Murder Must Advertise

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  Everything in the flat was in perfect order. There was a desk in the sitting-room, containing a few bills and some notepaper, but its drawers were all unlocked and it appeared to hold no secrets. Nor was there anything remarkable about the bedroom or the small dining-room. In the bathroom was a little cupboard containing the usual toilet articles and household medicines. Parker made a rapid inventory of these, pausing for a few minutes over a packet labelled “Bicarbonate of Soda,” but touch and taste soon assured him that this contained exactly what it purported to contain. The only thing that could be considered in the slightest degree out of the ordinary in the whole establishment was the presence (also in the bathroom cupboard) of several packets of cigarette papers.

  “Did Mr. Mountjoy roll his own cigarettes?”

  “I never saw him do so,” replied Withers. “He smoked Turkish Abdullas as a rule.”

  Parker nodded and impounded the cigarette-papers. A further search disclosed no loose tobacco. A number of boxes of cigars and cigarettes were retrieved from the dining-room sideboard. They looked innocent and a few, which Parker promptly slit open, proved to contain excellent tobacco and nothing else. Parker shook his head.

  “You'll have to go through everything very carefully, Lumley.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any letters by the first post?”

  There were none.

  “Any visitors today?”

  “No, sir. Not unless you count the man from the post-office.”

  “Oh? What did he want?”

  “Nothing,” replied Withers, “except to bring the new telephone directory.” He indicated the two clean volumes which lay upon the sitting-room desk.

  “Oh!” said Parker. This did not sound promising. “Did he come into the room?”

  “No, sir. He knocked at the door when Mrs. Trabbs and I were both here. Mrs. Trabbs was sweeping, sir, and I was brushing Mr. Mountjoy's lounge suit. I took the books in, sir, and handed him out the old ones.”

  “I see. All right. And beyond sweeping and brushing and so on, you disturbed nothing?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Anything in the waste-paper basket?”

  “I could not say, sir. Mrs. Trabbs would know.”

  Mrs. Trabbs, produced, said there had been nothing in the waste-paper basket except a wine-merchant's circular. Mr. Mountjoy wrote very little and did not receive many letters.

  Satisfied that there had been no interference with the flat since the occupant had left the night before, Parker turned his attention to the wardrobe and chest of drawers, where he found various garments, all properly marked with the names of the tailor or shirt-maker responsible for them. He noticed that all were by first-class artists in their own line. Another silk hat, similar to the one now resting at Scotland Yard, but with sweat-band and crown undisfigured, was found in a hat-box; there were also several felt hats and a bowler, all by first-class makers.

  “Mr. Mountjoy was a rich man?”

  “He appeared to be in very easy circumstances, sir. He did himself well; the best of everything. Especially during the last year or so.”

  “What was his profession?”

  “I think he was a gentleman of independent means. I never heard of him being engaged in any business.”

  “Did you know that he had a silk hat from which the maker's name had been removed?”

  “Yes, sir. He was very angry about it. Said that some friend of his had damaged the hat for a rag. I offered several times to get it put right, sir, but when he had cooled down he said it didn't matter. It wasn't a hat he very often used, sir. And besides, he said, why should he be a walking advertisement for his hatter?”

  “Did you know that his dress suit had also lost the tailor's tab?”

  “Had it indeed, sir? No, I can't say I noticed it.”

  “What sort of man was Mr. Mountjoy?”

  “A very pleasant gentleman, sir. I'm very sorry to hear he has met with such a sad accident.”

  “How long has he lived here?”

  “Six or seven years, I believe, sir. I've been here four years myself.”

  “When was the practical joke played on his silk hat?”

  “About eighteen months ago, sir, if I remember rightly.”

  “As long ago as that? I fancied the hat looked newer.”

  “Well, sir, as I say, he didn't wear it above once or twice a week, sir. And Mr. Mountjoy didn't trouble about the fashion of his hats. There was one particular shape he fancied, and he had all his hats specially made to that pattern.”

