XXII. The Evidence of the Mannequin

CHAPTER XXII

THE EVIDENCE OF THE

MANNEQUIN

‘All honest men, good Melchior, like thyself—

For that thou art, I think, upon my life—

Believe thee too.’

Torrismond

SATURDAY, 27 JUNE SUNDAY, 28 JUNE

HARRIET VANE FOUND HERSELF comfortable enough in the quarters of the late Paul Alexis. A polite letter from her literary agent asking whether the new book would be available for publication in the autumn had driven her back to the problem of the town-clock, but she found herself giving it a very divided attention. Compared with the remarkable tangle of the Alexis affair, the plot seemed to be thin and obvious, while the ape-like Robert Templeton began to display a tiresome tendency to talk like Lord Peter Wimsey. Harriet continually found herself putting her work aside—‘to clear’ (as though it were coffee). Novelists who have struck a snag in the working-out of the plot are rather given to handing the problem over in this way to the clarifying action of the sub-conscious. Unhappily, Harriet’s sub-conscious had other coffee to clear and refused quite definitely to deal with the matter of the town-clock. Under such circumstances it is admittedly useless to ask the conscious to take any further steps. When she ought to have been writing, Harriet would sit comfortably in an armchair, reading a volume taken from Paul Alexis’ bookshelf, with the idea of freeing the sub-conscious for its job. In this way, her conscious imbibed a remarkable amount of miscellaneous information about the Russian Imperial Court and a still more remarkable amount of romantic narrative about love and war in Ruritanian states. Paul Alexis had evidently had a well-defined taste in fiction. He liked stories about young men of lithe and alluring beauty who, blossoming into perfect gentlemen amid the most unpromising surroundings, turned out to be the heirs to monarchies and, in the last chapter, successfully headed the revolts of devoted loyalists, overthrew the machinations of sinister presidents, and appeared on balconies, dressed in blue-and-silver uniforms, to receive the plaudits of their rejoicing and emancipated subjects. Sometimes they were assisted by brave and beautiful English or American heiresses, who placed their wealth at the disposal of the loyalist party; sometimes they remained faithful despite temptation to brides of their own nationality, and rescued them at the last moment from marriages of inconvenience with the sinister presidents or their still more sinister advisers; now and again they were assisted by young Englishmen, Irishmen or Americans with clear-cut profiles and a superabundance of energy, and in every case they went through a series of hair-raising escapes and adventures by land, sea and air. Nobody but the sinister presidents ever thought of anything so sordid as raising money by the usual financial channels or indulging in political intrigue, nor did the greater European powers or the League of Nations ever have anything to say in the matter. The rise and fall of governments appeared to be a private arrangement, comfortably thrashed out among a selection of small Balkan States, vaguely situated and acknowledging no relationships outside the domestic circle. No literature could have been better suited for the release of the sub-conscious; nevertheless, the sub-conscious obstinately refused to work. Harriet groaned in spirit and turned to crosswords, with the aid of Chambers’ Dictionary—that Bible of the crossword fan—which she found wedged between a paper-covered book printed in Russian and A Bid for the Throne.

Lord Peter Wimsey had also found something to read, which was occupying both his conscious and sub-conscious very pleasantly. It was a letter, dated from Leamhurst in Huntingdonshire, and ran thus:

My Lord,

‘Agreeably to your lordship’s instructions I am residing here for a

few days pending repairs to my magneto. I have established friendly

relations with an individual called Hogben, who owns a reaper-and-

binder, and is well acquainted with the principal farmers in this

neighbourhood.

‘I understand from him that Mr Henry Weldon’s affairs are

considered to be in a somewhat involved condition, and that his farm

(Fourways) is heavily mortgaged. He is popularly held to have raised a

number of loans locally within the last year or two on the strength of

his expectations from his mother’s estate, but, in view of the fact that

Mrs Weldon has not visited him of late and that relations are rumoured

to be somewhat strained between them, some uneasiness is felt as to

the value of this security.

The farm management is at present in the hands of a certain Walter

Morrison, the head ploughman, a man of no great attainments, and,

indeed, little better than an ordinary labourer, though with considerable

experience in his own line. It is considered strange that Mr Weldon

should have quitted the farm at this particular time. In view of your

lordship’s wire of last Wednesday evening, informing me of the

identification of Mr Henry Weldon with Mr Haviland Martin, I need

not tell your lordship that Mr Weldon left home on Sunday, 14th,

returning on Sunday, 21st, only to leave again early the next morning.

There have been difficulties and delays of late in the payment of

labourers’ wages, and, owing partly to this cause, Morrison is finding

it no easy matter to get the hay in.

‘I heard also that there had been some trouble with the mortgagees

over the upkeep of the farm-buildings, dykes, hedges, etc.

