Lord Peter Views the Body by Dorothy L. Sayers Page A

‘’Ullo,’ he demanded, ‘wot’s the matter with the – bleedin’ bag did you say? ’Ere, I’d like to ’ave a look at that ’ere bag, sir, if you don’t mind.’
        ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ said Mr Walters, handing it over. ‘I saw it fall off and –’ His voice died away in his throat, and his eyes became fixed upon one corner of the bag, where something damp and horrible was seeping darkly through.
        ‘Did you notice this ’ere corner when you picked it up?’ asked the constable. He prodded it gingerly and looked at his fingers.
        ‘I don’t know – no – not particularly,’ stammered Walters. ‘I didn’t notice anything. I – I expect it burst when it hit the road.’
        The constable probed the split seam in silence, and then turned hurriedly round to wave away a couple of young women who had stopped to stare. The A.A. man peered curiously, and then started back with a sensation of sickness.
        ‘Ow, Gawd!’ he gasped. ‘It’s curly – it’s a woman’s.’
        ‘It’s not me,’ screamed Simpkins. ‘I swear to heaven it’s not mine. This man’s trying to put it across me.’
        ‘Me?’ gasped Walters. ‘Me? Why you filthy, murdering brute, I tell you I saw it fall off your carrier. No wonder you blinded off when you saw me coming. Arrest him, constable. Take him away to prison—’
        ‘Hullo, officer!’ said a voice behind them. ‘What’s all the excitement? You haven’t seen a motor-cyclist go by with a little bag on his carrier, I suppose?’
        A big open car with an unnaturally long bonnet had slipped up to them, silent as an owl. The whole agitated party with one accord turned upon the driver.
        ‘Would this be it, sir?’
        The motorist pushed off his goggles, disclosing a long, narrow nose and a pair of rather cynical-looking grey eyes.
        ‘It looks rather –’ he began; and then, catching sight of the horrid relic protruding from one corner, ‘In God’s name, he enquired, ‘what’s that?’
        ‘That’s what we’d like to know, sir,’ said the constable grimly.
        ‘H’m,’ said the motorist, ‘I seem to have chosen an uncommonly suitable moment for enquirin’ after my bag. Tactless. To say now that it is not my bag is simple, though in no way convincing. As a matter of fact, it is not mine, and I may say that, if it had been, I should not have been at any pains to pursue it.’
        The constable scratched his head.
        ‘Both these gentlemen –’ he began.
        The two cyclists burst into simultaneous and heated disclaimers. By this time a small crowd had collected, which the A.A. scout helpfully tried to shoo away.
        ‘You’ll all ’ave to come with me to the station,’ said the harassed constable. ‘Can’t stand ’ere ’oldin’ up the traffic. No tricks, now. You wheel them bikes, and I’ll come in the car with you, sir.’
        ‘But supposing I was to let her rip and kidnap you,’ said the motorist, with a grin. ‘Where’d you be? Here,’ he added, turning to the A.A. man, ‘can you handle this outfit?’
        ‘You bet,’ said the scout, his eye running lovingly over the long sweep of the exhaust and the rakish lines of the car.
        ‘Right. Hop in. Now, officer, you can toddle along with the other suspects and keep an eye on them. Wonderful head I’ve got for detail. By the way, that foot-brake’s on the fierce side. Don’t bully it, or you’ll surprise yourself.’
        The lock of the bag was forced at the police-station in the midst of an excitement unparalleled in the calm annals of Eaton Socon, and the dreadful contents laid reverently upon a table. Beyond a quantity of cheese-cloth in which they had been wrapped, there was nothing to supply any clue to the mystery.
        ‘Now,’ said the superintendent, ‘what do you gentlemen know about this?’
        ‘Nothing whatever,’ said Mr Simpkins, with a ghastly