  Parker nodded. He knew this already from the hatter and from Wimsey, but it was well to check matters up. He reflected that he had never yet caught Wimsey tripping in any fact pertaining to dress.

  “Well,” he said, “as you may have guessed, Withers, there will have to be an inquiry about Mr. Mountjoy's death. You had better say as little as possible to any outside person. You will give me all the keys of the flat, and I shall be leaving the police in charge here for a day or two.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Parker waited to ascertain the name and address of the proprietor of the flats, and left Lumley to his investigations. From the proprietor he gained very little information. Mr. Mountjoy, of no profession, had taken the flat six years previously. He had paid his rent regularly. There had been no complaints. Nothing was known of Mr. Mountjoy's friends or relations. It was regrettable that so good a tenant should have come to so sudden and sad an end. It was much to be hoped that nothing would transpire of a scandalous nature, as those flats had always been extremely respectable.

  Parker's next visit was to Mr. Mountjoy's bank. Here he encountered the usual obstructive attitude, but eventually succeeded in getting access to the books. There was a regular income of about a thousand a year derived from sound investments. No irregularities. No mysterious fluctuations. Parker came away with an uneasy impression that Mr. Hector Puncheon had discovered a mare's nest.

  CHAPTER XVI

  ECCENTRIC BEHAVIOUR OF A POST-OFFICE DEPARTMENT

  The Chief-Inspector voiced this opinion to Wimsey the same evening. His lordship, whose mind was still divided between detection and the new Whifflet campaign, which had taken clear shape during the afternoon, was curt with him:

  “Mare's nest? Then what knocked Puncheon out? A kick from the mare's heel?”

  “Perhaps Mountjoy merely got fed up with him. You'd get fed up yourself if you were pursued all over London by a Puncheon.”

  “Possibly. But I shouldn't knock him out and leave him to his fate. I should give him in charge. How is Puncheon?”

  “Still unconscious. Concussion. He seems to have got a violent blow on the temple and a nasty crack on the back of the head.”

  “Um. Knocked up against the wall, probably, when Mountjoy got him with the cosh.”

  “No doubt you're right.”

  “I am always right. I hope you are keeping an eye on the man Garfield.”

  “He won't move for a bit. Why?”

  “Well–it's odd that Mountjoy should have been snuffed out so inconveniently for you.”

  “You don't suppose that Garfield had anything to do with it? Why, the man was nearly killed himself. Besides, we've looked into him. He's a well-known Harley Street man, with a large West-end practice.”

  “Among the dope-maniacs, perhaps?”

  “He specializes in nervous complaints.”

  “Exactly.”

  Parker whistled.

  “That's what you think, is it?”

  “See here,” said Wimsey, “your grey matter isn't functioning as it ought. Are you tired at the end of the day? Do you suffer from torpor and lethargy after meals? Try Sparkletone, the invigorating vegetable saline that stimulates while it cleanses. Some accidents are too accidental to be true. When a gentleman removes his tailor's tab and takes the trouble to slice his hatter's imprint away with a razor, and goes skipping, for no reason at all, from Finchley to South Kensington Museum in his dress suit at
unearthly hours in the morning, it's because he has something to hide. If he tops up his odd behaviour by falling under a train without the smallest apparent provocation, it's because somebody else is interested in getting the things hidden, too. And the more risks somebody else takes in the process, the more certain it is that the thing is worth hiding.”

  Parker looked at him and grinned quietly.

  “You're a great guesser, Peter. Would you be surprised to hear that you're not the only one?”

  “No, I shouldn't. You're holding something out on me. What is it? A witness to the assault, what? Somebody who was on the platform? Somebody you weren't inclined to pay much attention to? You old leg-puller, I can see it in your face. Out with it now–who was it? A woman. A hysterical woman. A middle-aged, hysterical spinster. Am I right?”

  “Curse you, yes.”

  “Go on, then. Tell me all about it.”

