Free Murder Must Advertise by Dorothy L. Sayers Page B

lunch? Excellent saddle, what? But you should have tried the peas. Can I give you a lift back to the tread-mill?”
    “No, thanks,” growled Willis; and then realized that if he had said, “Yes, please,” he would at least have made an ardent tête-à-tête in the taxi impossible. But ride in the same taxi with Pamela Dean and Bredon he could not.
    “Miss Dean, unhappily, has to leave us,” went on Bredon. “You might come and console me by holding my hand.”
    Pamela was already half-way out of the room. Willis could not decide whether she knew to whom her escort was speaking and had studied to avoid him, or whether she supposed him to be some friend of Bredon's unknown to her. Quite suddenly he made up his mind.
    “Well,” he said, “it is getting a bit late. If you're having a taxi, I'll share it with you.”
    “That's the stuff,” said Bredon. Willis rose and joined him and they moved on to where Pamela was waiting.
    “I think you know our Mr. Willis?”
    “Oh, yes,” Pamela smiled a small, frozen smile. “Victor and he were great friends at one time.”
    The door. The stairs. The entrance. They were outside at last.
    “I must be getting along now. Thank you so much for my lunch, Mr. Bredon. And you won't forget?”
    “I certainly will not. 'Tisn't likely, is it?”
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Willis.”
    “Good afternoon.”
    She was gone, walking briskly in her little, high-heeled shoes. The roaring Strand engulfed her. A taxi purred up to them.
    Bredon gave the address and waved Willis in before him.
    “Pretty kid, young Dean's sister,” he remarked, cheerfully.
    “See here, Bredon; I don't know quite what your game is, but you'd better be careful. I told Dean and I tell you–if you get Miss Dean mixed up with that dirty business of yours–” [Pg 61]
    “What dirty business?”
    “You know well enough what I mean.”
    “Perhaps I do. And what then? Do I get my neck broken, like Victor Dean?”
    Bredon slewed round as he spoke and looked Willis hard in the eye.
    “You'll get–” Willis checked himself. “Never mind,” he said, darkly, “you'll get what's coming to you. I'll see to that.”
    “I've no doubt you'll do it very competently, what?” replied Bredon. “But do you mind telling me exactly where you come into it? From what I can see, Miss Dean does not seem to welcome your championship with any great enthusiasm.”
    Willis flushed a dusky red.
    “It's no business of mine, of course,” went on Bredon, airily, while their taxi chugged impatiently in a hold-up at Holborn Tube Station, “but then, on the other hand, it doesn't really seem to be any business of yours, does it?”
    “It is my business,” retorted Willis. “It's every decent man's business. I heard Miss Dean making an appointment with you,” he went on, angrily.
    “What a detective you would make,” said Bredon, admiringly. “But you really ought to take care, when you are shadowing anybody, that they are not sitting opposite a mirror, or anything that will serve as a mirror. There is a picture in front of the table where we were sitting, that reflects half the room. Elementary, my dear Watson. No doubt you will do better with practice. However, there is no secret about the appointment. We are going to a fancy dress affair on Friday. I am meeting Miss Dean for dinner at Boulestin's at 8 o'clock and we are going on from there. Perhaps you would care to accompany us?”
    The policeman dropped his arm, and the taxi lurched forward into Southampton Row.
    “You'd better be careful,” growled Willis, “I might take you at your word.”
    “I should be charmed, personally,” replied Bredon. “You [Pg 62] will decide for yourself whether Miss Dean would or would not be put in an embarrassing position if you joined the party. Well, well, here we are at our little home from home. We must put aside this light badinage and devote ourselves to Sopo and Pompayne and Peabody's Piper Parritch. A delightful occupation,