Murder Must Advertise (25 page)

“Who says he was bumped off?”

“A little bird told me.”

“Is that your friend in the black and white checks?”

Dian hesitated. In an expansive and not very sober moment, she had told Tod about her adventure in the woods, and now rather wished she had not. Milligan took her silence for consent and went on:

“Who is that fellow, Dian?”

“Haven't the foggiest.”

“What's he want?”

“He doesn't want me, at any rate,” said Dian. “Isn't that humiliating, Tod?”

“It must be.” Milligan grinned. “But what's the big idea?”

“I think he's on Victor's lay, whatever that was. He said he wouldn't be here if Victor hadn't popped off. Too thrilling, don't you think?”

“Um,” said Milligan. “I think I'd like to meet this friend of yours. When's he likely to turn up?”

“Damned if I know. He just arrives. I don't think I'd have anything to do with him, Tod, if I were you. He's dangerous–queer, somehow. I've got a hunch about him.”

“Your brain's going to mush, sweetest,” said Milligan, “and he's trading on it, that's all.”

“Oh, well,” said Dian, “he amuses me, and you don't any more. You're getting to be a bit feeding, Tod.” She yawned and trailed over to the looking-glass, where she inspected her face narrowly. “I think I'll give up dope, Tod. I'm getting puffy under the eyes. Do you think it would be amusing to go all good?”

“About as amusing as a Quaker meeting. Has your friend been trying to reform you? That's damn good.”

“Reform me, nothing. But I'm looking horribly hag-like tonight. Oh, hell! what's the odds, anyway? Let's do something.”

“All right. Come on round to Slinker's. He's throwing a party.”

“I'm sick of Slinker's parties. I say, Tod, let's go and gate-crash something really virtuous. Who's the stickiest old cat in London that's got anything on?”

“Dunno.”

“Tell you what. We'll scoop up Slinker's party and go round and look for striped awnings, and crash the first thing we see.”

“Right-ho! I'm on.”

Half an hour later, a noisy gang, squashed into five cars and a taxi, were whooping through the quieter squares of the West End. Even today, a few strongholds of the grimly aristocratic are left in Mayfair, and Dian, leaning from the open window of the leading car, presently gave tongue before a tall, old-fashioned house, whose entrance was adorned with a striped awning, a crimson carpet and an array of hothouse plants in tubs upon the steps.

“Whoopee! Hit it up, boys! Here's something! Whose is it?”

“My God!” said Slinker Braithwaite. “We've hit the bull, all right. It's Denver's place.”

“You won't get in there,” said Milligan. “The Duchess of Denver is heaven's prize frozen-face. Look at the chucker-out in the doorway. Better try something easier.”

“Easier be damned. We said the first we came to, and this is the first. No ratting, darlings.”

“Well, look here,” said Milligan, “we'd better try the back entrance. There's a gate into the garden round the other side, opening on the car-park. We've more chance there.”

From the other side, the assault turned out to be easy enough. The cars were parked in a back street, and on approaching the garden gate, they found it wide open, displaying a marquee, in which supper was being held. A bunch of guests came out just as they arrived, while, almost on their heels, two large cars drove up and disgorged a large party of people.

“Blow being announced,” said an immaculate person, “we'll just barge right in and dodge the Ambassadors.”

“Freddy, you can't.”

“Can't I? You watch me.” Freddy tucked his partner's arm firmly under his own and marched with determination up to the gate. “We're certain to barge into old Peter or somebody in the garden.”

Dian nipped Milligan's arm, and the pair of them fell in behind the new arrivals. The gate was passed–but a footman just inside presented an unexpected obstacle.

“Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Arbuthnot,” said the immaculate gentleman. “And party,” he added, waving a vague hand behind him.

“Well,
we're
in, anyhow,” exulted Dian.

Helen, Duchess of Denver, looked round with satisfaction upon her party. It was all going very nicely indeed. The Ambassador and his wife had expressed delight at the quality of the wine. The band was good, the refreshments more than adequate. A tone of mellow decorum pervaded the atmosphere. Her own dress, she thought, became her, although her mother-in-law, the Dowager Duchess, had said something rather acid about her spine. But then, the Dowager was always a little tiresome and incalculable. One must be fashionable, though one would not, of course, be vulgarly immodest. Helen considered that she was showing the exact number of vertebrae that the occasion demanded. One less would be incorrect; one more would be over-modern. She thanked Providence that at forty-five she still kept her figure–as indeed, she did, having been remarkably flat on both aspects the whole of her life.

She was just raising a well-earned glass of champagne to her lips when she paused, and set it down again. Something was wrong. She glanced hurriedly round for her husband. He was not there, but a few paces off an elegant black back and smooth, straw-coloured head of hair announced the presence of her brother-in-law, Wimsey. Hastily excusing herself to Lady Mendip, with whom she had been discussing the latest enormities of the Government, she edged her way through the crowd and caught Wimsey's arm.

“Peter! Look over there. Who are those people?”

Wimsey turned and stared in the direction pointed by the Duchess' fan.

“Good God, Helen! You've caught a pair of ripe ones this time! That's the de Momerie girl and her tame dope-merchant.”

The Duchess shuddered.

“How horrible! Disgusting woman! How in the world did they get in
?...
Do you know them?”

“Not officially, no.”

“Thank goodness! I was afraid you'd let them in. I never know what you're going to do next; you know so many impossible people.”

“Not guilty this time, Helen.”

“Ask Bracket how he came to let them in.”

“I fly,” said Wimsey, “to obey your behest.”

He finished the drink he had in his hand, and set off in a leisurely manner in pursuit of the footman. Presently he returned.

“Bracket says they came with Freddy Arbuthnot.”

“Find Freddy.”

The Hon. Freddy Arbuthnot, when found, denied all knowledge of the intruders. “But there was a bit of a scrum at the gate, you know,” he admitted, ingenuously, “and I daresay they barged in with the crowd. The de Momerie girl, eh, what? Where is she? I must have a look at her. Hot stuff and all that, what?”

“You will do nothing of the sort, Freddy. Where in the world is Gerald? Not here. He never is when he's wanted. You'll have to go and turn them out, Peter.”

Wimsey, who had had time for a careful calculation, asked nothing better.

“I will turn them out,” he announced, “like one John Smith. Where are they?”

The Duchess, who had kept a glassy eye upon them, waved a stern hand in the direction of the terrace. Wimsey ambled off amiably.

“Forgive me, dear Lady Mendip,” said the Duchess, returning to her guest. “I had a little commission to give to my brother-in-law.”

Up the dimly-lit terrace steps went Wimsey. The shadow of a tall pillar-rose fell across his face and chequered his white shirt-front with dancing black; and as he went he whistled softly: “Tom, Tom, the piper's son.”

Dian de Momerie clutched Milligan's arm as she turned.

Wimsey stopped whistling.

“Er–good evening,” he said, “excuse me. Miss de Momerie, I think.”

“Harlequin!” cried Dian.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Harlequin. So here you are. I've got you this time. And I'm going to see your face properly if I die for it.”

“I'm afraid there is some mistake,” said Wimsey.

Milligan thought it time to interfere.

“Ah!” said he, “the mysterious stranger. I think it's time you and I had a word, young man. May I ask why you have been tagging round after this lady in a mountebank get-up?”

“I fear,” said Wimsey, more elaborately, “that you are labouring under a misapprehension, sir, whoever you are. I have been dispatched by the Duchess on a–forgive me–somewhat distasteful errand. She regrets that she has not the honour of this lady's acquaintance, nor, sir, of yours, and wishes me to ask you by whose invitation you are here.”

Dian laughed, rather noisily.

“You do it marvellously, darling,” she said. “We gate-crashed on the dear old bird–same as you did, I expect.”

“So the Duchess inferred,” replied Wimsey. “I am sorry. I'm afraid I must ask you to leave at once.”

“That's pretty good,” said Milligan, insolently. “I'm afraid it won't work. It may be a fact that we weren't invited here, but we aren't going to turn out for a nameless acrobat who's afraid to show his face.”

“You must be mistaking me for a friend of yours,” said Wimsey. “Allow me.” He stepped across to the nearest pillar and pressed a switch, flooding that end of the terrace with light. “My name is Peter Wimsey; I am Denver's brother, and my face–such as it is, is entirely at your service.”

He fixed his monocle in his eye and stared unpleasantly at Milligan.

“But aren't you my Harlequin?” protested Dian. “Don't be such an ass–I know you are. I know your voice perfectly well–and your mouth and chin. Besides, you were whistling that tune.”

“This is very interesting,” said Wimsey. “Is it possible–I fear it is–I think you must have encountered my unfortunate cousin Bredon.”

“That was the name–” began Dian, uncertainly, and stopped.

“I am glad to hear it,” replied Wimsey. “Sometimes he gives mine, which makes it very awkward.”

“See here, Dian,” broke in Milligan, “you seem to have dropped a brick. You'd better apologize and then we'll clear. Sorry we crashed in, and all that–”

“One moment,” said Wimsey. “I should like to hear more about this. Be good enough to come into the house for a moment. This way.”

He ushered them courteously round the corner of the terrace, up a side path and by way of a French window into a small ante-room, laid out with tables and a cocktail bar.

“What will you drink? Whiskies? I might have known it. The abominable practice of putting whisky on top of mixed drinks late at night is responsible for more ruined complexions and reputations than any other single cause. There is many a woman now walking the streets of London through putting whisky on top of gin cocktails. Two stiff whiskies, Tomlin, and a liqueur brandy.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“You perceive,” said Wimsey, returning with the drinks, “the true object of this hospitable gesture. I have established my identity, by the evidence of the reliable Tomlin. Let us now seek a spot less open to interruption. I suggest the library. This way. My brother, being an English gentleman, possesses a library in all his houses, though he never opens a book. This is called fidelity to ancient tradition. The chairs, however, are comfortable. Pray be seated. And now, tell me all about your encounter with my scandalous cousin.”

“One moment,” said Milligan, before Dian could speak. “I think I know the stud-book pretty well. I was not aware that you had a cousin Bredon.”

“It is not every puppy that appears in the kennel-book,” replied Wimsey carelessly, “and it is a wise man that knows all his own cousins. But what matter? Family is family, though indicated by the border compony (or gobony if you prefer that form of the word) or by the bend or baton sinister, called by most writers of fiction the bar sinister, for reasons which I am unable to determine. My regrettable cousin Bredon, having no particular right to one family name more than another, makes it his practice to employ them all in turn, thus displaying a happy absence of favouritism. Please help yourselves to smokes. You will find the cigars passable, Mr.–er–”

“Milligan.”

“Ah! the notor–the well-known Major Milligan? You have a residence on the river, I fancy. Charming, charming. Its fame has reached me from time to time through my good brother-in-law, Chief-Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard. A beautiful, retired spot, I believe?”

“Just so,” said Milligan. “I had the pleasure of entertaining your cousin there one night.”

“Did he gate-crash on you? That is exactly what he would do. And you have retorted upon my dear sister-in-law. Poetic justice, of course. I appreciate it–though possibly the Duchess will take a different view of the matter.”

“No; he was brought by a lady of my acquaintance.”

“He is improving. Major Milligan, painful though it may be to me, I feel that I ought to warn you against that cousin of mine. He is definitely not nice to know. If he has been thrusting his attentions upon Miss de Momerie, it is probably with some ulterior object. Not,” added Wimsey, “that any man would need an ulterior object for such attentions. Miss de Momerie is an object in herself–”

His eye wandered over Dian, scantily clothed and slightly intoxicated, with a cold appraisement which rendered the words almost impertinent.

“But,” he resumed, “I know my cousin Bredon–too well. Few people know him better. And I must confess that he is the last man to whom I should look for a disinterested attachment. I am unhappily obliged, in self-defence, to keep an eye on Cousin Bredon's movements, and I should be deeply grateful to be informed of the details of his latest escapade.”

“All right, I'll tell you,” said Dian. The whisky had strung her up to recklessness, and she became suddenly voluble, disregarding Milligan's scowls. She poured out the tale of her adventures. The incident of the fountain-dive seemed to cause Lord Peter Wimsey acute distress.

“Vulgar ostentation!” he said, shaking his head. “How many times have I implored Bredon to conduct himself in a quiet and reasonable manner.”

“I thought he was too marvellous,” said Dian, and proceeded to relate the encounter in the wood.

“He always plays 'Tom, Tom, the piper's son,' so of course, when you came along whistling it, I thought it was him.”

Wimsey's face darkened in a most convincing manner.

“Disgusting,” he said.

“Besides, you are so much alike–the same voice and the same face as far as one can see it, you know. But of course he never took off his mask–”