Murder Must Advertise (11 page)

“I should say it fell from his pocket when he fell.”

“And the chip?”

“If it wasn't there before–”

“It wasn't; his sister says she's sure it wasn't.”

“Then it got chipped in falling.”

“You think that?”

“I do.”

“I think you were meant to think that. To continue: some few days earlier, Mrs. Crump found a smooth pebble of much the same size as the scarab lying in the same passage at the foot of the same iron staircase.”

“Did she?” said Parker. He uncurled himself from the window-seat and made for the decanters. “What does she say about it?”

“Says that you'd scarcely believe the queer odds and ends she finds when she's cleaning out the office. Attributes the stone to Mr. Atkins, he having taken his seaside holiday early on account of ill-health.”

“Well,” said Parker, releasing the lever of the soda-siphon, “and why not?”

“Why not, indeed? This other pebble, which I here produce,
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was found by me on the roof of the lavatory. I had to shin down a pipe to get it, and ruined a pair of flannel bags.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Okay, captain. That's where I found it. I also found a place where the paint had been chipped off the skylight.”

“What skylight?”

“The skylight that is directly over the iron staircase. It's one of those pointed things, like a young greenhouse, and it has windows that open all round–you know the kind I mean–which are kept open in hot weather. It was hot weather when young Dean departed this life.”

“The idea being that somebody heaved a stone at him through the skylight?”

“You said it, chief. Or, to be exact, not
a
stone, but
the
stone. Meaning the scarab.”

“And how about the other stones?”

“Practice shots. I've ascertained that the office is always practically empty during the lunch-hour. Nobody much ever goes on the roof, except the office-boys for their P.J.'s at 8.30 ack emma.”

“People who live in glass skylights shouldn't throw stones. Do you mean to suggest that by chucking a small stone like this at a fellow, you're going to crack his skull open and break his neck for him?”

“Not if you just throw it, of course. But how about a sling or a catapult?”

“Oh, in that case, you've only got to ask the people in the neighbouring offices if they've seen anybody enjoying a spot of David and Goliath exercise on Pym's roof, and you've got him.”

“It's not as simple as that. The roof's quite a good bit higher than the roofs of the surrounding buildings, and it has a solid stone parapet all round about three feet high–to give an air of still greater magnificence, I suppose. To sling a stone through on to the iron staircase you'd have to kneel down in a special position between that skylight and the next, and you can't be seen from anywhere–unless
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somebody happened to be
on
the staircase looking up–which nobody obviously was, except Victor Dean, poor lad. It's safe as houses.”

“Very well, then. Find out if any member of the staff has frequently stayed in at lunch-time.”

Wimsey shook his head.

“No bon. The staff clock in every morning, but there are no special tabs kept on them at 1 o'clock. The reception clerk goes out to his lunch, and one of the elder boys takes his place at the desk, just in case any message or parcel comes in, but he's not there necessarily every moment of the time. Then there's the lad who hops round with Jeyes' Fluid in a squirt, but he doesn't go on to the roof. There's nothing to prevent anybody from going up, say at half-past twelve, and staying there till he's done his bit of work and then simply walking out down the staircase. The lift-man, or his locum tenens, would be on duty, but you've only to keep on the blind side of the lift as you pass and he couldn't possibly see you. Besides, the lift might quite well have gone down to the basement. All the bloke would have to do would just be to bide his time and walk out. There's nothing in it. Similarly, on the day of the death. He goes through towards the lavatory, which is reached from the stairs. When the coast is clear, he ascends to the roof. He lurks there, till he sees his victim start down the iron staircase, which everybody does, fifty times a day. He whangs off his bolt and departs. Everybody is picking up the body and exclaiming over it, when in walks our friend, innocently, from the lav. It's as simple as pie.”

“Wouldn't it be noticed, if he was out of his own room all that time?”

“My dear old man, if you knew Pym's! Everybody is always out of his room. If he isn't chatting with the copy-department, or fooling round the typists, he's in the studio, clamouring for a lay-out, or in the printing, complaining about a folder, or in the press-department, inquiring about an appropriation, or in the vouchers, demanding back numbers of something, or if he isn't in any of those places, he's
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somewhere else–slipping out for surreptitious coffee or haircuts. The word alibi has no meaning in a place like Pym's.”

