“I don’t know what you are talking about,” was what Mr. Cummings actually said. “I never heard of a Mr. Milligan, and I don’t want to. And I don’t want any of your sauce, neither.”
“Sorry, old thing, sorry,” said Wimsey.
“And what’s more,” said Mr. Cummings, “I don’t want you. See?”
“I see,” said Wimsey. “I see perfectly. Good-morning.”
“That’s torn it,” he thought. “I’ll have to work quickly now. St. Martin’s-le-Grand comest next, I fancy.”
A little pressure at headquarters produced what was required. The postmen who carried letters to Old Broad Street were found and interrogated. It was quite true that they frequently delivered letters for a Mr. Smith to Mr. Cummings’ shop, and that these letters invariably were returned, and marked “Not known.” Where did they go then? To the Returned Letter Office. Wimsey rang up Pym’s, explained that he was unavoidably detained, and sought the Returned Letter Office. After a little delay, he found the official who knew all about it. The letters for Mr. Smith came regularly every week. They were never returned to the sender in the ordinary course. Why? Because they bore no sender’s name. In fact, they never contained anything but a sheet of blank paper.
Had they last Tuesday’s letter there? No; it had already been opened and destroyed. Would they keep the next one that arrived and send it on to him? Seeing that Lord Peter Wimsey had Scotland Yard behind him, they would. Wimsey thanked the official, and went his way, pondering.
On leaving the office at 5.30, he walked down Southampton Row to Theobald’s Road. There was a newsvendor at the corner. Wimsey purchased an Evening Comet and glanced carelessly through the news. A brief paragraph in the Stop Press caught his eye.
CLUBMAN KILLED IN PICCADILLY
At 3 o’clock this afternoon a heavy lorry skidded and mounted the pavement in Piccadilly, fatally injuring Major “Tod” Milligan, the well-known clubman, who was standing on the kerb.
“They work quickly,” he thought with a shudder. “Why, in God’s name, am I still at large?” He cursed his own recklessness. He had betrayed himself to Cummings; he had gone into the shop undisguised; by now they knew who he was. Worse, they must have followed him to the General Post Office and to Pym’s. Probably they were following him now. From behind the newspaper he cast a swift glance about the crowded streets. Any one of these loitering men might be the man. Absurd and romantic plans flitted through his mind. He would lure his assassins into some secluded spot, such as the Blackfriars subway or the steps beneath Cleopatra’s Needle, and face them there and kill them with his hands. He would ring up Scotland Yard and get a guard of detectives. He would go straight home to his own flat in a taxi (“not the first nor the second that presents itself,” he thought, with a fleeting recollection of Professor Moriarty), barricade himself in and wait-for what? For air-guns?… In this perplexity he suddenly caught sight of a familiar figure-Chief-Inspector Parker himself, apparently taking his early way home, and carrying a fishmonger’s bag in one hand and an attaché case in the other.
He lowered the paper and said, “Hullo!”
Parker stopped. “Hullo!” he replied, tentatively. He was obviously not quite certain whether he was being hailed by Lord Peter Wimsey or by Mr. Death Bredon. Wimsey strode forward and relieved him of the fish-bag.
“Well met. You come most carefully upon your cue, to prevent me from being murdered. What’s this, lobster?”
“No, turbot,” said Parker, placidly.
“I’m coming to eat it with you. They will hardly attack both of us. I’ve made a fool of myself and given the game away, so we may as well be open and cheerful about it.”
“Good. I’d like to feel cheerful.”
“What’s wrong? Why so early home?”
“Fed-up. The Yelverton Arms is a wash-out, I’m afraid.”
“Did you raid it?”
“Not yet. Nothing happened during the morning, but during the lunch-hour crush, Lumley saw something being smuggled into a fellow’s hands by a chap who looked like a tout. They stopped the fellow and searched him. All they found was some betting-slips. It’s quite possible that nothing is timed to happen before this evening. If nothing turns up, I’ll have the place searched. Just before closing-time will be best. I’m going down there myself. Thought I’d step home for an early supper.”
“Right. I’ve got something to tell you.”
They walked to Great Ormond Street in silence.
“Cummings?” said Parker, when Wimsey had told his tale. “Don’t know anything about him. But you say he knew Milligan’s name?”
“He certainly did. Besides, here’s the proof of it.”
He showed Parker the stop-press item.
“But this fellow, Tallboy-is he the bird you’re after?”
“Frankly, Charles, I don’t understand it. I can’t see him as the Big Bug in all this business. If he were, he’d be too well-off to get into difficulties with a cheap mistress. And his money wouldn’t be coining to him in fifty-pound instalments. But there’s a connection. There must be.”
“Possibly he’s only a small item in the account.”
“Possibly. But I can’t get over Milligan. According to his information, the whole show was run from Pym’s.”
“Perhaps it is. Tallboy may be merely the cat’s paw for one of the others. Pym himself-he’s rich enough, isn’t he?”
“I don’t think it’s Pym. Armstrong, possibly, or even quiet little Hankie. Of course, Pym’s calling me in may have been a pure blind, but I don’t somehow think he has quite that kind of brain. It was so unnecessary. Unless he wanted to find out, through me, how much Victor Dean really knew. In which case, he’s succeeded,” added Wimsey, ruefully. “But I can’t believe that any man would be such a fool as to put himself in the power of one of his own staff. Look at the opportunities for blackmail! Twelve years’ penal servitude is a jolly threat to hold over a man. Still-blackmail. Somebody was being blackmailed, that’s almost a certainty. But Pym can’t have slugged Dean; he was in conference at the time. No, I think we must acquit Pym.”
“What I don’t quite see,” said Lady Mary, “is why Pym’s is brought into it at all. Somebody at Pym’s is one thing, but if you say that the show is ‘run from Pym’s,’ it suggests something quite different-to me, anyhow. It sounds to me as though they were using Pym’s organization for something-doesn’t it to you?”
“Well, it does,” agreed her husband. “But how? And why? What has advertising got to do with it? Crime doesn’t want to advertise, far from it.”
“I don’t know,” said Wimsey, suddenly and softly. “I don’t know.” His nose twitched, rabbit-fashion. “Pymmy was saying only this morning that to reach the largest number of people all over the country in the shortest possible time, there was nothing like a press campaign. Wait a second, Polly-I’m not sure that you haven’t said something useful and important.”
“Everything I say is useful and important. Think it over while I go and tell Mrs. Gunner how to cook turbot.”
“And the funny thing is,” said Parker, “she seems to like telling Mrs. Gunner how to cook turbot. We could perfectly well afford more servants-”
“My dear old boy,” said Wimsey. “Servants are the devil. I don’t count my man Bunter, because he’s exceptional, but it’s a treat to Polly to kick the whole boiling out of the house at night. Don’t you worry. When she wants servants, she’ll ask for them.”
“I admit,” said Parker, “I was glad myself when the kids were old enough to dispense with a resident nurse. But look here, Peter, it seems to me you’ll be wanting a resident nurse yourself, if you want to avoid nasty accidents.”
“That’s just it. Here I am. Why? What are they keeping me for? Something unusually nasty?”