Murder Must Advertise (21 page)

Dian de Momerie slid from under the rug and leaned forward. He was driving easily, slumped down in his seat, his black poll leaning carelessly back, his hand slack on the wheel. With a twist, she could send him and herself into the ditch, and he would deserve it.

“Don't do it,” he said, without turning his head.

“You devil!”

He stopped the car.

“If you don't behave, I shall leave you by the roadside, sitting on a milestone, like the bailiff's daughter of Islington. Or, if you prefer it, I can tie you up. Which is it to be?”

“Be kind to me.”

“I am being kind. I have preserved you from boredom for two solid hours. I beg you not to plunge us both into the horrors of an anti-climax. What are you crying for?”

“I'm tired–and you won't love me.”

“My poor child, pull yourself together. Who would believe that Dian de Momerie could fall for a fancy-dress and a penny whistle?”

“It isn't that. It's you. There's something queer about you. I'm afraid of you. You aren't thinking about me at all. You're thinking of something horrible. What is it? What is it? Wait!”

She put out a cold hand and clutched his arm.

“I'm seeing something that I can't make out. I've got it now. Straps. They are strapping his elbows and dropping a white bag over his head. The hanged man. There's a hanged man in your thoughts. Why are you thinking of hanging?”

She shrank away from him and huddled into the farthest corner of the car. Wimsey re-started the engine and let in the clutch.

“Upon my word,” he thought, “that's the oddest after-effect of drink and drugs I've met yet. Very interesting. But not very safe. Quite a providential interposition in one way. We may get home without breaking our necks. I didn't know I carried such a graveyard aura about with me.”

Dian was fast asleep when he lifted her out of the car. She half woke, and slipped her arms round his neck.

“Darling, it's been lovely.” Then she came to with a little start. “Where have we got to? What's happened?”

“We're home. Where's your latch-key?”

“Here. Kiss me. Take that mask off.”

“Run along in. There's a policeman thinking we look rather disreputable.” He opened the door.

“Aren't you coming in?”

She seemed to have forgotten all about the hanged man. He shook his head.

“Well, good-bye, then.”

“Good-bye.”

He kissed her gently this time and pushed her into the house. The policeman, stumping inquisitively nearer, revealed a face that Wimsey knew. He smiled to himself as the official gaze swept over him.

“Good morning, officer.”

“Morning, sir,” said the policeman, stolidly.

“Moffatt, Moffatt,” said his lordship, reprovingly, “you will never get promotion. If you don't know me, you should know the car.”

“Good lord, your lordship, I beg your pardon. Didn't somehow expect to see you here.”

“Not so much of the lordship. Somebody might be listening. You on your beat?”

“Just going home, my–sir.”

“Jump in and I'll drive you there. Ever see a fellow called Milligan round this way?”

“Major Tod Milligan? Yes, now and then. He's a bad hat, he is, if ever there was one. Runs that place down by the river. Mixed up with that big drug-gang as Mr. Parker's after. We could pull him in any day, but he's not the real big noise.”

“Isn't he, Moffatt?”

“No, my lord. This car's a treat, ain't she? Shouldn't think there's much catches
you
on the road. No. What Mr. Parker wants is to get him to lead us to the top man of all, but there don't seem to be much chance of it. They're as cunning as weasels, they are. Don't suppose he knows himself who the other fellow is.”

“How's it worked, Moffatt?”

“Well, my lord, as far as we've been told, the stuff is brought in from the coast once or twice a week and run up to London. We've had a try at catching it on the way more than once, that is to say, Mr. Parker's special squad have, but they've always given us the slip. Then it'll be taken somewhere, but where we don't know, and distributed out again to the big distributors. From them it goes to all kinds of places. We could lay hands on it there–but lord! what's the use? It'd only be in another place next week.”

“And whereabouts does Milligan come into it?”

“We think he's one of the high-up distributors, my lord. He hands it out at that house of his, and in other places.”

“In the place where you found me, for instance?”

“That's one of them.”

“But the point is, where does Milligan get his supplies?”

“That's it, my lord.”

“Can't you follow him and find out?”

“Ah! but he don't fetch it for himself, my lord. There's others does that. And you see, if we was to open his parcels and search his tradesmen and so on, they'd just strike him off their list, and we'd be back where we was before.”

“So you would. How often does he give parties in that house of his?”

“Most evenings, my lord. Seems to keep open house, like.”

“Well, keep an eye open on Friday and Saturday nights, Moffatt.”

