Murder Must Advertise

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  “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 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.”

  “What happens,” asked Mr. Bredon, “when you've increased sales to saturation point?”

  “You mustn't ask those questions, Bredon,” said Mr. Armstrong, amused.

  “No, but really. Suppose you push up the smoking of every man and woman in the Empire till they must either stop or die of nicotine poisoning?”

  “We're a long way off that,” replied Mr. Pym, seriously. “And that reminds me. This scheme should carry a strong appeal to women. 'Give your children that seaside holiday by smoking Whifflets.' That sort of thing. We want to get women down to serious smoking. Too many of them play about with it. Take them off scented stuff and put them on to the straightforward Virginia cigarette–”

  “The gasper, in fact.”

  “Whifflets,” said Mr. Pym. “You can smoke a lot more of them in the day without killing yourself. And they're cheaper. If we increase women's smokes by 500 per cent–there's plenty of room for it–”

  Mr. Bredon's attention wandered again.

  “–all right, date the coupons. Let them run for three months only. That will give us plenty of duds to play with. And they'll have to see that their stockists are kept up to date with fresh goods. By the way, that makes a selling point–”

  Mr. Bredon fell into a dream.

  “–but you must have a good press campaign as well. Posters are good and cheap, but if you really want to tell people something, you've got to have a press campaign. Not a big one, necessarily, after the first big bang. But a good, short, snappy reminder week by week–”

  “Very well, Mr. Bredon.” The creator of the Whifflet scheme came out of his doze with a start. “We'll put this up to Whifflets. Will you see if you can get out some copy? And you'd better put a few other people on to it as well, Armstrong. Ingleby–it's rather his line. And Miss Meteyard. We want to get something out by the end of the week. Tell Mr. Barrow to put everything else aside and rough out some really striking displays.” Mr. Pym gave the signal of dismissal, and then, as a thought struck him, called Bredon back.

  “I want a word with you, Bredon. I'd almost forgotten what you were really here for. Has any progress been made in that matter?”

  “Yes.” The Whifflets campaign receded from Lord Peter Wimsey, dying along the distance of his mind. “In fact, the investigation is turning out to be of so much importance that I don't quite know how I can take e
ven you into my confidence.”

  “That's nonsense,” said Mr. Pym. “I am employing you–”

  “No. There's no question of employment. I'm afraid it's a police job.”

  The shadows of disquiet gathered and deepened in Mr. Pym's eyes.

  “Do you mean that those earlier suspicions you mentioned to me were actually justified?”

  “Oh, yes. But it's a bigger thing than that.”

  “I don't want any scandal.”

  “Possibly not. But I don't quite see how it's to be avoided, if the thing comes to trial.”

  “Look here, Bredon,” said Mr. Pym, “I don't like your behaviour. I put you in here as my private inquiry agent. I admit that you have made yourself very useful in other capacities, but you are not indispensable. If you insist on going beyond your authority–”

  “You can sack me. Of course. But would that be wise?”

  Mr. Pym mopped his forehead.

  “Can you tell me this,” he inquired anxiously, after a silence in which he seemed to be digesting the meaning of his employee's question. “Do your suspicions point to any particular person? Is it possible to remove that person promptly from our staff? You see my point. If, before this scandal breaks–whatever it is–and I really think I ought to be told–but so long as we can say that the person is no longer on the staff, it makes a difference. The firm's name might even be kept out of it–mightn't it? The good name of Pym's means a great deal to me, Mr. Bredon–”

  “I can't tell you,” said Wimsey; “a few days ago, I thought I knew, but just lately, other facts have come to my knowledge which suggest that the man I originally suspected may not be the right one. And until I know definitely, I can't do or say anything. At the moment it might be anybody. It might even be yourself.”

  “This is outrageous,” cried Mr. Pym. “You can take your money and go.”

  Wimsey shook his head.

  “If you get rid of me, the police will probably want to put somebody in my place.”

