Murder Must Advertise (31 page)

“But look here, Tod,” said Dian. “I thought it was the other way round. I thought you were afraid of
his
finding out too much.”

“That's true,” said Milligan, scowling. “What would be the use of it if he found out first?”

“I don't follow all this,” said Bredon. “Wasn't it his secret? Why not stop talking like a sensation novel and give us the dope straight?”

“Because I don't believe you know even as much as I do about the fellow.”

“I don't. I never met him in my life. But I know a good deal about Pym's Publicity, Ltd.”

“How?”

“I work there.”

“What?”

“I work there.”

“Since when?”

“Since Dean's death.”

“Because of Dean's death, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“How did that happen?”

“I received information, as my dear cousin Wimsey's police pals would say, that Dean was on to something fishy about Pym's. So, since most fish have gold in their mouths like St. Peter's, I thought it wouldn't do any harm to try a cast or two over that particular pool.”

“And what did you find?”

“My dear Milligan, you would make a cat laugh. I don't give away information. I dispose of it–advantageously.”

“So do I.”

“As you like. You invited me here tonight. I wasn't looking for you. But there's one thing I don't mind telling you, because I've already told Miss de Momerie, and that is, that Victor Dean was bumped off deliberately to prevent him from talking. So far, the only person I can discover who wanted him out of the way was yourself. The police might be interested to know that fact.”

“The police?”

“Oh! I quite agree. I don't like the police. They pay very badly and ask a hell of a lot of questions. But it might be useful, for once, to get on the right side of them.”

“That's all punk,” said Milligan. “You're barking up the wrong tree. I didn't kill the fellow. I didn't want him killed.”

“Prove that,” said the other, coolly.

He watched Milligan's impassive face, and Milligan watched his.

“Give it up,” suggested Bredon, after a few minutes of this mutual scrutiny. “I can play poker just as well as you. But this time I fancy I hold a straight flush.”

“Well, what do you want to know?”

“I want to know what you think Dean was in a position to find out.”

“I can tell you that. He was trying to find out–”

“Had found out.”

“How do you know?”

“If you want instruction in detective methods, you must pay extra. I say he had found out.”

“Well, then, he had found out who was running the show from Pym's end.”

“The dope-show?”

“Yes. And he may have found out, too, the way it's worked.”

“
Is
worked?”

“Yes.”

“It's still being worked the same way, then?”

“So far as I know.”

“So far as you know? You don't seem to know much.”

“Well, how much do you know about the way your own gang run the show?”

“Nothing whatever. Instructions are issued–”

“By the way, how did you get into it?”

“Sorry. Can't tell you that. Not even if you pay extra.”

“How do I know I can trust you, then?”

Bredon laughed.

“Perhaps you'd like me to supply you,” he said. “If you're not satisfied with your distribution, you can inscribe yourself upon the roll of my customers. Deliveries Sunday and Thursday. Meanwhile–and as a sample–you may be interested in the collar of my cloak. It is handsome, is it not? A rich velvet. A little ostentatious, perhaps you think–a little over-much buckram? Possibly you are right. But very well made. The opening is almost invisible. We delicately insert the forefinger and thumb, pull the tab gently, and produce this dainty bag of oiled silk–fine as an onion-skin, but remarkably tough. Within it, you will discover sufficient inspiration for quite a number of enthusiasts. A magician's cloak. Such stuff as dreams are made on.”

Milligan examined the contents of the little bag in silence. They were, in fact, a portion of the famous packet obtained by Mr. Hector Puncheon at the White Swan.

“All right, so far. Where do you get it from?”

“I got it in Covent Garden.”

“Not at Pym's?”

“No.”

Milligan looked disappointed.

“What day did you get it?”

“Friday morning. Like yourself, I get it on a Friday.”

“Look here,” said Milligan, “you and I have got to be together on this. Dian, my child, run away and play. I'm going to talk business with your friend.”

“That's a nice way to treat me in my own house,” grumbled Miss de Momerie, but, seeing that Milligan meant what he said, she gathered up herself and her wraps and retreated into the bedroom. Milligan leaned forwards over the table.

