Have His Carcase

I always have a quotation for everything--it saves original thinking.

The best remedy for a bruised heart is not, as so many people think, repose upon a manly bosom. Much more efficacious are honest work, physical activity, and the sudden acquisition of wealth.

Peter! Were you looking for a horse-shoe?" "No; I was expecting the horse, but the shoe is a piece of pure, gorgeous luck." "And observation. I found it." "You did. And I could kiss you for it. You need not shrink and tremble. I am not going to do it. When I kiss you, it will be an important event -- one of those things which stand out among their surroundings like the first time you tasted li-chee. It will not be an unimportant sideshow attached to a detective investigation.

Listen, Harriet. I do unterstand. I know you don't want either to give or to take ... You don't want ever again to have to depend for happiness on another person." "That's true. That's the truest thing you ever said." "All right. I can respect that. Only you've got to play the game. Don't force an emotional situation and then blame me for it." "But I don't want any situation. I want to be left in peace.

She suddenly saw Wimsey in a new light. She knew him to be intelligent, clean, courteous, wealthy, well-read, amusing and enamored, but he had not so far produced in her that crushing sense of inferiority which leads to prostration and hero-worship. But she now realized that there was, after all, something godlike about him. He could control a horse.

Harriet was silent. She suddenly saw Wimsey in a new light. She knew him to be intelligent, clean, courteous, wealthy, well-read, amusing and enamoured, but he had not so far produced in her that crushing sense of utter inferiority which leads to prostration and hero-worship. But she now realised that there was, after all, something god-like about him. He could control a horse.

By all means,' said Harriet. 'Where did you come from?' 'From London--like a bird that hears the call of its mate.' 'I didn't--" began Harriet. 'I didn't mean you. I meant the corpse. But still, talking of mates, will you marry me?

Like all male creatures Wimsey was a simple soul at bottom.

Grateful! Good God! Am I never to get away from the bleat of that filmy adjective? I don’t want gratitude. I don’t want kindness. I don’t want sentimentality. I don’t even want love—I could make you give me that—of a sort. I want common honesty.’ ‘Do you? But that’s what I’ve always wanted—I don’t think it’s to be got.’ ‘Listen, Harriet. I do understand. I know you don’t want either to give or to take. You’ve tried being the giver, and you’ve found that the giver is always fooled. And you won’t be the taker, because that’s very difficult, and because you know that the taker always ends by hating the giver. You don’t want ever again to have to depend for happiness on another person.’ ‘That’s true. That’s the truest thing you ever said.’ ‘All right. I can respect that. Only you’ve got to play the game. Don’t force an emotional situation and then blame me for it.’ ‘But I don’t want any situation. I want to be left in peace.’ ‘Oh! but you are not a peaceful person. You’ll always make trouble. Why not fight it out on equal terms and enjoy it? Like Alan Breck, I’m a bonny fighter.’ ‘And you think you’re sure to win.’ ‘Not with my hands tied.’ ‘Oh!—well, all right. But it all sounds so dreary and exhausting,’ said Harriet, and burst idiotically into tears. ‘Good Heavens!’ said Wimsey, aghast. ‘Harriet! darling! angel! beast! vixen! don’t say that.’ He flung himself on his knees in a frenzy of remorse and agitation. ‘Call me anything you like, but not dreary! Not one of those things you find in clubs! Have this one, darling, it’s much larger and quite clean. Say you didn’t mean it! Great Scott! Have I been boring you interminably for eighteen months on end? A thing any right-minded woman would shudder at I know you once said that if anybody ever married me it would be for the sake of hearing me piffle on, but I expect that kind of thing palls after a bit. I’m babbling—I know I’m babbling. What on earth am I to do about it?’ ‘Ass! Oh, it’s not fair. You always make me laugh. I can’t fight—I’m so tired. You don’t seem to know what being tired is. Stop. Let go. I won’t be bullied. Thank God! there’s the telephone.

Thank you. This line of salt is the beach. And this piece of bread is a rock at low-water level.’ Wimsey twitched his chair closer to the table. ‘And this salt-spoon,’ he said, with childlike enjoyment, ‘can be the body.

A novelist couldn’t possibly marry all the people from whom she wanted specialised information.

But you see, I can believe a thing without understanding it. It's all a matter of training.

Harriet laughed, remembering suddenly that a novelist owes a duty to her newspaper reporters.

Ain’t she the snail’s ankles?’ asked Mr da Soto admiringly.

I heard them saying something about a razor—Miss Vane! What killed him?’ There were no kindly words for this—not even a long, scientific, Latin name. ‘His throat was cut, Mrs Weldon.’ (Brutal Saxon monosyllables.)

Novelists and police-inspectors do not always see eye to eye as regards publicity.

