2

 

 

Mr. Potter, bustling into the Club with the morning Times clutched manfully in his hand, was a bit disappointed to find none of his usual coterie to whom he could show the unusual and (the word was on the tip of his tongue for the first he might encounter) “delicious” advertisement. So great was his need to share his discovery that for one moment he even considered discussing the matter with the three solitary fixtures in the northeast corner, but as he approached them he noted that they were bent over an identical copy of the Times, folded back to expose the same advertisement.

A sudden doubt of purpose checked Mr. Potter’s footsteps. Damned silly advert anyway, he suddenly thought, bitter at his lack of audience, and even more bitter that his tentative approach toward the founding members had been noted and was being commented upon. With flaming ears he turned and beat a quick retreat, well aware that his actions had caused a small wave of silent mirth behind him. Fool advert is probably only leading up to a new flick that will be playing the picture palaces sometime next month, he thought angrily. Discarding his copy of the paper on the magazine table, he fled into his office.

“Poor little man,” commented Carruthers with a smile and also unerring accuracy. “Nobody around to show his copy to. Probably thought he had discovered America.”

“And when he found we had already discovered it,” added Briggs with a grin, “he probably figured in that case it wasn’t worth discovering in the first place.”

“By now,” Simpson guessed shrewdly, “I’d be willing to wager he has decided the whole thing is only an advertisement for a new J. Arthur Rank film which will be coming out in the next few weeks.”

“A bloody pity his wife doesn’t have a thousand pounds,” said Briggs brutally, and with this the three dismissed the case of Potter, Hesitant Secretary, returning to study the journal before them. The result of Carruthers’ efforts was carried on the front page, top left-hand corner. It was neatly boxed and read:

 

IS THERE ANYONE YOU’D LIKE TO MURDER?  

For Insurance?  

For Inheritance?  

For Love?  

For Hate?  

For Fun?  

IF SO: CONSULT  

THE MURDER LEAGUE!!!  

Rapid Service—Reasonable Fees  

DON’T DO IT YOURSELF  

LET US DO IT FOR YOU  

IT’S SAFER  

ALL INQUIRIES TO BOX 544 TIMES  

Please: The merely curious are kindly requested not to answer this advertisement, as it can only delay service to serious clients. Thank you.

 

“It’s not too bad,” said Briggs, studying the quarter-column cut objectively. “Actually, it’s quite good.” He paused and a sudden frown of concern appeared on his small face, wiping out his pleased expression. “Must have cost a fortune, though.”

“Eight pounds six and thruppence,” Carruthers admitted calmly.

“Eight pounds—!” Briggs was shocked.

“Six and thruppence,” Carruthers finished. “Tax, you know. You can’t make an omelette without breaking pound notes, you know. Not with the cost of living today.” He shrugged. “We must simply consider it a necessary part of expected capital expenditure; all companies face that, you know. Especially new companies entering an established field. I’ll keep a detailed list of all expenses for future reimbursement, naturally.”

“Of course,” Simpson agreed. “There are bound to be various expenses. Arms, possibly. Or travel.” He coughed delicately. “I imagine that anyone willing to expend a thousand quid for our services shouldn’t cavil overly at any small additional expense.”

“Of course not,” Carruthers said. “A bit rough on the treasury at first, of course, but once we get rolling…”

Tea came and they consumed it, for the first time in years, in a relaxed manner. It is doubtful if they even thought of the loss of the view of Swan’s Park, or the other sad changes of the past; their minds were firmly fixed upon the future.

“Tomorrow,” Carruthers said between cakes, “there should be the first of our responses from an eager and necessitive public. I’ll stop by and pick them up before passing this way.”

“There’ll probably be a mob waiting for you,” Briggs said. “People wondering what we’re selling. Would you like me to meet you here, say at eight, and go along with you?”

“Oh, no,” Carruthers said airily, reaching for the teapot. “I considered that possibility. I requested that any answers be sent from the central offices to their place in Notting Hill. On the quiet, of course. A respectable journal like the Times does that, you know. Protect the boxholder and all that.”

“Ah, yes,” Simpson recalled absently. “That switch of replies from central to Notting Hill—you used that in The Bloody Dagger, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Thank you for remembering,” said Carruthers with a truly grateful smile. He reached for the cakes again. “Well, tomorrow we shall see just how clever I was in 1926.”

