“I don’t think we have a sack of potatoes,” Guy replied, “and there’s always the possibility that George might object. What about a rug, with George sitting on it? That ought to give the right track.”
“That’s fine,” Dora agreed breathlessly. “Come on, George; you’re wanted.”
“At once, do you think?” Doyle demurred.
“Of course, idiot!” retorted his fiancée frankly. “We must let him hear the corpse being dragged out.”
“Dora,” said Mr. Doyle, “you’re a wonder. Come on, George!”
Not altogether willingly, George came.
In the hall Doyle held up his hand. “We’re murderers, don’t forget,” he whispered. “Now, where the murderer in real life usually goes wrong (the one who gets caught, I mean) is, as my fellow criminologist will tell you, through insufficient attention to detail. Take care of the details, and the body takes care of itself. Let us therefore concentrate upon details. We are a couple of genteel desperadoes, aren’t we? Therefore, we’re in boiled shirts and dinner-jackets. Good! But we are on a river-trip, and we don’t want to be recognised by stray passers-by; therefore we wear overcoats and hats, and mufflers across our mouths. Overcoats, hats and mufflers forward, please?” He grabbed his own coat and began to struggle into it.
“Is that really necessary?” asked George plaintively.
“Not for you. You’re only a corpse. For us, yes. Ready, Nesbitt? Then you creep very softly in by the door here, George, and take up your former position. We will enter by the French windows, talking in gruff voices in a foreign tongue, to match your beard and decorations. We are, as a matter of fact, inhabitants of Jugo-Chzechovina, and converse almost entirely in ‘z’s’ and ‘x’s.’ Let her rip!”
George crept dutifully off, and Guy, pulling his soft hat well down over his eyes, led the way down the passage. Mr. Doyle hovered near his fiancée, who was keeping a superintendent’s eye upon all of them. “Do you realise this means our furniture, old girl?” he grinned at her.