“All right. And if the door-bell rings, beware of the disguised gas-inspector and the plain-clothes cop without a warrant-card. I need scarcely warn you against the golden-haired girl in distress, the slit-eyed Chink or the distinguished grey-haired man wearing the ribbon of some foreign order.”
He brooded.
He took from his pocket-book the paper he had removed, weeks earlier, from Victor Dean's desk, and compared the dates with the calendar. They were all Tuesdays. After a little further cogitation, he added the date of the previous Tuesday week, the day when Miss Vavasour had called at the office and Tallboy had borrowed his pen to address a letter to Old Broad Street. To this date he appended the initial “T.” Then, his mind working slowly backwards, he remembered that he had come to Pym's on a Tuesday, and that Tallboy had come into the typists' room for a stamp. Miss Rossiter had read out the name of his addressee–what had the initial been? “K,” of course. He wrote this down also. Then, with rather more hesitation, he looked up the date of the Tuesday preceding Mr. Puncheon's historic adventure at the White Swan, and wrote “W?”
So far, so good. But from “K” to “T” there were nine letters–there had not been nine weeks. Nor should “W” have come between “K” and “T.” What was the rule governing the letter-sequence? He drew thoughtfully at his pipe and sank into a reverie that was almost a pipe-dream, till he was aroused by a very distinct sound of yells and conflict from the floor above. Presently the door opened and his sister appeared, rather flushed.
“I'm sorry, Peter. Did you hear the row? Your young namesake was being naughty. He heard Uncle Peter's voice and refused to stay in bed. He wants to come down and see you.”
“Very flattering,” said Wimsey.
“But very exhausting,” said Mary. “I do hate disciplining people. Why shouldn't he see his uncle? Why should uncle be busy with dull detective business when his nephew is so much more interesting?”
“Quite so,” said Wimsey. “I have often asked myself the same question. I gather that you hardened your heart.”
“I compromised. I said that if he was a good boy and went back to bed, Uncle Peter might come up to say good night to him.”
“And has he been a good boy?”
“Yes. In the end. That is to say, he is in bed. At least, he was when I came down.”
“Very well,” said Wimsey, putting down his paraphernalia. “Then I will be a good uncle.”
He mounted the stairs obediently and found Peterkin, aged three, technically in bed. That is to say, he was sitting bolt upright with the blankets cast off, roaring lustily.
“Hullo!” said Wimsey, shocked.
The roaring ceased.
“What is all this?” Wimsey traced the course of a fat, down-rolling drop with a reproachful finger. “Tears, idle tears? Great Scott!”
“Uncle Peter! I got a naeroplane.” Peterkin tugged violently at the sleeve of a suddenly unresponsive uncle. “Look at my naeroplane, Uncle! Naeroplane, naeroplane!”
“I beg your pardon, old chap,” said Wimsey, recollecting himself. “I wasn't thinking. It's a beautiful aeroplane. Does it fly?... Hi! you needn't get up and show me now. I'll take your word for it.”
“Mummie make it fly.”
It flew very competently, effecting a neat landing on the chest of drawers. Wimsey watched it with vague eyes.
“Uncle Peter!”
“Yes, son, it's splendid. Listen, would you like a speed-boat?”
“What's peed-boat?”
“A boat that will run in the water–chuff, chuff–like that.”
“Will it float in my barf?”
“Yes, of course. It'll sail right across the Round Pond.”
Peterkin considered.
“Could I have it in my barf wiv' me?”
“Certainly, if Mummie says so.”
“I'd like a boat in my barf.”
“You shall have one, old man.”
“When, now?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Weally tomowwow?”
“Yes, promise.”
“Say thank-you, Uncle Peter.”
“Fank-you, Uncle Peter. Will it be tomowwow soon?”
“Yes, if you lie down now and go to sleep.”
Peterkin, who was a practically-minded child, shut his eyes instantly, wriggled under the bed-clothes, and was promptly tucked in by a firm hand.
“Really, Peter, you shouldn't bribe him to go to sleep. How about my discipline?”
“Discipline be blowed,” said Peter, at the door.
“Uncle!”
“Good night!”
“Is it tomowwow yet?”
“Not yet. Go to sleep. You can't have tomorrow till you've been to sleep.”
