Murder Must Advertise (44 page)

“Then what brought you round here tonight?”

“Miss Meteyard. She got hold of me last night. She said
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she'd believed first of all that you and Bredon were the same person, but now she thought you couldn't be. But she said that Bredon would be dead sure to split on me by way of currying favour with the police, and I had better get out in time.”

“She said that? Miss Meteyard? Do you mean to say she knew all about it?”

“Not about the Nutrax business. But she knew about Dean.”

“Good God!” Wimsey's natural conceit received a shattering blow. “How in Heaven's name did
she
know?”

“Guessed. Said she'd once seen me look at Dean when I didn't know she was there–and apparently he had once let out something to her. Apparently she'd always thought there was something odd about his death. She said she'd made up her mind not to interfere either way, but after your arrest she decided you were the bigger crook of the two. She could stand Lord Peter Wimsey doing a proper investigation, but not Mr. Dirty Bredon squealing to save his skin. She's an odd woman.”

“Very. I'd better forget about all this, hadn't I? She seems to have taken the whole thing very coolly.”

“She did. You see, she knew Dean. He tried to blackmail her once, about some man or the other. You wouldn't think it to look at her, would you?” said Tallboy, naïvely. “There was nothing much in it, she said, but it was the kind of thing old Pym would have been down on like a sledge-hammer.”

“And what did she do?” asked Wimsey, fascinated.

“Told him to publish and be damned. And I wish to God I'd done the same. Wimsey–how much longer is it going to hang on? I've been in torment–I've been trying to give myself up–I–my wife–why haven't I been arrested before this?”

“They've been waiting,” said Wimsey, thoughtfully, for his mind was pursuing two trains of thought at the same time. “You see, you aren't really as important as this dope-gang. Once you were arrested, they would stop their little
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game, and we didn't want them to stop. I'm afraid you're being the tethered kid, left there to trap the tigers.”

All this time, his ear was alert to catch the tinkle of the telephone, which would tell him that the raid on the Stag at Bay had succeeded. Once the arrests were made and the gang broken, the sinister watcher in the street would be harmless. He would fly for his life and Tallboy would be able to go home to whatever awaited him there. But if he were to go now–

“When?” Tallboy was saying urgently, “when?”

“Tonight.”

“Wimsey–you've been frightfully decent to me–tell me–there's no way out? It isn't myself, exactly, but my wife and the kid. Pointed at all their lives. It's damnable. You couldn't give me twenty-four hours?”

“You would not pass the ports.”

“If I were alone I'd give myself up. I would, honestly.”

“There is an alternative.”

“I know. I've thought about that. I suppose that's–” he stopped and laughed suddenly–“that's the public school way out of it. I–yes–all right. They'll hardly make a headline of it, though, will they? 'Suicide of Old Dumbletonian' wouldn't have much news-value. Never mind, damn it! We'll show 'em that Dumbleton can achieve the Eton touch. Why not?”

“Good man!” said Wimsey. “Have a drink. Here's luck!”

He emptied his glass and stood up.

“Listen!” he said. “I think there is one other way out. It won't help you, but it may make all the difference to your wife and your child.”

“How?” said Tallboy, eagerly.

“They need never know anything about all this. Nothing. Nobody need ever know anything, if you do as I tell you.”

“My God, Wimsey! What do you mean? Tell me quickly. I'll do anything.”

“It won't save you.”

“That doesn't matter. Tell me.”
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“Go home now,” said Wimsey. “Go on foot, and not too fast. And don't look behind you.”

Tallboy stared at him; the blood drained away from his face, leaving even his lips as white as paper.

“I think I understand
....
Very well.”

“Quickly, then,” said Wimsey. He held out his hand.

“Good-night, and good luck.”

“Thank you. Good-night.”

From the window, Wimsey watched him come out into Piccadilly, and walk quickly away towards Hyde Park Corner. He saw the shadow slip from a neighbouring doorway and follow him.

“–and from thence to the place of execution
...
and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.”

Half an hour later, the telephone rang.

“Bagged the whole crew,” said Parker's cheerful voice. “We let the stuff go up to town. What do you think it went as? Traveller's samples–one of those closed cars with blinds all round.”

“That's where they made it into packets, then.”