“Fridays and Saturdays, my lord?”

“Those are the nights when things happen.”

“Is that so, my lord? I'm much obliged to you. We didn't know that. That's a good tip, that is. If you'll drop me at the next corner, my lord, that'll do me champion. I'm afraid I've took your lordship out of your way.”

“Not a bit, Moffatt, not a bit. Very glad to have seen you. And, by the way, you have not seen me. Not a question of my morals, you understand, but I've a fancy that Major Milligan might not approve of my visiting that particular house.”

“That's all right, my lord. Not being on duty at the time, I ain't bound to put it in a report. Good morning, my lord, and thank you.”

DISTRESSING DEVELOPMENTS OF AN OFFICE ROW

“A
ll very well for you to talk, Bill Jones,” said Ginger Joe, “but bet you sixpence if you was called as a witness in a case, you'd get into a 'owling mess. Why, they might ask you what you was doin' a month ago and what'd you know about that?”

“Bet you I'd know all right.”

“Bet you you wouldn't.”

“All right, bet you anything I would.”

“Bet you if I was a 'tec–”

“Cor lumme, you'd be a good 'tec, you would.”

“Bet you I would, anyhow.”

“'Oo ever 'eard of a carrotty-'eaded 'tec?”

This objection appeared to Ginger to be irrelevant. He replied, however, automatically:

“Bet you I'd be a better 'tec 'or you.”

“Bet you you wouldn't.”

“Bet you if I was a 'tec and arst you w'ere you was when Mr. Dean fell downstairs, you wouldn't 'ave no alleybi.”

“That's silly, that is,” said Bill Jones. “I wouldn't want no alleybi for Mr. Dean falling downstairs, 'cause it was accidental death.”

“All right, Suet-face. I was only sayin', supposin' I
was
a 'tec an' I was investigatin' Mr. Dean's fallin' downstairs, and I arst you wot you was a-doin' of, you wouldn't be able to tell me.”

“Bet you I would, then. I was on the lift, that's where I was, and 'Arry could prove it. So just you stick that in your silly face and shut up.”

“Oh, you was on the lift, was you? 'Ow d'you know that was when it was?”

“When wot was?”

“When Mr. Dean fell downstairs?”

“'Cos the first thing I 'ears when I comes off of the lift is Mr. Tompkin a-telling Sam there all about it. Didn't I, Sam?”

Sam Tabbit glanced up from a copy of
Radio for Amateurs
and nodded briefly.

“That don't prove nothing,” persisted Ginger. “Not without you know 'ow long it took Mr. Tompkin to shoot 'is mouth off.”

“Not long it didn't,” said Sam. “I'd just come out of the Big Conference room–takin' tea to Mr. Pym and two clients, I was–Muggleton's, if you want ter know–and I hears an awful screeching and I says to Mr. Tompkin, 'Coo, lumme!' I says, 'wot's up?' An' he says as Mr. Dean's fallen down and broke 'is neck an' they've jest rung up for a doctor.”

“That's right,” added Cyril, who was the boy in attendance on the Executive and the Switchboard. “Mr. Stanley comes running along full pelt into our place and says, 'Oh, Miss Fearney, Mr. Dean's fell downstairs and we're afraid he's killed himself and you're to telephone for a doctor.' So Miss Fearney tells Miss Beit to put the call through and I hops out quick through the other door so as Miss Fearney can't see me–that's the door behind Mr. Tompkin's desk–and I says, 'Mr. Dean's tumbled down and killed hisself,' and he says, 'Run and see what's happened, Cyril.' So I runs and I see Sam jest a-comin' out from the Big Conference room. Didn't I, Sam?”

Sam agreed.

“And that's when I heard the screeching,” he added.

“Who was a-screeching?”

“Mrs. Crump was a-screeching in the Executive. Said she'd just seen Mr. Dean fall down and kill hisself and they was a-bringin' 'im along. So I looked into the passage and there they was, a-carryin' of him. He did look awful.”

