Murder Must Advertise by Dorothy L. Sayers

though somewhat lacking in incident. But let us not complain. We can't expect battle, murder and sudden death more than once a week or so. By the way, where were you when Victor Dean fell downstairs?”
    “In the lavatory,” said Willis, shortly.
    “Were you, indeed?” Bredon looked at him once more attentively. “In the lavatory? You interest me strangely.”

    The atmosphere of the copy-department was much less strained by tea-time. Messrs. Brotherhood had been and gone, having seen nothing to shock their sense of propriety; Mr. Jollop, mellowed by his lunch, had passed three large poster designs with almost reckless readiness and was now with Mr. Pym, being almost persuaded to increase his appropriation for the autumn campaign. The suffering Mr. Armstrong, released from attendance on Mr. Jollop, had taken himself away to visit his dentist. Mr. Tallboy, coming in to purchase a stamp from Miss Rossiter for his private correspondence, announced with delight that the Nutrax half-double had gone to the printer's.
    “Is that ' KITTLE CATTLE '?” asked Ingleby. “You surprise me. I thought we should have trouble with it.”
    “I believe we did,” said Tallboy. “Was it Scotch, and would people know what it meant? Would it suggest that we were calling women cows? And wasn't the sketch a little modernistic? But Armstrong got it shoved through somehow. May I drop this in your 'Out' basket, Miss Rossiter?”
    “Serpently,” replied the lady, with gracious humour, presenting the basket to receive the latter. “All billy-doos receive our prompt attention and are immediately forwarded to their destination by the quickest and surest route.”
    “Let's see,” said Garrett. “I bet it's to a lady, and him [Pg 63] a married man, too! No, you don't, Tallboy, you old devil–stand still, will you? Tell us who it is, Miss Rossiter.”
    “K. Smith, Esq.,” said Miss Rossiter. “You lose your bet.”
    “What a swizz! But I expect it's all camouflage. I suspect Tallboy of keeping a harem somewhere. You can't trust these handsome blue-eyed men.”
    “Shut up, Garrett. I never,” said Mr. Tallboy, extricating himself from Garrett's grasp and giving him a playful punch in the wind, “in my life, met with such a bunch of buttinskis as you are in this department. Nothing is sacred to you, not even a man's business correspondence.”
    “How should anything be sacred to an advertiser?” demanded Ingleby, helping himself to four lumps of sugar. “We spend our whole time asking intimate questions of perfect strangers and it naturally blunts our finer feelings. 'Mother! has your Child Learnt Regular Habits?' 'Are you Troubled with Fullness after Eating?' 'Are you satisfied about your Drains?' 'Are you Sure that your Toilet-Paper is Germ-free?' 'Your most Intimate Friends dare not Ask you this question.' 'Do you Suffer from Superfluous Hair?' 'Do you Like them to Look at your Hands?' 'Do you ever ask yourself about Body-Odour?' 'If anything Happened to You, would your Loved Ones be Safe?' 'Why Spend so much Time in the Kitchen?' 'You think that Carpet is Clean–but is it?' 'Are you a Martyr to Dandruff?' Upon my soul, I sometimes wonder why the long-suffering public doesn't rise up and slay us.”
    “They don't know of our existence,” said Garrett. “They all think advertisements write themselves. When I tell people I'm in advertising, they always ask whether I design posters–they never think about the copy.”
    “They think the manufacturer does it himself,” said Ingleby.
    “They ought to see some of the suggestions the manufacturer does put up when he tries his hand at it.”
    “I wish they could.” Ingleby grinned. “That reminds me. You know that idiotic thing Darling's put out the other [Pg 64] day–the air-cushion for travellers with a doll that fits into the middle and sits up holding an ' ENGAGED ' label?”
    “What for?” asked Bredon.
    “Well, the idea is, that you plank the cushion down in the railway