Original subtitles

(Newspaper vendor calls out)

(Lift clanks shut)

(Lift whirs)

- Good morning, Mr Pym. - Good morning, Miss Parton.

- Morning, sir. - Morning, Mr Ingleby.

Damn!

"..that there is...

..something...

..going on in the office."

(Clatter) - Get out of there! Mind where you're going.

- Sorry, Mrs Crump! - Don't run down that staircase.

You've been told. Oh!

(Knocks softly)

- Come in. - Coffee, Mr Dean?

Oh, yes. Yes. The usual, please.

- Hot today, isn't it? - Yes, yes. Very hot.

If they didn't have them skylights open - phew! - it would be unbearable in here.

Yes. Yes, it would.

"Dear Mr Pym,

I think it only right that you should know there is something going on in the office,

which is very undesirable..."

"..which is very undesirable..."

"which is very undesirable and...might...

..lead to serious consequences."

(Rings)

Yes? Dean speaking.

Er...yes. Yes, I do have the copy ready. Who wants it?

Ah, well. Tell Mr Armstrong I'll bring it right down. All right?

And what?

Well, I...I don't have the Times Atlas here.

All right, all right. I'll see if I can find it.

(Sighs) Damn.

Ah. Have you got the Times Atlas in here?

Don't think so, Mr Dean. I'll have a look.

Quick as you like! Armstrong wants it down in the conference room.

Try Mr Tallboy's office. I saw him with it.

Well, the manners of some people!

He's as bad as Willis. Chucks his copy at you as if you were dirt.

- Two of a kind, I say. - I doubt if they'd agree.

They had the most awful row last week.

Going at it hammer and tongs in Dean's room.

Really? The two of them used to go about together quite a lot.

- What were they fighting about, Miss Meteyard? - Some girl, I think. I didn't listen.

You could have easily, being in the next office. The walls are thin enough.

I hammered on the partition and then I went in and told them to shut up.

Fancy not listening.

She's no thought for people's feelings.

She's a funny woman, Miss Meteyard.

(Woman screams)

I think he's fallen down the stairs.

It's odd. I saw it happen, Mr Ingleby. He didn't shout or anything.

He just fell.

- Is he bad hurt? - I think he's...

I think he's dead.

(Baby crying in background)

Ah, good morning, Charles.

Sounds as though my nephew has a grievance.

You know, he seems to sense your presence.

He'll waken his sister if Mary doesn't quieten him.

You look as though he'd just awakened you.

No, no, Mary told me you were here.

Ah, dear old Polly.

I never cease to marvel every time I visit your little nest.

My what?

If anybody had said to me, back in '28 when my dear dim-witted brother

got hauled before the House of Lords on a murder charge,

and Polly made such a blithering ass of herself...

If anybody then had pointed you out as my future brother-in-law... (Chuckles)

"What, him?" I'd have said. "Old Parker bird my brother-in-law?"

Have you had breakfast?

Do I detect even the faintest lack of enthusiasm in your tone?

Peter, I have spent half the night on an Essex mudflat.

And here am I rambling on. Deuced inconsiderate of me.

You're quite right, Charles. A chief inspector's lot is not a happy one.

Still working on the dope peddling?

Yes.

We had some information about cocaine smuggling on the Essex coast.

Didn't get us very far, though.

You know, it's coming in by the boatload from somewhere or other.

And it's being distributed from somewhere or other.

The question is, where?

- But you do know who's using it? - Yes.

Half the bright young things in Mayfair.

You know, people like the de Momerie crowd.

Well, obviously didn't come here for the coffee.

Mm? Oh, by Jove, no.

Once tasted, never forgotten.

Polly's a topping girl and all that, but she really should stick to tea.

Actually, old thing, I came here to borrow something -

your address, or more accurately, that of the flat upstairs.

But since you own it, it's the same thing.

- It's still untenanted, I take it? - Yes, but...

Just as I hoped. Splendid.

I shall put a false name on the letterbox in the hall.

What is this all about?

- I'm sorry, didn't I say? - No.

I am working on a case in which I prefer to remain incognito.

What kind of case?

I'm blessed if I know myself, yet. Thanks for the use of the flat, old bean.

Hang on a minute. Er...what name are you using?

Well, I thought of calling myself...

