“Yes, I know, but such habits! Now, sixth and last point: This gentleman with the intermittently gentlemanly habits arrives in the middle of a pouring wet night, and apparently through the window, when he has already been twenty-four hours dead, and lies down quietly in Mr. Thipps’s bath, unseasonably dressed in a pair of pince-nez. Not a hair on his head is ruffled—the hair has been cut so recently that there are quite a number of little short hairs stuck on his neck and the sides of the bath—and he has shaved so recently that there is a line of dried soap on his cheek—”
“Wimsey!”
“Wait a minute—and dried soap in his mouth.”
Bunter got up and appeared suddenly at the detective’s elbow, the respectful man-servant all over.
“A little more brandy, sir?” he murmured.
“Wimsey,” said Parker, “you are making me feel cold all over.” He emptied his glass—stared at it as though he were surprised to find it empty, set it down, got up, walked across to the bookcase, turned round, stood with his back against it and said:
“Look here, Wimsey—you’ve been reading detective stories; you’re talking nonsense.”
“No, I ain’t,” said Lord Peter, sleepily, “uncommon good incident for a detective story, though, what? Bunter, we’ll write one, and you shall illustrate it with photographs.”
“Soap in his—Rubbish!” said Parker. “It was something else—some discoloration—”
“No,” said Lord Peter, “there were hairs as well. Bristly ones. He had a beard.”