Murder Must Advertise (16 page)

“Only a note from Dian de Momerie. She wants to know who you are. You seem to have made a remarkable hit.”

“We aim to please,” said Peter. “What have you done about it?”

“Nothing. I didn't know what you would like me to do.”

“You didn't give her my address?”

“No. That was what she was asking for. I didn't want to make another mistake, so I passed it all on to you.”

“Quite right.”

“Well?”

“Tell her–does she know that I'm at Pym's?”

“No, I was very careful to say absolutely nothing about you. Except your name. I did tell her that, but she seems to have forgotten it.”

“Good. Listen, now. Tell bright Dian that I'm a most mysterious person. You never know where to find me yourself. Hint that I'm probably miles away–in Paris or Vienna, or anything that sounds fruity. You can convey the right impression, I know. Phillips Oppenheim, with a touch of Ethel M. Dell and Elinor Glyn.”

“Oh, yes, I can do that.”

“And you might say that she will probably see me some time when she least expects it. Suggest, if you don't mind being so vulgar, that I am a sort of yellow-dog dingo, very truly run after and hard to catch. Be stimulating. Be intriguing.”

“I will. Am I at all jealous, by the way?”
[Pg 114]

“Yes, if you like. Give the impression that you're sort of putting her off. It's a hard chase and you're not keen on competitors.”

“All right. That won't be difficult.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I said I could manage that all right.”

“I know you'll do it beautifully. I rely on you very much.”

“Thank you. How is the enquiry getting on?”

“So-so.”

“Tell me all about it some time, won't you?”

“Rather! As soon as there's anything to report.”

“Will you come to tea one Saturday or Sunday?”

“I should love to.”

“I'll keep you to that.”

“Oh, yes, rather! Well, goodnight.”

“Good-night–Yellow-Dog Dingo.”

“Bung-ho!”

Wimsey put down the receiver. “I hope,” he thought, “she isn't going to make an awkwardness. You cannot trust these young women. No fixity of purpose. Except, of course, when you particularly want them to be yielding.”

He grinned with a wry mouth, and went out to keep his date with the one young woman who showed no signs of yielding to him, and what he said or did on that occasion is in no way related to this story.

Ginger Joe hoisted himself cautiously up in bed and looked round the room.

His elder brother–not the policeman, but sixteen-year-old Bert, the nosey one–was reassuringly asleep, curled up dog-fashion, and dreaming, no doubt, of motor-cycles. The faint light from the street lamp outlined the passive hump he made in the bed-clothes, and threw a wan gleam across Ginger's narrow bedstead.

From beneath his pillow, Ginger drew out a penny exercise book and a stubby pencil. There was very little privacy
[Pg 115]
in Ginger's life, and opportunities had to be seized when they occurred. He licked the pencil, opened the book, and headed a page in a large, round hand: “Report.”

There he paused. It was desirable to do this thing really creditably, and the exercises in English composition they had given him at school did not seem to help. “My Favourite Book,” “What I Should Like to Do when I Grow Up,” “What I Saw at the Zoo”–very good subjects but not of great assistance to a rising young detective. He had once been privileged to take a glimpse at Wally's note-book (Wally being the policeman), and remembered that the items had all begun somewhat in this fashion: “At 8.30 p.m., as I was proceeding along Wellington Street”–a good opening, but not applicable to the present case. The style of
Sexton Blake
, also, though vigorous, was more suited for the narration of stirring adventures than for the compilation of a catalogue of names and facts. And on the top of all this, there was the awkward question of spelling–always a stumbling-block. Ginger felt vaguely that an ill-spelt report would have an untrustworthy appearance.

In this emergency, he consulted his native commonsense, and found it a good guide.

“I better just begin at the beginning,” he said to himself, and, pressing heavily upon the paper and frowning desperately, began to write.

