Murder Must Advertise

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  “Bredon never went to a university, though he sometimes claims Oxford as his Alma Mater. He was educated at a public school in France where English sports are cultivated. He is a very fine natural cricketer, and was actually playing in a cricket match when arrested through the prompt and intelligent action of Chief-Inspector Parker. Under various names he is well known in the night-clubs of London and Paris. He is said to have met the unfortunate girl, with whose murder he is charged, at the house of the late Major Milligan, who met his death two days ago by being run down by a lorry in Piccadilly. Following representations by the Wimsey family as to his mode of life, he had recently taken a post in a well-known commercial firm, and was supposed to have turned over a new leaf, but....”

  And so on, and so forth.

  Miss Meteyard sat for a long time with the papers strewn about her, smoking cigarettes, while her coffee got cold. Then she went and had a bath. She hoped it might clear her brain.

  The excitement at Pym's on the Monday morning was indescribable. The Copy Department sat in the typists' room and did no work at all. Mr. Pym telephoned that he was unwell, and could not come to the office. Mr. Copley was so unnerved that he sat for three hours with a blank sheet of paper before him and then went out for a drink–a thing he had never done in his life. Mr. Willis seemed to be on the verge of nervous collapse. Mr. Ingleby laughed at his colleagues' agitation and said that it was a grand new experience for them all. Miss Parton burst into tears and Miss Rossiter proclaimed that she had always known it. Mr. Tallboy then enlivened the proceedings by fainting in Mr. Armstrong's room, thus giving Mrs. Johnson (who was hysterically inclined) useful occupation for half an hour. And Ginger Joe, of the red head and sunny temper, astonished his companions by having a fit of the sulks and then suddenly cuffing Bill's head for no reason whatever.

  At 1 o'clock Miss Meteyard went out to lunch, and read in the Evening Banner that Mr. Death Bredon had appeared before the magistrates at 10 a.m. on the murder charge, and had reserved his defence. At 10.30, Lord Peter Wimsey (picturesquely described as “the second protagonist in this drama of dope and death”) had, while riding in the Row, narrowly escaped injury, owing to his horse's having been startled by a back-fire from a racing car; the animal had bolted and only Lord Peter's consummate horsemanship had averted a nasty accident. There was a photograph of Mr. Bredon entering the court at Bow Street in a dark lounge suit and soft hat; there was also a photograph of Lord Peter Wimsey returning from his ride in neat breeches and boots and a bowler; there was, needless to say, no photograph of the metamorphosis of the one gentleman into another, behind the drawn blinds of a Daimler saloon while traversing the quiet squares north of Oxford Street.

  On Monday night, Lord Peter Wimsey attended a performance of Say When! at the Frivolity, companioning a Royal personage.

  On Tuesday morning, Mr. Willis arrived at the office late and in a great state of excited importance. He beamed at everybody, presented the typists' room with a four-pound box of chocolates and an iced cake, and informed the sympathetic Miss Parton that he was engaged to be married. At coffee-time, the name of the lady was known to be Miss Pamela Dean. At 11.30, it was divulged that the ceremony would take place at the earliest possible moment, and at 11.45 Miss Rossiter was collecting subscriptions for a wedding-present. By 2 o'clock, the subscribers were already divided into two opinionated and bitterly hostile factions, the one advocating the purchase of a handsome dining-room clock with Westminster chimes, and the other voting with passion for a silver-plated electric chafing-dish. At 4 o'clock, Mr. Jollop had turned down successively, “Sigh no more, Ladies,” “Oh, Dry those Tears” and “Weeping Late and Weeping Early,” which Mr. Toule had previously passed, and rejected with derision the proposed substitution of “If you have Tears,” “O Say, What are You Weeping For?” and “A Poor Soul Sat Sighing.” Mr. Ingleby, stimulated by a frantic request for new headlines, had flown into a passion because the Dictionary of Quotations had mysteriously disappeared. At 4.30 Miss Rossiter, feverishly typing, had completed “I Weep, I know not Why” and “In Silence and in Tears,” while the distracted Mr. Ingleby was seriously contemplating “In that Deep Midnight of the Mind” (for, as he observed, “they'll never know it's Byron unless we tell them”), when Mr. Armstrong sent up word to say that he had persuaded Mr. Jollop to accept the copy of “O Say, What are you Weeping For?” combined with the headline “Flat, Stale, and Unprofitable,” and would Mr. Ingleby kindly verify at once whether it was “Flat, Stale” or “Stale, Flat,” and get the thing re-typed and hand it to Mr. Tallboy immediately.

