Murder Must Advertise by Dorothy L. Sayers Read Free Book Online

sagacity or a reflection on my virtue?” [Pg 37]
    “How you came here is a good deal more interesting than how Victor Dean came here. They start new copy-writers without experience at four quid a week–about enough to pay for a pair of your shoes.”
    “Ah!” said Bredon, “how deceptive appearances can be! But it is evident, dear lady, that you do not do your shopping in the true West End. You belong to the section of society that pays for what it buys. I revere, but do not imitate you. Unhappily, there are certain commodities which cannot be obtained without cash. Railway fares, for example, or petrol. But I am glad you approve of my shoes. They are supplied by Rudge in the Arcade and, unlike Farley's Fashion Footwear, are actually of the kind that is to be seen in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot and wherever discriminating men congregate. They have a ladies' department, and if you will mention my name–”
    “I begin to see why you chose advertising as a source of supply.” The look of doubt left Miss Meteyard's angular face, and was replaced by a faintly derisive expression. “Well, I suppose I'd better get back to Tomboy Toffee. Thanks for your dope about googlies.”
    Bredon shook his head mournfully as the door closed after her. “Careless,” he muttered. “Nearly gave the game away. Oh, well, I suppose I'd better do some work and look as genuine as possible.”
    He pulled towards him a guard-book pasted up with pulls of Nutrax advertising and studied its pages thoughtfully. He was not left long in peace, however, for after a couple of minutes Ingleby slouched in, a foul pipe at full blast and his hands thrust deep into his trousers-pockets.
    “I say, is Brewer here?”
    “Don't know him. But,” added Bredon, waving his hand negligently, “you have my permission to search. The priest's hole and the concealed staircase are at your service.”
    Ingleby rooted in the bookcase in vain.
    “Somebody's bagged him. Anyway, how do you spell Chrononhotonthologos?” [Pg 38]
    “Oh! I can do that. And Aldiborontophoscophornio, too. Crossword? Torquemada?”
    “No, headline for Good Judges. Isn't it hot? And now I suppose we're going to have a week's dust and hammering.”
    “Why?”
    “The fiat has gone forth. The iron staircase is condemned.”
    “Who by?”
    “The Board.”
    “Oh, rot! they mustn't do that.”
    “What d'you mean?”
    “Admission of liability, isn't it?”
    “Time, too.”
    “Well, I suppose it is.”
    “You looked quite startled. I was beginning to think you had some sort of personal feeling in the matter.”
    “Good lord, no, why should I? Just a matter of principle. Except that the staircase does seem to have had its uses in eliminating the unfit. I gather that the late Victor Dean was not universally beloved.”
    “Oh, I don't know. I never saw much harm in him, except that he wasn't exactly pukka and hadn't quite imbibed the Pym spirit, as you may say. Of course the Meteyard woman loathed him.”
    “Why?”
    “Oh! she's a decent sort of female, but makes no allowances. My motto is, live and let live, but protect your own interests. How are you getting on with Nutrax?”
    “Haven't touched it yet. I've been trying to get out a name for Twentyman's shilling tea. As far as I can make Hankin out, it has no qualities except cheapness to recommend it, and is chiefly made of odds and ends of other teas. The name must suggest solid worth and respectability.”
    “Why not call it 'Domestic Blend'? Nothing could sound more reliable and obviously nothing could suggest so much dreary economy.”
    “Good idea. I'll put it up to him.” Bredon yawned. “I've [Pg 39] had too much lunch. I don't think anybody ought to have to work at half-past two in the afternoon. It's unnatural.”
    “Everything's unnatural in this job. Oh, my God! Here's somebody with something on a tray! Go away! go a- way !”
    “I'm sorry,” said Miss Parton, brightly, entering with six saucers filled with a grey