Dorothy Sayers - Murder Must Advertise

“And what did she do?” asked Wimsey, fascinated.

‘Told him to publish and be damned. And I wish to God I’d done the same. Wimsey-how much longer is it going to hang on? I’ve been in torment-I’ve been trying to give myself up-I-my wife-why haven’t I been arrested before this?”

“They’ve been waiting,” said Wimsey, thoughtfully, for his mind was pursuing two trains of thought at the same time. “You see, you aren’t really as important as this dope-gang. Once you were arrested, they would stop their little game, and we didn’t want them to stop. I’m afraid you’re being the tethered kid, left there to trap the tigers.”

All this time, his ear was alert to catch the tinkle of the telephone, which would tell him that the raid on the Stag at Bay had succeeded. Once the arrests were made and the gang broken, the sinister watcher in the street would be harmless. He would fly for his life and Tallboy would be able to go home to whatever awaited him there. But if he were to go now-

“When?” Tallboy was saying urgently, “when?”

“Tonight.”

“Wimsey-you’ve been frightfully decent to me-tell me-there’s no way out? It isn’t myself, exactly, but my wife and the kid. Pointed at all their lives. It’s damnable. You couldn’t give me twenty-four hours?”

“You would not pass the ports.”

“If I were alone I’d give myself up. I would, honestly.”

“There is an alternative.”

“I know. I’ve thought about that. I suppose that’s-” he stopped and laughed suddenly-“that’s the public school way out of it. I-yes-all right. They’ll hardly make a headline of it, though, will they? ‘Suicide of Old Dumbletonian’ wouldn’t have much news-value. Never mind, damn it! We’ll show ’ em that Dumbleton can achieve the Eton touch. Why not?”

“Good man!” said Wimsey. “Have a drink. Here’s luck!”

He emptied his glass and stood up.

“Listen!” he said. “I think there is one other way out. It won’t help you, but it may make all the difference to your wife and your child.”

“How?” said Tallboy, eagerly.

“They need never know anything about all this. Nothing. Nobody need ever know anything, if you do as I tell you.”

“My God, Wimsey! What do you mean? Tell me quickly. I’ll do anything.”

“It won’t save you.”

‘That doesn’t matter. Tell me.”

“Go home now,” said Wimsey. “Go on foot, and not too fast. And don’t look behind you.”

Tallboy stared at him; the blood drained away from his face, leaving even his lips as white as paper.

“I think I understand… Very well.”

“Quickly, then,” said Wimsey. He held out his hand.

“Good-night, and good luck.”

“Thank you. Good-night.”

From the window, Wimsey watched him come out into Piccadilly, and walk quickly away towards Hyde Park Corner. He saw the shadow slip from a neighbouring doorway and follow him.

“-and from thence to the place of execution… and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.”

Half an hour later, the telephone rang.

“Bagged the whole crew,” said Parker’s cheerful voice. “We let the stuff go up to town. What do you think it went as? Traveller’s samples-one of those closed cars with blinds all round.”

“That’s where they made it into packets, then.”

“Yes. We watched our man into the Stag; then we pulled in the motor-boat and the car. Then we kept our eye on the pub. and let the birds hop out into our arms, one after the other. It went off beautifully. No hitch at all. Oh, and by the way-their code-word. We ought to have thought of that. It was just anything to do with Nutrax. Some of them had the Morning Star , showing the ad., and some of them just mentioned Nutrax for Nerves. One chap had a bottle of the stuff in his pocket, another had it written on a shopping-list and so on. And one frightfully ingenious chap was bursting with information about some new tracks for greyhound racing. Simple as pie, wasn’t it?”

“That explains Hector Puncheon.”

“Hector-? Oh, the newspaper fellow. Yes. He must have had his copy of the Morning Star with him. We’ve got old Cummings, too, of course. He turns out to be the actual top-dog of the whole show, and as soon as we collared him he coughed up the whole story, the mangy little blighter. That doctor fellow who shoved Mountjoy under the train is in it-we’ve got definite information about him, and we’ve also got our hands on Mountjoy’s loot. He’s got a safe-deposit somewhere, and I think I know where to find the key. He kept a woman in Maida Vale, bless his heart. The whole thing is most satisfactory. Now we have only got to rake in your murderer chap, what’s his name, and everything in the garden will be lovely.”

“Lovely,” said Wimsey, with a spice of bitterness in his tone, “simply lovely.”

“What’s the matter? You sound a bit peeved. Hang on a minute till I’ve cleared up here and we’ll go round somewhere and celebrate.”

“Not tonight,” said Wimsey. “I don’t feel quite like celebrating.”

“So you see,” said Wimsey to Mr. Pym, “the thing need never come into the papers at all, if we’re careful. We’ve plenty of evidence against Cummings without that, and there’s no need to take the public into our confidence about the details of their distributing system.”

“Thank Heaven!” said Mr. Pym. “It would have been a terrible thing for Pym’s Publicity. How I have lived through this last week, I really don’t know. I suppose you will be leaving the advertising?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Pity. You have a natural flair for copy-writing. You will have the satisfaction of seeing your Whifflets scheme go through.”

“Splendid! I shall begin to collect coupons at once.”

“Just fancy!” said Miss Rossiter. “Charge withdrawn.”

“I always said Mr. Bredon was a darling,” triumphed Miss Parton. “Of course the real murderer was one of those horrible dope-trafficking beasts. That was far more likely. I said so at the time.”

“I didn’t hear you, dear,” snapped Miss Rossiter. “I say, Miss Meteyard, you’ve seen the news? You’ve seen that our Mr. Bredon is discharged and never did any murder at all?”

“I’ve done better,” replied Miss Meteyard. “I’ve seen Mr. Bredon.”

“No, where?”

“Here.”

“ No !”

“And he isn’t Mr. Bredon, he’s Lord Peter Wimsey.”

“What!!!”

Lord Peter poked his long nose round the door.

“Did I hear my name?”

“You did. She says you’re Lord Peter Wimsey.”

“Quite right.”

“Then what were you doing here?”

“I came here,” said his lordship, unabashed, “for a bet. A friend of mine laid me ten to one I couldn’t earn my own living for a month. I did it, though, didn’t I? May I have a cup of coffee?”

They would gladly have given him anything.

“By the way,” said Miss Rossiter, when the first tumult had subsided, “you heard about poor Mr. Tallboy?”

“Yes, poor chap.”

“Knocked down and killed on his way home-wasn’t it dreadful? And poor Mrs. Tallboy with a small baby-it does seem awful! Goodness knows what they’ll have to live on, because-well, you know! And that reminds me, while you’re here, could I have your shilling for a wreath? At least, I suppose you’ll be leaving Pym’s now, but I expect you’d like to contribute.”

“Yes, rather. Here you are.”

“Thanks awfully. Oh, and I say! There’s Mr. Willis’ wedding-present. You know he’s getting married?”