  “Isn't Mr. Armstrong marvellous?” said Miss Rossiter. “He always finds a way out. Here you are, Mr. Ingleby–I've looked it up–it's “Stale, Flat.” The first sentence will want altering, I suppose. You can't have this bit about 'Sometimes you are tempted to ask yourself, in the words of the old game,' can you?”

  “I suppose not,” grunted Ingleby. “Better make it: 'Sometimes you may be tempted, like Hamlet, to exclaim'–then the whole quote–and go on, 'yet if anybody were to ask you why–' and join it up there. That'll do. Courses of the world, please, not curses.”

  “T'chk!” said Miss Rossiter.

  “Here's Wedderburn, panting for his copy. How's Tallboy, Wedder?”

  “Gone home,” said Mr. Wedderburn. “He didn't want to go, but he's fagged out. He oughtn't to have come to the office at all today, but he would do it. Is this the thing?”

  “Yes. They'll want a new sketch, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Wedderburn, gloomily. “How they ever expect things to look right when they chop and change like this–Oh, well! What is it? 'Picture of Hamlet.' Have the Studio got a reference for Hamlet?”

  “Of course not; they never have anything. Who does these sketches? Pickering? You'd better take him my illustrated Shakespeare with my compliments, and request him not to cover it with Indian ink and rubber solution.”

  “All right.”

  “And to return it sometime before Christmas.”

  Wedderburn grinned and departed on his errand.

  About ten minutes later, the telephone tinkled in the typists' room.

  “Yes?” said Miss Rossiter, in mellifluous accents. “Who is it, please?”

  “Tallboy speaking,” said the telephone.

  “Oh!” Miss Rossiter altered her voice from the tone reserved for clients and directors to a tarter one (for she was not too well pleased with Mr. Tallboy), modified by the sympathy due to ill-health:

  “Oh, yes? Are you feeling better, Mr. Tallboy?”

  “Yes, thanks. I've been trying to get Wedderburn, but he doesn't seem to be in his room.”

  “I expect he's in the Studio, making poor Mr. Pickering work overtime on a new Nutrax sketch.”

  “Oh! that's what I wanted to know. Did Jollop pass that copy?”

  “No–he turned the whole lot down. It's a new one–at least, new headline with the 'What are you Weeping for?' copy.”

  “Oh, a new headline? What is it?”

  “Stale, Flat and Unprofitable. Shakespeare, you know.”

  “Oh! Oh, good! Glad something managed to get through. It was worrying me.”

  “It's quite all right, Mr. Tallboy.” Miss Rossiter rang off. “Touching devotion to business,” she observed to Miss Parton. “As if the world would stop turning just because he wasn't here!”

  “I expect he was afraid old Copley would be butting in again,” said Miss Parton, with a snort.

  “Oh, him!” said Miss Rossiter.

  “Well, now, young man,” said the policeman, “and what do you want?”

  “I want to see Chief-Inspector Parker.”

  “Ho!” said the policeman. “Don't want much, do you? Sure you wouldn't rather see the Lord Mayor o' London? Or Mister Ramsay MacDonald?”

  “I say, are you always as funny as that? Cor lumme, don't it 'urt yer sometimes? You better buy yourself a new pair o' boots or you'll be gettin' too big for wot yer wearin'. You tel
l Chief-Inspector Parker as Mr. Joe Potts wants ter see 'im about this 'ere 'Arlequin murder. And look snappy, 'cos I gotter git 'ome ter me supper.”

  “About the 'Arlequin murder, eh? And wot do you know about that?”

  “Never you mind. Jest tell 'im wot I say. Tell 'im it's Joe Potts as works at Pym's Publicity and you'll 'ave 'im steppin' aht ter meet me wiv' a crimson carpet and a bokay.”

  “Oh! you're from Pym's. Got something to say about this Bredon, is that it?”

  “That's it. Now, you 'op it, and don't waste time.”

  “You'd better come in here, young Cocky–and be'ave yourself.”

  “Right-ho! it's all the same to me.”

  Mr. Joseph Potts wiped his boots neatly on the mat, took his seat upon a hard bench, drew out a Yo-Yo from his pocket, and began nonchalantly throwing a handsome series of loops, while the policeman retired defeated.