“
Report
by Joseph L. Potts
(aged 14½)”

On consideration, he thought this needed a little more corroborative detail, and added his address and the date. The report then proceeded:

I had a talk with the boys about the
catter
(erased) catapult. Bill Jones says he reckollects of me standing in the Dispatch and Mrs. Johnson collaring of the catapult. Sam Tabbit and George Pyke was there too. What I says to them was as Mr. Bredon give me back the catapult and it have the bit of leather tore and I wants to know who done it. They all says they never been to Mrs. Johnson's draw and I think they was tellin the truth sir because Bill and Sam is good sorts and you can always tell if George is fibbing because of the way he looks and he was looking alright. So then I says could it have been any of the others and they says they have not seen none of them with catapults so I makes out to be very angry and says it's a potty a boy can't have his catapult
confist
confiskcated without somebody goes and tears of it. And then Clarence Metcalfe comes along which he is head boy sir and asks what's up so I tells him and he says if anybody's been at Mrs. Johnsons draw its very serious. So he gets arsking them all and they all says no but Jack Bolter remembers of Mrs. Johnson leaving her bag on the desk one day and Miss Parton picking it up and taking of it down to the canteen. I says when? And he says it was about two days after my catapult was
confik
took away, and the time just after lunch sir. So you see sir it would have been laying there an hour sir when nobody was about.

Now sir about who else was there and might have seen it took. Now I comes to think I remember Mr. Prout was there at the head of the stairs because he passed a remark to Mrs. Johnson and pulled my ear and there was one of the young ladies I think it was Miss Hartley waiting to get a messenger. And after I gone down to Mr. Hornby Sam says as Mr. Wedderburn came along and him and Mrs. Johnson had a bit of a joke about it. But sir I expecks lots of people knew about it because Mrs. Johnson would tell them in the canteen. She is always telling tales on we boys sir I suppose she thinks its funny.

This is all I has to report about the catapult sir. I has not yet made any inquiry about the other matter thinking one was enough at a time or they might think I was askin a lot of questions but I have thought of a plan for that.

Yours respeckfully

J. Potts
.

“What the devil are you doing there, Joe?”

Ginger, too absorbed in his report to have kept a proper look-out upon Bert, started violently, and thrust the exercise book under his pillow.

“Never you mind,” he said, nervously. “It's private.”

“Oh, is it?”

Bert flung the bed-clothes aside and advanced, a threatening figure.

“Writing poitry?” he demanded, with contempt.

“It's nothing to do with you,” retorted Ginger. “You leave me be.”

“'And that there book over,” said Bert.

“No, I won't.”

“You won't, won't you?”

“No, I won't. Get out!”

Ginger clasped the document with agitated hands.

“I'm going to 'ave a look–leggo!”

Ginger was a wiry child for his years and spirited, but his hands were hampered by the book, and the advantages of height, weight and position were with Bert. The struggle was noisy.

“Let me go, you beastly great bully.”

“I'll teach you to call names! Cheeky little beast.”

“Ow!” wailed Ginger. “I won't, I won't, I tell you! it's private!”

Whack! wallop!

“Nah then!” said a stately voice, “wot's all this?”

“Wally, tell Bert to leave me be.”

“He didn't oughter cheek me. I only wanted ter know wot he was doin', sittin' up writin' poitry w'en he oughter a-bin asleep.”

“It's private,” persisted Ginger. “Really and truly, it's frightfully private.”

“Can't yer leave the kid alone?” said P. C. Potts, magisterially, “makin' all this noise. You'll wake Dad and then you'll both get a 'iding. Now both of you 'op back to bed or I'll 'ave ter take you up for disturbing the peace. And you did oughter be asleep, Joe, and not writing poitry.”

“It ain't poitry. It's something I was doing for a gentleman at the office and he said I wasn't to tell nobody.”

“Well, see here,” said Wally Potts, extending a vast official fist. “You 'and over that there book to me, see? I'll put it away in my drawer and you can 'ave it again in the morning. And now go to sleep for goodness' sake, both on yer.”

“You won't read it, will yer, Wally?”

“All right, I won't read it if you're so bloomin' perticler.”

Ginger, reluctant but confident of Wally's honour, reluctantly released the exercise-book.

“That's right,” said Wally, “and if I 'ear any more larkin' about you're for it, both of yer. See wot I mean?”

He stalked away, gigantic in his striped pyjamas.

Ginger Joe, rubbing the portions of himself which had suffered in the assault, rolled the bed-clothes about him and took comfort in telling himself a fresh instalment of that nightly narrative of which he was both author and hero.