The Times is not the favorite journal of the Notting Hill residents, who feel, possibly with some justification, that football results without quoted pool odds are of small use to a discerning reader. It is therefore understandable that the directors of that august journal refuse to spend huge sums in maintaining posh offices in this section. Despite this logic, it still struck Carruthers as he clumped up the narrow pavement leading to the shabby doorway that they might have spread themselves a bit thicker than this.

He had to admire the reticence, however, of the eminent newspaper, for, although his advertisement was certain to have at least intrigued journalists, the faded storefront he faced boasted no pack of baying newshounds. In fact, for one instant Carruthers was rather concerned that it might not even boast a day clerk. This fear, however, was unfounded, for as he entered a thin lad with a budding mustache on a virgin upper lip detached himself from his perusal of a rival newspaper and ambled over to liquidate this undesired interruption as rapidly as possible.

Presentation of his box receipt brought neither startled gasps nor any indication of inordinate interest. The boy merely took the slip, scratched his head, yawned, rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, studied the slip once more, and then dug out a well-filled envelope and handed it over. It was only as Carruthers was leaving that a bowlered figure emerged from an inner office to accost him.

“Are you the gentleman who rented Box 544?” asked this apparition in a low, suspicious tone of voice.

He might have done better to get his question in earlier, or to have waited a few seconds longer; instead, he had chosen to place it as both he and his quarry attempted to emerge at the same moment through the narrow doorway. As a result, they found themselves wedged firmly together, breathing into each other’s faces. With a shrug that spun them both into the cobbled street, Carruthers turned to his questioner, a sharp retort upon his lips, but before he could release it belated recognition came.

“Inspector Painter!” he cried in delight. “Of all people! My, it’s been years, you know! How’ve you been keeping?”

“Mr. Carruthers! Billy-boy Carruthers! Oh, no! Not you!” The Inspector’s face fell as his eyes dropped to the bulging envelope beneath the other’s arm. “And I had thought—hoped…” His eyes came up; he spoke with sudden decision. “Still! Mr. Carruthers, about that envelope, and that advertisement—”

“Oh, not here; not here!” Carruthers said impatiently. “My Lord, man, this is a reunion! It’s been absolutely ages! We’ll have to have something for it, you know.”

He studied the empty street carefully, like a general planning a campaign across uncharted, and quite possibly unfriendly, terrain. “Down below, I’d suggest. Something hard, or at least alcoholic. I seem to recall a Pig and Something on my way up this blasted mountain. Certainly wouldn’t care to trust the tea in an area like this!”

“Now, Mr. Carruthers,” the Inspector began sternly.

Carruthers seemed to note the actuality of the other’s person for the first time.

“Inspector!” he said sadly. “Notting Hill! What on earth did you do, you poor man? Send some Personage to jail, or something? However long have they had you here?” And without waiting for a reply he tugged the other from his stubborn stance and set off down the incline, dragging the inspector behind him.

“Mr. Carruthers! That advertisement! That box number! I really must insist!”

“Over beer! Over beer!” Carruthers caroled, maintaining a pace that had the stocky officer sweating within yards. “This is a reunion, man!” He looked at the exhausted face beside him with sudden concern, without in any way reducing the steadiness of his pace. “You aren’t looking well at all, Inspector. What have they been doing to you, you poor man?”

They passed a corner and Carruthers drew up short, holding the panting inspector firmly by the arm.

“Ah, there it is! I was wrong; it wasn’t the Pig and Something at all. It’s the Boar and Something. Well, it’s there, at least. Let’s go in and toast our reunion, Inspector. Lucky we met during licensing hours.” And before the inspector could properly catch his breath he found himself once again jerked off at a tangent, propelled toward the glass-paneled door of the pub.

With beer before him and a chance to sit heaving until his lungs had returned to a state of relative normality, Inspector Painter once again became a functioning member of the Metropolitan Police. “Now, Mr. Carruthers,” he began.

“I thought all police officers started off by saying, ‘Now, what’s all this?’” Carruthers said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Have I been feeding my public misinformation all these years?” He considered his statement and amended it sadly. “I mean, all those years?”