Accordingly, I made an expedition to Fourways, in order to inspect the

property with my own eyes. I found the conditions to be as stated.

Many of the walls and barns are in considerable disrepair, while the

field-boundaries display frequent gaps, due to insufficient attention to

proper hedging and ditching. The drainage, also (which, as your

lordship knows, is of paramount importance in this part of the country)

is, in many places very defective. In particular a large field (known as

the 16-acre) was allowed to remain (as I am informed) in a

waterlogged condition all winter. Arrangements for the drainage of this

piece of arable were commenced last summer, but proceeded no

further than the purchase of the necessary quantities of pantiles, the

cost of labour interfering with the progress of the work. In

consequence, this piece of land (which adjoins the washes of the 100-

foot level) is at present useless and sour.

‘Personally, Mr Weldon appears to be fairly well liked in the

neighbourhood, except that his manner is said to be somewhat too free

with the ladies. He is reckoned as a sportsman, and is frequently seen

at Newmarket. It is also rumoured that he supports a lady in a highly

desirable little establishment in Cambridge. Mr Weldon is considered

to have a very good knowledge of animals, but to be somewhat

ignorant or careless of the agricultural aspect of farming.

‘His house is kept by an elderly man and his wife, who exercise the

respective functions of cowman and dairymaid. They appear

respectable and, from the conversation which I had with the woman

when requesting the favour of a glass of milk, honest people with

nothing to hide. She informed me that Mr Weldon lived quietly, when

at home, keeping himself to himself. He receives few visitors, apart

from the local farmers. During the six years that these people have

been with him, his mother has visited him on three occasions (all

within the first two years of this period). Also, on two occasions he has

had a visitor from London, a small gentleman with a beard and said to

be an invalid. This gentleman last stayed with him at the end of

February this year. The woman (Mrs Sterne) preserved a perfect

discretion on the subject of her employer’s financial circumstances, but

I have ascertained from Hogben that she and her husband have been

privately inquiring after another situation.

‘This is all that I have been able to discover in the short time at my

disposal. (I should have mentioned that I proceeded by train to

Cambridge, hiring an automobile there to sustain the character allotted

to me and arriving here about Thursday noon.) If your lordship so

desires, I can remain and pursue my inquiries further. Your lordship

will forgive my reminding you that it is advisable to remove the links

from the shirtcuffs before despatching the garment to the laundry. It

gives me great anxiety to feel that I may not be at hand to attend to the

matter myself on Monday, and I should feel it deeply if there was any

repetition of the disagreeable accident which occurred on the occasion

of my last absence. I omitted to inform your lordship before leaving

that the pin-stripe lounge suit must on no account be worn again until

the slit in the right-hand pocket has been attended to. I cannot account

for its presence, except by supposing that your lordship has

inadvertently used the pocket for the transport of some heavy and

sharp-edged article.

‘I trust that your lordship is enjoying favourable climatic

conditions and that the investigation is progressing according to

expectation. My respectful compliments to Miss Vane, and believe me,

my lord,

‘Obediently yours,

‘MERVYN BUNTER.’

This document reached Wimsey on the Saturday afternoon, and in the evening he received a visit from Inspector Umpelty, to whom he submitted it.

The Inspector nodded.

‘We’ve received much the same information,’ he observed. ‘There’s a bit more detail in your man’s letter—what the deuce are pantiles?—but I think we may take it for granted that our friend Weldon is a bit up the pole financially. However, that’s not what I came round about. The fact is, we’ve found the original of that photo.’

‘You have? The fair Feodora?’

‘Yes,’ replied the Inspector, with modest triumph, and yet with a kind of mental reservation behind the triumph, ‘the fair Feodora—only she says she isn’t.’

Wimsey raised his eyebrows, or, to be more accurate, the one eyebrow which was not occupied in keeping his monocle in place.

‘Then if she isn’t herself, who is she?’

‘She says she’s Olga Kohn. I’ve got her letter here.’ The Inspector rummaged in his breast pocket. ‘Writes a good letter, and in a very pretty hand, I must say.’

Wimsey took the blue sheet of paper and cocked a knowing eye at it.

‘Very dainty. As supplied by Mr Selfridge’s fancy counter to the nobility and gentry. Ornate initial “O” on royal blue and gilt. A pretty hand, as you say, highly self-conscious. Intensely elegant envelope to match; posted in the Piccadilly district last post on Friday night, and addressed to the Wilvercombe coroner. Well, well. Let us see what the lady has to say for herself.’

‘159 Regent Square,

‘Bloomsbury.