“You're going to have a lovely time with it all, I can see that,” said Parker. “But what sort of irregularity could possibly be going on in a place like that, which would lead to murder?”

“Now we're coming to it. Young Dean used to tag round with the de Momerie crowd–”

Parker whistled.

“Sinning above his station in life?”

“Very much so. But you know Dian de Momerie. She gets more kick out of corrupting the bourgeois–she enjoys the wrestle with their little consciences. She's a bad lot, that girl. I took her home last night, so I ought to know.”

“Peter!” said Lady Mary. “Quite apart from your morals, which alarm me, how did you get into that gang? I should have thought they'd as soon have taken up with Charles, here, or the Chief Commissioner.”

“Oh, I went incog. A comedy of masks. And you needn't worry about my morals. The young woman became incapably drunk on the way home, so I pushed her inside her dinky little maisonette in Garlic Mews and tucked her up on a divan in the sitting-room to astonish her maid in the morning. Though she's probably past being astonished. But, the point is that I found out a good bit about Victor Dean.”

“Just a moment,” interrupted Parker, “did he dope?”

“Apparently not, though I'll swear it wasn't Dian's fault if he didn't. According to his sister, he was too strong-minded. Possibly he tried it once and felt so rotten that he didn't try it again
....
Yes–I know what you're thinking. If he was dopey, he might have fallen downstairs on his own account. But I don't think that'll work. These things have a way of coming out at post-mortems. The question was raised
...
no; it wasn't that.”

“Did Dian have any opinion on the subject?”

“She said he wasn't a sport. All the same, she seems to have kept him in tow from about the end of November to the end of April–nearly six months, and that's a long time
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for Dian. I wonder what the attraction was. I suppose the whelp must have had something engaging about him.”

“Is that the sister's story?”

“Yes; but she says that Victor 'had great ambitions.' I don't quite know what she thinks he meant by that.”

“I suppose she realized that Dian was his mistress. Or wasn't she?”

“Must have been. But I rather gather his sister thought he was contemplating matrimony.”

Parker laughed.

“After all,” said Lady Mary, “he probably didn't tell his sister everything.”

“Damned little, I should imagine. She was quite honestly upset by last night's show. Apparently the party Dean took her to wasn't quite so hot. Why did he take her? That's another problem. He said he wanted her to meet Dian, and no doubt the kid imagined she was being introduced to a future-in-law. But Dean–you'd think he'd want to keep his sister out of it. He couldn't, surely, really have wanted to corrupt her, as Willis said.”

“Who is Willis?”

“Willis is a young man who foams at the mouth if you mention Victor Dean, who was once Victor Dean's dearest friend, who is in love with Victor Dean's sister, is furiously jealous of me, thinks I'm tarred with the same brush as Victor Dean, and dogs my footsteps with the incompetent zeal of fifty Watsons. He writes copy about face-cream and corsets, is the son of a provincial draper, was educated at a grammar school and wears, I deeply regret to say, a double-breasted waistcoat. That is the most sinister thing about him–except that he admits to having been in the lavatory when Victor Dean fell downstairs, and the lavatory, as I said before, is the next step to the roof.”

“Who else was in the lavatory?”

“I haven't asked him yet. How can I? It's horribly hampering to one's detective work when one isn't supposed to be detecting, because one daren't ask any questions, much. But if whoever it was knew I was detecting, then whatsoever
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questions I asked, I shouldn't get any answers. It wouldn't matter if only I had the foggiest notion whom or what I was detecting, but looking among about a hundred people for the perpetrator of an unidentified crime is rather difficult.”

“I thought you were looking for a murderer.”

“So I am–but I don't think I shall ever get the murderer till I know why the murder was done. Besides, what Pym engaged me to do was to look for the irregularity in the office. Of course, murder is an irregularity, but it's not the one I'm commissioned to hunt for. And the only person I can fix a motive for the murder on to is Willis–and it's not the sort of motive I'm looking for.”

“What was Willis's row with Dean?”