Mr Bredon. I can't tell you much about him but see he's looked after.

- Yes, Mr Pym. - He'll have Mr Dean's room.

I should think Mr Ingleby could take care of him, show him what to do.

You might send Mr Ingleby along.

- Yes, Mr Pym. - That's all.

Ah, yes. I should like to have the Dairyfields guard books.

Yes, Mr Pym.

But what on earth has cricket to do with toffee?

That's what I'd like to know.

The client went for the idea and that's all we need to know.

Whee!

Excuse me. Mr Pym said could you spare him a moment, Mr Ingleby?

If it's Tomboy Toffee, it's being typed. Take these and make it so.

No, it's the new copywriter.

What, already? Before those shoes were old?

Why, they only buried little Dean on Friday.

All part of the modern system of push and go, Miss Meteyard.

Very undesirable in an old-fashioned, gentlemanly firm.

Psschong!

I suppose I'd better go, put this blighter through his paces.

Why am I always left with the baby?

Oh, rot! You've only got to warn him not to use the directors' lav or tumble down the staircase.

You are the most callous woman, Miss Meteyard.

So long as they don't put him in with me.

Don't worry, he's having Mr Dean's room.

Oh, good.

Better toddle off and see to it.

Oh, well. It all makes for a little excitement.

Don't you think we've had enough of that lately?

Could I have your subscription for the wreath? You asked me to remind you.

What is it, a bob?

Here's half a crown. Better take the sweet money out of that too.

Thanks awfully, Miss Meteyard. I do hope you get a horse this year.

High time I did. Five years with this beastly firm, I've never even been placed.

I believe you wangle the draw.

We don't, or we shouldn't let all the horses go to those people in printing.

Would you like to draw for us this time?

Miss Parton's just typing the list.

Why not?

Miss Parton, the world does not come to a standstill just because it's Derby day.

- Where the devil are they? - If you look, Mr Willis, I'm sure you'll find them.

Miss Meteyard will draw for us, and there's a new copywriter.

Poor devil!

That leaves a shilling change.

There you are.

Scratch Miss Meteyard's name off the list.

- Have I had your money yet, Mr Willis? - No money till Saturday.

Hark at him. Anyone would think we were millionaires, the way we finance this department.

Just check these runners off for me, will you?

Can I just see those?

- Well done, Joe. - Ah.

- One and five, please, miss. - Thank you, Joe.

- Did you remember the cucumber? - Yes, miss. Thank you.

Met the new man yet, Mr Ingleby? What's he like?

Tow-coloured hair.

Supercilious-looking blighter - a cross between Ralph Lynn and Bertie Wooster.

- What's his name? - Bredon.

He's never been in advertising before. From Balliol.

- Pity us. - As you say, Miss Meteyard.

If there's one thing worse than another, it is Balliolity...

being from Trinity myself.

Screw those bits of paper up and stick them in the lid of the biscuit tin.

(All talk at once)

Oh, where is my...?

- I can't find the carbon of Magnolia... - Excuse me, Mr Willis.

(Laughter)

Mr Ingleby?

Can you spare me a moment?

Since Mr Armstrong is rather heavily engaged,

I thought perhaps you might look after Mr Bredon,

show him what to do.

I've had the Dairyfields guard book sent to his room.

You might start him on margarine.

Oh, jolly good.

And when you produce some ideas, Mr Bredon,

perhaps we might go over them together some time.

Oh, I'd be most frightfully grateful.

Well, er...righty-ho.

Till then, eh, sir?

Well, you'd better get to know everybody, Bredon.

- Miss Parton, Miss Rossiter. - How do you do?

They're our guardian angels - type our copy, give us pencil and paper, coffee and cake.

- Most charming. - And Miss Meteyard from Somerville.

One of the brighter ornaments here.

Composes the vulgarist limericks ever heard within these chaste walls.

(Chuckles) Then we shall be friends.

- And on your right, Mr Willis. - Hello.

A fellow comrade in affliction.

That completes the workers' department,

leaving Mr Armstrong, who's a director, and various group managers, Mr Copley...

Who is a man of weight and experience and does not frivel in the typists' room.

Certainly not. He takes his elevenses out, and assumes seniority though he hath it not.

Like to be in on the Derby sweep? It's sixpence, and you're just in time.

