Murder Must Advertise (19 page)

He stooped to unlock the drawer, experiencing a ghastly qualm as he did so.

“You mean to tell me,” said Mr. Tallboy, “that you had the all-fired cheek to take my money away to your own damned room–”

“In your own interests,” said Mr. Copley.

“Interests be damned! Why the devil couldn't you leave it in a pigeon-hole and not be so blasted interfering?”

“You do not realize–”

“I realize this,” said Mr. Tallboy, “that you're an expurgated superannuated interfering idiot. What you wanted to come poking your blasted nose in for–”

“Really, Mr. Tallboy–”

“What business was it of yours, anyway?”

“It was anybody's business,” said Mr. Copley–so angry that he almost forgot his headache–“who had the welfare of the firm at heart. I am considerably older than you, Tallboy, and in my day, a Group-manager would have been ashamed to leave the building before ascertaining that all was well with his advertisement for the next day's paper. How you came to let such an advertisement pass in the first place is beyond my understanding. You were then late with the block. Perhaps you do not know that it was not received by the
Morning Star
till five minutes past six–
five minutes past six
. And instead of being at your post to consider any necessary corrections–”

“I don't want you to teach me my job,” said Mr. Tallboy.

“Pardon me, I think you do.”

“Anyhow, what's that got to do with it? The point is, you stick your nose into my private affairs–”

“I did not. The envelope fell out–”

“That's a bloody lie.”

“Pardon me, it is the truth.”

“Don't keep saying 'pardon me' like a bloody kitchen-maid.”

“Leave my room!” shrieked Mr. Copley.

“I'm not going to leave your damned room till I get an apology.”

“I think I ought to receive the apology.”

“
You?
” Mr. Tallboy became almost inarticulate. “You–! Why the hell couldn't you have had the decency to ring me up and tell me, anyway?”

“You weren't at home.”

“How do you know? Did you try?”

“No. I knew you were out, because I saw you in Southampton Row.”

“You saw me in Southampton Row, and you hadn't the ordinary common decency to get hold of me and tell me what you'd been after? Upon my word, Copley, I believe you jolly well
meant
to get me into a row. And collar the cash for yourself, too, I shouldn't wonder.”

“How dare you suggest any such thing?”

“And all your rot about consideration for the charwomen! It's sheer damned hypocrisy. Of course I thought one of them had had it. I told Mrs. Crump–

“You accused Mrs. Crump?”

“I didn't accuse her. I told her I had missed fifty pounds.”

“That just shows you,” began Mr. Copley.

“And fortunately she'd seen you at my desk. Otherwise, I suppose I should never have heard anything more about my money.”

“You've no right to say that.”

“I've a damn sight more right to say it than you had to steal the money.”

“Are you calling me a thief?”

“Yes, I am.”

“And I call you a scoundrel,” gasped Mr. Copley, beside himself, “an insolent scoundrel. And I say that if you came by the money honestly, which I doubt, sir, which I very much doubt–”

Mr. Bredon poked his long nose round the door.

“I say,” he bleated anxiously, “sorry to butt in, and all that, but Hankie's compliments and he says, would you mind talking a little more quietly? He's got Mr. Simon Brotherhood next door.”

A pause followed, in which both parties realized the thinness of the beaverboard partition between Mr. Hankin's room and Mr. Copley's. Then Mr. Tallboy thrust the recovered envelope into his pocket.

“All right, Copley,” he said. “I shan't forget your kind interference.” He bounced out.

“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” moaned Mr. Copley, clasping his head in his hands.

“Is anything up?” queried Mr. Bredon.

“Please go away,” pleaded Mr. Copley, “I'm feeling horribly ill.”

Mr. Bredon withdrew on catlike feet. His inquisitive face beamed with mischief. He pursued Mr. Tallboy into the Dispatching, and found him earnestly talking to Mrs. Johnson.

“I say, Tallboy,” said Mr. Bredon, “what's wrong with Copley? He looks jolly fed-up. Have you been twisting his tail?”

“It's no affair of yours, anyway,” retorted Mr. Tallboy, sullenly. “All right, Mrs. J., I'll see Mrs. Crump and put it right with her.”

“I hope you will, Mr. Tallboy. And another time, if you have any valuables, I should be obliged if you would bring them to me and let me put them in the safe downstairs. These upsets are not pleasant, and Mr. Pym would be greatly annoyed if he knew about it.”

Mr. Tallboy fled for the lift without vouchsafing any reply.

“Atmosphere seems a bit hectic this morning, Mrs. Johnson,” observed Mr. Bredon, seating himself on the edge of the good lady's desk. “Even the presiding genius of the Dispatching looks a trifle ruffled. But a righteous indignation becomes you. Gives sparkle to the eyes and a clear rosiness to the complexion.”