‘Dear Sir,

‘I read the account of the inquest on Paul Alexis in tonight’s paper

and was very much surprised to see my photograph. I can assure you

that I have nothing to do with the case and I cannot imagine how the

photograph came to be on the dead body or signed with a name which

is not mine. I never met anybody called Alexis that I know of and it is

not my writing on the photograph. I am a mannequin by profession, so

there are quite a lot of my photographs about, so I suppose somebody

must have got hold of it. I am afraid I know nothing about this poor Mr

Alexis so I cannot be of much help to you, but I thought I ought to

write and tell you that it was my photograph which was in the paper.

‘I cannot say at all how it can have got mixed up with the case, but

of course I shall be glad to tell you anything I can. The photograph was

taken about a year ago by Messrs Frith of Wardour Street. I enclose

another copy so that you can see it is the same. It is one I used when

applying for an engagement as mannequin, and I sent it to a great

many heads of big firms, also to some theatrical agents. I am at present

engaged as mannequin to Messrs Doré & Cie, of Hanover Square. I

have been six months with them and they would give you references as

to my character. I should be very glad to find out how the photograph

got into Mr Alexis’ hands, as the gentleman to whom I am engaged is

very upset about it all. Excuse me for troubling you, but I thought it

right to let you know, though I am afraid I cannot be of much help.

Yours faithfully,

‘OLGA KOHN.’

‘And what do you make of that, my lord.’

‘God knows. The young woman may be lying, of course, but somehow I don’t think she is. I feel that the bit about the gentleman who is very upset rings true. Olga Kohn—who sounds like a Russian Jewess—is not precisely out of the top-drawer, as my mother would say, and was obviously not educated at Oxford or Cambridge, but though she repeats herself a good deal, she is businesslike, and her letter is full of useful facts. Also, if the photograph resembles her, she is easy to look at. What do you say to running up to Town and interviewing the lady? I will provide the transport, and tomorrow being Sunday, we shall probably find her at leisure. Shall we depart, like two gay bachelors, to find Olga Feodora and take her out to tea?’

The Inspector seemed to think that this was a good idea.

‘We will ask her if she knows Mr Henry Weldon, that squire of dames. Have you a photograph of him, by the way?’

The Inspector had an excellent snapshot, taken at the inquest by a press photographer. A wire was sent to Miss Olga Kohn, warning her of the impending visit and, having made the necessary arrangements at the police-station, the Inspector heaved his large bulk into Wimsey’s Daimler and was transported with perilous swiftness to London. They ran up that night, snatched a few hours of repose at Wimsey’s flat and, in the morning, set out for Regent Square.

Regent Square is anything but a high-class locality, being chiefly populated by grubby infants and ladies of doubtful calling, but its rents are comparatively cheap for so central a situation. On mounting to the top of a rather dark and dirty stair, Wimsey and his companion were agreeably surprised to discover a freshly-painted green door with the name ‘Miss O. Kohn’ neatly written upon a white card and attached to the panel by drawing-pins. The brass knocker, representing the Lincoln Imp, was highly polished. At its summons the door was opened at once by a handsome young woman, the original of the photograph, who welcomed them in with a smile.

‘Inspector Umpelty?’

‘Yes, miss. You will be Miss Kohn, I take it? This is Lord Peter Wimsey, who has been kind enough to run me up to Town.’

‘Very pleased to meet you,’ said Miss Kohn. ‘Come in.’ She ushered them into a pleasantly furnished room, with orange window-curtains and bowls of roses placed here and there on low tables and a general air of semi-artistic refinement. Before the empty fireplace stood a dark-haired young man of Semitic appearance, who acknowledged the introductions with a scowl.

‘Mr Simons, my fiancé,’ explained Miss Kohn. ‘Do sit down, and please smoke. Can I offer you any refreshment?’

Declining the refreshment, and heartily wishing Mr Simons out of the way, the Inspector embarked at once on the subject of the photograph, but it soon became obvious both to Wimsey and himself that Miss Kohn had told in her letter nothing more or less than the exact truth. Sincerity was stamped on every feature of her face as she assured them repeatedly that she had never known Paul Alexis and never given him a photograph under the name of Feodora or any other name. They showed her his photograph, but she shook her head.

‘I am perfectly positive that I never saw him in my life.’

Wimsey suggested that he might have seen her at a mannequin parade and endeavoured to introduce himself.

‘Of course, he may have seen me; so many people see me,’ replied Miss Kohn, with artless self-importance. ‘Some of them try to get off with one too, naturally. A girl in my position has to know how to look after herself. But I think I should remember this face if I had ever seen it. You see, a young man with a beard like that is rather noticeable, isn’t he?’

She passed the photograph to Mr Simons, who bent his dark eyes on it disdainfully. Then his expression changed.