Rather! It's jolly good of you. Absolutely!

Must be in on the jolly old sweep, what?

There we are, one tanner.

Thanks awfully.

Yes...well, that brings the first prize up to one pound precisely.

Type Mr Bredon's name for him, would you, Parton?

B-R-E-D-O-N.

Oh, like in...

Like in, "summertime on..."

(Laughs)

Well, I'd better show you to your dog kennel.

Rather, righty-ho! Yes, absolutely.

Thanks, most awfully.

(Sniggering)

Well, he's got beautiful manners.

We're all along this corridor. You'll find your way about in time.

This is my room, this is Willis's room,

this... this is your room,

between Miss Meteyard and myself.

Oh.

Hello, er...

Where do these stairs lead to?

That leads to the floor below.

It's mostly group managers and conference rooms.

By the way, don't fall down it.

The fella whose room you've got did last week, killed himself.

I say! Did he really?

Bust his neck, fractured his skull.

One of those knobs.

Why do they put knobs on staircases, cracking fellows' skulls? It ain't right!

They put them there to prevent the boys sliding down the handrail.

But it's the stairs themselves that are dangerous.

They don't like too much said about that staircase.

Mm-hm.

Here we are.

This is your room, much the same as the rest -

excepting that your radiator doesn't work, but that won't bother you for the moment.

So this was Dean's room, eh?

Hm?

Er...you know, the chappie who fell down the stairs.

- I say, it must have been absolutely awful. - Oh, it was.

I was just transcribing my dictation, and we heard a frightful crash.

I thought one of the boys had fallen downstairs.

One of them did last year, carrying a typewriter.

And it sounded just like it.

And then Mr Ingleby came tearing up with such a look on his face.

You were as white as a sheet, you really were.

Was I, Miss Rossiter? Possibly.

Three years in this soul-searing profession have not yet robbed me of all human feeling.

Mr Ingleby said, "He's killed himself." I said, "Who?"

He said, "Mr Dean," and I said, "You don't mean that." He said, "I'm afraid I do."

He must have died instantly. He was carrying the Times Atlas,

and they could hardly prise it free from his fingers.

- Rigor mortis. - I've drawn a horsey, darlings.

No luck for you, Mr Bredon.

Never mind.

Always was unlucky with raffles.

You'll feel unluckier still after a day with Dairyfields margarine.

Anything for me, Miss Meteyard?

I'm sorry if I'm interrupting something.

Do come in, Mr Tallboy. Do you want me or Mr Bredon?

Don't worry about barging into Mr Bredon's room,

he'll soon get used to the idea that his room is a public place, within the meaning of the act.

- Bredon? - Yes, Bredon, our new copywriter.

Mr Tallboy, group manager for Nutrax and other wearisome commodities.

What-ho!

How do you do?

About this Nutrax 11-inch double. Can you cut out about 30 words?

No, I can't. I've cut it to the bone already.

You'll have to. There isn't room for all this guff with a two-line subhead.

Can't you cut out this bit about... "when your nerves begin to play tricks on you"

and start with "nerves need Nutrax"?

Armstrong liked that bit about nerves playing tricks on you,

said it had a sort of human appeal about it.

Well, all right, leave it.

Can't do it for the moment.

The printer wants it by two o'clock.

Damn the printer.

If you need anything, Mr Bredon, just let me know.

Thanks awfully.

Out, out!

The whole line - out, out.

There, I've cut 22 words. You'll have to make that do.

All right, I'll try. It'll look a bit tight, though.

I wish I was tight.

Go on, take the wearisome thing away before I murder somebody.

- I shouldn't think he'll stay the course. - Probably not.

Goes to a damn fine tailor, though.

- I wonder. - What?

Nothing.

(Tin's contents rattle)

(Clears throat)

- Lost, Mr Bredon? - Hm?

No, no, no.

Just er...curiosity, don't you know. Idle curiosity.

Scene of the crime and all that, what?

Crime?

Sorry. Sorry...accident.

You know, that poor chappie who was killed.

Oh, yes, Dean.

Yes, he must have been going too fast.

There's nothing wrong with the staircase. I've never had an accident. It's very well lit.

Yes. Yes, to be sure. Indeed, very well lit.

He must have slipped, of course.

