Murder Must Advertise (35 page)

“Jews in England be damned. Because a person has a monomania she need not be wrong about her facts. She might have imagined or invented a good deal, but she couldn't possibly imagine or invent anything so fantastic as 'Punch away,' which is obviously her mishearing of the name 'Mountjoy.' Garfield's your man–though I admit that you're going to have some difficulty in fixing anything on him. But if I were you, I'd have his premises searched–if it isn't too late by now.”

“I'm afraid it probably is too late. We didn't get any sense out of Miss Tebbutt for an hour or so; by which time the heroic Dr. Garfield had, naturally, telephoned both to his home and to his consulting room to explain what had happened to him. Still, we'll keep an eye on him. The immediate matter of importance is Mountjoy. Who was he? What was he up to? Why did he have to be suppressed?”

“It's pretty clear what he was up to. He was engaged in the dope traffic and he was suppressed because he had been fool enough to let Puncheon recognize and follow him. Somebody must have been on the watch; this gang apparently keeps tabs on all its members. Or the wretched Mountjoy may have asked for help and been helped out of the world as the speediest method of disposing of the difficulty. It's a pity Puncheon can't talk–he could tell us whether Mountjoy had telephoned or spoken to anybody during his dash round town. Anyhow, he made a mistake, and people who make mistakes are not permitted to survive. The odd thing, to my mind, is that you heard nothing of any visit to the flat. You'd rather expect the gang to have made some sort of investigation there, just to make sure. I suppose those servants are to be trusted?”

“I think so. We've made inquiries. They've all got good histories. The commissionaire has an army pension and an excellent record. The valet and chambermaid are highly respectable–nothing whatever against them.”

“H'm. And you've found nothing but a packet of cigarette-papers. Handy, of course, for wrapping up a grain or so of cocaine but, in themselves, no proof of anything.”

“I thought you'd see the significance of the cigarette-papers.”

“I am not yet blind or mentally deficient.”

“But where is the dope?”

“The dope? Really, Charles! He was going to fetch the dope when friend Puncheon butted in. Haven't you yet grasped that this is part of the Milligan crowd and that Friday is their day for distributing dope? The Milligans get it on Friday and give house-parties on Friday night and Saturday, when it goes into the hands of the actual addicts. Dian de Momerie told me so.”

“I wonder,” said Parker, “why they stick to one day? It must add to the risk.”

“It's obviously an integral part of the system. The stuff comes into the country–say on Thursdays. That's your part of the story. You don't seem to have done much about that, by the way. It is taken to–somewhere or the other–that night. Next day it is called for by the Mountjoys and sent on to the Milligans, none of whom probably knows any of the others by sight. And by Saturday the whole lot is pushed out and everybody has a happy week-end.”

“That sounds plausible. It certainly explains why we found no trace of anything either in the flat or on Mountjoy's body. Except cigarette-papers. By the way, is that right? If Mountjoy has the cigarette-papers, he ought to be the one who distributes to the addicts.”

“Not necessarily. He gets it himself in bulk–done up as Bicarbonate of Soda or what not. He divides it into small packets and parcels them out–so many to Milligan, so many to the next retailer and so forth; when, or how, I don't know. Nor do I know how the payments are worked.”

“Glad to hear there's something you don't know.”

“I said I didn't know; not that I couldn't guess. But I won't bother you with guesses. All the same, it's rather surprising that Garfield & Co. left that flat alone.”

“Perhaps Garfield meant to go there afterwards, if he hadn't got knocked out.”

“No; he'd not leave it so late. Tell me again about the flat.”

Parker patiently repeated the account of his visit and the interviews with the servants. Before he was half-way through, Wimsey had sat up in his chair and was listening with fascinated attention.

“Charles! What imbeciles we are! Of course, that's it!”

“What's what?”

“The Telephone Directory, of course. The man who brought the new volumes and took the old away. Since when has the Post Office taken to getting
both
new volumes out at once?”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Parker.

“I should think it was, by Jove. Ring up now and find out whether two new volumes were sent round to Mountjoy's address today.”

