accept a little donation to the Restoration Fund.”

This unexpected development nearly brought Lord Peter up all standing. To pump, by means of an ingenious lie, a hospitable gentleman whom you are inclined to suspect of a peculiarly malicious murder, and to accept from him in the course of the proceedings a large cheque for a charitable object, has something about it unpalatable to any but the hardened Secret Service agent. Lord Peter temporized.

“That’s awfully decent of you,” he said. “I’m sure they’d be no end grateful. But you’d better not give it to me, you know. I might spend it, or lose it. I’m not very reliable, I’m afraid. The vicar’s the right person⁠—the Rev. Constantine Throgmorton, St. John-before-the-Latin-Gate Vicarage, Duke’s Denver, if you like to send it there.”

“I will,” said Mr. Milligan. “Will you write it out now for a thousand pounds, Scoot, in case it slips my mind later?”

The secretary, a sandy-haired young man with a long chin and no eyebrows, silently did as he was requested. Lord Peter looked from the bald head of Mr. Milligan to the red head of the secretary, hardened his heart and tried again.

“Well, I’m no end grateful to you, Mr. Milligan, and so’ll my mother be when I tell her. I’ll let you know the date of the bazaar⁠—it’s not quite settled yet, and I’ve got to see some other business men, don’t you know. I thought of askin’ someone from one of the big newspaper combines to represent British advertisin’ talent, what?⁠—and a friend of mine promises me a leadin’ German financier⁠—very interestin’ if there ain’t too much feelin’ against it down in the country, and I’ll have to find somebody or other to do the Hebrew point of view. I thought of askin’ Levy, y’know, only he’s floated off in this inconvenient way.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Milligan, “that’s a very curious thing, though I don’t mind saying, Lord Peter, that it’s a convenience to me. He had a cinch on my railroad combine, but I’d nothing against him personally, and if he turns up after I’ve brought off a little deal I’ve got on, I’ll be happy to give him the right hand of welcome.”

A vision passed through Lord Peter’s mind of Sir Reuben kept somewhere in custody till a financial crisis was over. This was exceedingly possible, and far more agreeable than his earlier conjecture; it also agreed better with the impression he was forming of Mr. Milligan.

“Well, it’s a rum go,” said Lord Peter, “but I daresay he had his reasons. Much better not inquire into people’s reasons, y’know, what? Specially as a police friend of mine who’s connected with the case says the old johnnie dyed his hair before he went.”

Out of the tail of his eye, Lord Peter saw the redheaded secretary add up five columns of figures simultaneously and jot down the answer.

“Dyed his hair, did he?” said Mr. Milligan.

“Dyed it red,” said Lord Peter. The secretary looked up. “Odd thing is,” continued