Mr. Tallboy smiled wanly.
“It's a pity we can't cure ourselves with our own nostrums, isn't it?”
Mr. Bredon surveyed him critically.
“What you need,” he said, “is a good dinner and a bottle of fizz.”
CHAPTER XIV
HOPEFUL CONSPIRACY OF TWO BLACK SHEEP
The gentleman in the harlequin costume removed his mask with quiet deliberation, and laid it on the table.
“Since,” he said, “my virtuous cousin Wimsey has let the cat out of the bag, I may as well take this off. I am afraid”–he turned to Dian–“my appearance will disappoint you. Except that I am handsomer and less rabbity-looking, the woman who has seen Wimsey has seen me. It is a heavy handicap to carry, but I can't help it. The resemblance, I am happy to say, is only skin-deep.”
“It's almost incredible,” said Major Milligan. He bent forward to examine the other's face more closely, but Mr. Bredon extended a languid arm and, without apparently using any force at all, pushed him back into his seat.
“You needn't come too close,” he observed, insolently. “Even a face like Wimsey's is better than yours. Yours is spotty. You eat and drink too much.”
Major Milligan, who had, indeed, been distressed that morning by the discovery of a few small pimples on his forehead, but had hoped they were not noticeable, grunted angrily. Dian laughed.
“I take it,” pursued Mr. Bredon, “that you want to get something out of me. People of your sort always do. What is it?”
“I've no objection to being frank with you,” replied Major Milligan.
“How nice it is to hear anybody say that. It always prepares one for a lie to follow. Fore-warned is fore-armed, isn't it?”
“If you choose to think so. But I think you'll find it to your advantage to listen.”
“Financial advantage?”
“What other kind is there?”
“What indeed? I begin to like your face a trifle better.”
“Oh, do you? Perhaps you may like it well enough to answer a few questions?”
“Possibly.”
“How do you come to know Pamela Dean?”
“Pamela? A charming girl, isn't she? I obtained an introduction to her through what the great public–seduced by the unfortunate example of that incomparable vulgarisateur, Charles Dickens–abominably calls a mutual friend. I admit that my object in obtaining the introduction was a purely business one; I can only say that I wish all business acquaintances were so agreeable.”
“What was the business?”
“The business, my dear fellow, was concerned with another mutual friend of us all–with the late Victor Dean, who died, deeply regretted, upon a staircase. A remarkable young man, was he not?”
“In what way?” asked Milligan, quickly.
“Don't you know? I thought you did. Otherwise, why am I here?”
“You two idiots make me tired,” broke in Dian. “Where's the sense of going round and round each other like this? Your pompous cousin told us all about you, Mr. Bredon–I suppose you've got a Christian name, by the way?”
“I have. It's spelt Death. Pronounce it any way you like. Most of the people who are plagued with it make it rhyme with teeth, but personally I think it sounds more picturesque when rhymed with breath. What did my amiable cousin say about me?”
“He said you were a dope-runner.”
“Where my cousin Wimsey gets his information from, I am damned if I know. Sometimes he is correct.”
“And you know perfectly well that one can get what one wants at Tod's place. So why not come to the point?”
“As you say, why not? Is that the particular facet of my brilliant personality that interests you, Milligan?”
“Is that the particular facet of Victor Dean's personality that interests you?”
“One point to me,” said Mr. Bredon. “Till this moment, I was not sure that it was a facet of his personality. Now I do. Dear me! How interesting it all is, to be sure.”
“If you can find out exactly how Victor Dean was involved in that show,” said Mr. Milligan, “it might be worth something to you and to me.”
“Say on.”
Major Milligan reflected a little and seemed to make up his mind to lay his cards on the table.
“Did you learn from Pamela Dean what her brother's job was?”
“Yes, of course. He wrote advertising copy at a place called Pym's. There's no secret about that.”
“That's just what there is. And if that infernal young fool hadn't gone and got killed, we might have found out what it was and done ourselves a lot of good. As it is–”
“But look here, Tod,” said Dian. “I thought it was the other way round. I thought you were afraid of his finding out too much.”
“That's true,” said Milligan, scowling. “What would be the use of it if he found out first?”
“I don't follow all this,” said Bredon. “Wasn't it his secret? Why not stop talking like a sensation novel and give us the dope straight?”
“Because I don't believe you know even as much as I do about the fellow.”
“I don't. I never met him in my life. But I know a good deal about Pym's Publicity, Ltd.”
“How?”
“I work there.”
“What?”
“I work there.”
“Since when?”
“Since Dean's death.”
“Because of Dean's death, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“How did that happen?”
“I received information, as my dear cousin Wimsey's police pals would say, that Dean was on to something fishy about Pym's. So, since most fish have gold in their mouths like St. Peter's, I thought it wouldn't do any harm to try a cast or two over that particular pool.”
“And what did you find?”
“My dear Milligan, you would make a cat laugh. I don't give away information. I dispose of it–advantageously.”
“So do I.”