Dashed easy thing to do, slip on a staircase.

Did he have nails in his shoes, do you know?

Well, I really have no idea.

No, no, I suppose not.

If he had, somebody would have mentioned it, wouldn't they?

Some sort of an excuse, what?

Excuse? For whom?

Well, for the firm.

When people put up staircases and other people tumble down them,

the insurance johnnies want to know why.

Yes, I suppose they do.

You must excuse me, I ought to get on with...

Yes, of course, old lad.

Mustn't stand in the way of progress.

(Laughs)

Ingleby. Nutrax have cancelled that half double.

They've sent me up from the conference room.

They want something to put up against the Slumbermalt campaign.

Mr Armstrong wants something in half an hour.

Damn and blast Nutrax.

May all their directors suffer from elephantiasis, locomotor ataxy and ingrowing toenails!

I say! Bit strong, what?

Hello again. (Chuckles)

Well, nice er...

nice bit of copy for you ladies.

- Hand it here. - I'll do it, shall I?

By all means, my dear Miss P.

And you will tap lightly on the keys, won't you?

Inspiration, don't you know, is sometimes so very fragile?

(Laughs)

Mr Bredon, put your full name and address on this card.

- They need it downstairs for the files. - With pleasure, dear lady.

You'll let us have something, will you?

Yes.

Oh, block capitals, if you please.

Oh, you obviously think my handwriting's awful.

I always think it's rather neat myself- neat, but not gaudy.

However, if you say so.

(Miss Parton laughs)

I do like that one.

Dairyfields margarine.

Oh. Yes, I'm rather fond of that one myself.

"It is a far, far butter thing than you have ever tasted before."

Not bad, what?

The sooner the better.

If I can get it passed by three o'clock, the printer's might be...

Hello?

MISS ROSSITER: I say, look at that.

So that's who you are, Mr Bredon.

Oh, er...yes.

Most people who are plagued with it make it rhyme with "teeth".

But I think it sounds so much more picturesque when rhymed with "breath".

Well, your stuff ought to come home to everybody, universal appeal and so forth.

Well, there we are.

Death Bredon, 12A Great Ormond Street, WC1.

Not bad, Bredon, old lad. Not bad for a first attempt.

You've got the headline, that's half the battle.

Except, of course, if you were a cow.

Pardon?

Your headline, old fella - if you were a cow.

Not done to call the customer a cow.

Oh, I say, by Jove, no!

I'm frightfully sorry!

Perhaps if you kept a cow in the kitchen.

Rather messy, what?

(Chuckles) - Well, what's this one?

"90 million open doors by which the germs can enter."

Er...oh, yes -

pores in the skin.

90 million open pores - doors.

You see, a play on words.

"Lock those doors with Sanfect."

It has a certain feel about it, might be worth working on.

Oh? Oh, really?

"Every pore an open door.

The key to your problem..."

Not now, Bredon, old lad. Mustn't like overdo it.

Let's have another go tomorrow. How about...

Giving the new boy the benefit of your wisdom, Mr Ingleby?

I don't know about that, Mr Pym, but he's very promising.

Good, good.

And are you finding work hard, Bredon?

It's a little bit difficult till you get the hang of it. A bit bewildering.

It'll come in time.

Finding your way round, getting to know your colleagues?

- Some of them, sir. - You'll meet them later.

It's my custom to give a tea party for the department once a month.

- You, of course, are invited. - Oh.

Well, if you'll excuse me, sir, I must be on my way.

- Good night, Bredon. - Good night, Ingleby. Thanks for your help.

He seems to think you have the makings of a good copywriter.

Which is just as well, under the circumstances.

Yes.

What have you discovered?

Well, not a great deal, so far.

But perhaps...

..perhaps you could tell me what that is.

What is it?

I'm not absolutely sure. For now, it's just a series of dates with a letter of the alphabet opposite.

It's probably quite innocent.

Indeed, I am beginning to have second thoughts about the whole business.

I may have been premature in hiring a...private investigator.

Dean's letter could have been quite innocent.

"There are things going on in this office which are very undesirable

and which could lead to serious consequences."

Does that sound innocent to you?

Well...

Especially when his death might have been one of the serious consequences.

I thought you hadn't discovered anything.

I haven't...

except that Dean was murdered.

