Murder Must Advertise

Chapter XIX. Duplicate Appearances of a Notorious Personality

“It’s a fact, old man,” said Parker, as the police-car sped Londonwards. “Dian de Momerie was found this morning with her throat cut in a wood near Maidenhead. Beside the body was a penny whistle and a few yards away there was a black mask caught on a bramble bush, as if some one had flung it away in a hurry. Inquiry among her friends elicited the fact that she had been going about at night with a masked harlequin, one Bredon by name. Strong suspicion was accordingly directed against the said Mr. Bredon, and Scotland Yard, acting with commendable promptitude, tracked the gentleman down to Romford and secured his person. Accused, when charged, replied-”

“I done it,” said Wimsey, concluding the sentence for him. “And so, in a sense, I have, Charles. If that girl had never seen me, she’d be alive today.”

“Well, she’s no great loss,” said the Chief-Inspector, callously. “I’m beginning to see their game. They’ve not yet tumbled to the fact that you’re not Death Bredon, and their idea is to put you on ice quietly till they’ve had time to settle up their affairs. They know you can’t get bail on a murder charge.”

“I see. Well, they’re not quite as smart as I took them to be, or they’d have identified me long since. What happens next?”

“My idea is, that we take immediate steps to establish that Mr. Death Bredon and Lord Peter Wimsey are not one person but two. Is that chap still following us, Lumley?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take care he doesn’t lose us in the traffic through Stratford. We’re taking you to be questioned at Scotland Yard, and this josser shall see you safely into the building. I’ve arranged for some pressmen to be there, and we’ll prime them with full details of the arrest and a lot about your hideous past. You, as Mr. Bredon, will then telephone to yourself, as Lord Peter Wimsey, to come and see you, with a view to arranging your defence. You will be smuggled out by the back entrance-”

“Disguised as a policeman? Oh, Charles, do let me be a policeman! I should adore it.”

“Well, you’re a bit under the regulation height, but we might be able to manage it; the helmet is very disguising. Anyway, you go home, or else to your club-”

“Not my club; I couldn’t go to the Marlborough dressed up as a cop. Stop a bit, though-the Egotists’-I could go there. I’ve got a room there, and the Egotists don’t care what one does. I like this. Go on.”

“All right. You change there, and come down to the Yard in a temper, grumbling loudly about the trouble Mr. Bredon puts you to. You can give an interview about it if you like. Then you go home. The Sunday papers have a long bit about you, with photographs of you both.”

“Splendid!”

“And on Monday you go before the magistrate and reserve your defence. It’s a pity you can’t be in court to hear yourself, but I’m afraid that’s rather beyond our powers. Still, you can be seen immediately afterwards doing something conspicuous. You might ride in the Row and fall off-”

“No,” said Wimsey. “I absolutely refuse to fall off. There are limits. I don’t mind being run away with, and only saving myself by consummate horsemanship.”

“Very well; I’ll leave that to you. The point is that you must be in the papers.”

“I will. I will advertise myself in some way. Advertising is my long suit. By the way, though, that’ll mean I can’t be at the office on Monday.”

“Naturally.”

“But that won’t do. I’ve got to get that Whifflets campaign finished. Armstrong wants it particularly; I can’t let him down. And besides, I’ve got interested in the thing.”

Parker gazed at him in astonishment.

“Is it possible, Peter, that you are developing a kind of business morality?”

“Dash it all, Charles! You don’t understand. It’s a really big scheme. It’ll be the biggest advertising stunt since the Mustard Club. But if that doesn’t stir you, here’s another thing. If I’m not at the office, you won’t know the Nutrax headline next Tuesday, and won’t catch the supplies being delivered.”

“We can find that out without you, old man. It won’t help us in the least to have you murdered, will it?”

“I suppose not. What I can’t understand is, why they haven’t murdered Tallboy yet.”

“No: I can’t understand that, either.”

“I’ll tell you what I think. They haven’t matured their new plans yet. They’re leaving him till after next Tuesday, because they’ve got to deliver one more consignment by the old route. They think that if I’m out of the way they can take the risk.”

“Perhaps that’s it. We must hope so, any way. Well, here we are. Out you come, and try and look as much like a baffled villain as possible.”