“Why not?”
“It's one of the rules.”
“Oh! I'm asleep now, Uncle Peter.”
“Good. Stick to it.” Wimsey pulled his sister out after him and shut the nursery door.
“Polly, I'll never say kids are a nuisance again.”
“What's up? I can see you're simply bursting with something.”
“I've got it! Tears, idle Tears. That kid deserves fifty speed-boats as a reward for howling.”
“Oh, dear!”
“I couldn't tell him that, though, could I? Come downstairs, and I'll show you something.”
He dragged Mary at full speed into the sitting-room, took up his list of dates and jabbed at it with a jubilant pencil.
“See that date? That's the Tuesday before the Friday on which coke was being served out at the White Swan. On that Tuesday, the Nutrax headline was finally passed for the following Friday. And what,” asked Wimsey, rhetorically, “was that headline?”
“I haven't the faintest idea. I never read advertisements.”
“You should have been smothered at birth. The headline was, 'Why Blame the Woman?' You will note that it begins with a 'W.' White Swan also begins with a 'W.' Got that?”
“I think so. It seems fairly simple.”
“Just so. Now on this date, the Nutrax headline was 'Tears, idle Tears'–a quotation from the poets.”
“I follow you so far.”
“This is the date on which the headline was passed for press, you understand.”
“Yes.”
“Also a Tuesday.”
“I have grasped that.”
“On that same Tuesday, Mr. Tallboy, who is Group-manager for Nutrax, wrote a letter addressed to 'T. Smith, Esq.' You get that?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. That advertisement appeared on a Friday.”
“Are you trying to explain that these advertisements are all passed for press on a Tuesday and all appear on a Friday?”
“Exactly.”
“Then why not say so, instead of continually repeating yourself?”
“All right. But now perpend. Mr. Tallboy has a habit of sending letters on a Tuesday, addressed to a Mr. Smith–who, by the way, doesn't exist.”
“I know. You told us all about that. Mr. T. Smith is Mr. Cummings; only Mr. Cummings denies it.”
“He denies it, said the King. Leave out that part. The point is that Mr. Smith isn't always Mr. T. Smith. Sometimes he's other kinds of Mr. Smith. But on the day that the Nutrax headline began with a 'T,' Mr. Smith was Mr. T. Smith.”
“And what sort of Mr. Smith was he on the day that the Nutrax headline began with a 'W'?”
“Unfortunately I don't know. But I can guess that he was Mr. W. Smith. In any case, on this date here, which was the day I came to Pym's, the Nutrax headline was 'Kittle Cattle.' On that day, Mr. Smith–”
“Stop! I can guess this one. He was Mr. K. Smith.”
“He was. Kenneth, perhaps, or Kirkpatrick, or Killarney. Killarney Smith would be a lovely name.”
“And was coke distributed the next Friday from the King's Head?”
“I'm betting my boots it was. What do you think of that?”
“I think you want a little more evidence on that point. You
don't seem to have any instance where you can point to the initial, the headline and the pub. all together.”
“That's the weak point,” confessed Wimsey. “But look here. This Tuesday which I now write down is the date on which the great Nutrax row occurred, and the headline was altered at the last moment on Thursday night. On the Friday of that week, something went wrong with the supply of dope to Major Milligan. It never turned up.”
“Peter, I do believe you've got hold of something.”
“Do you, Polly? Well, so do I. But I wasn't sure if it would sound plausible to anybody but me. And, look here! I remember another day.” Wimsey began to laugh. “I forget which date it was, but the headline was simply a blank line and an exclamation mark, and Tallboy was horribly peeved about it. I wonder what they did that week. I should think they took the initial of the sub-head. What a joke!”
“But how is it worked, Peter?”