WIMSEY: Look out!

What the devil...?

I say. I'm most frightfully sorry.

Quite unintentional, I assure you.

I should hope so. You nearly caught me on the side of the head.

It's my fault, really.

Oh, er...Mr Armstrong, this is Mr Bredon,

the new copywriter who joined us last Monday.

Mr Armstrong is one of our copy chiefs.

- Delighted, I'm sure. - Pleased to meet you.

Mr Bredon was showing me how to bowl a googly.

Well, I suppose it's preferable to working.

(Chuckles) Well, it is work, in a manner of speaking.

Tomboy Toffee are embarking on a series of cricket ads.

Miss Meteyard, having struggled with such slogans as:

"Lumme, what a lob!" and "Yah, that's a yorker,"

is now in some difficulty over: "Gosh, it's a googly."

Mr Bredon was demonstrating what a googly was.

Well, be a good chap and demonstrate in a less lethal manner in your office, hm?

Well, I think I've got the idea, anyway.

Oh, splendid.

A bit technical, I'm afraid.

I'm just wondering, though...

Would "golly" be better than "gosh", do you think?

I think that gosh has a certain ring to it.

That's young Dean's scarab. It ought to have been sent back to his sister.

Oh, that?

Yes, I found it in one of the drawers.

I wondered who it belonged to.

Not a bad thing, actually - made of onyx.

It ain't Egyptian, of course.

In fact, it's not even very old.

Perhaps not, but Dean adored it. He thought it was a sure-fire mascot.

He always had it in his waistcoat pocket, or in front of him when he worked.

It seems to have failed him, rather, don't it?

Perhaps if he'd had it on him that day, he wouldn't have tumbled downstairs.

And it's chipped, too.

What sort of a chap was Dean?

Well, er...

De mortuis and all that, but I wasn't exactly keen on him.

- He was rather an unwholesome little beast. - In what way?

I didn't like the people he went around with - the de Momerie crowd.

De Momerie crowd? Well, well, well.

He thought it was smart to be a bright young thing, I suppose.

Still, the de Momerie crowd? Rather vicious young things.

Luckily, he missed the night - the famous night -

when that Punter Smith girl did away with herself.

Pym's could never hold up its head again if one of its staff was involved in a notorious case.

Pym's is particular.

How did he come to be here?

Needed cash, I suppose.

He had to have a job of some sort.

You can't lead the gay life on nothing.

Something wrong?

How you came here is a good deal more interesting than how Victor Dean came here.

They start new copywriters without experience at four quid a week -

about enough to pay for a pair of your shoes.

(Chuckles)

How deceptive appearances can be.

But it's evident, dear lady, that you don't do your shopping in the true West End.

You belong to that section of society that pays for what it buys.

I revere, though I don't imitate you.

However, I'm glad you approve.

They were supplied by Rudge in the arcade,

who, incidentally, have a ladies' department.

I'm beginning to see why you chose advertising as a source of supply.

Thanks for the dope on googlies.

Pleasure.

(Tuts)

Careless, careless, careless, careless.

You nearly gave the game away.

So you've become one of the world's workers, Peter?

I'm pulling down four solid quid a week.

Amazing sensation.

First time I've ever earned a penny.

Every week when I get my pay envelope, I glow with honest pride.

Tell me, how did you get mixed up with this business at Pym's?

Oh, thank you.

I got hauled into it by Freddy Arbuthnot's wife - Rachel Levy who was.

She knows old Pym.

It seems he met her at dinner and told her about this letter that was worrying him.

She said, why didn't he get somebody to investigate it.

She said that she knew somebody, not mentioning my name, you see.

And he said, would she ask me to buzz along?

So I buzzed. And there I am.

And how's the investigation going? Found out anything?

(Chuckles) I certainly have.

I have found out that the truth in advertising is like leaven hid in three measures of meal.

It produces a suitable quantity of gas,

with which to blow out a mass of crude misrepresentations

into a form that the public can swallow.

You will ask these questions, Charles!

There also exists in advertising a delicate but important difference between "with" and "from".

What difference?

Suppose you're advertising lemonade - or not to be too invidious - perry.

Now, if you say that "our perry is made from fresh plucked pears only",

it must be made from pears only or the statement is actionable.

