![]() Lord Peter goes beyond deduction towards brilliant intuition at a couple of points, and the police are left trailing in his wake, but that’s fairly standard for detective stories of this era. While it’s not a ‘fair play’ story since there’s no way to work out the solution before it’s given, the plot is clever and fun with a nice little twist in the tail. That said, I admit the story is well-written and full of humour. ![]() …but Ian Carmichael will always be the definitive Lord Peter to me… Oh, and I really hate Lord Peter’s mocking condescension to his social ‘inferiors’. And I hate the portrayal of working-class people as loutish, mentally-challenged bumpkins, and their silly dialects. I hate the grovelling forelock-tugging attitude of all and sundry to the foppish Lord Peter. OK, I hate the snobbery in the Wimsey stories, however much disguised by humour. Walters may have seen it fall.”īut even once it’s discovered which of the men took the bag from the cloakroom, there’s still another twist to come… If this thing did fall off the carrier, somebody beside Mr. I can take two in my ‘bus at a pinch, and no doubt you have a police car. Suppose, superintendent, you turn out as many of your men as you think adequate to keep an eye on three desperate criminals, and we all tool down to Hatfield together. “Well, look here,” said the man addressed as “my lord”, “I’ve got an idea for what it’s worth. And he helps them again now by making a brilliant suggestion well beyond the intellectual capacities of the force’s finest… Of course, they quickly eliminate Lord Peter from all suspicion, because… well, because he’s a Lord and speaks with a posh accent, primarily, but also because he has helped the police in the past. It’s now up to the police to decide which of the three men is telling the truth. A porter said he saw the man leave the station, and a loiterer observed him riding off on a motor-bicycle.Īnd so Lord Peter had joined the chase up the Great North Road. I hurried round there, and was told by the clerk that just before the police warning came through the bag had been claimed by a man in motor-cycling kit. I made enquiries through Scotland Yard, and was informed to-day that a bag of precisely similar appearance had been cloak-roomed yesterday afternoon at Paddington, main line. He explains that a similar bag, containing some jewellery, had been stolen from his car the day before… On learning about the horror in the bag, Lord Peter hastily explains that it’s not his, though it looks like the one he has been pursuing. “What’s all the excitement? You haven’t seen a motor-cyclist go by with a little bag on his carrier, I suppose?” I do love Edward Petherbridge and he made a fine Lord Peter… “Hullo, officer!” said a voice behind them. So it’s unfortunate for Lord Peter Wimsey that it’s just at this moment he chooses to appear on the scene… Suddenly the ownership of the bag takes on a new importance. man peered curiously, and then started back with a sensation of sickness. The constable proved the split seam in silence, and then turned hurriedly round to wave away a couple of young women who had stopped to stare. man notices that the bag seems to be wet and horribly sticky in one corner… Our policeman isn’t terribly interested in this disagreement… until a passing A.A. Simpkins vehemently denies all knowledge of the bag. Aggrieved, the first motor-cyclist, Walters, explains that he was merely trying to catch the other man, Simpkins, to return a bag that had fallen off his bike thirty miles back at Hatfield. The two motor-cyclists continue to chase each other at ridiculous speeds up the Great North Road until eventually they are stopped by an officious policeman who takes their details and informs them they’ll be summonsed for speeding. To the yokel in charge of the hay-wagon they were only two of “they dratted motor-cyclists”, as they barked and zoomed past him in rapid succession. ![]() Up it, with the sun and wind behind them, two black specks moved swiftly. ![]() The Great North Road wound away like a flat, steel-grey ribbon. The Fantastic Horror of the Cat in the Bag by Dorothy L Sayers Will she win me over? All will be revealed in this week’s… There! I’ve said it! But how could I possibly have a series on great ‘tecs and not include him? So, like the martyr I am, I have cautiously approached one of Ms Sayers’ short stories, and I freely admit to being much taken by the title. I am about to commit bookish blasphemy, so sensitive crime fiction lovers may wish to look away now. ![]()
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