“Right-ho!” said Wimsey, distorting his face into a disagreeable sneer. The car turned into the entrance to New Scotland Yard and drew up. The sergeant got out; Wimsey followed, and, glancing round, observed three obvious newspaper men hanging about the courtyard. Just as Parker emerged in his turn from the car, Wimsey tapped the sergeant lightly but efficiently under the chin and sent him staggering, tripped Parker neatly as he jumped from the running-board, and made for the gate like a hare. Two policemen and a reporter dived to intercept him; he dodged the bobbies, tackled the pressman and left him sprawling, swerved through the gateway and led a beautiful ding-dong chase down Whitehall. As he sped, he heard shouts and the blowing of whistles. Foot-passengers joined in the pursuit; motorists accelerated to cut him off; people in buses crowded to the windows and stared. He slipped nimbly into the whirl of traffic, dodged three times round the Cenotaph, doubled back on the opposite side of the street and finally staged a magnificent and sensational capture in the middle of Trafalgar Square. Parker and Lumley came up panting.

‘’Ere ’e is, mister,” said the man who had grabbed hold of him-a large and powerful navvy, with a bag of tools. “’Ere ’e is. Wot’s ’e done?”

“He’s wanted for murder,” announced Parker, briefly and loudly.

A murmur of admiration arose. Wimsey cast an offensively contemptuous glance at Sergeant Lumley.

“You ruddy bobbies are all too fat,” he said. “You can’t run.”

‘That’s all right,” said the sergeant, grimly. “Hold out your hands, my lad. We’re taking no more chances.”

“As you please, as you please. Are your hands clean? I don’t want my cuffs dirtied.”

“That’s quite enough of it, my lad,” said Parker, as the handcuffs snapped home, “we don’t want any more trouble from you. Pass along there, please, pass along.”

The little procession renamed to Scotland Yard.

“Rather prettily done, I flatter myself,” said Wimsey.

“Ar!” said Lumley, caressing his jaw. “You didn’t need to have hit quite so hard, my lord.”

“Verisimilitude,” said Wimsey, “verisimilitude. You looked lovely as you went over.”

“Ar!” said Sergeant Lumley.

A quarter of an hour later, a policeman whose uniform trousers were a little long for him and whose tunic was slightly too large in the waist, came out from Scotland Yard by a side-entrance, entered a car and was driven along Pall Mall to the discreet entrance of the Egotists’ Club. Here he disappeared, and was never seen again, but presently an immaculately dressed gentleman, in evening dress and silk hat, tripped out and stood on the steps to await a taxi. An elderly gentleman of military appearance stood beside him.

“You will forgive me, Colonel? I shall not be many minutes. This fellow Bredon is an abominable nuisance, but what can one do? I mean to say, one has to do something.”

“Quite, quite,” said the Colonel.

“I only hope this is the last time. If he’s done what they say he has, it will be the last.”

“Oh, quite,” said the Colonel, “my dear Wimsey, quite.” The taxi appeared.

“Scotland Yard,” said Wimsey, in very audible tones. The taxi span away.

Miss Meteyard, skimming the papers in bed on Sunday morning, found her attention held by enormous headlines:

DE MOMERIE MURDER CASE ARREST

FAMOUS DUCAL HOUSE INVOLVED

INTERVIEW WITH LORD PETER WIMSEY

and again:

PENNY WHISTLE MURDER

ARREST OF MASKED MUMMER

CHIEF-INSPECTOR PARKER INTERVIEWED

and once more:

WHISTLING HARLEQUIN CAUGHT

DESPERATE MELEE IN WHITEHALL

PEER’S BROTHER VISITS SCOTLAND YARD

There followed lengthy and picturesque descriptions of the arrest; pictures of the place where the body was found; articles on Lord Peter Wimsey, on the Wimsey family, on their historic seat in Norfolk; on night-life in London and on penny whistles. The Duke of Denver had been interviewed, but refused to say anything; Lord Peter Wimsey, on the other hand, had said a good deal. Finally-and this puzzled Miss Meteyard very much, there was a photograph of Lord Peter and of Death Bredon standing side by side.

“It would be useless,” said Lord Peter Wimsey in an interview, “in view of the remarkable resemblance between us, to deny that there is a relationship between this man and myself. In fact, he has on various occasions given trouble by impersonating me. If you were to see us together, you would notice that he is the darker of the two; there are also, of course, slight differences of feature; but, when we are seen separately, it is easy to mistake one of us for the other.”

