Murder Must Advertise (12 page)

“Just as simple as that,” said Wimsey.

“Of course it's simple, only men love to make mysteries.”

“And women love to jump to conclusions.”

“Never mind the generalizations,” said Parker, “they always lead to bad reasoning. Where do I come into all this?”
[Pg 84]

“You give me your advice, and stand by ready to rally round with your myrmidons in case there's any rough-housing. By the way, I can give you the address of that house we went to last night. Dope and gambling to be had for the asking, to say nothing of nameless orgies.”

He mentioned the address and the Chief-Inspector made a note of it. “Though we can't do much,” he admitted. “It's a private house, belonging to a Major Milligan. We've had our eye on it for some time. And even if we could get in on it, it probably wouldn't help us to what we want. I don't suppose there's a soul in that gang who knows where the dope comes from. Still, it's something to have definite evidence that that's where it goes. By the way, we got the goods on that couple you helped us to arrest the other night. They'll probably get seven years.”

“Good. I was pretty nearly had that time, though. Two of Pym's typists were fooling round and recognized me. I gave them a fishy stare and explained next morning that I had a cousin who closely resembled me. That notorious fellow Wimsey, of course. It's a mistake to be too well known.”

“If the de Momerie crowd get wise to you, you'll find yourself in Queer Street,” said Parker. “How did you get so pally with Dian?”

“Dived off a fountain into a fish-pond. It pays to advertise. She thinks I'm the world's eighth wonder. Absolutely the lobster's dress-shirt.”

“Well, don't kill yourself,” said Mary, gently. “We rather like you, and small Peter couldn't spare his best uncle.”

“It will do you no end of good,” remarked his brother-in-law, callously, “to have a really difficult case for once. When you've struggled for a bit with a death that might have been caused by anybody for any imaginable motive, you may be less sniffy and superior about the stray murders all over the country that the police so notoriously fail to avenge. I hope it will be a lesson to you. Have another spot?”

“Thanks; I'll try to profit by it. In the meantime, I'll go on gulling the public and being Mr. Bredon, to be heard of
[Pg 85]
at your address. And let me know of any developments with the Momerie-Milligan lot.”

“I will. Should you care to make one in our next dope-raid?”

“Sure thing. When do you expect it?”

“We've had information about cocaine-smuggling on the Essex coast. Worst thing the Government ever did was to abolish the coast-guard service. It doubles our trouble, especially with all these privately-owned motor-boats about. If you're out for an evening's fun any time, you could come along–and you might bring that car of yours. It's faster than anything we've got.”

“I see. Two for yourselves and one for me. Right you are. I'm on. Send me a line any time. I cease work at 5.30.”

In the meantime, three hearts were being wrung on Mr. Death Bredon's account.

Miss Pamela Dean was washing a pair of silk stockings in her solitary flat.

“Last night was rather marvellous
....
I suppose I oughtn't to have enjoyed it, with poor old Victor only just buried, the darling
...
but, of course, I really went for Victor's sake
....
I wonder if that detective man will find out anything about it
...
he didn't say much, but I believe he thinks there was something funny about Victor being killed like that
...
anyhow, Victor suspected there was something wrong, and he'd
want
me to do everything I could to ferret it out
....
I didn't know private detectives were like that
...
I thought they were nasty, furtive little men
...
vulgar
...
I like his voice
...
and his hands
...
oh, dear! there's a hole
...
I'll have to catch it together before it runs up the instep
...
and beautiful manners, only I'm afraid he was cross with me for coming to Pym's
...
he must be fearfully athletic to climb up that fountain
...
he swims like a fish
...
my new bathing-dress
...
sun-bathing
...
thank goodness I've got decent legs
...
I'll really have to get some more stockings, these
[Pg 86]
won't go on much longer
...
I wish I didn't look so washed-out in black
....
Poor Victor
!...
I wonder what I can possibly do with Alec Willis
...
if only he wasn't such a prig
....
I don't mind Mr. Bredon
...
he's quite right about that crowd being no good, but then he really knows what he's talking about, and it isn't just prejudice
....
Why will Alec be so jealous and tiresome
?...
And looking so silly in that black thing
...
following people about
....
Incompetent–I do like people to be competent
....
Mr. Bredon looks terribly competent
...
no, he doesn't exactly look it, but he is
...
he looks as though he never did anything but go to dinner-parties
....
I suppose high-class detectives have to look like that
....
Alec would make a rotten detective
....
I don't like ill-tempered men
...
I wonder what happened when Mr. Bredon went off with Dian de Momerie
...
she is beautiful
...
damn her, she's lovely
...
she does drink an awful lot
...
they say it makes you look old before your time
...
you get coarse
...
my complexion's all right, but I'm not the fashionable type
...
Dian de Momerie is perfectly crazy about people who do mad things
...
I don't like aluminium blondes
...
I wonder if I could get an aluminium bleach
....
”

Alec Willis, hammering a rather hard pillow into a more comfortable shape in his boarding-house bedroom, sought slumber in vain:

“Gosh! what a head I had this morning
...
that damned, sleek brute
!...
there's something up between Pamela and him
...
helping her with some business of Victor's my foot
!...
He's out to make trouble
...
and going off with that white-headed bitch
...
it's a damned insult
...
of course Pamela would lick his boots
...
women
...
put up with anything
...
wish I hadn't had all those drinks
...
damn this bed! damn this foul place
...
I'll have to chuck Pym's
...
it isn't safe
....
Murder
?...
anybody interfering with Pamela
...
Pamela
....
She wouldn't let me kiss her
...
that swine Bredon
...
down the iron staircase
...
get my hands on
[Pg 87]
his throat
....
What a hope! damned posturing acrobat
...
Pamela
...
I'd like to show her
...
money, money, money
...
if I wasn't so damned hard up
...
Dean was a little squirt anyway
...
I only told her the truth
...
blast all women
!...
They like rotters
...
I haven't paid for that last suit
...
oh, hell! I wish I hadn't had those drinks
...
I forgot to get any bicarbonate
...
I haven't paid for those boots
...
all those naked women in the swimming-pool
...
black and silver
...
he spotted me, damn his eyes
!...
'Hullo, Willis!' this morning, as cool as a fish
...
dives like a fish
...
fish don't dive
...
fish don't sleep
...
or do they
?...
I can't sleep
...
'Macbeth hath murdered sleep.'
...
Murder
...
down the iron staircase
...
get my hands on his throat
...
oh, damn! damn! damn
!...
”

Dian de Momerie was dancing:

“My God! I'm bored
....
Get off my feet, you clumsy cow
....
Money, tons of money
...
but I'm bored
....
Can't we do something else
?...
I'm sick of that tune
...
I'm sick of everything
...
he's working up to get all mushy
...
suppose I'd better go through with it
...
I was sozzled last night
...
wonder where the Harlequin man went to
...
wonder who he was
...
that little idiot Pamela Dean
...
these women
...
I'll have to make up to her, I suppose, if I'm ever to get his address
...
I got him away from her, any old how
...
wish I hadn't been so squiffy
...
I can't remember
...
climbing up the fountain
...
black and silver
...
he's got a lovely body
...
I think he could give me a thrill
...
my God! how bored I am
...
he's exciting
...
rather mysterious
...
I'll have to write to Pamela Dean
...
silly little fool
...
expect she hates me
...
rather a pity I chucked little Victor
...
fell downstairs and broke his silly neck
...
damn good riddance
...
ring her up
...
she's not on the 'phone
...
so suburban not to be on the 'phone
...
if this tune goes on, I shall scream
...
Milligan's drinks are rotten
...
why does one go there
?...
Must do something
...
[Pg 88]
Harlequin
...
don't even know his name
....
Weedon
...
Leader
...
something or other
...
oh, hell! perhaps Milligan knows
...
I can't stand this any longer
...
black and silver
...
thank God! that's over!”

Lord Peter Wimsey went home and slept.

SINGULAR SPOTLESSNESS OF A LETHAL WEAPON

“Y
ou know,” said Miss Rossiter to Mr. Smayle, “our newest copy-writer is perfectly potty.”

“Potty?” Mr. Smayle, showing all his teeth in an engaging smile, “you don't say so, Miss Rossiter? How, potty?”

“Well, loopy,” explained Miss Rossiter. “Goofy. Blah. He's always up on the roof, playing with a catapult. I don't know
what
Mr. Hankin would say if he knew.”

“With a catapult?” Mr. Smayle looked pained. “That doesn't seem quite the thing. But we in other spheres, Miss Rossiter, always envy, if I may say so, the happy youthful spirit of the copy-department. Due, no doubt,” added Mr. Smayle, “to the charming influence of the ladies. Allow me to get you another cup of tea.”

“Thanks awfully, I wish you would.” The monthly tea was in full swing, and the Little Conference Room was exceedingly crowded and stuffy. Mr. Smayle edged away gallantly in pursuit of tea, and against the long table, presided over by Mrs. Johnson (the indefatigable lady who ruled the Dispatching, the office-boys and the first-aid cupboard) found himself jostled by Mr. Harris of the Outdoor Publicity.

“Pardon, old fellow,” said Mr. Smayle.

“Granted,” said Mr. Harris, “fascinating young fellows like you are privileged to carry all before them. Ha, ha,
ha
! I saw you doing the polite to Miss Rossiter–getting on like a house afire, eh?”

Mr. Smayle smirked deprecatingly.
[Pg 90]

“Wouldn't you like three guesses at our conversation?” he suggested. “One milk and no sugar and one milk and sugar, Mrs. J., please.”

“Three's two too many,” replied Mr. Harris. “I can tell you. You were talking about Miss Rossiter and Mr. Smayle, hey? Finest subjects of conversation in the world–to Mr. Smayle and Miss Rossiter, hey?”

“Well, you're wrong,” said Mr. Smayle, triumphantly. “We were discussing another member of this community. The new copy-writer, in fact. Miss Rossiter was saying he was potty.”