“I'm going to tell you what I know,” he said. “If you double-cross me, it's at your own risk. I don't want any funny business with that damned cousin of yours.”

Mr. Bredon expressed his opinion of Lord Peter Wimsey in a few well-chosen words.

“All right,” said Milligan. “You have been warned. Now, see here. If we can find out who works this thing and how it's worked, we can get in at the top. It pays fairly well as it is, in one way, but it's a devil of a risk and a lot of trouble, and it's expensive. Look at that place I have to keep up. It's the man in the centre of the ring that makes the big profits. I know, and you know, what we pay for the stuff, and then there's the bore of handing it out to all these fools and collecting the cash. Now, here's what I know. The whole stunt is worked from that advertising place of yours–Pym's. I found that out from a man who's dead now. I won't tell you how I fell in with him–it's a long story. But I'll tell you what he told me. I was dining with him one night at the Carlton, and he was a bit lit-up. A chap came in with a party, and this man said to me: 'Know who that is?'–'Not from Adam,' I said. He said: 'Well, it's old Pym, the publicity agent.' And then he laughed and said: 'If he only knew what his precious agency was doing, he'd have a fit.' 'How's that?' I said. 'Why,' said he, 'didn't you know? All this dope-traffic is worked from there.' Naturally, I started to ask him how he knew and all about it, but he suddenly got an attack of caution and started to be mysterious, and I couldn't get another word out of him.”

“I know that brand of drunkenness,” said Bredon. “Do you think he really knew what he was talking about?”

“Yes, I think so. I saw him again next day, but he was sober then, and got the shock of his life when I told him what he'd said. But he admitted it was true, and implored me to keep quiet about it. That was all I could get out of him, and the same evening he was run over by a lorry.”

“Was he? How remarkably well-timed.”

“I thought so myself,” said Milligan. “It made me rather nervous.”

“But how does Victor Dean come into it?”

“There,” admitted Milligan, “I dropped a bad brick. Dian brought him along one evening–”

“Just a minute. When did this conversation with your indiscreet friend take place?”

“Nearly a year ago. Naturally, I'd been trying to follow the matter up, and when Dian introduced Dean and said he worked at Pym's, I thought he must be the man. Apparently he wasn't. But I'm afraid he got an idea about the thing from me. After a bit, I found out he was trying to horn in on my show, and I told Dian to shut down on him.”

“In fact,” said Mr. Bredon, “you tried to pump him, just as you are trying to pump me, and you found out that he was pumping you instead.”

“Something like that,” confessed Milligan.

“And shortly after that he fell down a staircase.”

“Yes; but I didn't push him down it. You needn't think that. I didn't want him snuffed out. I only wanted him kept out of the way. Dian's too much of a chatterer, especially when she's ginned up. The trouble is, you're never safe with these people. You'd think common sense would tell them to keep quiet in their own interests, but they've got no more sense than a cageful of monkeys.”

“Well,” said Bredon, “if we fill them up with stuff that notoriously saps their self-control, I suppose we can't grumble at the consequences.”

“I suppose not, but it's a damned nuisance sometimes. They're as cunning as weasels in one way, and sheer idiots in another. Spiteful, too.”

“Yes. Dean never became an addict, did he?”

“No. If he had, we'd have had more control over him; but unfortunately, his head was screwed on the right way. All the same, he knew pretty well that he'd have been well paid for any information.”

“Very likely. The trouble is that he was taking money from the other side as well–at least, I think he was.”

“Don't you try that game,” said Milligan.

“I've no wish to fall down staircases. What you want, I take it, is the way the trick's worked and the name of the man who works it. I dare say I can find that out for you. How about terms?”

“My idea is, that we use the information to get into the inside ring ourselves, and each strike our own bargain.”

“Just so. Alternatively, I suppose, we put the screw on the gentleman at Pym's, when we've got him, and divide the spoil. In which case, as I'm doing most of the work and taking the biggest risk, I suggest I take 75 per cent.”

“Not on your life. Fifty-fifty. I shall conduct the negotiations.”

“Will you? That's pretty good. Why should I bring you into it at all? You can't negotiate till I tell you whom to negotiate with. You don't think I was born yesterday.”

