“All right.”
“And to return it sometime before Christmas.”
Wedderburn grinned and departed on his errand.
About ten minutes later, the telephone tinkled in the typists’ room.
“Yes?” said Miss Rossiter, in mellifluous accents. “Who is it, please?”
“Tallboy speaking,” said the telephone.
“Oh!” Miss Rossiter altered her voice from the tone reserved for clients and directors to a tarter tone (for she was not too well pleased with Mr. Tallboy), modified by the sympathy due to ill-health:
“Oh, yes? Are you feeling better, Mr. Tallboy?”
“Yes, thanks. I’ve been trying to get Wedderburn, but he doesn’t seem to be in his room.”
“I expect he’s in the Studio, making poor Mr. Pickering work overtime on a new Nutrax sketch.”
“Oh! that’s what I wanted to know. Did Jollop pass that copy?”
“No-he turned the whole lot down. It’s a new one-at least, new headline with the ‘What are You Weeping for?’ copy.”
“Oh, a new headline? What is it?”
“Stale, Flat, and Unprofitable. Shakespeare, you know.”
“Oh! Oh, good! Glad something managed to get through. It was worrying me.”
“It’s quite all right, Mr. Tallboy.” Miss Rossiter rang off. “Touching devotion to business,” she observed to Miss Parton. “As if the world would stop turning just because he wasn’t here!”
“I expect he was afraid old Copley would be butting in again,” said Miss Parton, with a snort.
“Oh, him!” said Miss Rossiter.
“Well, now, young man,” said the policeman, “and what do you want?”
“I want to see Chief-Inspector Parker.”
“Ho!” said the policeman. “Don’t want much, do you? Sure you wouldn’t rather see the Lord Mayor o’ London? Or Mister Ramsey MacDonald?”
“I say, are you always as funny as that? Cor lumme, don’t it ’urt yer sometimes? You better buy yourself a new pair o’ boots or you’ll be gettin’ too big for wot yer wearin’. You tell Chief-Inspector Parker as Mr. Joe Potts wants ter see ’im about this ’ere ’Arlequin murder. And look snappy, ’cos I gotter git ’ome ter me supper.”
“About the ’Arlequin murder, eh? And wot do you know about that?”
“Never you mind. Just tell ’im wot I say. Tell ’im it’s Joe Potts as works at Pym’s Publicity and you’ll ’ave ’im steppin’ aht ter meet me wiv’ a crimson carpet and a bokay.”
“Oh! you’re from Pym’s. Got something to say about this Bredon, is that it?”
“That’s it. Now, you ’op it, and don’t waste time.”
“You’d better come in here, young Cocky-and be’ave yourself.
“Right-oh! it’s all the same to me.”
Mr. Joseph Potts wiped his boots neatly on the mat, took his seat upon a hard bench, drew out a Yo-Yo from his pocket, and began nonchalantly throwing a handsome series of loops, while the policeman retired defeated.
Presently he returned and, sternly commanding Mr. Joseph Potts to put his top away, conducted him through a series of passages to a door, upon which he knocked. A voice said “Come in,” and Mr. Potts found himself in a good-sized room furnished with two desks, a couple of comfortable arm-chairs and several other seats of penitential appearance. At the farther desk sat a man in mufti, writing, with his back to the door; at the nearer, facing the door, was another man in a grey suit, with a pile of documents before him.
“The boy, sir,” announced the policeman, and retired.
“Sit down,” said the man in grey, briefly, indicating one of the penitential chairs. “Now then, what’s all this you’ve got to tell us, eh?”
“Excuse me, sir, are you Chief-Inspector Parker?”
“This is a very cautious witness,” observed the man in grey to the world in general. “Why do you particularly want to see Chief-Inspector Parker?”
“’Cos it’s important and confidential, see?” said Mr. Joseph Potts, pertly. “Information, that’s wot it is. I likes ter do business with the boss, especially if there’s anythink ain’t bein’ ’andled as it should be.”
“Oh!”
“I want to tell this Parker that this case ain’t bein’ ’andled right. See? Mr. Bredon ain’t got nothink to do with it.”
“Indeed. Well, I’m Chief-Inspector Parker. What do you know about Bredon?”
“This ’ere.” Ginger Joe extended an inky forefinger. “You been ’ad. Mr. Bredon ain’t no crook, ’e’s a great detective, and I’m ’is assistant. We’re ’ard on the track of a murderer, see? And this here is just a mashi-macki-I mean it’s jest a bobby-trap set by the ’ideous gang as ’e’s out ter track to its lair. You been boobies ter let yerselves be took in by it, see? ’E’s a sport, is Mr. Bredon, and he ain’t never murdered no young woman, let along bein’ such a fool as ter leave penny whistles be’ind ’im. If you wants a murderer, Mr. Bredon’s got ’is eye on one now, and you’re jest playin’ into the ’ands of the Black Spider and ’is gang-meaning to say, ’oever done this. Wot I mean tersay, the time ’as come fer me ter divulge wot I know, and I ain’t agoin’-cor lumme!”
The man at the farther desk had turned round and was grinning at Ginger over the back of his chair.
“That’ll do, Ginger, “ said this person. “We know all about that here. I am obliged to you for your testimonial. I hope you haven’t been divulging anything in other directions.”
“Me, sir? No, sir. I ain’t said a word, Mr. Bredon, sir. But seein’ as ’ow-”
“That’s all right; I believe you. Now, Charles, I think this is just the lad we want. You can get that headline from him and save ringing up Pym’s. Ginger, was the Nutrax headline passed this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir, ‘Stale, Flat, and Unprofitable,’ that’s what it was. And lor’, wasn’t there a to-do about it! Took ’em all afternoon, it did, and Mr. Ingleby wasn’t ’arf wild.”
“He would be,” said Wimsey. “Now, you’d better cut along home, Ginger, and not a word, mind.”
“No, sir.”
“We’re much obliged to you for coming,” added Parker, “but you see, we aren’t quite such boobies as you think. We know a good deal about Mr. Bredon here. And by the way, let me introduce you to Lord Peter Wimsey.”
Ginger Joe’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.
“Coo! Lord Peter-where’s Mr. Bredon, then? This is Mr. Bredon. You’re pulling my leg.”
“I promise,” said Wimsey, “to tell you all about it this time next week. Cut along now, there’s a good chap. We’re busy.”
On Wednesday morning, Mr. Parker received a communication from St. Martin’s-le-Grand. Inside the official envelope was another, addressed in Tallboy’s hand to “S. Smith, Esq.” at Cummings’ address in Old Broad Street.
‘That settles it,” said Wimsey. He consulted the marked Telephone Directory. “Here you are. The Stag at Bay, Drury Lane. Make no mistake this time.”
It was not until Thursday evening that Miss Meteyard made up her mind to speak to Mr. Tallboy.
Chapter XX. Appropriate Exit of an Unskilled Murderer
“Is Lord Peter Wimsey at home?”
The manservant raked his questioner with a swift glance, which took in everything from his hunted eyes to his respectable middle-class boots. Then he said, inclining a respectful head:
“If you will be good enough to take a seat, I will ascertain if his Lordship is at leisure. What name shall I say, sir?”
“Mr. Tallboy.”
“Who, Bunter?” said Wimsey. “Mr. Tallboy? This is a little embarrassing. What does he look like?”
“He looks, my lord, if I may so poetically express myself, as though the Hound of Heaven had got him, so to say, cornered, my lord.”
“You are probably right. I should not be surprised if a hound of hell or so were knocking about the neighborhood as well. Take a squint out of the window, Bunter.”