Free Whose Body by Dorothy L. Sayers Page A

butter.”
    “And I haven't even that excuse,” said Lord Peter; “well, what's the next move? What would you do in my case?”
    “I'd do some good, hard grind,” said Parker. “I'd distrust every bit of work Sugg ever did, and I'd get the family history of every tenant of every flat in Queen Caroline Mansions. I'd examine all their box-rooms and roof-traps, and I would inveigle them into conversations and suddenly bring in the words 'body' and 'pince-nez,' and see if they wriggled, like those modern psycho-what's-his-names.”
    “You would, would you?” said Lord Peter with a grin. “Well, we've exchanged cases, you know, so just you toddle off and do it. I'm going to have a jolly time at Wyndham's.”
    Parker made a grimace.
    “Well,” he said, “I don't suppose you'd ever do it, so I'd better. You'll never become a professional till you learn to do a little work, Wimsey. How about lunch?”
    “I'm invited out,” said Lord Peter, magnificently. “I'll run round and change at the club. Can't feed with Freddy Arbuthnot in these bags; Bunter!”
    “Yes, my lord.”
    “Pack up if you're ready, and come round and wash my face and hands for me at the club.”
    “Work here for another two hours, my lord. Can't do with less than thirty minutes' exposure. The current's none too strong.”
    “You see how I'm bullied by my own man, Parker? Well, I must bear it, I suppose. Ta-ta!”
    He whistled his way downstairs.
    The conscientious Mr. Parker, with a groan, settled down to a systematic search through Sir Reuben Levy's papers, with the assistance of a plate of ham sandwiches and a bottle of Bass.

    Lord Peter and the Honourable Freddy Arbuthnot, looking together like an advertisement for gents' trouserings, strolled into the dining-room at Wyndham's.
    “Haven't seen you for an age,” said the Honourable Freddy, “what have you been doin' with yourself?”
    “Oh, foolin' about,” said Lord Peter, languidly.
    “Thick or clear, sir?” inquired the waiter of the Honourable Freddy.
    “Which'll you have, Wimsey?” said that gentleman, transferring the burden of selection to his guest, “they're both equally poisonous.”
    “Well, clear's less trouble to lick out of the spoon,” said Lord Peter.
    “Clear,” said the Honourable Freddy.
    “Consommé Polonais,” agreed the waiter. “Very nice, sir.”
    Conversation languished until the Honourable Freddy found a bone in the filleted sole, and sent for the head waiter to explain its presence. When this matter had been adjusted Lord Peter found energy to say:
    “Sorry to hear about your guv'nor, old man.”
    “Yes, poor old buffer,” said the Honourable Freddy; “they say he can't last long now. What? Oh! the Montrachet '08. There's nothing fit to drink in this place,” he added gloomily.
    After this deliberate insult to a noble vintage there was a further pause, till Lord Peter said: “How's 'Change?”
    “Rotten,” said the Honourable Freddy.
    He helped himself gloomily to salmis of game.
    “Can I do anything?” asked Lord Peter.
    “Oh, no, thanks—very decent of you, but it'll pan out all right in time.”
    “This isn't a bad salmis ,” said Lord Peter.
    “I've eaten worse,” admitted his friend.
    “What about those Argentines?” inquired Lord Peter. “Here, waiter, there's a bit of cork in my glass.”
    “Cork?” cried the Honourable Freddy, with something approaching animation; “you'll hear about this, waiter. It's an amazing thing a fellow who's paid to do the job can't manage to take a cork out of a bottle. What you say? Argentines? Gone all to hell. Old Levy bunkin' off like that's knocked the bottom out of the market.”
    “You don't say so,” said Lord Peter; “what d'you suppose has happened to the old man?”
    “Cursed if I know,” said the Honourable Freddy; “knocked on the head by the bears, I should think.”
    “P'r'aps he's gone off on his own,” suggested Lord Peter. “Double life, you know. Giddy old blighters,