The Death Bredon of the photograph had certainly very much darker hair than the Peter Wimsey; his mouth was set in an unpleasing sneer, and he had that indefinable air of raffish insolence which is the hall-mark of the chevalier d’industrie. The newspaper article wandered on to give various unverifiable details.

“Bredon never went to a university, though he sometimes claims Oxford as his Alma Mater. He was educated at a public school in France where English sports are cultivated. He is a very fine natural cricketer, and was actually playing in a cricket match when arrested through the prompt and intelligent action of Chief-Inspector Parker. Under various names he is well known in the night-clubs of London and Paris. He is said to have met the unfortunate girl, with whose murder he is charged, at the house of the late Major Milligan, who met his death two days ago by being run down by a lorry in Piccadilly. Following representations by the Wimsey family as to his mode of life, he had recently taken a post in a well-known commercial firm, and was supposed to have turned over a new leaf, but…”

And so on, and so forth.

Miss Meteyard sat for a long time with the papers strewn about her, smoking cigarettes, while her coffee got cold. Then she went and had a bath. She hoped it might clear her brain.

The excitement at Pym’s on the Monday morning was indescribable. The Copy Department sat in the typists’ room and did no work at all. Mr. Pym telephoned that he was unwell, and could not come to the office. Mr. Copley was so unnerved that he sat for three hours with a blank sheet of paper before him and then went out for a drink-a thing he had never done in his life. Mr. Willis seemed to be on the verge of nervous collapse. Mr. Ingleby laughed at his colleagues’ agitation and said that it was a grand new experience for them all. Miss Parton burst into tears and Miss Rossiter proclaimed that she had always known it. Mr. Tallboy then enlivened the proceedings by fainting in Mr. Armstrong’s room, thus giving Mrs. Johnson (who was hysterically inclined) useful occupation for half an hour. And Ginger Joe, of the red head and sunny temper, astonished his companions by having a fit of the sulks and then suddenly cuffing Bill’s head for no reason whatever.

At 1 o’clock Miss Meteyard went out to lunch, and read in the Evening Banner that Mr. Death Bredon had appeared before the magistrates at 10 a.m. on the murder charge, and had reserved his defence. At 10.30, Lord Peter Wimsey (picturesquely described as “the second protagonist in this drama of dope and death”) had, while riding in the Row, narrowly escaped injury, owing to his horse’s having been startled by a back-fire from a racing car; the animal had bolted and only Lord Peter’s consummate horsemanship had averted a nasty accident. There was a photograph of Mr. Bredon entering the court at Bow Street in a dark lounge suit and soft hat; there was also a photograph of Lord Peter Wimsey returning from his ride in neat breeches and boots and a bowler; there was, needless to say, no photograph of the metamorphosis of the one gentleman into another, behind the drawn blinds of a Daimler saloon while traversing the quiet squares north of Oxford Street.

On Monday night, Lord Peter Wimsey attended a performance of Say When! at the Frivolity, companioning a Royal personage.

On Tuesday morning, Mr. Willis arrived at the office late and in a great state of excited importance. He beamed at everybody, presented the typists’ room with a four-pound box of chocolates and an iced cake, and informed the sympathetic Miss Parton that he was engaged to be married. At coffee-time, the name of the lady was known to be Miss Pamela Dean. At 11.30, it was divulged that the ceremony would take place at the earliest possible moment, and at 11.45 Miss Rossiter was collecting subscriptions for a wedding-present. By 2 o’clock, the subscribers were already divided into two opinionated and bitterly hostile factions, the one advocating the purchase of a handsome dining-room clock with Westminster chimes, and the other voting with passion for a silver-plated electric chafing-dish. At 4 o’clock, Mr. Jollop had turned down successively, “Sigh no more, Ladies,” “Oh, Dry those Tears” and “Weeping Late and Weeping Early,” which Mr. Toule had previously passed, and rejected with derision the proposed substitution of “If You have Tears,” “O Say, What are You Weeping For?” and “A Poor Soul Sat Sighing.” Mr. Ingleby, stimulated by a frantic request for new headlines, had flown into a passion because the Dictionary of Quotations had mysteriously disappeared. At 4.30 Miss Rossiter, feverishly typing, had completed “I Weep, I know not Why” and “In Silence and in Tears,” while the distracted Mr. Ingleby was seriously contemplating “In that Deep Midnight of the Mind” (for, as he observed, “they’ll never know it’s Byron unless we tell them”), when Mr. Armstrong sent up word to say that he had persuaded Mr. Jollop to accept the copy of “O Say, What are You Weeping For?” combined with the headline “Flat, Stale, and Unprofitable,” and would Mr. Ingleby kindly verify at once whether it was “Flat, Stale” or “Stale, Flat,” and get the thing re-typed and hand it to Mr. Tallboy immediately.