“Yes. We watched our man into the Stag; then we pulled in the motor-boat and the car. Then we kept our eye on the pub. and let the birds hop out into our arms, one after the other. It went off beautifully. No hitch at all. Oh, and by the way–their code-word. We ought to have thought of that. It was just anything to do with Nutrax. Some of them had the
Morning Star
, showing the ad., and some of them just mentioned Nutrax for Nerves. One chap had a bottle of the stuff in his pocket, another had it written on a shopping-list and so on. And one frightfully ingenious chap was bursting with information about some new tracks for greyhound racing. Simple as pie, wasn't it?”

“That explains Hector Puncheon.”

“Hector–? Oh, the newspaper fellow. Yes. He must have had his copy of the
Morning Star
with him. We've got old Cummings, too, of course. He turns out to be the actual
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top-dog of the whole show, and as soon as we collared him he coughed up the whole story, the mangy little blighter. That doctor fellow who shoved Mountjoy under the train is in it–we've got definite information about him, and we've also got our hands on Mountjoy's loot. He's got a safe-deposit somewhere, and I think I know where to find the key. He kept a woman in Maida Vale, bless his heart. The whole thing is most satisfactory. Now we have only got to rake in your murderer chap, what's his name, and everything in the garden will be lovely.”

“Lovely,” said Wimsey, with a spice of bitterness in his tone, “simply lovely.”

“What's the matter? You sound a bit peeved. Hang on a minute till I've cleared up here and we'll go round somewhere and celebrate.”

“Not tonight,” said Wimsey. “I don't feel quite like celebrating.”

DEATH DEPARTS FROM PYM'S PUBLICITY

“S
o you see,” said Wimsey to Mr. Pym, “the thing need never come into the papers at all, if we're careful. We've plenty of evidence against Cummings without that, and there's no need to take the public into our confidence about the details of their distributing system.”

“Thank Heaven!” said Mr. Pym. “It would have been a terrible thing for Pym's Publicity. How I have lived through this last week, I really don't know. I suppose you will be leaving the advertising?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Pity. You have a natural flair for copy-writing. You will have the satisfaction of seeing your Whifflets scheme go through.”

“Splendid! I shall begin to collect coupons at once.”

“Just fancy!” said Miss Rossiter. “Charge withdrawn.”

“I always
said
Mr. Bredon was a darling,” triumphed Miss Parton. “Of course the
real
murderer was one of those horrible dope-trafficking beasts. That was far more likely. I said so at the time.”

“I didn't hear you, dear,” snapped Miss Rossiter. “I say, Miss Meteyard, you've seen the news? You've seen that our Mr. Bredon is discharged and never did any murder at all?”

“I've done better,” replied Miss Meteyard. “I've seen Mr. Bredon.”

“No, where?”

“Here.”

“
No!
”

“And he isn't Mr. Bredon, he's Lord Peter Wimsey.”

“What!!!”

Lord Peter poked his long nose round the door.

“Did I hear my name?”

“You did. She says you're Lord Peter Wimsey.”

“Quite right.”

“Then what were you doing here?”

“I came here,” said his lordship, unabashed, “for a bet. A friend of mine laid me ten to one I couldn't earn my own living for a month. I did it, though, didn't I? May I have a cup of coffee?”

They would gladly have given him anything.

“By the way,” said Miss Rossiter, when the first tumult had subsided, “you heard about poor Mr. Tallboy?”

“Yes, poor chap.”

“Knocked down and killed on his way home–wasn't it dreadful? And poor Mrs. Tallboy with a small baby–it does seem awful! Goodness knows what they'll have to live on, because–well, you know! And that reminds me, while you're here, could I have your shilling for a wreath? At least, I suppose you'll be leaving Pym's now, but I expect you'd like to contribute.”

“Yes, rather. Here you are.”

“Thanks awfully. Oh, and I say! There's Mr. Willis' wedding-present. You know he's getting married?”

“No, I didn't. Everything seems to happen while I'm away. Whom is he marrying?”

“Pamela Dean.”

“Oh, good work. Yes, of course. How much for Willis?”

“Well, most people are giving about two bob, if you can spare it.”

“I think I can manage two bob. What are we giving him, by the way?”

