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Death at the Excelsior Summary
Death at the Excelsior is a short story by P.G. Wodehouse, first published in 1914. It presents a locked-room mystery involving the death of Captain John Gunner at the Excelsior Boarding-House. The story introduces private detective Elliot Oaks, who investigates the peculiar circumstances surrounding the captain's demise.
Death at the Excelsior Excerpt
Short Summary: In this intriguing locked-room mystery, private detective Elliot Oaks delves into the suspicious death of Captain John Gunner at the Excelsior Boarding-House, uncovering secrets and unraveling the truth behind the captain's untimely demise.
"The room was the typical bedroom of the typical boarding-house, furnished, insofar as it could be said to be furnished at all, with a severe simplicity. It contained two beds, a pine chest of drawers, a strip of faded carpet, and a wash basin. But there was that on the floor which set this room apart from a thousand rooms of the same kind. Flat on his back, with his hands tightly clenched and one leg twisted oddly under him and with his teeth gleaming through his grey beard in a horrible grin, Captain John Gunner stared up at the ceiling with eyes that saw nothing.
Until a moment before, he had had the little room all to himself. But now two people were standing just inside the door, looking down at him. One was a large policeman, who twisted his helmet nervously in his hands. The other was a tall, gaunt old woman in a rusty black dress, who gazed with pale eyes at the dead man. Her face was quite expressionless.
The woman was Mrs. Pickett, owner of the Excelsior Boarding-House. The policeman's name was Grogan. He was a genial giant, a terror to the riotous element of the waterfront, but obviously ill at ease in the presence of death. He drew in his breath, wiped his forehead, and whispered: 'Look at his eyes, ma'am!'
Mrs. Pickett had not spoken a word since she had brought the policeman into the room, and she did not do so now. Constable Grogan looked at her quickly. He was afraid of Mother Pickett, as was everybody else along the waterfront. Her silence, her pale eyes, and the quiet decisiveness of her personality cowed even the tough old salts who patronized the Excelsior. She was a formidable influence in that little community of sailormen.
'That's just how I found him,' said Mrs. Pickett. She did not speak loudly, but her voice made the policeman start.
He wiped his forehead again. 'It might have been apoplexy,' he hazarded.
Mrs. Pickett said nothing. There was a sound of footsteps outside, and a young man entered, carrying a black bag.
'Good morning, Mrs. Pickett. I was told that—Good Lord!' The young doctor dropped to his knees beside the body and raised one of the arms. After a moment he lowered it gently to the floor, and shook his head in grim resignation.
'He's been dead for hours,' he announced. 'When did you find him?'
'Twenty minutes back,' replied the old woman. 'I guess he died last night. He never would be called in the morning. Said he liked to sleep on. Well, he's got his wish.'
'What did he die of, sir?' asked the policeman.
'It's impossible to say without an examination,' the doctor answered. 'It looks like a stroke, but I'm pretty sure it isn't. It might be a coronary attack, but I happen to know his blood pressure was normal, and his heart sound. He called in to see me only a week ago, and I examined him thoroughly. But sometimes you can be deceived. The inquest will tell us.' He eyed the body almost resentfully. 'I can't understand it. The man had no right to drop dead like this. He was a tough old sailor who ought to have been good for another twenty years. If you want my honest opinion—though I can't possibly be certain until after the inquest—I should say he had been poisoned.'
'How would he be poisoned?' asked Mrs. Pickett quietly.
'That's more than I can tell you. There's no glass about that he could have drunk it from. He might have got it in capsule form. But why should he have done it? He was always a pretty cheerful sort of old man, wasn't he?'
'Yes, sir,' said the Constable. 'He had the name of being a joker in these parts. Kind of sarcastic, they tell me, though he never tried it on me.'
'Kind of sarcastic, was he?' said the doctor. 'Well, I hope for his sake he's kept his sense of humor, for he's going to have to exercise it. A coroner's inquest isn't a pleasant thing for a man to be the star of. Still, he won't mind that, being a dead man. If the dead mind anything, it's being left alone. The coroner will be here presently, and until he comes I suppose we had better leave things as they are.'
Mrs. Pickett nodded. She seemed almost disinterested in the proceedings, her pale eyes unblinking as they gazed at the lifeless form of Captain John Gunner. But in that silent observation, her mind worked as shrewdly as ever. 'You better keep everybody out of this room till the coroner comes, Constable Grogan,' she said quietly. 'Nobody goes in or out, understand?'
Grogan saluted and stepped outside to stand guard. Mrs. Pickett remained for a moment, her gaze lingering on the strange smile frozen on the captain's face. Then, with a heavy sigh, she turned and left the room, the secrets of the Excelsior seeming heavier with every step.
