“Oh, damn!” said Lord Peter Wimsey at Piccadilly Circus. “Hi, driver!”
The taxi man, irritated at receiving this appeal while negotiating the intricacies of turning into Lower Regent Street across the route of a 19 ‚bus, a 38-b and a bicycle, bent an unwilling ear.
“I’ve left the catalogue behind, ” said Lord Peter deprecatingly, “uncommonly careless of me. D’you mind puttin‘ back to where we came from?”
“To the Savile Club, sir?”
“No—110a Piccadilly—just beyond—thank you.”
“Thought you was in a hurry, ” said the man, overcome with a sense of injury.
“I’m afraid it’s an awkward place to turn in, ” said Lord Peter, answering the thought rather than the words. His long, amiable face looked as if it had generated spontaneously from his top hat, as white maggots breed from Gorgonzola.
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