It is always reasonably easy to get conversation going in a pub, and it will be a black day for detectives when beer is abolished. After

Tell me, M. Antoine,’ said Harriet, as their taxi rolled along the Esplanade. ‘You who are a person of great experience, is love, in your opinion, a matter of the first importance?’ ‘It is, alas! of a great importance, mademoiselle, but of the first importance, no!’ ‘What is of the first importance?’ ‘Mademoiselle, I tell you frankly that to have a healthy mind in a healthy body is the greatest gift of le bon Dieu, and when I see so many people who have clean blood and strong bodies spoiling themselves and distorting their brains with drugs and drink and foolishness, it makes me angry. They should leave that to the people who cannot help themselves because to them life is without hope.’ Harriet hardly knew what to reply; the words were spoken with such personal and tragic significance. Rather fortunately, Antoine did not wait. ‘L’amour! These ladies come and dance and excite themselves and want love and think it is happiness. And they tell me about their sorrows—me—and they have no sorrows at all, only that they are silly and selfish and lazy. Their husbands are unfaithful and their lovers run away and what do they say? Do they say, I have two hands, two feet, all my faculties, I will make a life for myself? No. They say, Give me cocaine, give me the cocktail, give me the thrill, give me my gigolo, give me l’amo-o-ur! Like a mouton bleating in a field. If they knew! Harriet laughed. ‘You’re right, M. Antoine. I don’t believe l’amour matters so terribly, after all.

This was a syllogistic monstrosity even worse than the last, thought Wimsey. A man who could reason like that could not reason at all. He constructed a new syllogism for himself. The man who committed this murder was not a fool. Weldon is a fool. Therefore Weldon did not commit this murder. That appeared to be sound, so far as it went.

Peter: Oy! Harriet: Hullo! Peter: I just wanted to ask whether you'd given any further thought to that suggestion about marrying me. Harriet (sarcastically) : I suppose you were thinking how delightful it would be to go through life together like this? Peter: Well, not quite like this. Hand in hand was more my idea. Harriet: What is that in your hand? Peter: A dead starfish. Harriet: Poor fish! Peter: No ill-feeling, I trust? Harriet: Oh, dear no.

I'm going home to bed,' he declared. 'We must wait till we get the photographs of the paper. Life is dust and ashes. I can't prove my theories and Bunter has deserted me again. He disappeared from Wilvercombe on the same day as William Bright, leaving me a message to say that one of my favourite socks had been lost in the wash and that he had lodged a complaint with the management. Miss Vane, Harriet, if I may so call you, will you marry me and look after my socks, and incidentally be the only woman novelist who ever accepted a proposal of marriage in the presence of a superintendent and inspector of police?' 'Not even for the sake of the headlines." 'I thought not. Even publicity isn't what it was.

Wimsey felt that he was hardly the sort of man to take kindly to a Paul Alexis for a stepfather; he would not sympathise with the sterile romance of any woman who was past the age of child-bearing. Wimsey, summing him up with the man of the world's experienced eye, placed him at once as a gentleman-farmer, who was not quite a gentleman and not much of a farmer.

A solitary rock is always attractive. All right-minded people feel an overwhelming desire to scale and sit upon it.

Mr Weldon grappled for some moments with this surprising piece of logic, but failed to detect either the petitio eleuchi, the undistributed middle or the inaccurate major premiss which is contrived to combine.

Damn it," said Wimsey, savagely, "I always did hate watering-places!

You mean,' went on Wimsey, 'that they think in clichés.' 'Eh?' ‘Formulae. “There's nothing like a mother's instinct” “Dogs and children always know.” “Kind hearts are more than coronets." “Suffering refines the character”—that sort of guff, despite all evidence to the contrary.

In the mood of relaxation and confidence that follows on being parboiled, it was easy enough to pump Mrs Weldon. A little diplomacy was needed, so as not to betray the ulterior object of the inquiry, but no detective could have had a more unsuspecting victim.

It was with very great difficulty that Wimsey detached the Colonel’s mind from the events of the Great War and led it back to the subject of razors. Once his attention was captured, however, Colonel Belfridge proved to be a good and reliable witness. He remembered the pair of razors perfectly. Had a lot of trouble with those razors, hr’rm, woof! Razors were not what they had been in his young days. Nothing was, sir, dammit! Steel wouldn’t stand up to the work. What with these damned foreigners and mass-production, our industries were going to the dogs. He remembered, during the Boer War— Wimsey, after a quarter of an hour, mentioned the subject of razors. ‘Ha! yes,’ said the Colonel, smoothing his vast white moustache down and up at the ends with a vast, curving gesture. ‘Ha, hr’rm, yes! The razors, of course. Now, what do you want to know about them?’ ‘Have you still got them, sir?’ ‘No, sir, I have not. I got rid of them, sir. A poor lot they were, too. I told Endicott I was surprised at his stocking such inferior stuff. Wanted re-setting every other week. But it’s the same story with all of ’em. Can’t get a decent blade anywhere nowadays. And we shan’t sir, we shan’t, unless we get a strong Conservative Government—I say, a strong Government, sir, that will have the guts to protect the iron and steel industry. But will they do it? No, damme, sir—they’re afraid of losing their miserable votes. Flapper votes! How can you expect a pack of women to understand the importance of iron and steel? Tell me that, ha, hr’rm!