“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?”
“No, I didn't. Everything seems to happen while I'm away. Whom is he marrying?”
“Pamela Dean.”
“Oh, good work. Yes, of course. How much for Willis?”
“Well, most people are giving about two bob, if you can spare it.”
“I think I can manage two bob. What are we giving him, by the way?”
“Well,” said Miss Rossiter, “there's been rather a fuss about that. The Department was awfully keen on a clock, but Mrs. Johnson and Mr. Barrow went off on their own and bought an electric chafing-dish–such a silly thing, because I'm sure they'll never use it. And in any case, Mr. Willis did belong to the Copy Department and we ought to have had a voice in it, don't you think? So there are going to be two presents–the staff as a whole is giving the chafing-dish and the Department is giving its own present. I'm afraid we shan't be able to manage a chiming clock, though, because you can't very well ask people for more than two bob or so, though Hankie and Armstrong have been very decent and stumped up half a quid each.”
“I'd better make it half a quid too.”
“Oh, no,” said Miss Rossiter. “You're a lamb, but it isn't fair.”
“It's quite fair,” said Wimsey. “There are excellent reasons why I should contribute largely to a wedding present for Mr. Willis.”
“Are there? I thought you and he didn't get on very well. I expect I'm being tactless, as usual. If you're quite sure–oh, I forgot, I am a fool. Of course, if you're Lord Peter Wimsey, you're simply frightfully rich, aren't you?”
“Fair to middling,” confessed Wimsey. “It might run to a cake for tea.”
He had a word with Miss Meteyard.
“I'm sorry, you know,” he said.
She shrugged her angular shoulders.
“It's not your fault. Things have to happen. You're one of the sort that pushes round and makes them happen. I prefer to leave them alone. You've got to have both kinds.”
“Perhaps your way is wiser and more charitable.”
“It isn't. I shirk responsibility, that's all. I just let things rip. I don't make it my business to interfere. But I don't blame the people who do interfere. In a way, I rather admire them. They do make something, even if it's only mischief. My sort make nothing. We exploit other people's folly, take the cash and sneer at the folly. It's not admirable. Never mind. You'd better run along now. I've got to get out a new series for Sopo. 'Sopo Day is Cinema Day.' 'Leave the Laundry to ruin itself while you addle your brains at the Talkies.' Muck! Dope! And they pay me £10 a week for that sort of thing. And yet, if we didn't do it, what would happen to the trade of this country? You've got to advertise.”
Mr. Hankin tripped along the passage and encountered them.
“So you're leaving us, Mr. Bredon? In fact, I understand that we've been nursing a cuckoo in the nest.”
“Not so bad as that, sir. I'm leaving a few of the original nestlings behind me.”
Miss Meteyard evaporated quietly, and Mr. Hankin continued:
“A very sad business. Mr. Pym is very grateful for the discretion you have shown. I hope you will lunch with me some day. Yes, Mr. Smayle?”
“Excuse me, sir–about this window-bill for Green Pastures?”
Wimsey made his way out, exchanging mechanical hand-grips and farewells. At the foot of the lift, in the lower vestibule, he found Ginger, with his arms full of parcels.
“Well, Ginger,” said Wimsey, “I'm off.”
“Oh, sir!”
“By the way, I've still got your catapult.”
“I'd like you to keep it, please, sir. You see, sir–” Ginger struggled with a variety of emotions–“if I was ter keep that there catapult, I might get telling some of the boys about it, not meaning to, like. Wot I meantersay, it's 'istorical, like, ain't it, sir?”
“So it is.” Wimsey sympathized with the temptation. It is not every fellow whose catapult has been borrowed for the purpose of committing a murder. “Well, I'll keep it, and thank you very much for all your help. Look here, I'll tell you what. I'll give you something in exchange. Which would you rather have–a model aeroplane, or the pair of scissors with which the steward of the Nancy Belle stabbed the captain and the purser?”
“Ooh, sir! 'As the scissors got the marks on 'em, sir?”
“Yes, Ginger. Genuine, original bloodstains.”
“Then, please, sir, I'd like the scissors.”
“You shall have them.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“And you'll never say one word to anybody about you know what?”
“Not if you was to roast me alive, sir.”
“Right you are; good-bye, Ginger.”
“Good-bye, sir.”
Wimsey stepped out into Southampton Row. Facing him was a long line of hoardings. Enormous in its midst stretched a kaleidoscopic poster:
NUTRAX FOR NERVES
In the adjoining space, a workman with a broom and a bucket of paste was unfolding a still more vast and emphatic display in blue and yellow:
ARE YOU A WHIFFLER?
IF NOT, WHY NOT?
A 'bus passed, bearing a long ribbon display upon its side:
WHIFFLE YOUR WAY ROUND BRITAIN!
The great campaign had begun. He contemplated his work with a kind of amazement. With a few idle words on a sheet of paper he had touched the lives of millions. Two men, passing, stopped to stare at the hoarding.
“What's this Whiffling business, Alf?”
“I dunno. Some advertising stunt or other. Cigarettes, ain't it?”
“Oh, Whifflets?”
“I suppose so.”
“Wonderful how they think of it all. What's it about, anyway?”
“Gawd knows. Here, let's get a packet and see.”
“All right. I don't mind.”
They passed on.
Tell England. Tell the world. Eat more Oats. Take Care of your Complexion. No More War. Shine your Shoes with Shino. Ask your Grocer. Children Love Laxamalt. Prepare to meet thy God. Bung's Beer is Better. Try Dogsbody's Sausages. Whoosh the Dust Away. Give them Crunchlets. Snagsbury's Soups are Best for the Troops. Morning Star, best Paper by Far. Vote for Punkin and Protect your Profits. Stop that Sneeze with Snuffo. Flush your Kidneys with Fizzlets. Flush your Drains with Sanfect. Wear Wool-fleece next the Skin. Popp's Pills Pep you Up. Whiffle your Way to Fortune....
Advertise, or go under.
Dorothy L. Sayers, Murder Must Advertise
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