“Isn’t Mr. Armstrong marvellous?” said Miss Rossiter. “He always finds a way out. Here you are, Mr. Ingleby-I’ve looked it up-it’s ‘Stale, Flat.’ The first sentence will want altering, I suppose. You can’t have this bit about ‘Sometimes you are tempted to ask yourself, in the words of the old game,’ can you?”

“I suppose not,” grunted Ingleby. “Better make it: ‘Sometimes you may be tempted, like Hamlet, to exclaim’-then the whole quote-and go on, ‘yet if anybody were to ask you why-’ and join it up there. That’ll do. Courses of the world, please, not curses.”

“T’chk!” said Miss Rossiter.

“Here’s Wedderburn, panting for his copy. How’s Tallboy, Wedder?”

“Gone home,” said Mr. Wedderburn. “He didn’t want to go, but he’s fagged out. He oughtn’t to have come to the office at all today, but he would do it. Is this the thing?”

“Yes. They’ll want a new sketch, of course.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Wedderburn, gloomily. “How they ever expect things to look right when they chop and change like this-Oh, well! What is it? ‘Picture of Hamlet.’ Have the Studio got a reference for Hamlet?”

“Of course not; they never have anything. Who does these sketches? Pickering? You’d better take him my illustrated Shakespeare with my compliments, and request him not to cover it with Indian ink and rubber solution.”

“All right.”

“And to return it sometime before Christmas.”

Wedderburn grinned and departed on his errand.

About ten minutes later, the telephone tinkled in the typists’ room.

“Yes?” said Miss Rossiter, in mellifluous accents. “Who is it, please?”

“Tallboy speaking,” said the telephone.

“Oh!” Miss Rossiter altered her voice from the tone reserved for clients and directors to a tarter tone (for she was not too well pleased with Mr. Tallboy), modified by the sympathy due to ill-health:

“Oh, yes? Are you feeling better, Mr. Tallboy?”

“Yes, thanks. I’ve been trying to get Wedderburn, but he doesn’t seem to be in his room.”

“I expect he’s in the Studio, making poor Mr. Pickering work overtime on a new Nutrax sketch.”

“Oh! that’s what I wanted to know. Did Jollop pass that copy?”

“No-he turned the whole lot down. It’s a new one-at least, new headline with the ‘What are You Weeping for?’ copy.”

“Oh, a new headline? What is it?”

“Stale, Flat, and Unprofitable. Shakespeare, you know.”

“Oh! Oh, good! Glad something managed to get through. It was worrying me.”

“It’s quite all right, Mr. Tallboy.” Miss Rossiter rang off. “Touching devotion to business,” she observed to Miss Parton. “As if the world would stop turning just because he wasn’t here!”

“I expect he was afraid old Copley would be butting in again,” said Miss Parton, with a snort.

“Oh, him!” said Miss Rossiter.

“Well, now, young man,” said the policeman, “and what do you want?”

“I want to see Chief-Inspector Parker.”

“Ho!” said the policeman. “Don’t want much, do you? Sure you wouldn’t rather see the Lord Mayor o’ London? Or Mister Ramsey MacDonald?”

“I say, are you always as funny as that? Cor lumme, don’t it ’urt yer sometimes? You better buy yourself a new pair o’ boots or you’ll be gettin’ too big for wot yer wearin’. You tell Chief-Inspector Parker as Mr. Joe Potts wants ter see ’im about this ’ere ’Arlequin murder. And look snappy, ’cos I gotter git ’ome ter me supper.”

“About the ’Arlequin murder, eh? And wot do you know about that?”

“Never you mind. Just tell ’im wot I say. Tell ’im it’s Joe Potts as works at Pym’s Publicity and you’ll ’ave ’im steppin’ aht ter meet me wiv’ a crimson carpet and a bokay.”

“Oh! you’re from Pym’s. Got something to say about this Bredon, is that it?”