“It'll be a job to get hold of O. C. Directories at this time of night.”

“So it will. Wait a moment. Ring up the flats and ask if anybody else received any Directories this morning. My experience is that even Government departments do these things in batches, and don't make a special journey to every subscriber.”

Parker acted on this suggestion. After a little trouble, he succeeded in getting into touch with three other occupants in the same block as Mountjoy's flat. All three gave the same answer. They had received a new L-Z volume about a fortnight previously. The new A-K volume was not yet due to be issued. One man went further. His name was Barrington, and he had only recently moved in. He had inquired when the new A-K volume would be out with his new 'phone number, and had been told that it would probably be issued in October.

“That settles it,” said Wimsey. “Our friend Mountjoy kept his secrets in the telephone directory. That great work contains advertisements, post-office regulations and names and addresses, but particularly names and addresses. May we conclude that the secret nestled among the names and addresses? I think we may.”

“It seems reasonable.”

“Very reasonable. Now, how do we set about discovering those names and addresses?”

“Bit of a job. We can probably get a description of the man who called for the books this morning–”

“And comb London's teeming millions for him? Had we but world enough and time. Where do good telephone directories go when they die?”

“The pulping-mills, probably.”

“And the last exchange of the L-Z volume was made a fortnight ago. There's a chance that it hasn't been pulped yet. Get on to it, Charles. There's more than a chance that it, too, was marked, and that the markings were transferred at each exchange from the old book to the new one.”

“Why? Mountjoy might easily have kept the old marked set by him.”

“I fancy not, or we should have either found it or heard about it from the manservant. The stranger came; the two current volumes were handed to him and he went away satisfied. As I see the plan, the whole idea would be to use the current volume, so as to rouse no suspicion, have nothing to conceal and provide a convenient mechanism for getting rid of the evidence at short notice.”

“You may be right. It's a chance, as you say. I'll get on to the telephone people first thing in the morning.”

The tide of luck seemed to have turned. A morning's strenuous work revealed that the old directories had already been dispatched by the sackful to the pulping-mills, but had not, so far, been pulped. Six workers, toiling over the week-end among L-Z volumes collected from the Kensington District, brought to light the pleasing fact that nine people out of ten marked their directories in some way or another. Reports came pouring in. Wimsey sat with Parker in the latter's office at Scotland Yard and considered these reports.

Late on Sunday night, Wimsey raised his head from a sheaf of papers.

“I think this is it, Charles.”

“What is it?” Parker was weary and his eyes blood-shot with strain, but a note of hope was in his voice.

“This one. A whole list of public-houses in Central London have been ticked off–three in the middle of the L's, two near the end of the M's, one in the N's, one in the O's, and so forth and so on, including two in the middle of the W's. The two in the W's are the White Stag in Wapping and the White Stoat off Oxford Street. The next W after that is the White Swan in Covent Garden. I would bet any money that in the new volume that was carried away, the White Swan was duly ticked off in its turn.”

“I'm not quite sure what you're driving at.”

“I'm making rather a long cast, but I suggest this. When the stuff comes up to London of a Thursday, I think it is taken to which ever pub. stands next on the list in the directory. One week it will be a pub. with a name in A–say the Anchor. Next week it will be a B–the Bull & Dog, or the Brickmaker's Arms. The week after that, it will be a C, and so on to W, X, Y, Z–if there are any. The people who have to call for their dope wander into the pub. indicated, where it is slipped to them by the head distributor and his agents, probably quite without the knowledge of the proprietor. And since it never comes twice to the same place, your pretty policemen can go and talk parrots and goats in the White Swan till they are blue in the face. They ought to have been at the Yellow Peril or the York & Lancaster.”

“That's an idea, Peter. Let's look at that list again.”

Wimsey handed it over.

“If you're right, then this week was W week, and next week will be X week. That's unlikely. Say Y week. The next Y after the last one ticked is the Yelverton Arms in Soho. Wait a minute, though. If they have been taking them in alphabetical order, why have they got right down to the end of the M's in one case and only to WH in the other?”