“And that was when I come up,” said Bill, sticking to the point at issue. “I hears Mr. Tompkin telling Sam about it, and I runs after Sam and I calls to Mr. Tompkin as they're a-bringing him through, and he comes and looks on too. So they takes him into the Board-room, and Miss Fearney says, 'What about telling Mr. Pym?' and Mr. Tompkin says, 'He's still in the conference,' and she says, 'I know he is. We don't want the clients to hear about it.' So Mr. Tompkin says, 'Better telephone through to him.' So she does and then she gets hold of me and says, 'Bill, get a sheet of brown paper and run along to the Board-room and tell them to put it over the glass door,' and just as I was a-going, Mr. Atkins comes along and says, 'Is there any dust-sheets?' he says. 'He's gone,' he says, 'and we got to have somethink to put over him.' And Miss Fearney says, sharp-like, 'Dust-sheets is nothing to do with this department,' she says, 'what are you thinking about? Go up and ask Mrs. Johnson.' Coo! that was a set-out, that was.” Bill grinned, as one who looks back to a grand gala-day, a brilliant green oasis in a desert of drudgery. Then he remembered once more what the dispute had been about.

“So where's your blinkin' alleybi?” he demanded, sternly. “Where's yours, Ginger, if it comes to that?”

By such methods, serpentine but effective, Ginger Joe pursued his inquiries. The eyes of the office-boy are everywhere, and his memory is retentive. Five days of inquiry brought the whole inside staff of Pym's under review–all that was necessary, since the day of Dean's death had not been the day that brought the Outside Publicity men into the office.

Out of the ninety-odd inside members of the staff, only ten remained unaccounted or partially unaccounted for. These were: in the Copy Department:

Mr. Willis.
He had arrived from the outside staircase about five minutes after the accident, had gone straight through the hall, up the stair to the Dispatching and so into his own room, speaking to nobody. About a quarter of an hour later, he had gone to Mr. Dean's room and, not finding him, had gone back to the typists' room. Here, on asking for Mr. Dean, he had been greeted with the news, which appeared to startle and horrify him. (Witness: the boy George Pyke, who had heard Miss Rossiter telling Mrs. Johnson all about it.)

Mr. Hankin.
He had been absent from the office since half-past two, on private business, and did not return till half-past four. Harry had informed him of the catastrophe as soon as he came in, and, as soon as he stepped out of the lift, Mr. Tompkin had requested him to go and see Mr. Pym. (Witnesses: Harry and Cyril.)

Mr. Copley.
Presumably in his room all the time, but this could not be substantiated, since he never took tea and was accustomed to work at his “slope,” which was set against the inner wall and not visible to any one casually passing his door. He was an assiduous worker, and was not likely to emerge from his room, however much noise or running about there might be in the passages. At a quarter to five, he had walked in the most ordinary way into the typists' room to ask why his copy had not been typed. Miss Parton had told him, rather tartly, that she didn't see how he could expect anything to be ready under the circumstances. He had then asked what circumstances and, on being told about Mr. Dean's fatal accident, had expressed astonishment and regret, but added that he could see no reason why the work of the department should not be carried on. (Witnesses: four boys who, on separate occasions, had heard this shocking exhibition of callousness discussed with and by Mrs. Johnson.)

In the Vouchers:

Mr. Binns.
An elegant youth who had gone out at 3 o'clock to inquire for last September's number of the
Connoisseur
for Mr. Armstrong, and had unaccountably taken an hour and a half over the transaction. (Witness: Sam, whose elder sister was a typist in the Vouchers, and had given it as her opinion that young Binns had had a date for tea with his best girl.) (Note: Mr. Binns was already known to Mr. Bredon as the darts expert who had often lunched with Victor Dean.)

In the various Group-managers' offices:

Mr. Haagedorn
(Sopo and allied products). Leave of absence all day to attend aunt's funeral. But said to have been seen during the afternoon attending a matinée at the Adelphi. (Witnesses: Jack Dennis, the boy who thought he had seen him, and Mr. Tompkin's attendance-register consulted by Cyril.)

Mr. Tallboy.
Exact location at the moment of the action not quite certain. At 3.30 or thereabouts, Mr. Wedderburn had come down to the Vouchers to ask for certain back numbers of the
Fishmonger's Gazette
, saying that Mr. Tallboy wanted them in a hurry. On returning ten minutes later, after having the required numbers sorted out for him, Mr. Wedderburn had run into all the excitement about Mr. Dean and had forgotten the
Fishmonger's Gazette
. He had, in fact, been talking to Miss Fearney in the Executive, when Mr. Tallboy had come in and rather abruptly asked whether he was expected to wait all night for them. Mr. Wedderburn had explained that the alarm about Mr. Dean had put the matter out of his head, and Mr. Tallboy had replied that the work had got to be done, notwithstanding. (Witnesses: Horace, the messenger-boy in the Vouchers, and Cyril.)