“Now that'll do, Mr. Bredon. What will my boys think if they hear you making fun of me? Really, though, some of these people are
too
trying. But I must stand up for my women, Mr. Bredon, and for my boys. There isn't one of them that I wouldn't trust, and it isn't right to bring accusations with nothing to support them.”

“It's simply foul,” agreed Mr. Bredon. “Who's been bringing accusations?”

“Well, I don't know if I ought to tell tales out of school,” said Mrs. Johnson, “but it's really only justice to poor Mrs. Crump to say–”

Naturally, in five minutes' time, the insinuating Mr. Bredon was in possession of the whole story.

“But you needn't go and spread it all round the office,” said Mrs. Johnson.

“Of course I needn't,” said Mr. Bredon. “Hullo! is that the lad with our coffee?”

He sprang alertly from his perch and hastened into the typists' room, where Miss Parton was detailing to a prick-eared audience the more juicy details of the morning's scene with Mr. Armstrong.

“That's nothing,” announced Mr. Bredon. “You haven't heard the latest development.”

“Oh,
what
is it?” cried Miss Rossiter.

“I've promised not to tell,” said Mr. Bredon.

“Shame, shame!”

“At least, I didn't exactly promise. I was asked not to.”

“Is it about Mr. Tallboy's money?”

“You do know, then? What a disappointment!”

“I know that poor little Mrs. Crump was crying this morning because Mr. Tallboy had accused her of taking some money out of his desk.”

“Well, if you know that,” said Mr. Bredon artlessly, “in justice to Mrs. Crump–”

His tongue wagged busily.

“Well, I think it's too bad of Mr. Tallboy,” said Miss Rossiter. “He's always being rude to poor old Copley. It's a shame. And it's rotten to accuse the charwomen.”

“Yes, it is,” agreed Miss Parton, “but I've no patience with that Copley creature. He's a tiresome old sneak. He went and told Hankie once that he'd seen me at the dog-races with a gentleman friend. As if it was any business of his what a girl does out of business hours. He's too nosey by half. Just because anybody's a mere typist it doesn't mean one's a heathen slave. Oh! here's Mr. Ingleby. Coffee, Mr. Ingleby? I say,
have
you heard about old Copley pinching Mr. Tallboy's fifty quid?”

“You don't say so,” exclaimed Mr. Ingleby, shooting a miscellaneous collection of oddments out of the waste-paper basket as a preliminary to up-turning it and sitting upon it. “Tell me quickly. Golly! what a day we're having!”

“Well,” said Miss Rossiter, lusciously taking up the tale, “somebody sent Mr. Tallboy fifty pounds in a registered envelope–”

“What's all this?” interrupted Miss Meteyard, arriving with some sheets of copy in one hand and a bag of bulls' eyes in the other. “Here are some lollipops for my little ones. Now let's hear it all from the beginning. I only wish people would send
me
fifty pounds in registered envelopes. Who was the benefactor?”

“I don't know. Do you know, Mr. Bredon?”

“Haven't the foggiest. But it was all in currency notes, which is suspicious, for a start.”

“And he brought them to the office, meaning to take them to the Bank.”

“But he was busy,” chimed in Miss Parton, “and forgot all about them.”

“Catch me forgetting about fifty pounds,” said Miss Parton's bosom-friend from the Printing.

“Oh, we're only poor hardworking typists. Fifty pounds or so is nothing to Mr. Tallboy, obviously. He put them in his desk–”

“Why not in his pocket?”

“Because he was working in his shirt-sleeves, and didn't like to leave all that wealth hanging on a coat-peg–”

“Nasty suspicious nature the man's got–”

“Yes; well, he forgot them at the lunch-hour. And in the afternoon, he found that the blockmaker had done something silly with the Nutrax block–”

“Was that what delayed it?” inquired Mr. Bredon.

“Yes, that was it. And, I say, I've found out something else. Mr. Drew–”

“Who's Mr. Drew?”

“That stout man from the Cormorant Press. He said to Mr. Tallboy he thought the headline was a bit hot. And Mr. Tallboy said he had a nasty mind and anyhow, everybody had passed it and it was too late to alter it then–”

“Jiminy!” said Mr. Garrett, suddenly bursting into speech, “it's a good thing Copley didn't get hold of that. He'd have rubbed it in, all right. I must say, I think Tallboy ought to have done something about it.”

“Who told you that?”

“Mr. Wedderburn. Drew asked him about it this morning. Said he noticed they'd thought better of it after all.”

“Well, get on with the story.”

“By the time Mr. Tallboy had had the block put right, the Bank was shut. So he forgot about it again, and went off, leaving the fifty quid in his desk.”

“Does he often do that sort of thing?”