  Presently he returned and, sternly commanding Mr. Joseph Potts to put his top away, conducted him through a series of passages to a door, upon which he knocked. A voice said “Come in,” and Mr. Potts found himself in a good-sized room, furnished with two desks, a couple of comfortable arm-chairs and several other seats of penitential appearance. At the farther desk sat a man in mufti, writing, with his back to the door; at the nearer, facing the door, was another man in a grey suit, with a pile of documents before him.

  “The boy, sir,” announced the policeman, and retired.

  “Sit down,” said the man in grey, briefly, indicating one of the penitential chairs. “Now then, what's all this you've got to tell us, eh?”

  “Excuse me, sir, are you Chief-Inspector Parker?”

  “This is a very cautious witness,” observed the man in grey to the world in general. “Why do you particularly want to see Chief-Inspector Parker?”

  “'Cos it's important and confidential, see?” said Mr. Joseph Potts, pertly. “Information, that's wot it is. I likes ter do business with the boss, especially if there's anythink ain't bein' 'andled as it should be.”

  “Oh!”

  “I want to tell this Parker that this case ain't bein' 'andled right. See? Mr. Bredon ain't got nothink to do with it.”

  “Indeed. Well, I'm Chief-Inspector Parker. What do you know about Bredon?”

  “This 'ere.” Ginger Joe extended an inky forefinger. “You been 'ad. Mr. Bredon ain't no crook, 'e's a great detective, and I'm 'is assistant. We're 'ard on the track of a murderer, see? And this 'ere is just a mashi–macki–I mean it's jest a booby-trap set by the 'ideous gang as 'e's out ter track to its lair. You been boobies ter let yerselves be took in by it, see? 'E's a sport, is Mr. Bredon, and he ain't never murdered no young woman, let alone bein' such a fool as ter leave penny whistles be'ind 'im. If you wants a murderer, Mr. Bredon's got 'is eye on one now, and you're jest playin' into the 'ands of the Black Spider and 'is gang–meaning to say, 'oever done this. Wot I meantersay, the time 'as come fer me ter divulge wot I know, and I ain't agoin'–cor lumme!”

  The man at the farther desk had turned round and was grinning at Ginger over the back of his chair.

  “That'll do, Ginger,” said this person. “We know all about that here. I am obliged to you for your testimonial. I hope you haven't been divulging anything in other directions.”

  “Me, sir? No, sir. I ain't said a word, Mr. Bredon, sir. But seein' as 'ow–”

  “That's all right; I believe you. Now, Charles, I think this is just the lad we want. You can get that headline from him and save ringing up Pym's. Ginger, was the Nutrax headline passed this afternoon?”

  “Yes, sir. 'Stale, Flat and Unprofitable,' that's what it was. And lor', wasn't there a to-do about it! Took 'em all afternoon, it did, and Mr. Ingleby wasn't 'arf wild.”

  “He would be,” said Wimsey. “Now, you'd better cut along home, Ginger, and not a word, mind.”

  “No, sir.”

  “We're much obliged to you for coming,” added Parker, “but you see, we aren't quite such boobies as you think. We know a good deal about Mr. Bredon here. And by the way, let me introduce you to Lord Peter Wimsey.”

  Ginger Joe's eyes nearly popped out of his head.

  “Coo! Lord Peter–where's Mr. Bredon, then? This is Mr. Bredon. You're pulling my leg.”

  “I promise,” said Wimsey, “to tell you all about it this time next week. Cut along now, there's a good chap. We're busy.”

  On Wednesday morning, Mr. Parker received a communication from St. Martin's-le-Grand. Inside the official envelope was another, addressed in Tallboy's hand to S. Smith, Esq. at Cummings' address in Old Broad Street.

  “That settles it,” said Wimsey. He consulted the marked Telephone Directory. “Here you are. The Stag at Bay, Drury Lane. Make no mistake this time.”

  It was not until Thursday evening that Miss Meteyard made up her mind to speak to Mr. Tallboy.

  CHAPTER XX

  APPROPRIATE EXIT OF AN UNSKILLED MURDERER

  “Is Lord Peter Wimsey at home?”

  The manservant raked his questioner with a swift glance, which took in everything from his hunted eyes to his respectable middle-class boots. Then he said, inclining a respectful head:

  “If you will be good enough to take a seat, I will ascertain if his Lordship is at leisure. What name shall I say, sir?”

