The Egotists’ Club is one of the most genial places in London. It is a place to which you may go when you want to tell that odd dream you had last night, or to announce what a good dentist you have di...

The unprofessional detective career of Lord Peter Wimsey was regulated (though the word has no particular propriety in this connection) by a persistent and undignified inquisitiveness. The habit of as...

“You look a little worried, Bunter,” said his lordship kindly to his manservant. “Is there anything I can do?” The valet’s face brightened as he released his employer’s grey trousers from the press. “...

The Great North Road wound away like a flat, steel-grey ribbon. Up it, with the sun and wind behind them, two black specks moved swiftly. To the yokel in charge of the hay-wagon they were only two of ...

The Zambesi, they said, was expected to dock at six in the morning. Mrs. Ruyslaender booked a bedroom at the Magnifical, with despair in her heart. A bare nine hours and she would be greeting her husb...

“I am afraid you have brought shocking weather with you, Lord Peter,” said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym, with playful reproof. “If it goes on like this they will have a bad day for the funeral.” Lord Peter Wims...

Mr. Bunter withdrew his head from beneath the focusing cloth. “I fancy that will be quite adequate, sir,” he said deferentially, “unless there are any further patients, if I may call them so, which yo...

“Halte-là!⁠ ⁠… Attention!⁠ ⁠… F⁠⸺⁠e!” The young man in the grey suit pushed his way through the protesting porters and leapt nimbly for the footboard of the guard’s van as the Paris-Evreux express ste...

“Uncle Peter!” “Half a jiff, Gherkins. No, I don’t think I’ll take the Catullus, Mr. Ffolliott. After all, thirteen guineas is a bit steep without either the title or the last folio, what? But you mig...

“What in the world,” said Lord Peter Wimsey, “is that?” Thomas Macpherson disengaged the tall jar from its final swathings of paper and straw and set it tenderly upright beside the coffeepot. “That,” ...

“And what would you say, sir,” said the stout man, “to this here business of the bloke what’s been found down on the beach at East Felpham?” The rush of travellers after the Bank Holiday had caused an...

In the front room of a grim and narrow house in Lambeth a man sat eating kippers and glancing through the Morning Post. He was smallish and spare, with brown hair rather too regularly waved and a stro...