Read Murder Must Advertise for Free Online Page B

place.
    And it talked. Bredon had never in his life encountered a set of people with such active tongues and so much apparent leisure for gossip. It was a miracle that any work [Pg 35] ever got done, though somehow it did. He was reminded of his Oxford days, when essays mysteriously wrote themselves in the intervals of club-meetings and outdoor sports, and when most of the people who took firsts boasted of never having worked more than three hours of any day. The atmosphere suited him well enough. He was a bonhomous soul, with the insatiable curiosity of a baby elephant, and nothing pleased him better than to be interrupted in his encomiums of Sopo (“makes Monday, Fun-day”) or the Whoosh Vacuum-cleaner (“one Whoosh and it's clean”) by a fellow-member of the department, fed-up with advertising and spoiling for a chat.
    “Hullo!” said Miss Meteyard one morning. She had dropped in to consult Bredon about googlies–the proprietors of Tomboy Toffee having embarked upon a series of cricket advertisements which, starting respectively from “Lumme, what a Lob!” or “Yah! that's a Yorker!” led up by devious routes to the merits of Toffee–and had now reached the point when “Gosh! it's a Googly” had to be tackled. Bredon had demonstrated googlies with pencil and paper, and also in the corridor with a small round tin of Good Judge tobacco (whereby he had nearly caught Mr. Armstrong on the side of the head), and had further discussed the relative merits of “Gosh” and “Golly” in the headline; but Miss Meteyard showed no symptoms of departing. She had sat down at Bredon's table and was drawing caricatures, in which she displayed some skill, and was rummaging in the pencil-tray for an india-rubber when she remarked, as above mentioned, “Hullo!”
    “What?”
    “That's little Dean's scarab. It ought to have been sent back to his sister.”
    “Oh, that! Yes, I knew that was there, but I didn't know whom it belonged to. It's not a bad thing. It's real onyx, though of course it's not Egyptian and it's not even very old.”
    “Probably not, but Dean adored it. He thought it was a sure-fire mascot. He always had it in his waistcoat pocket [Pg 36] or sitting in front of him while he worked. If he'd had it on him that day, he wouldn't have tumbled downstairs–at least, that's what he'd have said himself.”
    Bredon poised the beetle on the palm of his hand. It was as big as a man's thumb-nail, heavy and shallowly carved, smooth except for a slight chip at one side.
    “What sort of chap was Dean?”
    “Well. De mortuis , and all that, but I wasn't exactly keen on him. I thought he was rather an unwholesome little beast.”
    “What way?”
    “For one thing, I didn't like the people he went about with.”
    Bredon twitched an interrogative eyebrow.
    “No,” said Miss Meteyard, “I don't mean what you mean. At least, I mean, I can't tell you about that. But he used to tag round with that de Momerie crowd. Thought it was smart, I suppose. Luckily, he missed the famous night when that Punter-Smith girl did away with herself. Pym's would never have held its head up again if one of its staff had been involved in a notorious case. Pym's is particular.”
    “How old did you say this blighter was?”
    “Oh, twenty-six or-seven, I should think.”
    “How did he come to be here?”
    “Usual thing. Needed cash, I suppose. Had to have some sort of job. You can't lead a gay life on nothing, and he wasn't anybody, you know. His father was a bank-manager, or something, deceased, so I suppose young Victor had to push out and earn his keep. He knew how to look after himself all right.”
    “Then how did he get in with that lot?”
    Miss Meteyard grinned at him.
    “Somebody picked him up, I should think. He had a certain kind of good looks. There is a nostalgie de la banlieue as well as de la boue . And you're pulling my leg, Mr. Death Bredon, because you know that as well as I do.”
    “Is that a compliment to my