“Well, I don't know the details, but I imagine it's done this way. On the Tuesday, as soon as the headline is decided, Tallboy sends an envelope to Cummings' shop addressed to A. Smith, Esq., or B. Smith, Esq., according to the initial of the headline. Cummings looks at it, snorts at it and hands it back to the postman. Then he informs the head distributing agent, or agents. I don't know how. Possibly he advertises too, because the great point of this scheme, as I see it, is to have as little contact as possible between the various agents. The stuff is run across on Thursday, and the agent meets it and packets it up as Bicarbonate of Soda, or something equally harmless. Then he gets the London Telephone Directory and looks up the next pub. on the list whose name begins with the letter of which Cummings has advised him. As soon as the pub . opens on Friday morning, he is there. The retail agents, if we may call them so, have meanwhile consulted the Morning Star and the Telephone Directory. They hasten to the pub. and the packets are passed to them. The late Mr. Mountjoy must have been one of these gentry.”
“How does the wholesaler recognize the retailer?”
“There must be some code or other, and our battered friend Hector Puncheon must have given the code-word by accident. We must ask about that. He's a Morning Star man, and it may be something to do with the Morning Star. Mountjoy, by the way, evidently believed in being early on the job, because he seems to have made a practice of getting his copy of the paper the second it was off the machine, which accounts for his having been in full working order at 4.30 a.m. in Covent Garden, and hanging round Fleet Street again in the small hours of the following Friday. He must have given the code-signal, whatever it was; Puncheon may remember about it. After that, he would make his supply up into smaller packets (hence his supply of cigarette-papers) and proceed with the distribution according to his own taste and fancy. Of course, there are a lot of things we don't know yet. How the payments are made, for instance. Puncheon wasn't asked for money. Tallboy seems to have got his particular share in Currency Notes. But that's a detail. The ingenuity of the thing is that the stuff is never distributed twice from the same place. No wonder Charles had difficulties with it. By the way, I've sent him to the wrong place tonight, poor devil. How he must be cursing me!”
Mr. Parker cursed solidly enough on his return.
“It's entirely my fault,” said Wimsey, blithely. “I sent you to the Yelverton Arms. You ought to have been at the Anchor or the Antelope. But we'll pull it off next week–if we live so long.”
“If,” said Parker, seriously, “we live so long.”
CHAPTER XVIII
UNEXPECTED CONCLUSION OF A CRICKET MATCH
The party from Pym's filled a large charabanc; in addition, a number of people attended in their own Austins. It was a two-innings match, starting at 10 a.m., and Mr. Pym liked to see it well attended. A skeleton staff was left to hold the fort at the office during the Saturday morning, and it was expected that as many of them as possible would trundle down to Romford by the afternoon train. Mr. Death Bredon, escorted by Lady Mary and Chief-Inspector Parker, was one of the last to scramble into the charabanc.
The firm of Brotherhood believed in ideal conditions for their staff. It was their pet form of practical Christianity; in addition to which, it looked very well in their advertising literature and was a formidable weapon against the trade unions. Not, of course, that Brotherhood's had the slightest objection to trade unions as such. They had merely discovered that comfortable and well-fed people are constitutionally disinclined for united action of any sort–a fact which explains the asinine meekness of the income-tax payer.
In Brotherhood's régime of bread and circuses, organized games naturally played a large part. From the pavilion overlooking the spacious cricket-field floated superbly a crimson flag, embroidered with the Brotherhood trade-mark of two clasped hands. The same device adorned the crimson blazers and caps of Brotherhood's cricket eleven. By contrast, the eleven advertising cricketers were but a poor advertisement for themselves. Mr. Bredon was, indeed, a bright spot on the landscape, for his flannels were faultless, while his Balliol blazer, though ancient, carried with it an air of authenticity. Mr. Ingleby also was correct, though a trifle shabby. Mr. Hankin, beautifully laundered, had rather spoilt his general effect by a brown felt hat, while Mr. Tallboy, irreproachable in other respects, had an unfortunate tendency to come apart at the waist, for which his tailor and shirt-maker were, no doubt, jointly responsible. The dress of the remainder varied in combining white flannels with brown shoes, white shoes with the wrong sort of shirt, tweed coats with white linen hats, down to the disgraceful exhibition of Mr. Miller, who, disdaining to put himself out for a mere game, affronted the sight in grey flannel trousers, a striped shirt and braces.