“As you like. You invited me here tonight. I wasn't looking for you. But there's one thing I don't mind telling you, because I've already told Miss de Momerie, and that is, that Victor Dean was bumped off deliberately to prevent him from talking. So far, the only person I can discover who wanted him out of the way was yourself. The police might be interested to know that fact.”
“The police?”
“Oh! I quite agree. I don't like the police. They pay very badly and ask a hell of a lot of questions. But it might be useful, for once, to get on the right side of them.”
“That's all punk,” said Milligan. “You're barking up the wrong tree. I didn't kill the fellow. I didn't want him killed.”
“Prove that,” said the other, coolly.
He watched Milligan's impassive face, and Milligan watched his.
“Give it up,” suggested Bredon, after a few minutes of this mutual scrutiny. “I can play poker just as well as you. But this time I fancy I hold a straight flush.”
“Well, what do you want to know?”
“I want to know what you think Dean was in a position to find out.”
“I can tell you that. He was trying to find out–”
“Had found out.”
“How do you know?”
“If you want instruction in detective methods, you must pay extra. I say he had found out.”
“Well, then, he had found out who was running the show from Pym's end.”
“The dope-show?”
“Yes. And he may have found out, too, the way it's worked.”
“Is worked?”
“Yes.”
“It's still being worked the same way, then?”
“So far as I know.”
“So far as you know? You don't seem to know much.”
“Well, how much do you know about the way your own gang run the show?”
“Nothing whatever. Instructions are issued–”
“By the way, how did you get into it?”
“Sorry. Can't
tell you that. Not even if you pay extra.”
“How do I know I can trust you, then?”
Bredon laughed.
“Perhaps you'd like me to supply you,” he said. “If you're not satisfied with your distribution, you can inscribe yourself upon the roll of my customers. Deliveries Sunday and Thursday. Meanwhile–and as a sample–you may be interested in the collar of my cloak. It is handsome, is it not? A rich velvet. A little ostentatious, perhaps you think–a little over-much buckram? Possibly you are right. But very well made. The opening is almost invisible. We delicately insert the forefinger and thumb, pull the tab gently, and produce this dainty bag of oiled silk–fine as an onion-skin, but remarkably tough. Within it, you will discover sufficient inspiration for quite a number of enthusiasts. A magician's cloak. Such stuff as dreams are made on.”
Milligan examined the contents of the little bag in silence. They were, in fact, a portion of the famous packet obtained by Mr. Hector Puncheon at the White Swan.
“All right, so far. Where do you get it from?”
“I got it in Covent Garden.”
“Not at Pym's?”
“No.”
Milligan looked disappointed.
“What day did you get it?”
“Friday morning. Like yourself, I get it on a Friday.”
“Look here,” said Milligan, “you and I have got to be together on this. Dian, my child, run away and play. I'm going to talk business with your friend.”
“That's a nice way to treat me in my own house,” grumbled Miss de Momerie, but, seeing that Milligan meant what he said, she gathered up herself and her wraps and retreated into the bedroom. Milligan leaned forwards over the table.
“I'm going to tell you what I know,” he said. “If you double-cross me, it's at your own risk. I don't want any funny business with that damned cousin of yours.”
Mr. Bredon expressed his opinion of Lord Peter Wimsey in a few well-chosen words.
“All right,” said Milligan. “You have been warned. Now, see here. If we can find out who works this thing and how it's worked, we can get in at the top. It pays fairly well as it is, in one way, but it's a devil of a risk and a lot of trouble, and it's expensive. Look at that place I have to keep up. It's the man in the centre of the ring that makes the big profits. I know, and you know, what we pay for the stuff, and then there's the bore of handing it out to all these fools and collecting the cash. Now, here's what I know. The whole stunt is worked from that advertising place of yours–Pym's. I found that out from a man who's dead now. I won't tell you how I fell in with him–it's a long story. But I'll tell you what he told me. I was dining with him one night at the Carlton, and he was a bit lit-up. A chap came in with a party, and this man said to me: 'Know who that is?'–'Not from Adam,' I said. He said: 'Well, it's old Pym, the publicity agent.' And then he laughed and said: 'If he only knew what his precious agency was doing, he'd have a fit.' 'How's that?' I said. 'Why,' said he, 'didn't you know? All this dope-traffic is worked from there.' Naturally, I started to ask him how he knew and all about it, but he suddenly got an attack of caution and started to be mysterious, and I couldn't get another word out of him.”
“I know that brand of drunkenness,” said Bredon. “Do you think he really knew what he was talking about?”
“Yes, I think so. I saw him again next day, but he was sober then, and got the shock of his life when I told him what he'd said. But he admitted it was true, and implored me to keep quiet about it. That was all I could get out of him, and the same evening he was run over by a lorry.”
“Was he? How remarkably well-timed.”
“I thought so myself,” said Milligan. “It made me rather nervous.”
“But how does Victor Dean come into it?”
“There,” admitted Milligan, “I dropped a bad brick. Dian brought him along one evening–”
“Just a minute. When did this conversation with your indiscreet friend take place?”
“Nearly a year ago. Naturally, I'd been trying to follow the matter up, and when Dian introduced Dean and said he worked at Pym's, I thought he must be the man. Apparently he wasn't. But I'm afraid he got an idea about the thing from me. After a bit, I found out he was trying to horn in on my show, and I told Dian to shut down on him.”