  “If I had the police here,” retorted Mr. Pym, “I should at least know where I was. I know nothing about you, except that Mrs. Arbuthnot recommended you. I never cared for the idea of a private detective, though I certainly thought at first that you were of a somewhat superior type to the usual inquiry agent. But insolence I cannot and will not put up with. I shall communicate at once with Scotland Yard, and they will, I imagine, require you to state plainly what you imagine yourself to have discovered.”

  “They know it.”

  “Do they? You do not seem to be a model of discretion, Mr. Bredon.” He pressed his buzzer. “Miss Hartley, will you please get Scotland Yard on the 'phone, and ask them to send up a reliable detective.”

  “Very well, Mr. Pym.”

  Miss Hartley danced away. This was meat and drink. She had always said there was something funny about Mr. Bredon, and now he had been caught. Pinching the cash, perhaps. She dialled the switchboard and asked for Whitehall 1212.

  “Just one moment,” said Wimsey, when the door had closed upon her. “If you really want Scotland Yard, tell her to ask for Chief-Inspector Parker and say that Lord Peter Wimsey would like to speak to him. Then he'll know what it's about.”

  “You are–? Why didn't you tell me?”

  “I thought it might raise difficulties about the salary and prove embarrassing. I took the job on because I thought advertising might be rather good fun. So it is,” added Wimsey, pleasantly, “so it is.”

  Mr. Pym put his head into Miss Hartley's room.

  “I'll take that call in here,” he said, briefly.

  They sat mute till the call came through. Mr. Pym asked for Chief-Inspector Parker.

  “There is a man here on my staff, calling himself–”

  The conversation was a brief one. Mr. Pym handed the receiver to Wimsey.

  “They want to speak to you.”

  “Hullo, Charles! That you? Have you established my credit? All right.... No, no trouble, only Mr. Pym feels he ought to know what it's all about.... Shall I tell him?... Not wise?... Honestly, Charles, I don't think he's our man.... Well, that's a different question.... The Chief-Inspector wants to know whether you can hold your tongue, Mr. Pym.”

  “I only wish to God everybody could hold his tongue,” groaned Mr. Pym.

  Wimsey passed on the reply. “I think I'll risk it, Charles. If anybody is going to be slugged in the dark after this, it won't be you, and I can look after myself.”

  He rang off and turned to Mr. Pym.

  “Here's the brutal fact,” he said. “Somebody's running an enormous dope-traffic from this office. Who is there that has far more money than he ought to have, Mr. Pym? We're looking for a very rich man. Can you help us?”

  But Mr. Pym was past helping anybody. He was chalk-white.

  “Dope? From this office? What on earth will our clients say? How shall I face the Board? The publicity....”

  “Pym's Publicity,” said Lord Wimsey, and laughed.

  CHAPTER XVII

  LACHRYMOSE OUTBURST OF A NOBLEMAN'S NEPHEW

  That week passed quietly. On Tuesday, Mr. Jollop passed, quite amiably, another of the new “Quotations” series for Nutrax “–And Kissed Again with Tears” (“But Tears, and Fallings-Out, however poetical, are nearly always a sign of Nerve-Strain”); on Wednesday, Green Pastures Margarine was Reduced in Price though Improved in Quality (“It might seem impossible to improve on Perfection, but we have done it!”); Sopo adopted a new advertising figure (“Let Susan Sopo do the Dirty Work”); Tomboy Toffee finished up its Cricket Campaign with a huge display containing the portraits of a complete Eleven of Famous Cricketers all eating Tomboy; five people went on holiday; Mr. Prout created a sensation by coming to the office in a black shirt; Miss Rossiter lost a handbag containing her bonus money and recovered it from the Lost Property Office, and a flea was found in the ladies' cloak-room, causing dire upheaval, some ill-founded accusations and much heart-burning. In the typists' room, the subject of the flea almost ousted for the moment the juicier and more speculative topic of Mr. Tallboy's visitor. For, whether by the indiscretion of Tompkin or of the boy at the desk, or of some other person (though not of Mr. Ingleby or Mr. Bredon, who surely knew better) the tale had somehow seeped through.