  “Well, when Eagles took the depositions of the witnesses at the station, they all agreed that Mountjoy had walked several paces past Garfield and then suddenly staggered; that Garfield had caught him by the arm and that both had fallen together. But this female, Miss Eliza Tebbutt by name, 52, unmarried, housekeeper, living in Kensington, says that she was standing a little way beyond them both and that she distinctly heard what she describes as a 'dreadful voice' say, 'Punch away, you're for it!' That Mountjoy immediately stopped as though he had been shot, and that Garfield 'with a terrible face,' took him by the arm and tripped him up. It may increase your confidence in this good lady when you hear that she is subject to nervous disorders, has once been confined in a mental home and is persuaded that Garfield is a prominent member of a gang whose object is to murder all persons of British birth and establish the supremacy of the Jews in England.”

  “Jews in England be damned. Because a person has a monomania she need not be wrong about her facts. She might have imagined or invented a good deal, but she couldn't possibly imagine or invent anything so fantastic as 'Punch away,' which is obviously her mishearing of the name 'Mountjoy.' Garfield's your man–though I admit that you're going to have some difficulty in fixing anything on him. But if I were you, I'd have his premises searched–if it isn't too late by now.”

  “I'm afraid it probably is too late. We didn't get any sense out of Miss Tebbutt for an hour or so; by which time the heroic Dr. Garfield had, naturally, telephoned both to his home and to his consulting room to explain what had happened to him. Still, we'll keep an eye on him. The immediate matter of importance is Mountjoy. Who was he? What was he up to? Why did he have to be suppressed?”

  “It's pretty clear what he was up to. He was engaged in the dope traffic and he was suppressed because he had been fool enough to let Puncheon recognize and follow him. Somebody must have been on the watch; this gang apparently keeps tabs on all its members. Or the wretched Mountjoy may have asked for help and been helped out of the world as the speediest method of disposing of the difficulty. It's a pity Puncheon can't talk–he could tell us whether Mountjoy had telephoned or spoken to anybody during his dash round town. Anyhow, he made a mistake, and people who make mistakes are not permitted to survive. The odd thing, to my mind, is that you heard nothing of any visit to the flat. You'd rather expect the gang to have made some sort of investigation there, just to make sure. I suppose those servants are to be trusted?”

  “I think so. We've made inquiries. They've all got good histories. The commissionaire has an army pension and an excellent record. The valet and chambermaid are highly respectable–nothing whatever against them.”

  “H'm. And you've found nothing but a packet of cigarette-papers. Handy, of course, for wrapping up a grain or so of cocaine but, in themselves, no proof of anything.”

  “I thought you'd see the significance of the cigarette-papers.”

  “I am not yet blind or mentally deficient.”

  “But where is the dope?”

  “The dope? Really, Charles! He was going to fetch the dope when friend Puncheon butted in. Haven't you yet grasped that this is part of the Milligan crowd and that Friday is their day for distributing dope? The Milligans get it on Friday and give house-parties on Friday night and Saturday, when it goes into the hands of the actual addicts. Dian de Momerie told me so.”

  “I wonder,” said Parker, “why they stick to one day? It must add to the risk.”

  “It's obviously an integral part of the system. The stuff comes into the country–say on Thursdays. That's your part of the story. You don't seem to have done much about that, by the way. It is taken to–somewhere or the other–that night. Next day it is called for by the Mountjoys and sent on to the Milligans, none of whom probably knows any of the others by sight. And by Saturday the whole lot is pushed out and everybody has a happy week-end.”

  “That sounds plausible. It certainly explains why we found no trace of anything either in the flat or on Mountjoy's body. Except cigarette-papers. By the way, is that right? If Mountjoy has the cigarette-papers, he ought to be the one who distributes to the addicts.”

  “Not necessarily. He gets it himself in bulk–done up as Bicarbonate of Soda or what not. He divides it into small packets and parcels them out–so many to Milligan, so many to the next retailer and so forth; when, or how, I don't know. Nor do I know how the payments are worked.”