“Mr. Carruthers,” said the inspector firmly, determined not to be put off any further, “I’m afraid I shall have to ask you for an explanation of that advertisement.”

Carruthers stared at him in surprise. “But you read it, didn’t you?”

“Of course I read it! I—”

“And it wasn’t clear? Oh, dear. Has my writing ability faded to such an extent that I can’t even advertise properly?”

“I read it and it was clear enough! What I am asking is, what did you mean by it?”

“Just what do you think I meant by it?” Carruthers asked, honestly interested.

Inspector Painter sighed. “Look here, Mr. Carruthers. When that advertisement was first brought to my attention by one of my superiors, we imagined it was either a student joke or an initiation stunt, or possibly the entering wedge in one of these new-style sales campaigns. Still, we decided we could scarcely let it pass without investigating. As soon as I saw it was you who stopped by to pick up that envelope, I came to the conclusion that you had probably decided to start writing again, and that this was only a part of one of your confoundedly complicated plots.”

He sipped at his beer, holding up one beefy hand to forestall any interruption until he could return, refreshed, to the fray.

“The thing is, however,” he continued, placing his mug once again on the table, “that possibly some of those who answered that advert of yours answered it in all seriousness.”

“Well, I should certainly hope so!” said Carruthers indignantly. “Eight pounds six and thruppence, that advert cost me!”

Inspector Painter’s stubby fingers drummed on the table with increasing rhythm. “All right, Mr. Carruthers,” he said finally, controlling his temper with difficulty. “You seem intent upon misunderstanding me. It is therefore pointless to waste time trying to explain anything to you. Bluntly, then, I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to deliver that envelope to me.”

Carruthers took a long drink of his beer and set his mug on the table with precision. When he finally spoke, there was no escaping the fact that the atmosphere of bonhomie, at least as far as he was concerned, had definitely abated.

“I assume,” he said coolly, “that you have a warrant?”

“You don’t need a warrant to prevent a crime,” the inspector pointed out. “You know that as well as I do.”

Carruthers nodded, but it was far from a gesture of agreement. “I see. Using the same brand of logic, one might break into a bank and rob it for the purpose of removing temptation from others who might want to rob it.” His piercing blue eyes suddenly fastened themselves on the inspector’s ruddy face.

“You also realize, of course,” he went on accusingly, “that the idea of this advert was all mine. As well as the payment for it—eight pounds, you know, plus some six and thruppence tax. If, as you assume, I am planning to use the idea of placing the advert, or any material contained in the replies to the advert, in any future story I might care to write, then you are forced to admit that they are my property. The idea was mine, and all expenses involved to date have been footed by me. So will you kindly explain to me why I should divulge any information to you? Particularly since you have no warrant, and a child would not be taken in with your story of preventing a crime?”

“Look, Mr. Carruthers,” said the inspector patiently. “I’ve known you since you were a relatively young police reporter and I was a plain P.C. I’ve read every story you ever wrote, and I flatter myself that I’ve even given you some of your ideas for a few of them.” He leaned forward, pushing aside his mug of beer. “I know that your motives are innocent, but I also know that by handing me that envelope you might just eventually save somebody’s life. Inadvertently, you may have struck on more than just an idea for a story. You may have struck on a means of determining in advance potential victims of murder. And potential murderers.” He leaned back, satisfied that his arguments brooked no logical denial. “So I’m afraid I must rather insist on taking possession of that envelope.”

Carruthers finished his flagon and bounced it loudly on the table as notice for refills. And it was as he was releasing it in response to the barmaid’s nod that a sudden thought seemed to strike him. He turned to the inspector with dawning suspicion in his eyes.

“Let me see, Inspector,” he said in a cold, formal voice. “Am I wrong, or do I recall your once attempting a bit of writing yourself?”

Inspector Painter’s face reddened. “That was years ago, Mr. Carruthers.”

Billy-boy Carruthers searched his memory, and then nodded in satisfaction as it finally came to his aid.

“Ah, yes,” he said musingly. “Now I remember. They were to be your memoirs, and you intended to title them A Policeman’s Lot, if I’m not mistaken.” Carruthers shook his head sadly, the perfidy of his fellow man obviously painful to contemplate. “That devilish urge to write, to express ourselves, seems to be imbedded in us all. The problem, usually, is not even talent. The problem is where to get a really decent idea. A good idea, like a good man, is hard to find.”