The day began badly with Mr. Tallboy's having lost his lucky half-crown and with Mr. Copley's observing, offensively, that perhaps Mr. Tallboy would prefer to toss with a pound-note. This flustered Mr. Tallboy. Brotherhood's won the toss and elected to go in first. Mr. Tallboy, still flustered, arranged his field, forgetting in his agitation Mr. Hankin's preference for mid-on and placing him at cover-point. By the time this error was remedied, it was discovered that Mr. Haagedorn had omitted to bring his wicket-keeper's gloves, and a pair had to be borrowed from the pavilion. Mr. Tallboy then realized that he had put on his two fast bowlers together. He remedied this by recalling Mr. Wedderburn from the deep field to bowl his slow “spinners,” and dismissing Mr. Barrow in favour of Mr. Beeseley. This offended Mr. Barrow, who retired in dudgeon to the remotest part of the field and appeared to go to sleep.
“What's all the delay about?” demanded Mr. Copley.
Mr. Willis said he thought Mr. Tallboy must have got a little confused about the bowling order.
“Lack of organization,” said Mr. Copley. “He should make out a list and stick to it.”
The first Brotherhood innings passed off rather uneventfully. Mr. Miller missed two easy catches and Mr. Barrow, to show his resentment at the placing of the field, let a really quite ordinary ball go to the boundary instead of running after it. The eldest Mr. Brotherhood, a spry old gentleman of seventy-five, came doddering cheerfully round from the pavilion and sat down to make himself agreeable to Mr. Armstrong. He did this by indulging in reminiscences of all the big cricket matches he had ever seen in a long life, and as he had been devoted to the game since his boyhood, and had never missed a game of any importance, this took him some time and was excessively wearisome to Mr. Armstrong, who thought cricket a bore and only attended the staff match out of compliment to Mr. Pym's prejudices. Mr. Pym, whose enthusiasm was only equalled by his ignorance of the game, applauded bad strokes and good strokes indifferently.
Eventually the Brotherhoods were dismissed for 155, and the Pym Eleven gathered themselves together from the four corners of the field; Messrs. Garrett and Barrow, both rather ill-tempered, to buckle on their pads, and the remainder of the team to mingle with the spectators. Mr. Bredon, languid in movement but cheerful, laid himself down at Miss Meteyard's feet, while Mr. Tallboy was collared by the aged Mr. Brotherhood, thu
s releasing Mr. Armstrong, who promptly accepted the invitation of a younger Brotherhood to inspect a new piece of machinery.
The innings opened briskly. Mr. Barrow, who was rather a showy bat, though temperamental, took the bowling at the factory end of the pitch and cheered the spirits of his side by producing a couple of twos in the first over. Mr. Garrett, canny and cautious, stonewalled perseveringly through five balls of the following over and then cut the leather through the slips for a useful three. A single off the next ball brought the bowling back to Mr. Barrow, who, having started favourably, exhibited a happy superiority complex and settled down to make runs. Mr. Tallboy breathed a sigh of relief. Mr. Barrow, confident and successful, could always be relied upon for some good work; Mr. Barrow, put off his stroke by a narrowly missed catch, or the sun in his eyes, or a figure crossing the screens, was apt to become defeatist and unreliable. The score mounted blithely to thirty. At this point, Brotherhood's captain, seeing that the batsmen had taken the measure of the bowling, took off the man at the factory end and substituted a short, pugnacious-looking person with a scowl, at sight of whom Mr. Tallboy quaked again.
“They're putting on Simmonds very early,” he said. “I only hope nobody gets hurt.”
“Is this their demon bowler?” inquired Bredon, seeing the wicket-keeper hurriedly retire to a respectful distance from the wicket.
Tallboy nodded. The ferocious Simmonds wetted his fingers greedily, pulled his cap fiercely over his eyes, set his teeth in a snarl of hatred, charged like a bull and released the ball with the velocity of a 9-inch shell in Mr. Barrow's direction.
Like most fast bowlers, Simmonds was a little erratic in the matter of length. His first missile pitched short, rocketed up like a pheasant, whizzed past Mr. Barrow's ear and was adroitly fielded by long-stop, a man with a phlegmatic countenance and hands of leather. The next two went wide. The fourth was pitched straight and with a good length. Mr. Barrow tackled it courageously. The impact affected him like an electric shock; he blinked and shook his fingers, as though not quite sure whether his bones were still intact. The fifth was more manageable; he smote it good and hard and ran.