“Well,” said Miss Rossiter, “there's been
rather
a fuss
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about that. The Department was awfully keen on a clock, but Mrs. Johnson and Mr. Barrow went off on their own and bought an electric chafing-dish–such a silly thing, because I'm sure they'll never use it. And in any case, Mr. Willis did belong to the Copy Department and we ought to have had a voice in it, don't you think? So there are going to be two presents–the staff as a whole is giving the chafing-dish and the Department is giving its own present. I'm afraid we shan't be able to manage a chiming clock, though, because you can't very well ask people for more than two bob or so, though Hankie and Armstrong have been very decent and stumped up half a quid each.”

“I'd better make it half a quid too.”

“Oh, no,” said Miss Rossiter. “You're a lamb, but it isn't fair.”

“It's quite fair,” said Wimsey. “There are excellent reasons why I should contribute largely to a wedding present for Mr. Willis.”

“Are there? I thought you and he didn't get on very well. I expect I'm being tactless, as usual. If you're quite sure–oh, I forgot, I
am
a fool. Of course, if you're Lord Peter Wimsey, you're simply frightfully rich, aren't you?”

“Fair to middling,” confessed Wimsey. “It might run to a cake for tea.”

He had a word with Miss Meteyard.

“I'm sorry, you know,” he said.

She shrugged her angular shoulders.

“It's not your fault. Things have to happen. You're one of the sort that pushes round and makes them happen. I prefer to leave them alone. You've got to have both kinds.”

“Perhaps your way is wiser and more charitable.”

“It isn't. I shirk responsibility, that's all. I just let things rip. I don't make it my business to interfere. But I don't blame the people who do interfere. In a way, I rather admire them. They do make something, even if it's only mischief. My sort make nothing. We exploit other people's
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folly, take the cash and sneer at the folly. It's not admirable. Never mind. You'd better run along now. I've got to get out a new series for Sopo. 'Sopo Day is Cinema Day.' 'Leave the Laundry to ruin itself while you addle your brains at the Talkies.' Muck! Dope! And they pay me £10 a week for that sort of thing. And yet, if we didn't do it, what would happen to the trade of this country? You've got to advertise.”

Mr. Hankin tripped along the passage and encountered them.

“So you're leaving us, Mr. Bredon? In fact, I understand that we've been nursing a cuckoo in the nest.”

“Not so bad as that, sir. I'm leaving a few of the original nestlings behind me.”

Miss Meteyard evaporated quietly, and Mr. Hankin continued:

“A very sad business. Mr. Pym is very grateful for the discretion you have shown. I hope you will lunch with me some day. Yes, Mr. Smayle?”

“Excuse me, sir–about this window-bill for Green Pastures?”

Wimsey made his way out, exchanging mechanical hand-grips and farewells. At the foot of the lift, in the lower vestibule, he found Ginger, with his arms full of parcels.

“Well, Ginger,” said Wimsey, “I'm off.”

“Oh, sir!”

“By the way, I've still got your catapult.”

“I'd like you to keep it, please, sir. You see, sir–” Ginger struggled with a variety of emotions–“if I was ter keep that there catapult, I might get telling some of the boys about it, not meaning to, like. Wot I meantersay, it's 'istorical, like, ain't it, sir?”

“So it is.” Wimsey sympathized with the temptation. It is not every fellow whose catapult has been borrowed for the purpose of committing a murder. “Well, I'll keep it, and thank you very much for all your help. Look here, I'll tell you what. I'll give you something in exchange. Which would you rather have–a model aeroplane, or the pair of
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scissors with which the steward of the
Nancy Belle
stabbed the captain and the purser?”

“Ooh, sir! 'As the scissors got the marks on 'em, sir?”

“Yes, Ginger. Genuine, original bloodstains.”

“Then, please, sir, I'd like the scissors.”

“You shall have them.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

“And you'll never say one word to anybody about you know what?”

“Not if you was to roast me alive, sir.”

“Right you are; good-bye, Ginger.”

“Good-bye, sir.”

Wimsey stepped out into Southampton Row. Facing him was a long line of hoardings. Enormous in its midst stretched a kaleidoscopic poster:

In the adjoining space, a workman with a broom and a bucket of paste was unfolding a still more vast and emphatic display in blue and yellow: