Free Murder Must Advertise by Dorothy L. Sayers Page A

ladies are graciously permitted to be entertained. The quarry found a table near the window; Mr. Willis, ignoring the efforts of a waiter to pilot him to a quiet corner, squeezed in at the table next to them, where [Pg 58] a man and woman, who obviously wanted to lunch alone, made way for him indignantly. Even so, he was not very well placed, for, though he could see Bredon and the girl, they had their backs to him, and their conversation was perfectly inaudible.
    “Plenty of room at the next table, sir,” suggested the waiter.
    “I'm all right here,” replied Willis, irritably. His neighbour glared, and the waiter, with a glance as much as to say, 'Loopy–but what can a man do?' presented the bill of fare. Willis vaguely ordered saddle of mutton and red-currant jelly with potatoes and gazed at Bredon's slim back.
    “ .... very nice today, sir.”
    “What?”
    “The cauliflower, sir–very nice today.”
    “Anything you like.”
    The little black hat and the sleek yellow poll seemed very close together. Bredon had taken some small object out of his pocket and was showing it to the girl. A ring? Willis strained his eyes–
    “What will you drink, sir?”
    “Lager,” said Willis, at random.
    “Pilsener, sir, or Barclay's London Lager?”
    “Oh, Pilsener.”
    “Light or dark, sir?”
    “Light–dark–no, I mean light.”
    “Large light Pilsener, sir?”
    “Yes, yes.”
    “Tankard, sir?”
    “Yes, no–damn it! Bring it in anything that's got a hole in the top.” There seemed no end to the questions that could be asked about beer. The girl had taken the object, and was doing something with it. What? For heaven's sake, what?
    “Roast or new potatoes, sir?”
    “New.” The man had gone, thank goodness. Bredon was holding Pamela Dean's hand–no, he was turning over the object that lay on her palm. The woman opposite Willis [Pg 59] was stretching across for the sugar-basin–her head obstructed his view–deliberately, as it seemed to him. She moved back. Bredon was still examining the object–
    A large dinner-wagon, laden with steaming joints under great silver covers was beside him. A lid was lifted–the odour of roast mutton smote him in the face.
    “A little more fat, sir? You like it underdone?”
    Great God! What monster helpings they gave one at this place! What sickening stuff mutton was! How vile were these round yellow balls of potato that the man kept heaping on his plate! What disgusting stuff cauliflower could be–a curdle of cabbage! Willis, picking with nauseated reluctance at the finest roast saddle in London, felt his stomach cold and heavy, his feet a-twitch.
    The hateful meal dragged on. The indignant couple finished their gooseberry pie and went their affronted way without waiting for coffee. Now Willis could see better. The other two were laughing now and talking eagerly. In a sudden lull a few words of Pamela's floated clearly back to him: “It's to be fancy dress, so you'll slip in all right.” Then she dropped her voice again.
    “Will you take any more mutton, sir?”
    Try as he would, Willis could catch nothing more. He sat on in Simpson's until Bredon, glancing at his watch, appeared to remind himself and his companion that advertising copy-writers must work sometimes. Willis was ready for them. His bill was paid. He had only to shelter behind the newspaper he had brought in with him until they had passed him and then–what? Follow them out? Pursue them again in a taxi, wondering all the time how closely they were clasped together, what they were saying to one another, what appointments they were making, what new devilment there was still in store for Pamela, now that Victor Dean was out of the way, and what he would or could do next to make the world safe for her to live in?
    He was spared the decision. As the two came abreast of them, Bredon, suddenly popping his head over the Lunch Edition of the Evening Banner , observed cheerfully: [Pg 60]
    “Hullo, Willis! enjoyed your