“Goodness knows. And old Copley was working late on his jellies–”

Clack, clack, clack. The story lost nothing in the telling.

“–poor old Mrs. Crump was weeping like a sponge–”

“–Mrs. Johnson was in such a bait–”

“–making a most
awful
row. Mr. Bredon heard them. What did he call him, Mr. Bredon?”

“–accused him of stealing the money–”

“–thief and scoundrel–”

“–what Mr. Brotherhood must have thought–”

“–give them the sack, I shouldn't wonder–”

“–my dear, the
thrills
we get in this place!”

“And, by the way,” observed Mr. Ingleby, maliciously, “I pulled Barrow's leg all right about that sketch.”

“You
didn't
tell him what Mr. Armstrong said?”

“No. At least, I didn't tell him Mr. Armstrong said it. But I gave him a hint to that effect off my own bat.”

“You are awful!”

“He's out for the blood of this department–especially Copley's.”

“Because Copley went to Hankie last week about a Jamboree display and complained that Barrow didn't follow his directions, and so now he thinks this business is a plot of Copley's to–”

“Shut up!”

Miss Rossiter leapt at her type-writer and began to pound the keys deafeningly.

Amid a pointed silence of tongues, Mr. Copley made his entrance.

“Is that Jelly copy of mine ready, Miss Rossiter? There doesn't seem to be much work being done here this morning.”

“You've got to take your turn, Mr. Copley. I have a report of Mr. Armstrong's to finish.”

“I shall speak to Mr. Armstrong about the way the work is done,” said Mr. Copley. “This room is a bear-garden. It's disgraceful.”

“Why not give Mr. Hankin a turn?” snapped Miss Parton, unpleasantly.

“No, but really, Copley, old sport,” pleaded Mr. Bredon, earnestly. “You mustn't let these little things get your goat. It's not done, old thing. Positively not done. You watch me squeeze copy out of Miss Parton. She eats out of my hand. A little kindness and putting her hair in papers will work wonders with her. Ask her nicely and she'll do anything for you.”

“A man of your age, Bredon, should know better,” said Mr. Copley, “than to hang round here all day. Am I the only person in this office with work to do?”

“If you only knew it,” replied Mr. Bredon, “I'm working away like anything. Look here,” he added, as the unhappy Mr. Copley withdrew, “do the poor old blighter's muck for him. It's a damned shame to tease him. He's looking horribly green about the gills.”

“Right-ho!” said Miss Parton, amiably, “I don't mind if I do. May as well get it over.”

The typewriters clacked again.

UNSENTIMENTAL MASQUERADE OF A HARLEQUIN

D
ian de Momerie was holding her own. True, the big Chrysler and the Bentley ahead of her had more horsepower, but young Spenlow was too drunk to last out, and Harry Thorne was a notoriously rotten driver. She had only to tail them at a safe distance till they came to grief. She only wished “Spot” Lancaster would leave her alone. His clumsy grabs at her waist and shoulders interfered with her handling of the car. She eased the pressure of her slim sandal on the accelerator, and jabbed an angry elbow into his hot face.

“Shut up, you fool! you'll have us into the ditch, and then they'd beat us.”

“I say!” protested Spot, “don't do that. It hurts.”

She ignored him, keeping her eye on the road. Everything was perfect tonight. There had been a most stimulating and amusing row at Tod Milligan's, and Tod had been very definitely told where he got off. All the better. She was getting tired of Tod's hectoring. She was keyed up just enough and not too much. The hedges flashed and roared past them; the road, lit by the raking headlights, showed like a war-worn surface of holes and hillocks, which miraculously smoothed themselves out beneath the spinning wheels. The car rode the earth-waves like a ship. She wished it were an open car and not this vulgar, stuffy saloon of Spot's.

The Chrysler ahead was lurching perilously, thrashing her great tail like a fighting salmon. Harry Thorne had no business with a car like that; he couldn't hold it on the road. And there was a sharp S-bend coming. Dian knew that. Her senses seemed unnaturally sharpened–she could see the road unrolled before her like a map. Thorne was taking the first bend–far too wide–and young Spenlow was cutting in on the left. The race was hers now–nothing could prevent it. Spot was drinking again from a pocket-flask. Let him. It left her free. The Chrysler, wrenched brutally across the road, caught the Bentley on the inner edge of the bend, smashing it against the bank and slewing it round till it stood across the road. Was there room to pass? She pulled out, her off wheels bumping over the grass verge. The Chrysler staggered on, swaying from the impact–it charged the bank and broke through the hedge. She heard Thorne yell–saw the big car leap miraculously to earth without overturning, and gave an answering cry of triumph. And then the road was suddenly lit up as though by a searchlight, whose powerful beam swallowed her own headlights like a candle in sunlight.