“No. But knowing what I do, I could get you shifted from Pym's tomorrow, couldn't I? If Pym knew who you were, do you suppose he'd keep you on his virtuous premises for another day?”

“Well, look here. We conduct the negotiations together, and I take 60 per cent.”

Milligan shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, leave it at that for the moment. I'm hoping it won't pan out that way. What we want to aim at is getting the reins into our own hands.”

“As you say. When we've done that, it will be time enough to decide which of us is going to crack the whip.”

When he had gone, Tod Milligan went into the bedroom, and found Dian kneeling on the window-seat, staring down into the street.

“Have you fixed things up with him?”

“Yes. He's a twister, but I'll be able to make him see that it'll pay him to be straight with me.”

“You had much better leave him alone.”

“You're talking rubbish,” said Milligan, using a coarser term.

Dian turned round and faced him.

“I've warned you,” she said. “Not that I care a damn what happens to you. You're getting on my nerves, Tod. It's going to be great fun to see you come to smash. But you'd better keep off that man.”

“Thinking of selling me, are you?”

“I shan't need to.”

“You'd better not. Lost your head over this theatrical gentleman in tights, haven't you?”

“Why do you have to be so vulgar?” she asked, contemptuously.

“What's the matter with you, then?”

“I'm frightened, that's all. Unlike me, isn't it?”

“Frightened of that advertising crook?”

“Really, Tod, you're a fool sometimes. You can't see a thing when it's under your nose. It's written too big for you to see, I suppose.”

“You're drunk,” said Milligan. “Just because you haven't quite managed to get off with this joker of yours–”

“Shut up,” said Dian. “Get off with him? I'd as soon get off with the public hangman.”

“I dare say you would. Any new sensation would do for you. What do you want? A row? Because, if so, I'm afraid I can't be bothered to oblige you.”

There is a dreary convention which decrees that the final collapse of a sordid liaison shall be preceded by a series of no less sordid squabbles. But on this occasion, Miss de Momerie seemed ready to dispense with convention.

“No. I'm through with you, that's all. I'm cold. I'm going to bed
....
Tod,
did
you kill Victor Dean?”

“I did not.”

Major Milligan dreamed that night that Death Bredon, in his harlequin dress, was hanging him for the murder of Lord Peter Wimsey.

SUDDEN DECEASE OF A MAN IN DRESS CLOTHES

C
hief-Inspector Parker continued to be disturbed in his mind. There had been another fiasco in Essex. A private motor-boat, suspected of being concerned in the drug-traffic, had been seized and searched without result–except, of course, the undesired result of giving the alarm to the parties concerned, if they were concerned. Further, a fast car, which had attracted attention by its frequent midnight excursions from the coast to the capital, had been laboriously tracked to its destination, and proved to belong to a distinguished member of the diplomatic corps, engaged on extremely incognito visits to a lady established in a popular seaside resort. Mr. Parker, still incapacitated from personal attendance upon midnight expeditions, was left with the gloomy satisfaction of saying that everything always went wrong when he wasn't there himself. He was also unreasonably annoyed with Wimsey, as the original cause of his incapacity.

Nor had the investigation at the White Swan so far borne very much fruit. For a week in succession, tactful and experienced policemen had draped themselves over its bar, chatting to all and sundry about greyhounds, goats, parrots and other dumb friends of man, without receiving any return in the shape of mysterious packets.

The old man with the parrot-story had been traced easily enough. He was an habitué. He sat there every morning and every afternoon, and had a fund of such stories. The patient police made a collection of them. The proprietor–against whose character nothing could be proved–knew this customer well. He was a superannuated Covent Garden porter, who lived on an old-age pension, and every corner of his inoffensive life was open to the day. This excellent old gentleman, when questioned, recalled the conversation with Mr. Hector Puncheon, but was positive that he had never seen any of the party before, except the two carters, whom he knew well enough. These men also agreed that the gentleman in dress clothes and the little man who had talked about greyhounds were equally unknown to them. It was not, however, unusual for gentlemen in dress clothes to drop in at the Swan by way of a good finish to a lively night–or for gentlemen without dress clothes, either. Nothing threw any light on the mystery of the packet of cocaine.