“They must have been through the W's once, and be starting again.”

“Yes–I suppose there are quite a lot of M's. But then there are hundreds of W's. Still, we'll try it, Peter, any way. What is it, Lumley?”

“Report from the hospital, sir. Puncheon has come round.”

Parker glanced through the report.

“Much what we expected,” he said, handing the paper to Wimsey. “Mountjoy evidently knew he was being followed. He put through a telephone call at Piccadilly Tube Station, and started off on a wild scamper across London.”

“That was how the gang came to be ready for him.”

“Yes. Finding he couldn't shake Puncheon off, he lured him into the Museum, got him into a quiet corner and laid him out. Puncheon thinks he was slugged with a weapon of some kind. So he was. He did not speak to Mountjoy. In fact, this report tells us nothing we didn't know, except that, when Puncheon first saw him, Mountjoy was buying an early copy of the
Morning Star
from a man outside the office.”

“Was he? That's interesting. Well, keep your eye on the Yelverton Arms.”

“And you keep your eye on Pym's. Do remember that what we want is the man at the top.”

“So does Major Milligan. The man at the top is very much sought after. Well, cheerio! If I can't do anything more for you, I think I'll tootle off to bed. I've got my Whifflets scheme to get out tomorrow.”

“I like this scheme, Mr. Bredon,” said Mr. Pym, tapping his finger on the drafts submitted to him. “It has Breadth. It has Vision. More than anything else, Advertising needs Vision and Breadth. That is what determines Appeal. In my opinion, this scheme of yours has Appeal. It is going to be expensive, of course, and needs some working out. For instance, if all these vouchers were cashed in at once, it would send up the cost per packet issued to a figure that the profits could not possibly cover. But I think that can be got over.”

“They won't all be cashed in at once,” said Mr. Armstrong. “Not if we mix them up sufficiently. People will want time to collect and exchange. That will give us a start. They've got to look on the cost of the thing as so much advertising expenditure. We shall want a big press splash to start it, and after that, it will run itself quite happily in small spaces.”

“That's all very well, Armstrong, but we've got to think of ourselves.”

“That's all right. We make all the arrangements with the hotels and railways and so forth and charge our fee or commission on the work. All we've got to do is to average the thing out so that the claims won't amount to more than their estimated appropriation for the month. If the thing goes big they'll be willing enough to increase the appropriation. The other thing we've got to do is to see that each coupon bears more or less the same actual cash value, so as not to get into trouble with the Lottery Act. The whole thing comes down to this. How much of the profit on each shilling packet are they prepared to spend in advertising? Remembering that this scheme, if properly put through, is going to sweep every other fag off the market for the time being. Then we make our coupons up to that value minus an appropriation for the opening press campaign. At present
[Pg 272]
their appropriation is sixty thousand and their sales
...
have we got that report on sales?”

The two directors plunged into a maze of facts and figures. Mr. Bredon's attention wandered.

“Printing costs
...
see that they have a sufficient distribution
...
bonus to the tobacconists
...
free displays
...
tackle the hotels first
...
news-value
...
get the
Morning Star
to give it a show
...
no, I know, but there's the Boost Britain side of it
...
I can wangle Jenks
...
reduce overheads by
...
call it £200 a day
...
Puffin's aeroplanes must be costing them that
...
front-page splash and five free coupons
...
well, that's a matter of detail
....
”

“In any case, we've got to do
something
.” Mr. Armstrong emerged from the argument with a slightly flushed face. “It's no use telling people that the cost of the advertising has to come out of the quality of the goods. They don't care. All they want is something for nothing. Pay? Yes, of course they pay in the end, but somebody's got to pay. You can't fight free gifts with solemn assertions about Value. Besides, if Whifflets lose their market they'll soon lose their quality too–or what are we here for?”

“You needn't tell me that, Armstrong,” said Mr. Pym. “Whether people like it or not, the fact remains that unless you continually increase sales you must either lose money or cut down quality. I hope we've learnt that by this time.”