Be Shot For Six Pence Read Free Page A

fool.”
    “What do you suggest I do?”
    “Come back here, of course.”
    “Penny,” I said. “You’re not trying. I told you. Remember? I’m not coming back.”
    “Well come out from behind that terrible Club so that I can get hold of you.”
    “One of the reasons men belong to Clubs is to protect them from people like you.”
    “That bloody porter. When I ring up now he sounds just as if he thought I was a tart.”
    “Well—” I said, diplomatically.
    The slam of the receiver going back nearly deafened me.
    I retired to the morning room and opened The Times. There was no need to hurry. If Douglas wanted me for anything he could ring me.
    The first thing I saw was the advertisement. It was at the top of the Personal Column and it said: “Attention, Philip. If you want to know the inner story, go to Twickenham and see Henry. Colin.”
    It was for all the world as if one of the figures in Madame Tussauds had stepped smartly from its dais, raised its head, and addressed me by name.
    I sat for a few minutes, staring at it, in an idiotic way as if I hoped the letters might themselves say something. I even cast my eye down the column to see if there might be anything further addressed to me; but this was the only one.
    “Attention, Philip—”
    I went over to the rack where the back numbers were stored. It was in Monday’s paper too. I must have been too pre-occupied to notice it. Monday was the first time though. I went back through several weeks to make sure of that.
    Then I put on my hat and went out quickly.
    The commissionaire in the glass hutch at the top of the stairs asked me, with all the courtesy for which this great newspaper is famous, if I would be good enough to wait. He showed me into a cubicle which had the air of an exceptionally well-appointed confessional, and said that Mr. Satterley would be along soon.
    In due course Mr. Satterley appeared. He was tiny. Smaller even than me and I am no size at all. A humming bird of a man. Neat, bright and poised.
    “You came about an announcement in our Personal Column,” he said.
    “That’s right, it’s one which appeared today. Yesterday too, I believe.”
    I took out the copy of the paper and showed it to him.
    Mr. Satterley said, “And you are interested in Axminster carpets?”
    “Not that one. The one before. The first one in the column.”
    “Oh, yes?”
    “I wondered if you could tell me anything about it.”
    “There is not usually a great deal to tell,” said Mr. Satterley, politely. “We usually accept such—er—announcements, by post. Provided that they seem to us to be genuine, and not objectionable in any way – you’d be surprised how often they contain a ‘double entendre’ – we really become quite expert at spotting them.”
    “I don’t think this one is a leg-pull,” I said.
    “No. No. It certainly seemed genuine.”
    We didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.
    Nevertheless it seemed to me that Mr. Satterley was stalling. He had not said, right out, as he easily could have done, “ This announcement was sent by post.” I felt that the time had come to abandon finesse.
    “Do you know anything about the person who put this one in?”
    “I’m afraid,” said Mr. Satterley, “that I must ask you a question in return. What is your interest in the matter?”
    “I can answer that without any difficulty. I have every reason to suppose that I am the Philip to whom the message is addressed and, if I am right about that it was put in by Colin Studd-Thompson.”
    “Studd-Thompson. Yes.”
    “Did he come here with it himself?”
    “Yes, he did.” Mr. Satterley looked at me over his glasses and added, “I knew Mr. Studd-Thompson very well, of course.”
    I nodded. I was aware of Colin’s connection with The Times . One of his uncles, or maybe great uncles, had been a distinguished foreign editor.
    “He instructed me that if anyone came to inquire about the advertisement, claiming to be the Philip to whom it was