“In fact,” said Mr. Bredon, “you tried to pump him, just as you are trying to pump me, and you found out that he was pumping you instead.”
“Something like that,” confessed Milligan.
“And shortly after that he fell down a staircase.”
“Yes; but I didn't push him down it. You needn't think that. I didn't want him snuffed out. I only wanted him kept out of the way. Dian's too much of a chatterer, especially when she's ginned up. The trouble is, you're never safe with these people. You'd think common sense would tell them to keep quiet in their own interests, but they've got no more sense than a cageful of monkeys.”
“Well,” said Bredon, “if we fill them up with stuff that notoriously saps their self-control, I suppose we can't grumble at the consequences.”
“I suppose not, but it's a damned nuisance sometimes. They're as cunning as weasels in one way, and sheer idiots in another. Spiteful, too.”
“Yes. Dean never became an addict, did he?”
“No. If he had, we'd have had more control over him; but unfortunately, his head was screwed on the right way. All the same, he knew pretty well that he'd have been well paid for any information.”
“Very likely. The trouble is that he was taking money from the other side as well–at least, I think he was.”
“Don't you try that game,” said Milligan.
“I've no wish to fall down staircases. What you want, I take it, is the way the trick's worked and the name of the man who works it. I dare say I can find that out for you. How about terms?”
“My idea is, that we use the information to get into the inside ring ourselves, and each strike our own bargain.”
“Just so. Alternatively, I suppose, we put the screw on the gentleman at Pym's, when we've got him, and divide the spoil. In which case, as I'm doing most of the work and taking the biggest risk, I suggest I take 75 per cent.”
“Not on your life. Fifty-fifty. I shall conduct the negotiations.”
“Will you? That's pretty good. Why should I bring you into it at all? You can't negotiate till I tell you whom to negotiate with. You don't think I was born yesterday.”
“No. But knowing what I do, I could get you shifted from Pym's tomorrow, couldn't I? If Pym knew who you were, do you suppose he'd keep you on his virtuous premises for another day?”
“Well, look here. We conduct the negotiations together, and I take 60 per cent.”
Milligan shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, leave it at that for the moment. I'm hoping it won't pan out that way. What we want to aim at is getting the reins into our own hands.”
“As you say. When we've done that, it will be time enough to decide which of us is going to crack the whip.”
When he had gone, Tod Milligan went into the bedroom, and found Dian kneeling on the window-seat, staring down into the street.
“Have you fixed things up with him?”
“Yes. He's a twister, but I'll be able to make him see that it'll pay him to be straight with me.”
“You had much better leave him alone.”
“You're talking rubbish,” said Milligan, using a coarser term.
Dian turned round and faced him.
“I've warned you,” she said. “Not that I care a damn what happens to you. You're getting on my nerves, Tod. It's going to be great fun to see you come to smash. But you'd better keep off that man.”
“Thinking of selling me, are you?”
“I shan't need to.”
“You'd better not. Lost your head over this theatrical gentleman in tights, haven't you?”
“Why do you have to be so vulgar?” she asked, contemptuously.
“What's the matter with you, t
hen?”
“I'm frightened, that's all. Unlike me, isn't it?”
“Frightened of that advertising crook?”
“Really, Tod, you're a fool sometimes. You can't see a thing when it's under your nose. It's written too big for you to see, I suppose.”
“You're drunk,” said Milligan. “Just because you haven't quite managed to get off with this joker of yours–”
“Shut up,” said Dian. “Get off with him? I'd as soon get off with the public hangman.”
“I dare say you would. Any new sensation would do for you. What do you want? A row? Because, if so, I'm afraid I can't be bothered to oblige you.”
There is a dreary convention which decrees that the final collapse of a sordid liaison shall be preceded by a series of no less sordid squabbles. But on this occasion, Miss de Momerie seemed ready to dispense with convention.
“No. I'm through with you, that's all. I'm cold. I'm going to bed.... Tod, did you kill Victor Dean?”
“I did not.”
Major Milligan dreamed that night that Death Bredon, in his harlequin dress, was hanging him for the murder of Lord Peter Wimsey.
CHAPTER XV
SUDDEN DECEASE OF A MAN IN DRESS CLOTHES
Chief-Inspector Parker continued to be disturbed in his mind. There had been another fiasco in Essex. A private motor-boat, suspected of being concerned in the drug-traffic, had been seized and searched without result–except, of course, the undesired result of giving the alarm to the parties concerned, if they were concerned. Further, a fast car, which had attracted attention by its frequent midnight excursions from the coast to the capital, had been laboriously tracked to its destination, and proved to belong to a distinguished member of the diplomatic corps, engaged on extremely incognito visits to a lady established in a popular seaside resort. Mr. Parker, still incapacitated from personal attendance upon midnight expeditions, was left with the gloomy satisfaction of saying that everything always went wrong when he wasn't there himself. He was also unreasonably annoyed with Wimsey, as the original cause of his incapacity.