  “Mr. Tallboy.”

  “Who, Bunter?” said Wimsey. “Mr. Tallboy? This is a little embarrassing. What does he look like?”

  “He looks, my lord, if I may so poetically express myself, as though the Hound of Heaven had got him, so to say, cornered, my lord.”

  “You are probably right. I should not be surprised if a hound of hell or so were knocking about the neighbourhood as well. Take a squint out of the window, Bunter.”

  “Very good, my lord.... I can observe nobody, but I retain a distinct impression that, when I opened the door to Mr. Tallboy, I overheard a footstep on the floor below.”

  “Very likely. Well, it can't be helped. Show him in.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  The young man came in and Wimsey rose to greet him.

  “Good evening, Mr. Tallboy.”

  “I have come,” began Tallboy, and then broke off. “Lord Peter–Bredon–for God's sake, which are you?”

  “Both,” said Wimsey, gravely. “Won't you sit down?”

  “Thanks, I'd rather ... I don't want ... I came....”

  “You're looking rather rotten. I really think you'd better sit down, and have a spot of something.”

  Tallboy's legs seemed to give way under him, and he sat down without further protest.

  “And how,” inquired Wimsey, pouring him out a stiff whisky, “is the Whifflets campaign getting on without me?”

  “Whifflets?”

  “It doesn't matter. I only asked to show you that I really was Bredon. Put that straight down. Is that better?”

  “Yes. I'm sorry to have made a fool of myself. I came to you–”

  “You came to find out how much I knew?”

  “Yes–no. I came because I couldn't stick it out any longer. I came to tell you all about it.”

  “Wait a minute. There's something I must tell you first. It's all out of my hands now. You understand? As a matter of fact, I don't think there's very much you can tell me. The game's up, old man. I'm sorry–I'm really sorry, because I think you've been having a perfectly bloody time. But there it is.”

  Tallboy had gone very white. He accepted another drink without protest, and then said:

  “Well, I'm rather glad in a way. If it wasn't for my wife and the kid–oh, God!” He hid his face in his hands, and Wimsey walked over to the window and glanced at the lights of Piccadilly, pale in the summer dusk. “I've been a bloody fool,” said Tallboy.

  “Most of us are,” said Wimsey. “I'm damned sorry, old chap.”

  He came back and stood looking down at him.

  “Look here,” he said, “you need not tell me a thing, if you don't want to. But if you do, I want you to understand that
it won't really make any difference. I mean, if you feel like getting it off your chest, I don't think it will prejudice matters for you at all.”

  “I'd like to tell you,” said Tallboy. “I think you might understand. I realize that it's all up, anyhow.” He paused. “I say, what put you on to this?”

  “That letter of Victor Dean's. You remember it? The one he threatened to write to Pym. He showed it to you, I fancy.”

  “The little swine. Yes, he did. Didn't he destroy it?”

  “No, he didn't.”

  “I see. Well, I'd better begin at the beginning. It all started about two years ago. I was rather hard up and I wanted to get married. I'd been losing money on horses, as well, and things were not too good. I met a man in a restaurant.”

  “What restaurant?”

  Tallboy gave the name. “He was a middle-aged, ordinary sort of person. I've never seen him since. But we got talking about one thing and another, and how tight money was and so on, and I happened to mention where I was working. He seemed to be thinking a bit after that, and asked a good many questions about how advertisements were put together and sent to the papers, and so on, and whether I was in a position to know beforehand what the headlines were going to be. So I said, of course, that there were some accounts I knew all about, such as Nutrax, and others I didn't. So then he mentioned the Morning Star half-double, and asked when I knew about the headlines of that, and I said, on Tuesday afternoon. Then he suddenly asked me if I could do with an extra thousand a year, and I said, 'Couldn't I? Lead me to it.' So then he came out with his proposal. It sounded pretty innocent. At least, it was quite obviously a dirty trick, but it wasn't criminal, the way he put it. He said, if I would let him know, every Tuesday, the initial letter of the headline for the following Friday, I should be well paid for it. Of course, I made a fuss about breach of confidence and so on and he raised his terms to twelve hundred. It sounded damned tempting, and I couldn't see, for the life of me, how it was going to harm the firm in any way. So I said I'd do it, and we fixed up a code–”