“That’s it. Now, you ’op it, and don’t waste time.”

“You’d better come in here, young Cocky-and be’ave yourself.

“Right-oh! it’s all the same to me.”

Mr. Joseph Potts wiped his boots neatly on the mat, took his seat upon a hard bench, drew out a Yo-Yo from his pocket, and began nonchalantly throwing a handsome series of loops, while the policeman retired defeated.

Presently he returned and, sternly commanding Mr. Joseph Potts to put his top away, conducted him through a series of passages to a door, upon which he knocked. A voice said “Come in,” and Mr. Potts found himself in a good-sized room furnished with two desks, a couple of comfortable arm-chairs and several other seats of penitential appearance. At the farther desk sat a man in mufti, writing, with his back to the door; at the nearer, facing the door, was another man in a grey suit, with a pile of documents before him.

“The boy, sir,” announced the policeman, and retired.

“Sit down,” said the man in grey, briefly, indicating one of the penitential chairs. “Now then, what’s all this you’ve got to tell us, eh?”

“Excuse me, sir, are you Chief-Inspector Parker?”

“This is a very cautious witness,” observed the man in grey to the world in general. “Why do you particularly want to see Chief-Inspector Parker?”

“’Cos it’s important and confidential, see?” said Mr. Joseph Potts, pertly. “Information, that’s wot it is. I likes ter do business with the boss, especially if there’s anythink ain’t bein’ ’andled as it should be.”

“Oh!”

“I want to tell this Parker that this case ain’t bein’ ’andled right. See? Mr. Bredon ain’t got nothink to do with it.”

“Indeed. Well, I’m Chief-Inspector Parker. What do you know about Bredon?”

“This ’ere.” Ginger Joe extended an inky forefinger. “You been ’ad. Mr. Bredon ain’t no crook, ’e’s a great detective, and I’m ’is assistant. We’re ’ard on the track of a murderer, see? And this here is just a mashi-macki-I mean it’s jest a bobby-trap set by the ’ideous gang as ’e’s out ter track to its lair. You been boobies ter let yerselves be took in by it, see? ’E’s a sport, is Mr. Bredon, and he ain’t never murdered no young woman, let along bein’ such a fool as ter leave penny whistles be’ind ’im. If you wants a murderer, Mr. Bredon’s got ’is eye on one now, and you’re jest playin’ into the ’ands of the Black Spider and ’is gang-meaning to say, ’oever done this. Wot I mean tersay, the time ’as come fer me ter divulge wot I know, and I ain’t agoin’-cor lumme!”

The man at the farther desk had turned round and was grinning at Ginger over the back of his chair.

“That’ll do, Ginger, “ said this person. “We know all about that here. I am obliged to you for your testimonial. I hope you haven’t been divulging anything in other directions.”

“Me, sir? No, sir. I ain’t said a word, Mr. Bredon, sir. But seein’ as ’ow-”

“That’s all right; I believe you. Now, Charles, I think this is just the lad we want. You can get that headline from him and save ringing up Pym’s. Ginger, was the Nutrax headline passed this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir, ‘Stale, Flat, and Unprofitable,’ that’s what it was. And lor’, wasn’t there a to-do about it! Took ’em all afternoon, it did, and Mr. Ingleby wasn’t ’arf wild.”

“He would be,” said Wimsey. “Now, you’d better cut along home, Ginger, and not a word, mind.”

“No, sir.”

“We’re much obliged to you for coming,” added Parker, “but you see, we aren’t quite such boobies as you think. We know a good deal about Mr. Bredon here. And by the way, let me introduce you to Lord Peter Wimsey.”

Ginger Joe’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“Coo! Lord Peter-where’s Mr. Bredon, then? This is Mr. Bredon. You’re pulling my leg.”

“I promise,” said Wimsey, “to tell you all about it this time next week. Cut along now, there’s a good chap. We’re busy.”

On Wednesday morning, Mr. Parker received a communication from St. Martin’s-le-Grand. Inside the official envelope was another, addressed in Tallboy’s hand to “S. Smith, Esq.” at Cummings’ address in Old Broad Street.

‘That settles it,” said Wimsey. He consulted the marked Telephone Directory. “Here you are. The Stag at Bay, Drury Lane. Make no mistake this time.”

It was not until Thursday evening that Miss Meteyard made up her mind to speak to Mr. Tallboy.