Alec Willis, hammering a rather hard pillow into a more comfortable shape in his boarding-house bedroom, sought slumber in vain:
“Gosh! what a head I had this morning… that damned, sleek brute!… there’s something up between Pamela and him… helping her with some business of Victor’s my foot!… He’s out to make trouble… and going off with that white-headed bitch… it’s a damned insult… of course Pamela would lick his boots… women… put up with anything… wish I hadn’t had all those drinks… damn this bed! damn this foul place… I’ll have to chuck Pym’s… it isn’t safe… Murder?… anybody interfering with Pamela… Pamela… She wouldn’t let me kiss her… that swine Bredon… down the iron staircase… get my hands on his throat… What a hope! damned posturing acrobat… Pamela… I’d like to show her… money, money, money… if I wasn’t so damned hard up… Dean was a little squirt anyway… I only told her the truth… blast all women!… They like rotters… I haven’t paid for that last suit… oh, hell! I wish I hadn’t had those drinks… I forgot to get any bicarbonate… I haven’t paid for those boots… all those naked women in the swimming-pool… black and silver… he spotted me, damn his eyes!… ‘Hullo, Willis!’ this morning, as cool as a fish… dives like a fish… fish don’t dive… fish don’t sleep… or do they?… I can’t sleep… ‘Macbeth hath murdered sleep.’… Murder… down the iron staircase… get my hands on his throat… oh, damn! damn! damn!…”
Dian de Momerie was dancing:
“My God! I’m bored… Get off my feet, you clumsy cow… Money, tons of money… but I’m bored… Can’t we do something else?… I’m sick of that tune… I’m sick of everything… he’s working up to get all mushy… suppose I’d better go through with it… I was sozzled last night… wonder where the Harlequin man went to… wonder who he was… that little idiot Pamela Dean… these women… I’ll have to make up to her, I suppose, if I’m ever to get his address… I got him away from her, any old how… wish I hadn’t been so squiffy… I can’t remember… climbing up the fountain… black and silver… he’s got a lovely body… I think he could give me a thrill… my God! how bored I am… he’s exciting… rather mysterious… I’ll have to write to Pamela Dean… silly little fool… expect she hates me… rather a pity I chucked little Victor… fell downstairs and broke his silly neck… damn good riddance… ring her up… she’s not on the ’phone… so suburban not to be on the ’phone… if this tune goes on, I shall scream… Milligan’s drinks are rotten… why does one go there?… Must do something… Harlequin… don’t even know his name… Weedon… Leader… something or other… oh, hell! perhaps Milligan knows… I can’t stand this any longer… black and silver… thank God! That’s over!”
All over London the lights flickered in and out, calling on the public to save its body and purse: SOPO SAVES SCRUBBING-NUTRAX FOR NERVES-CRUNCHLETS ARE CRISPER-EAT PIPER PARRITCH-DRINK POMPAYNE-ONE WHOOSH AND IT’S CLEAN-OH, BOY! IT’S TOMBOY TOFFEE-NOURISH NERVES WITH NUTRAX-PARLEY’S FOOTWEAR TAKES YOU FURTHER-IT ISNT DEAR, IT’S DARLING-DARLING’S FOR HOUSEHOLD APPLIANCES-MAKE ALL SAFE WITH SANFECT-WHIFFLETS FASCINATE. The presses, thundering and growling, ground out the same appeals by the millions: ASK YOUR GROCER-ASK YOUR DOCTOR-ASK THE MAN WHO’S TRIED IT-MOTHERS! GIVE IT TO YOUR CHILDREN-HOUSEWIVES! SAVE MONEY-HUSBANDS! INSURE YOUR LIVES-WOMEN! DO YOU REALIZE?-DON’T SAY SOAP, SAY SOPO! Whatever you’re doing, stop it and do something else! Whatever you’re buying, pause and buy something different! Be hectored into health and prosperity! Never let up! Never go to sleep! Never be satisfied. If once you are satisfied, all our wheels will run down. Keep going-and if you can’t, try Nutrax for Nerves!
Lord Peter Wimsey went home and slept.