“Damn silliest thing in the world. Willis used to go home with Dean at week-ends. Dean lived in a flat with his sister, by the way–no parents or anything. Willis fell in love with sister. Sister wasn't sure about him. Dean took sister to one of Dian's hot parties. Willis found out. Willis, being a boob, talked to sister like a Dutch uncle. Sister called Willis a disgusting, stuck-up, idiotic, officious prig. Willis rebuked Dean. Dean told Willis to go to hell. Loud row. Sister joined in. Dean family united in telling Willis to go and bury himself. Willis told Dean that if he (Dean) persisted in corrupting his (Dean's) sister he (Willis) would shoot him like a dog. His very words, or so I am told.”

“Willis,” said Mary, “appears to think in clichés.”

“Of course he does–that's why he writes such good corset-copy. Anyhow, there it was. Dean and Willis at daggers drawn for three months. Then Dean fell downstairs. Now Willis has started on me. I told off Pamela Dean to take him home last night, but I don't know what came of it. I've explained to her that those hot-stuff parties are genuinely dangerous, and that Willis has some method in his madness, though a prize juggins as regards tact and knowledge of the sex. It was frightfully comic to see old Willis sneaking in after us in a sort of Ku Klux Klan outfit–incredibly stealthy, and wearing the same shoes he wears in
[Pg 82]
the office and a seal-ring on his little finger that one could identify from here to the Monument.”

“Poor lad! I suppose it wasn't Willis who tipped friend Dean down the staircase?”

“I don't think so, Polly–but you never know. He's such a melodramatic ass. He might consider it a splendid sin. But I don't think he'd have had the brains to work out the details. And if he had done it, I fancy he'd have gone straight round to the police-station, smitten the double-breasted waistcoat a resounding blow and proclaimed 'I did it, in the cause of purity.' But against that, there's the undoubted fact that Dean's connection with Dian and Co. definitely came to an end in April–so why should he wait till the end of May to strike the blow? The row with Dean took place in March.”

“Possibly, Peter, the sister has been leading you up the garden. The connection may not have stopped when she said it did. She may have kept it up on her own. She may even be a drug-taker or something herself. You never know.”

“No; but generally one can make a shrewd guess. No; I don't think there's anything like that wrong with Pamela Dean. I'll swear her disgust last night was genuine. It was pretty foul, I must say. By the way, Charles, where the devil do these people get their stuff from? There was enough dope floating about that house to poison a city.”

“If I knew that,” said Mr. Parker, sourly, “I should be on velvet. All I can tell you is, that it's coming in by the boat-load from somewhere or other, and is being distributed broadcast from somewhere or other. The question is, where? Of course, we could lay hands tomorrow on half a hundred of the small distributors, but where would be the good of that? They don't know themselves where it comes from, or who handles it. They all tell the same tale. It's handed to them in the street by men they've never seen before and couldn't identify again. Or it's put in their pockets in omnibuses. It isn't always that they won't tell; they honestly don't know. And if you did catch the man immediately above them in the scale, he would know nothing either. It's
[Pg 83]
heart-breaking. Somebody must be making millions out of it.”

“Yes. Well, to go back to Victor Dean. Here's another problem. He was pulling down six pounds a week at Pym's. How does one manage to run with the de Momerie crowd on £300 a year? Even if he wasn't much of a sport, it couldn't possibly be done for nothing.”

“Probably he lived on Dian.”

“Possibly he did, the little tick. On the other hand, I've got an idea. Suppose he really did think he had a chance of marrying into the aristocracy–or what he imagines to be the aristocracy. After all, Dian is a de Momerie, though her people have shown her the door, and you can't blame them. Put it that he was spending far more than he could afford in trying to keep up the running. Put it that it took longer than he thought and that he had got heavily dipped. And then see what that half-finished letter to Pym looks like in the light of that theory.”

“Well,” began Parker.

“Oh, do step on the gas!” broke in Mary. “How you two darlings do love going round and round a subject, don't you? Blackmail, of course. It's perfectly obvious. I've seen it coming for the last hour. This Dean creature is looking round for a spot of extra income and he discovers somebody at Pym's doing something he shouldn't–the head-cashier cooking the accounts, or the office-boy pilfering from the petty cash, or something. So he says, 'If you don't square me, I'll tell Pym,' and starts to write a letter. Probably, you know, he never meant that letter to get to Mr. Pym, at all; it was just a threat. The other man stops him for the moment by paying up something on account. Then he thinks: 'This is hopeless, I'd better slug the little beast.' So he slugs him. And there you are.”