  “And how he does it on his salary I don't know,” observed Miss Parton. “I do think it's a shame. His wife's a nice little woman. You remember, we met her last year at the Garden Party.”

  “Men are all alike,” said Miss Rossiter, scornfully. “Even your Mr. Tallboy. I told you, Parton, that I didn't think old Copley was so much to blame as you thought in that other business, and now, perhaps, you'll believe me. What I say is, if a man does one ungentlemanly thing, he'll do another. And as for doing it on his salary, how about that fifty pounds in an envelope? It's pretty obvious where that went to.”

  “It's always obvious where money goes to,” said Miss Meteyard, sardonically. “The point is, where does it come from?”

  “That's what Mr. Dean used to say,” said Miss Rossiter. “You remember how he used to chip Mr. Tallboy about his stockbrokers?”

  “The famous firm of Smith,” said Mr. Garrett. “Smith, Smith, Smith, Smith, Smith & Smith Unlimited.”

  “Money-lenders, if you ask me,” said Miss Rossiter. “Are you going to the cricket-match, Miss Meteyard? In my opinion, Mr. Tallboy ought to resign and leave somebody else to captain it. You can't wonder that people aren't keen to play under him, with all these stories going about. Don't you feel the same, Mr. Bredon?”

  “Not a bit of it,” said Mr. Bredon. “Provided the man can captain, I don't care a bit if he has as many wives as Solomon, and is a forger and swindler into the bargain. What's it matter?”

  “It would matter to me,” said Miss Rossiter.

  “How feminine she is,” said Mr. Bredon, plaintively, to the world at large. “She will let the personal element come into business.”

  “I dare say,” said Miss Rossiter, “but you bet, if Hankie or Py
mmy knew, there'd soon be an end of Mr. Tallboy.”

  “Directors are the last people to hear anything about the staff. Otherwise,” said Miss Meteyard, “they wouldn't be able to stand on their hind legs at the Staff Dinner and shoot off the speeches about co-operation, and all being one happy family.”

  “Family quarrels, family quarrels.” Mr. Ingleby waved his hand. “Little children, love one another and don't be such little nosey-parkers. What's Hecuba's bank-balance to you, or yours to Hecuba?”

  “Bank-balance? Oh, you mean Mr. Tallboy's. Well, I don't know anything, except what little Dean used to say.”

  “And how did Dean know so much about it?”

  “He was in Mr. Tallboy's office for a few weeks. Learning the work of other departments, they call it. I expect you'll be pushed round the office before long, Mr. Bredon. You'll have to mind your P's and Q's in the Printing. Mr. Thrale's a perfect tartar. Won't even allow you to slip out for coffee.”

  “I shall have to come to you for it.”

  “They won't let Mr. Bredon out of this department for a bit,” said Miss Meteyard. “They're all up in the air about his Whifflets stunt. Everybody always hoped Dean would do better somewhere else. He was like a favourite book–you liked him so well that you were always yearning to lend him to somebody else.”

  “What a savage woman you are,” observed Ingleby, coolly amused. “It's that kind of remark that gets the university woman a bad name.” He glanced at Willis, who said:

  “It isn't the savagery. It's the fact that there's no animosity behind it. You are all like that.”

  “You agree with Shaw–whenever you beat your child, be sure that you do it in anger.”

  “Shaw's Irish,” said Bredon. “Willis has put his finger on the real offensiveness of the educated Englishman–that he will not even trouble to be angry.”

  “That's right,” said Willis. “It's that awful, bleak, blank–” he waved his hands helplessly–“the façade.”

  “Meaning Bredon's face?” suggested Ingleby, mischievously.