Whose Body? - Dorothy L. Sayers (8 ebook reader .txt) 📗

that he was unemployed, and under present conditions he was likely to remain so. I decided that he would suit my purpose very well, and immediately put in train certain transactions in the City which I had already sketched out in my own mind. In the meantime, the reactions mentioned by the workhouse doctor were interesting, and I made careful studies of them, and arranged for the delivery of the body to the hospital when I should have completed my preparations.

On the Thursday and Friday of that week I made private arrangements with various brokers to buy the stock of certain Peruvian Oilfields, which had gone down almost to waste-paper. This part of my experiment did not cost me very much, but I contrived to arouse considerable curiosity, and even a mild excitement. At this point I was of course careful not to let my name appear. The incidence of Saturday and Sunday gave me some anxiety lest my man should after all die before I was ready for him, but by the use of saline injections I contrived to keep him alive and, late on Sunday night, he even manifested disquieting symptoms of at any rate a partial recovery.

On Monday morning the market in Peruvians opened briskly. Rumours had evidently got about that somebody knew something, and this day I was not the only buyer in the market. I bought a couple of hundred more shares in my own name, and left the matter to take care of itself. At lunch time I made my arrangements to run into Levy accidentally at the corner of the Mansion House. He expressed (as I expected) his surprise at seeing me in that part of London. I simulated some embarrassment and suggested that we should lunch together. I dragged him to a place a bit off the usual beat, and there ordered a good wine and drank of it as much as he might suppose sufficient to induce a confidential mood. I asked him how things were going on ’Change. He said, “Oh, all right,” but appeared a little doubtful, and asked me whether I did anything in that way. I said I had a little flutter occasionally, and that, as a matter of fact, I’d been put on to rather a good thing. I glanced round apprehensively at this point, and shifted my chair nearer to his.

“I suppose you don’t know anything about Peruvian Oil, do you?” he said.

I started and looked round again, and leaning across to him, said, dropping my voice:

“Well, I do, as a matter of fact, but I don’t want it to get about. I stand to make a good bit on it.”

“But I thought the thing was hollow,” he said; “it hasn’t paid a dividend for umpteen years.”

“No,” I said, “it hasn’t, but it’s going to. I’ve got inside information.” He looked a bit unconvinced, and I emptied off my glass, and edged right up to his ear.

“Look here,” I said, “I’m not giving this away to everyone, but I don’t mind doing you and Christine a good turn. You know, I’ve always kept a soft place in my heart for her, ever since the old days. You got in ahead of me that time, and now it’s up to me to heap coals of fire on you both.”

I was a little excited by this time, and he thought I was drunk.

“It’s very kind of you, old man,” he said, “but I’m a cautious bird, you know, always was. I’d like a bit of proof.”

And he shrugged up his shoulders and looked like a pawnbroker.

“I’ll give it to you,” I said, “but it isn’t safe here. Come round to my place tonight after dinner, and I’ll show you the report.”

“How d’you get hold of it?” said he.

“I’ll tell you tonight,” said I. “Come round after dinner⁠—any time after nine, say.”

“To Harley Street?” he asked, and I saw that he meant coming.

“No,” I said, “to Battersea⁠—Prince of Wales Road; I’ve got some work to do at the hospital. And look here,” I said, “don’t you let on to a soul that you’re coming. I bought a couple of hundred shares today, in my own name, and people are sure to get wind of it. If we’re known to be about together, someone’ll twig something. In fact, it’s anything but safe talking about it in this place.”

“All right,” he said, “I won’t say a word to anybody. I’ll turn up about nine o’clock. You’re sure it’s a sound thing?”

“It can’t go wrong,” I assured him. And I meant it.

We parted after that, and I went round to the workhouse. My man had died at about eleven o’clock. I had seen him just after breakfast, and was not surprised. I completed the usual formalities with the workhouse authorities, and arranged for his delivery at the hospital at about seven o’clock.

In the afternoon, as it was not one of my days to be in Harley Street, I looked up an old friend who lives close to Hyde Park, and found that he was just off to Brighton on some business or other. I had tea with him, and saw him off by the 5:35 from Victoria. On issuing from the barrier it occurred to me to purchase an evening paper, and I thoughtlessly turned my steps to the bookstall. The usual crowds were rushing to catch suburban trains home, and on moving away I found myself involved in a contrary stream of travellers coming up out of the Underground, or bolting from all sides for the 5:45 to Battersea Park and Wandsworth Common. I disengaged myself after some buffeting and went home in a taxi; and it was not till I was safely seated there that I discovered somebody’s gold-rimmed pince-nez involved in the astrakhan collar of my overcoat. The time from 6:15 to seven I spent concocting something to look like a bogus report for Sir Reuben.

At seven I went through to the hospital, and found the workhouse van