‘You know, Olga,’ he said, ‘I think I have seen this man somewhere.’

‘You, Lewis?’

‘Yes. I don’t know where. But there is something familiar about it.’

‘You never saw him with me,’ put in the girl, quickly.

‘No. I don’t know, now I come to think of it, that I ever saw him at all. It’s an older face, the one I’m thinking of—it may be a picture I have seen and not a living person. I don’t know.’

‘The photograph has been published in the papers,’ suggested Umpelty.

‘I know; but it isn’t that. I noticed a resemblance to somebody or other, the first time I saw it. I don’t know what it is. Something about the eyes, perhaps—’

He paused thoughtfully and the Inspector gazed at him as though he expected him to lay a golden egg there and then, but nothing came of it.

‘No, I can’t place it,’ said Simons, finally. He handed the photograph back.

‘Well, it means nothing to me,’ said Olga Kohn. ‘I do hope you all believe that.’

‘I believe you,’ said Wimsey, suddenly, ‘and I’m going to hazard a suggestion. This Alexis fellow was a romantic sort of blighter. Do you think he can have seen the photograph somewhere and fallen in love with it, as you might say? What I mean is, he might have indulged in an imaginary thingamabob—an ideal passion, so to speak. Kind of fancied he was beloved and all the rest of it, and put a fancy name on to support the illusion if you get what I mean—what?’

‘It is possible,’ said Olga, ‘but it seems very foolish.’

‘Seems perfectly cock-eyed to me,’ pronounced Umpelty with scorn. ‘Besides, where did he get the picture from, that’s what we want to know.’

‘That wouldn’t really be difficult,’ said Olga. ‘He was a dancer at a big hotel. He might easily have met many theatrical managers, and one of them might have given the photograph to him. They would get it, you know, from the agents.’

Inspector Umpelty asked for particulars of the agents and was supplied with the names of three men, all of whom had offices near Shaftesbury Avenue.

‘But I don’t suppose they’ll remember much about it,’ said Olga. They see so many people. Still, you could try. I should be terribly glad to have the thing cleared up. But you do believe me, don’t you?’

‘We believe in you, Miss Kohn,’ said Wimsey, solemnly, ‘as devoutly as in the second law of thermo-dynamics.’

‘What are you getting at?’ said Mr Simons, suspiciously.

The second law of thermo-dynamics,’ explained Wimsey, helpfully, “which holds the universe in its path, and without which time would run backwards like a cinema film wound the wrong way.’

‘No, would it?’ exclaimed Miss Kohn, rather pleased.

‘Altars may reel,’ said Wimsey, ‘Mr Thomas may abandon his dress-suit and Mr Snowden renounce Free Trade, but the second law of thermo-dynamics will endure while memory holds her seat in this distracted globe, by which Hamlet meant his head but which I, with a wider intellectual range, apply to the planet which we have the rapture of inhabiting. Inspector Umpelty appears shocked, but I assure you that I know no more impressive way of affirming my entire belief in your absolute integrity.’ He grinned. ‘What I like about your evidence, Miss Kohn, is that it adds the final touch of utter and impenetrable obscurity to the problem which the Inspector and I have undertaken to solve. It reduces it to the complete quintessence of in-comprehensive nonsense. Therefore, by the second law of thermo-dynamics, which lays down that we are hourly and momently progressing to a state of more and more randomness, we receive positive assurance that we are moving happily and securely in the right direction. You may not believe me,’ added Wimsey, now merrily launched on a flight of fantasy, ‘but I have got to the point now at which the slightest glimmer of common-sense imported into this preposterous case would not merely disconcert me but cut me to the heart. I have seen unpleasant cases, difficult cases, complicated cases and even contradictory cases, but a case founded on stark unreason I have never met before. It is a new experience and, blasé as I am, I confess that I am thrilled to the marrow.’

‘Well,’ said Inspector Umpelty, hoisting himself to his feet, ‘I’m sure we’re very much obliged to you, miss, for your information, though at the moment it doesn’t seem to get us much farther. If anything should occur to you in connection with this Alexis, or if you, sir, should happen to call to mind where you saw Alexis before, we shall be very greatly obliged. And you mustn’t take account of what his lordship here has been saying, because he’s a gentleman that makes up poetry and talks a bit humorous at times.’

Having thus, as he supposed, restored confidence in the mind of Miss Olga Kohn, the Inspector shepherded his companion away, but it was to Wimsey that the girl turned while Umpelty was hunting in the little hall for his hat.

‘That policeman doesn’t believe a word I’ve been saying,’ she whispered anxiously, ‘but you do, don’t you?’

‘I do,’ replied Wimsey. ‘But you see, I can believe a thing without understanding it. It’s all a matter of training.’