“Bruised and battered, but unshaken in his courage, the famous detective sank back on his straw pallet in the rat-ridden dungeon. In spite of the pain of his wounds, he was happy, knowing that the precious documents were safe. He laughed to think of the baffled Crime King, gnashing his teeth in his gilded oriental saloon. 'Foiled yet again, Hawkeye!' growled the villainous doctor, 'but it will be my turn next!' Meanwhile
....
”

The life of a detective is a hard one.

CONVULSIVE AGITATION OF AN ADVERTISING AGENCY

I
t was on the Friday of the week in which all these stirring incidents occurred that Pym's Publicity, Ltd. became convulsed by the Great Nutrax Row, which shook the whole office from the highest to the lowest, turned the peaceful premises into an armed camp and very nearly ruined the Staff Cricket Match against Brotherhood's, Ltd.

The hardworking and dyspeptic Mr. Copley was the prime mover of all the trouble. Like most fomenters of schism, he acted throughout with the best intentions–and indeed, when one looks back upon the disturbance in the serene perspective of distance and impartiality, it is difficult to see what he could have done, other than what he did. But as Mr. Ingleby observed at the time, “It isn't what Copley
does
, it's the way he does it”; and in the heat and fury of the battle, when the passions of strong men are aroused, judgment easily becomes warped.

The thing started in this way:

At a quarter past six on the Thursday evening, the office was deserted, except for the cleaners and Mr. Copley, who, by an altogether exceptional accident, was left working overtime upon a rush series of cut-price advertisements for Jamboree Jellies. He was getting along nicely, and hoped to be through by half-past six and home in good time for 7.30 supper, when the telephone in the Dispatching rang violently and insistently.

“Dash it!” said Mr. Copley, annoyed by the din, “they ought to know the office is closed. You'd think they expected us to work all night.”

He went on working, trusting that the nuisance would cease of itself. Presently it did cease, and he heard the shrill voice of Mrs. Crump informing the caller that there was nobody in the office. He took a soda-mint tablet. His sentence was shaping itself beautifully. “The authentic flavour of the fresh home-grown orchard fruit–of apricots ripening in the sunny warmth of an old, walled garden
....
”

“Excuse me, sir.”

Mrs. Crump, shuffling apologetically in her carpet slippers, poked a nervous head round the door.

“What is it now?” said Mr. Copley.

“Oh, if you please, sir, it's the
Morning Star
on the telephone very urgent, asking for Mr. Tallboy. I told them they was all gone 'ome, but they says it's very important, sir, so I thought I'd better ask you.”

“What's it all about?”

“Somethink about the advertisement for tomorrow morning, sir–somethink's gone wrong and they say, did it ought to be left out altogether or can we send them somethink else, sir?”

“Oh, well!” said Mr Copley, resigned, “I suppose I'd better come and speak to them.”

“I dunno whether I done right, sir,” continued Mrs. Crump, anxiously pattering after him, “but I thought, sir, if there is a gentleman in the office I ought to tell him about it, because I didn't know but what it mightn't be important–”

“Quite right, Mrs. Crump, quite right,” said Mr. Copley. “I daresay I can settle it.”

He strode competently to the telephone and grasped the receiver.

“Hullo!” he said, petulantly, “Pym's here. What's the matter?”

“Oh!” said a voice. “Is that Mr. Tallboy?”

“No. Mr. Tallboy's gone home. Everybody's gone home, You ought to know that by this time. What is it?”

“Well,” said the voice, “it's about that Nutrax half-double for tomorrow's feature page.”

“What about it? Haven't you had it?”

(Just like Tallboy, thought Mr. Copley. No organization. You never could trust these younger men.)

“Yes, we've got it,” said the voice, doubtfully, “but Mr. Weekes says we can't put it in. You see–”

“Can't put it in?”

“No. You see, Mr.–”

“I'm Mr. Copley. It's not in my department. I really know nothing about it. What's the matter with it?”

“Well, if you had it there before you, you'd see what I mean. You know the headline–”

“No, I don't,” snapped Mr. Copley, exasperated. “I tell you it's not my business and I've never seen the thing.”

“Oh!” said the voice, with irritating cheerfulness. “Well, the headline is:
ARE YOU TAKING TOO MUCH OUT OF YOURSELF?
And, taken in conjunction with the sketch, Mr. Weekes thinks it might lay itself open to an unfortunate interpretation. If you had it there before you, I think you'd see what he means.”