  “Glad to hear there's something you don't know.”

  “I said I didn't know; not that I couldn't guess. But I won't bother you with guesses. All the same, it's rather surprising that Garfield & Co. left that flat alone.”

  “Perhaps Garfield meant to go there afterwards, if he hadn't got knocked out.”

  “No; he'd not leave it so late. Tell me again about the flat.”

  Parker patiently repeated the account of his visit and the interviews with the servants. Before he was half-way through, Wimsey had sat up in his chair and was listening with fascinated attention.

  “Charles! What imbeciles we are! Of course, that's it!”

  “What's what?”

  “The Telephone Directory, of course. The man who brought the new volumes and took the old away. Since when has the Post Office taken to getting both new volumes out at once?”

  “By Jove!” exclaimed Parker.

  “I should think it was, by Jove. Ring up now and find out whether two new volumes were sent round to Mountjoy's address today.”

  “It'll be a job to get hold of O. C. Directories at this time of night.”

  “So it will. Wait a moment. Ring up the flats and ask if anybody else received any Directories this morning. My experience is that even Government departments do these things in batches, and don't make a special journey to every subscriber.”

  Parker acted on this suggestion. After a little trouble, he succeeded in getting into touch with three other occupants in the same block as Mountjoy's flat. All three gave the same answer. They had received a new L-Z volume about a fortnight previously. The new A-K volume was not yet due to be issued. One man went further. His name was Barrington, and he had only recently moved in. He had inquired when the new A-K volume would be out with his new 'phone number, and had been told that it would probably be issued in October.

  “That settles it,” said Wimsey. “Our friend Mountjoy kept his secrets in the telephone directory. That great work contains advertisements, post-office regulations and names and addresses, but particularly names and addresses. May we conclude that the secret nestled among the names and addresses? I think we may.”

  “It seems reasonable.”

  “Very reasonable. Now, how do we set about discovering those names and addresses?”

  “Bit of a job. We can probably get a description of the man who called for the books this morning–”

  “And comb London's teeming millions for him? Had we but world enough and time. Where do good telephone directories go when they die?”

  “The pulping-mills, probably.”

  “And the last exchange of the L-Z volume was made a fortnight ago. There's a chance that
it hasn't been pulped yet. Get on to it, Charles. There's more than a chance that it, too, was marked, and that the markings were transferred at each exchange from the old book to the new one.”

  “Why? Mountjoy might easily have kept the old marked set by him.”

  “I fancy not, or we should have either found it or heard about it from the manservant. The stranger came; the two current volumes were handed to him and he went away satisfied. As I see the plan, the whole idea would be to use the current volume, so as to rouse no suspicion, have nothing to conceal and provide a convenient mechanism for getting rid of the evidence at short notice.”

  “You may be right. It's a chance, as you say. I'll get on to the telephone people first thing in the morning.”

  The tide of luck seemed to have turned. A morning's strenuous work revealed that the old directories had already been dispatched by the sackful to the pulping-mills, but had not, so far, been pulped. Six workers, toiling over the week-end among L-Z volumes collected from the Kensington District, brought to light the pleasing fact that nine people out of ten marked their directories in some way or another. Reports came pouring in. Wimsey sat with Parker in the latter's office at Scotland Yard and considered these reports.

  Late on Sunday night, Wimsey raised his head from a sheaf of papers.

  “I think this is it, Charles.”

  “What is it?” Parker was weary and his eyes blood-shot with strain, but a note of hope was in his voice.

  “This one. A whole list of public-houses in Central London have been ticked off–three in the middle of the L's, two near the end of the M's, one in the N's, one in the O's, and so forth and so on, including two in the middle of the W's. The two in the W's are the White Stag in Wapping and the White Stoat off Oxford Street. The next W after that is the White Swan in Covent Garden. I would bet any money that in the new volume that was carried away, the White Swan was duly ticked off in its turn.”

  “I'm not quite sure what you're driving at.”