If you say that "it is made from pears" without the "only",

the betting is that it's made chiefly from pears.

But if you say, "with pears",

that generally means you've used a peck of pears to a ton of turnips

and the law cannot touch you.

Such are the niceties of our English tongue.

Fascinating.

Well, from which dissertation, I conclude

that you have discovered absolutely nothing about the matter under investigation.

Patience, Polly. I haven't been at Pym's long, you know.

I think you're wasting your time.

I doubt it.

I told you of Dean's connection with the de Momerie crowd.

- Coincidence. - Do you really think so?

His death could have been an accident.

Here we have a young man who writes a warning letter.

Before he can deliver it, he falls downstairs and is killed.

Is that not a darn suspicious circumstance?

- Yes, we will allow it to be suspicious. - Who saw him die?

"I," said the fly - meaning one Mrs Crump,

who saw the fall from below.

He fell forward, all of a heap, clutching the Times Atlas.

Clutching it in so fierce a grip,

that afterwards it could hardly be prised loose from his fingers.

What does that suggest to you?

Only that death was instantaneous, which it would have been if he'd broken his neck.

I know, I know. But if you are coming downstairs and your foot slips, what happens?

Do you clutch onto whatever you're carrying with a fierce grip?

Or do you chuck it away and try and save yourself by grabbing the banisters?

I should probably grab.

And you, doubting Thomas?

Put it this way.

If the death grip was due to instant rigor mortis,

he must have died so quickly that he couldn't think of saving himself.

Yes, I know what you want me to say, Peter -

that he was sandbagged first and dead before he fell.

Then why don't you say it?

(Door opens) INGLEBY: Is Webster here?

Don't know him, I'm afraid.

However, you have my permission to search.

The priest's hole and hidden staircase are at your service.

Oh, the dictionary.

Having trouble with the crossword?

No, a headline for Good Judge's tobacco.

I say, it's hot in here.

But now, I suppose, we shall be inhaling the dust of ages and hammered out of our senses.

- Why? - The fiat has gone forth.

The iron staircase is condemned by the board.

Oh, rot! They mustn't do that.

Erm...

Well, you know, it's an admission of liability, what?

Time too. You look quite startled.

I was beginning to think you had some personal feeling in the matter.

Oh, good Lord, no. Why should I?

No, it's a matter of principle, that's all.

Except that that staircase does seem to have had its uses in eliminating the unfit.

I gather that the late Victor Dean...

..was not universally beloved.

I don't know about that. I never found any harm in the man...excepting he wasn't exactly pukka.

Hadn't quite imbibed the Pym's spirit, as you may say.

Is that why Miss Meteyard hated him,

and why even you, my dear friend, praise him with faint dams?

She's a reasonable enough sort of woman.

But she makes no allowances.

Live and let live, that's my motto.

No doubt it was Dean's, too, and look what happened to him.

But he didn't quite play fair, you know,

always hanging around other people's rooms and picking up their ideas.

Really! Dash it all, I must say.

Ain't it the done thing to ask other people?

Yes, you take all the help you can get. But...

But what?

If Armstrong, or anyone, starts throwing bouquets around,

you're expected to murmur something about it being the other bird's idea

and you thought well of it yourself.

Oh, I see.

Whereas Dean simply snitched others' ideas and didn't give them the credit.

- Something like that. - The bounder.

I'll remember to be careful.

By the way...

I wouldn't go asking Willis or Copley for too much assistance if I were you.

They weren't brought up to the idea of lending round their lecture notes.

In fact, I wouldn't mention Dean to Willis at all.

Do you say?

Some sort of feeling - don't know what. Thought I'd let you know.

Well, I'm no end obliged.

Dean's name shall never cross my lips in his presence.

Why don't you just mind your own business?

Well, I do hope I haven't said anything to offend you.

- If you're on Dean's game... - What game's that, old lad?

Sorry, but I never knew Dean or had even heard of him till I came here.

Then why bring him up?

Take my advice, leave Dean and his precious friends alone, or you won't be too popular.

That could almost sound like a threat.

The best thing Dean ever did was to fall down that staircase.

Nothing in life became him like the leaving it, eh?

It seems a bit harsh all the same. Somebody must have loved him.

Did he have any family?

There was a sister at least, I understand.

