Murder Must Advertise Read Online Free PDF

brought up silk-lined all right,” agreed Miss Parton. “One of the new poor, I expect. Lost all his money in the slump or something.”
    “Either that, or his family have got tired of supporting him and pushed him out to scratch for himself,” suggested Miss Rossiter. She slimmed more strenuously than her colleague, and was less inclined to sentiment. “I sort of asked him the other day what he did before he came here, and he said, all sorts of things, and mentioned that he'd had a good bit to do with motors. I expect he's been one of these gilded johnnies who used to sell cars on commission, and the bottom's dropped out of that and he's got to do a job of work–if you call copy-writing work.”
    “I think he's very clever,” said Miss Parton. “Did you see that idiotic headline he put up for Margarine yesterday: ' IT'S A FAR, FAR BUTTER THING '? Hankie nearly sniggered himself sick. I think the Pet was pulling his leg. But what I mean is, he wouldn't think of a silly thing like that if he hadn't got brains.”
    “He'll make a copy-writer,” declared Miss Rossiter, firmly. She had seen so many new copy-writers come and pass like ships in the night, that she was as well able to size them up as the copy-chiefs themselves. “He's got the flair if you know what I mean. He'll stay all right.”
    “I hope he does,” said Miss Parton. “He's got beautiful manners. Doesn't chuck the stuff at you as if you were dirt like young Willis. And he pays his tea-bill like a little gentleman.”
    “Early days,” said Miss Rossiter. “He's paid one tea-bill. Gives me the pip, the way some of them make a fuss about it. There's Garrett. He was quite rude when I went to him on Saturday. Hinted that I made money out of the teas. I suppose he thinks it's funny. I don't.”
    “He means it for a joke.”
    “No, he doesn't. Not altogether. And he's always grumbling. Whether it's Chelsea buns or jam roll, there's always something wrong with it. I said to him, 'Mr. Garrett,' I said, 'if you like to give up your lunch-time every day to trying to find something that everybody will enjoy, you're welcome to do it.' 'Oh, no,' he said, 'I'm not the office-boy.' 'And who do you think I am,' I said, 'the errand-girl?' So he told me not to lose my temper. It's all very well, but you get very tired of it, especially this hot weather, fagging round.”
    Miss Parton nodded. The teas were a perennial grievance.
    “Anyhow,” she said, “friend Bredon is no trouble. A plain biscuit and a cup of tea every day. That's his order. And he said he was quite ready to pay the same subscription as everybody else, though really he ought to be let off with sixpence. I do like a man to be generous and speak to you nicely.”
    “Oh, the Pet's tongue runs on ball-bearings,” said Miss Rossiter. “And talk of being a nosey-parker!”
    “They all are,” replied Miss Parton. “But I say, do you know what I did yesterday? It was dreadful. Bredon came in and asked for Mr. Hankin's carbons. I was in an awful rush with some of old Copley's muck–he always wants everything done in five minutes–and I said, 'Help yourself.' Well, what do you think? Ten minutes afterwards I went to look for something on the shelf and I found he'd gone off with Mr. Hankin's private letter-file. He must have been blind, because it's marked PRIVATE in red letters an inch high. Of course Hankie'd be in an awful bait if he knew. So I hared off to Bredon and there he was, calmly reading Hankie's private letters, if you please! 'You've got the wrong file, Mr. Bredon,' I said. And he wasn't a bit ashamed. He just handed it back with a grin and said, 'I was beginning to think I might have. It's very interesting to see what salary everybody gets.' And, my dear, he was reading Hankie's departmental list. And I said, 'Oh, Mr. Bredon, you oughtn't to be reading that. It's frightfully confidential.' And he said, 'Is it?' He seemed quite surprised.”
    “Silly ass!” said Miss Rossiter. “I