He pushed his beer mug away from him with revulsion, as if to indicate that one did not take salt with an enemy. “Tell me, Inspector,” he asked softly, accusingly, “does the Department know you are trying to get these letters away from me?”

“Of course the Department knows!” the inspector answered testily. “They sent me. Good God, man, you can’t possibly honestly suspect—!”

“But does the Department know your real reason for wanting these letters so desperately?” Carruthers continued, his eyes narrowing. “Do they know that, away down deep within you, you have always harbored a desire to see your name in print? On a book jacket? Are they aware that to achieve this end you would stop at nothing? Nothing? Not even at stealing an idea from another person? Do they know that, Inspector Painter?”

The inspector shook his head as if to clear it of a sudden accumulation of cobwebs. “Now, see here, Mr. Carruthers—” he began desperately, but the elderly white-haired man had already risen and was shoving his hat firmly upon his head.

“We have nothing further to discuss, Inspector,” he said contemptuously, and before the police officer could make a move he found himself alone, facing a still-swinging door.

“Mr. Carruthers!” he cried in frustration, but his gazelle-like leap to follow was interrupted by a peremptory and unmistakable motion from the barmaid. By the time he had finished digging money from his pocket and flinging it upon the bar, he was sure his quarry was long gone, and a hasty inspection of the empty street outside confirmed these suspicions. With a muttered curse for all writers, particularly those addicted to the crime field, he started to trudge dispiritedly toward the nearest underground station.

“No trouble at all,” said Mr. Billy-boy Carruthers serenely. “I told you the police would be no problem. Oh, by the way, I ran into an old friend of ours up that way. Inspector Painter—you may remember him. Stood me a pint, as a matter of fact.”

And he slit open the first envelope with the edge of his penknife.

It is doubtful that Mr. Carruthers’ serenity as he slit open that first envelope would have been greatly disturbed had he known that even at that very moment Sir Percival Pugh was reading the advertisement for the first time. In all probability, Mr. Carruthers would have merely thought that a great many people would read the advert, and the more the merrier, including famous lawyers.

Sir Percival Pugh was undoubtedly a famous lawyer, and the finest criminal lawyer in all of England. He had never lost a case. His legal skills were legendary. He had once defended a drunken hit-run driver who had passed not only an electrical stop signal but also a policeman’s upraised arm, to strike and kill a widowed mother of five who was standing on a safety island across the way. So successful was the defense that his client not only was freed, but was later able to sue and collect from the widow’s pitiful estate for the damages suffered by his vehicle.

Two loves dominated Sir Percival’s life: the love of defending clients against the tortured confusions of the law, and the love of being paid extremely well for so doing. Sir Percival liked to live well, and this cost money. It was claimed that he had even sold his body, to be delivered on death, to the London Medical School, who wished to study his prodigious brain. (A former client of his, hearing this tale, applied to the Medical School for the famous barrister’s heart, saying he wished to scratch glass, but was refused.) But even his worst enemies could not deny that when Sir Percival tackled a case he tackled it to win; and to date he had never failed.

At the moment, Sir Percival was settled back in the recesses of his richly upholstered desk chair, going over the newspapers he had missed on a long weekend holiday. As was his custom, he began with the Times of the previous day, and the first thing that caught his eye was the small box in the upper left-hand corner. He read it over several times, frowned in deep thought for several moments, and then, with a nod of decision, reached for his scissors and cut it neatly from the page. He opened a drawer, brought forth a blank folder with a tabulating lip on it, and dropped the clipping within. On the tab, in his clear and precise calligraphy, he penciled in the words Potential Clients, and tucked the folder into the file drawer of his desk in its proper alphabetical position. After which he returned to continue his perusal of the journal.

But something seemed to bother him, for he could not rivet his attention to the news in his usual manner. Instead, his eyes had a tendency to keep straying to the closed file drawer. At last, with a sigh, he put aside the newspaper, opened the drawer, and brought forth the folder he had inserted there a moment before. With an eraser he carefully scrubbed out the first word on the tab, and then painstakingly wrote again. Satisfied at last, he replaced the folder, and was now able to concentrate on the balance of the news.

The folder tab now read, with an assurance the previous title had lacked, Future Clients.