Why the devil do you want to know about his sister?

I mean, I only asked!

You see, if the...

Excuse me, will you?

Miss Dean?

- Mr Bredon? - The same. How do you do?

Come in, won't you?

- Come in. - They told me at Reception to come straight up.

I'm sorry, I didn't know...

Oh, erm...Miss Dean, this is Mr Willis.

- Mr Willis... - We've met.

Yes, I rather thought you might have.

Miss Dean came to collect her brother's things.

- Excuse me. - I say, absolutely zippy idea.

How about honouring me by coming out and having a spot of lunch with me?

- That's very kind of you. - Top hole.

Then we'll come back here afterwards and sort things out.

Willis, would you care to join...?

Oh.

Oh, what a pity.

Well...shall we toddle?

Thank you.

Round to the left.

I really do recommend this place.

They serve the best saddle of mutton in London.

Why did you want to see me, Mr Bredon?

I was rather surprised when I got your letter.

I'm interested in the circumstances surrounding your brother's death.

It was a fairly ordinary accident.

Neither of us thinks it was an accident, Miss Dean,

otherwise you'd never have given to Mr Pym the letter you found in your brother's desk.

I found it when I went to collect his things.

Why did Mr Pym pass it on to you?

Are you a private investigator?

Well, if I am, I'm sure that I can rely upon your discretion.

No, thank you.

Why didn't he take it to the police?

The matter requires a certain amount of subterfuge.

Policemen tend to look like policemen, even when they're pretending not to be policemen.

Something to do with the feet, I'm told.

I, on the other hand, can give a passable imitation of a copywriter.

I see.

Thank you.

Have you found out anything?

Your brother used to tag along with the de Momerie crowd.

Yes.

- Did he dope? - I don't know what you mean.

Oh, yes, you do, Miss Dean.

We both of us know what the de Momerie crowd get up to.

I think he tried it once, but he felt so rotten he didn't do it again.

Dope wasn't the reason he kept up with them.

Then what was?

Dian de Momerie. She was his mistress.

If you'll forgive me, your brother was sinning above his station.

Victor had great ambitions in life. He said they were going to be married.

I doubt it.

From what I've heard of Miss de Momerie,

she would get a kick out of corrupting the bourgeoisie.

She's a bad lot that girl. Have you met her?

Once.

Victor took me along to one of her parties.

He said he wanted me to meet her.

It was just a party.

Hardly worth...

Hardly worth what?

Hardly worth the trouble it caused.

Alec - Alec Willis...quarrelled with Victor because he'd taken me.

Ah, yes. Young Willis.

Silly ass thinks he's in love with me.

I came to know him because Victor brought him to the house occasionally.

I shared a flat with my brother after our parents died.

And he objected to your attending the party?

Pompous prig started lecturing me.

Victor told him to go to hell and...

Well, I think I said something of the sort myself.

Nothing like family unity. How did young Willis take it?

He told Victor that if he persisted in corrupting me - his very words -

he would shoot him like a dog.

Mr Willis seems to think in clich�s.

No doubt that's why he's such a very good advertising copywriter.

Did you find anything else of interest apart from the letter from Mr Pym

- in amongst your brother's effects? - No. No, nothing.

And I searched his desk pretty thoroughly.

There's one item that I think you might have overlooked.

A small carved insect. Made of onyx.

A scarab?

But I couldn't have missed it. I looked particularly.

It was Victor's good luck piece.

Well, it was in plain view in the drawer, I assure you.

- It was almost the only thing in the drawer. - It wasn't there when I looked, I'm positive.

Oh, it's chipped.

- It wasn't the last time you saw it? - No, I'm sure it wasn't.

WIMSEY: How very odd.

A small mystery. Although perhaps not.

PAMELA: You know why it's chipped? - Well, certain thoughts occur to me.

But I'd prefer to keep them to myself for the moment.

We might start trying to find some answers this evening.

Tell me what you know about the de Momerie crowd.

Well, they're always giving wild parties.

Do you know the address of this house in Richmond?

Well, I've been there only once as I said, but...

Never mind. If we get lost we can always ask a policeman.

Well, no. Perhaps not.

- I must be on my way. - I'd like to hold on to this if I may.

- Yes, of course. - Thank you so much for my lunch.

The pleasure was entirely mine.

