Have His Carcase by Dorothy L. Sayers Page A

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