a great deal of
business done in second-hand razors, without it’s one of these tramp-
hairdressers now and again.’
‘What’s a tramp-hairdresser?’
‘Wel, my lord, they’re hairdressers out of a job, and they go about from
place to place looking to be taken on as extra hands when there’s a press of
work. We didn’t see much of them in our place, of course. They’re not first-
class men as a rule, and I wouldn’t have taken it upon me to engage any but a
first-class man for my gentlemen. But in a place like Eastbourne, where there’s
a big seasonal custom, you would have them round pretty frequently. It might
be worth while asking my late assistant. Plumer, his name is, in Belvedere
Road. If you like, I wil send him a line.’
‘Don’t bother; I’l run down and see him. Just one other thing. Was any of
the customers you’ve mentioned a clumsy-handed felow who took a lot out of
his razor and was always sending it back to be re-set?’
Mr Endicott chuckled.
‘Ah! now you’re talking,’ he said. ‘Colonel Belfridge – oh, dear! oh, dear!
He was a terribly hard man on his razors – is stil, for al I know. Time and
again he’d say to me, “ ’Pon my word, Endicott, I don’t know what you do to
my razors. They won’t keep their edge a week. Steel isn’t what it was before
the War.” But it wasn’t the steel, or the War either. He was always the same. I
think he took the edge off with the strop, instead of putting it on; I do indeed.
He didn’t keep a man, you know. The Colonel belongs to one of our best
families, but not a wealthy man, by any means. A very fine soldier, I believe.’
‘One of the old school, eh?’ said Wimsey. ‘Good-hearted but peppery. I
know. Where did you say he was living now?’
‘Stamford,’ replied Mr Endicott, promptly. ‘He sent me a card last
Christmas. Very kind of him, I thought it, to remember me. But my old
customers are very thoughtful in those ways. They know I value their kind
remembrance. Wel, my lord, I am exceedingly pleased to have seen you,’ he
added, as Wimsey rose and took up his hat, ‘and I’m sure I hope I may have
been of some assistance to you. You keep very fit, I hope. You’re looking
wel.’
‘I’m getting old,’ said Lord Peter. ‘My hair is turning grey over the temples.’
Mr Endicott emitted a concerned cluck.
‘But that’s nothing,’ he hastened to assure his visitor. ‘Many ladies think it
looks more distinguished that way. Not getting thin on top, I hope and trust.’
‘Not that I know of. Take a look at it.’
Mr Endicott pushed the straw-coloured thatch apart and peered earnestly at
the roots.
‘No sign of it,’ he pronounced, confidently. ‘Never saw a healthier scalp. At
the same time, my lord, if you should notice any slight weakening or faling-off,
let me know. I should be proud to advise you. I’ve stil got the recipe for
Endicott’s Special Tonic, and though I say so myself, I’ve never found anything
to beat it.’
Wimsey laughed, and promised to cal on Mr Endicott for help at the first
symptom of trouble. The old barber saw him to the door, clasping his hand
affectionately and begging him to come again. Mrs Endicott would be so sorry
to have missed him.
Seated behind the steering-wheel, Wimsey debated the three courses open
to him. He could go to Eastbourne; he could go to Stamford; he could return to
Wilvercombe. A natural inclination pointed to Wilvercombe. It was, surely, only
justifiable to return at once to the scene of the crime, if it was a crime. The fact
that Harriet was also there was a purely accidental complication. On the other
hand, his obvious duty was to clear up this razor business as quickly as
possible. Musing, he drove to his own flat in Piccadily, where he found his
man, Bunter, mounting photographs in a large album.
To Bunter he laid bare his problem, requesting his advice. Bunter, revolving
the matter in his mind, took a little
business done in second-hand razors, without it’s one of these tramp-
hairdressers now and again.’
‘What’s a tramp-hairdresser?’
‘Wel, my lord, they’re hairdressers out of a job, and they go about from
place to place looking to be taken on as extra hands when there’s a press of
work. We didn’t see much of them in our place, of course. They’re not first-
class men as a rule, and I wouldn’t have taken it upon me to engage any but a
first-class man for my gentlemen. But in a place like Eastbourne, where there’s
a big seasonal custom, you would have them round pretty frequently. It might
be worth while asking my late assistant. Plumer, his name is, in Belvedere
Road. If you like, I wil send him a line.’
‘Don’t bother; I’l run down and see him. Just one other thing. Was any of
the customers you’ve mentioned a clumsy-handed felow who took a lot out of
his razor and was always sending it back to be re-set?’
Mr Endicott chuckled.
‘Ah! now you’re talking,’ he said. ‘Colonel Belfridge – oh, dear! oh, dear!
He was a terribly hard man on his razors – is stil, for al I know. Time and
again he’d say to me, “ ’Pon my word, Endicott, I don’t know what you do to
my razors. They won’t keep their edge a week. Steel isn’t what it was before
the War.” But it wasn’t the steel, or the War either. He was always the same. I
think he took the edge off with the strop, instead of putting it on; I do indeed.
He didn’t keep a man, you know. The Colonel belongs to one of our best
families, but not a wealthy man, by any means. A very fine soldier, I believe.’
‘One of the old school, eh?’ said Wimsey. ‘Good-hearted but peppery. I
know. Where did you say he was living now?’
‘Stamford,’ replied Mr Endicott, promptly. ‘He sent me a card last
Christmas. Very kind of him, I thought it, to remember me. But my old
customers are very thoughtful in those ways. They know I value their kind
remembrance. Wel, my lord, I am exceedingly pleased to have seen you,’ he
added, as Wimsey rose and took up his hat, ‘and I’m sure I hope I may have
been of some assistance to you. You keep very fit, I hope. You’re looking
wel.’
‘I’m getting old,’ said Lord Peter. ‘My hair is turning grey over the temples.’
Mr Endicott emitted a concerned cluck.
‘But that’s nothing,’ he hastened to assure his visitor. ‘Many ladies think it
looks more distinguished that way. Not getting thin on top, I hope and trust.’
‘Not that I know of. Take a look at it.’
Mr Endicott pushed the straw-coloured thatch apart and peered earnestly at
the roots.
‘No sign of it,’ he pronounced, confidently. ‘Never saw a healthier scalp. At
the same time, my lord, if you should notice any slight weakening or faling-off,
let me know. I should be proud to advise you. I’ve stil got the recipe for
Endicott’s Special Tonic, and though I say so myself, I’ve never found anything
to beat it.’
Wimsey laughed, and promised to cal on Mr Endicott for help at the first
symptom of trouble. The old barber saw him to the door, clasping his hand
affectionately and begging him to come again. Mrs Endicott would be so sorry
to have missed him.
Seated behind the steering-wheel, Wimsey debated the three courses open
to him. He could go to Eastbourne; he could go to Stamford; he could return to
Wilvercombe. A natural inclination pointed to Wilvercombe. It was, surely, only
justifiable to return at once to the scene of the crime, if it was a crime. The fact
that Harriet was also there was a purely accidental complication. On the other
hand, his obvious duty was to clear up this razor business as quickly as
possible. Musing, he drove to his own flat in Piccadily, where he found his
man, Bunter, mounting photographs in a large album.
To Bunter he laid bare his problem, requesting his advice. Bunter, revolving
the matter in his mind, took a little
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