- You won't forget, will you? - Bulstan's restaurant, eight o'clock.

We have a spot of dinner, then we'll go on to the party from there.

- Don't forget it's fancy dress. - I'll find something absolutely stunning.

(Clatter and footsteps)

Funny, they should all be at lunch.

(Footsteps on stairs)

Mr Bredon, it is highly dangerous to run down that staircase.

- I really must ask you not to do it again. - I'm sorry. Dashed careless of me.

- I'll remember next time. - Please do.

(Sighs)

Oh. Hello, Willis.

Out for a spot of fresh air?

- I say, deuced hot down there, what? - No, I came up for a private word with you.

Oh, well, say away, old lad. Say away.

Leave Miss Dean alone. That's all.

Miss Dean. Oh, yes.

Pretty kid, what?

Now, see here, Bredon. I don't quite know what your game is, but you'd better be careful.

- I told Dean and I'll tell you. - Oh, please do.

If you get Miss Dean mixed up in your dirty business...

- What dirty business is that? - You know what I mean.

Well, perhaps I do.

What happens then? Do I get my neck broken like Victor Dean?

You'll...

You'll get what's coming to you. I'll see to that.

Well, I've no doubt you'll do it all very competently.

Oh, Willis. Just one thing.

Where were you when Victor Dean fell downstairs?

(Door opens and slams shut)

- Ah, Bredon. - Hm?

Tallboy has been looking for you. Some question of your Nutrax copy.

Well, I've just been up on the roof cooling off.

He seemed more than a little cross.

- This infernal heat, I expect. - (Chuckles) Yes.

- Do the office boys go up there often? - What?

To the roof?

They go up to do early-morning physical jerks,

but they better not be there during office hours. Why?

I just wondered. They're a mischievous lot, I expect.

Boys usually are.

What's the name of the red-headed lad? He looks a snappy fella.

- Joe. - Joe. Uh-huh.

Yes, they call him Ginger. What's Ginger been up to?

Nothing. Nothing, nothing. I just wondered.

(Thunder rumbles)

I suppose you must get a lot of cats prowling around this place.

Cats? What do you want a cat for?

I don't. No.

Must be dozens of sparrows, though, mustn't there?

Cats, sparrows!

Bredon, what the devil... ?

Never mind. Must be the heat.

(Thunder rumbles)

(Lightning crashes)

(Sings to herself)

(Sighs)

- Ooh, I'm sorry, sir. - That's all right, Mrs Crump. Come in, come in.

Come and sweep me and my works away with the rest of the rubbish.

I'm sure, sir, there's no need to disturb you.

Oh, it's all right. I've finished, really.

There must be an awful lot for you to clear out of here every day.

Oh, you'd never believe, sir.

And I'm sure paper must be very cheap, the amount they waste.

You'd be surprised at some of the things we pick up.

Yes, I shouldn't wonder.

And mostly chucked on the floor. Hardly ever in the paper basket.

Goodness knows they make them big enough.

Yes, it must be an awful lot of trouble for you.

Oh, no, sir, we don't let it bother us. We just sweeps the lot away.

Though I gives it a look-through

to make sure there's nothing valuable got dropped by mistake.

Once I found two pound notes on Mr Ingleby's floor.

Really? My, my, my.

He's a careless one and no mistake.

And not so long ago, just after poor Mr Dean had his sad accident it was,

I found a kind of carved stone lying downstairs in the corridor.

- In the corridor? - Yes, just under the stairs it was.

Looked like a charm or a trinket or something.

Must have tumbled out the poor gentleman's pocket,

cos I'd often see it on his desk there.

So I brought it upstairs and put it in one of the drawers.

Was that it?

That's it. Comical-looking thing, innit?

It was lying in a dark corner just underneath the staircase.

At first, I thought it was a pebble just like the other one.

Which other one?

I found a little pebble lying in the very same place just a few days before.

Still, it's the time of the year. Holidays, I mean.

People do fill their pockets full of seashells and pebbles and such.

That's very like it, sir.

Did you find that in the corridor?

No.

On the roof.

(Partygoer cries out joyfully)

(Lively chatter and jazz from inside house)

(Cheering from inside house)

Well...

We've certainly come to the right address.

Ready?

There we are.

(Car approaches)