Chapter VI. Singular Spotlessness of a Lethal Weapon
“You know,” said Miss Rossiter to Mr. Smayle, “our newest copy-writer is perfectly potty.”
“Potty?” said Mr. Smayle, showing all his teeth in an engaging smile, “you don’t say so, Miss Rossiter? How, potty?”
“Well, loopy,” explained Miss Rossiter. “Goofy. Blah. He’s always up on the roof, playing with a catapult. I don’t know what Mr. Hankin would say if he knew.”
“With a catapult?” Mr. Smayle looked pained. “That doesn’t seem quite the thing. But we in other spheres, Miss Rossiter, always envy, if I may say so, the happy youthful spirit of the copy-department. Due, no doubt,” added Mr. Smayle, “to the charming influence of the ladies. Allow me to get you another cup of tea.”
“Thanks awfully, I wish you would.” The monthly tea was in full swing, and the Little Conference Room was exceedingly crowded and stuffy. Mr. Smayle edged away gallantly in pursuit of tea, and against the long table, presided over by Mrs. Johnson (the indefatigable lady who ruled the Dispatching, the office-boys and the first-aid cupboard) found himself jostled by Mr. Harris of the Outdoor Publicity.
“Pardon, old fellow,” said Mr. Smayle.
“Granted,” said Mr. Harris, “fascinating young fellows like you are privileged to carry all before them. Ha, ha, ha! I saw you doing the polite to Miss Rossiter-getting on like a house afire, eh?”
Mr. Smayle smirked deprecatingly.
“Wouldn’t you like three guesses at our conversation?” he suggested. “One milk and no sugar and one milk and sugar, Mrs. J., please.”
“There’s two too many,” replied Mr. Harris. “I can tell you. You were talking about Miss Rossiter and Mr. Smayle, hey? Finest subjects of conversation in the world-to Mr. Smayle and Miss Rossiter, hey?”
“Well, you’re wrong,” said Mr. Smayle, triumphantly. “We were discussing another member of the community. The new copy-writer, in fact. Miss Rossiter was saying he was potty.”
“They’re all potty in that department, if you ask me,” said Mr. Harris, waggling his chins. “Children. Arrested development.”
“It looks like it,” agreed Mr. Smayle. “Cross-words I am not surprised at, for everybody does them, nor drawing nursery pictures, but playing with catapults on the roof is really childish. Though what with Miss Meteyard bringing her Yo-Yo to the office with her-”
“I’ll tell you what it is, Smayle,” pronounced Mr. Harris, taking his colleague by the lapel and prodding him with his forefinger, “it’s all this University education. What does it do? It takes a boy, or a young woman for that matter, and keeps him in leading-strings in the playground when he ought to be ploughing his own furrow in the face of reality-Hullo, Mr. Bredon! Was that your toe? Beg pardon, I’m sure. This room’s too small for these social gatherings. I hear you are accustomed to seek the wide, open spaces on the roof.”
“Oh, yes. Fresh air and all that, you know. Exercise. Do you know, I’ve been taking pot-shots at the sparrows with a catapult. Frightfully good training for the eye and that sort of thing. Come up one day and we’ll have a competition.”
“Not for me, thanks,” replied Mr. Harris. “Getting too old for that kind of thing. Though when I was a boy I remember putting a pebble through my old aunt’s cucumber-frame. Lord! how she did scold, to be sure!”
Mr. Harris suddenly looked rather wistful.
“I haven’t had a catapult in my hand for thirty years, I don’t suppose,” he added.
“Then it’s time you took it up again.” Mr. Bredon half pulled a tangle of stick and rubber from his side-pocket and pushed it back again, with a wink and a grimace at the back of Mr. Pym, who now came into view, talking condescendingly to a lately-joined junior. “Between you and me, Harris, don’t you find this place a bit wearisome at times?”
“Wearisome?” put in Mr. Tallboy, extricating himself from the crowd at the table, and nearly upsetting Mr. Smayle’s two cups of tea, now at length achieved, “wearisome? You people don’t know the meaning of the word. Nobody but a lay-out man knows what a lay-out man’s feelings is.”