It was closing time at Marriner’s Waxworks. The last two visitors came out in twos and threes through the big glass doors. But Mr Marriner, the boss, sat in his office, talking to a caller, Raymond Hewson. Hewson was a thin man, carefully but poorly dressed. He spoke well but seemed to be losing his fight to do well in the world-
Marriner began to speak, in answer to a question from his visitor. ‘Please don’t think that what you’re asking for is anything new,’ he said. ‘A lot of people ask to stay the night in our Murderers’ Room. We always say no, because it does nothing for us. But you are a writer. Now that’s quite different. We like people to read about us. It helps to bring in more visitors – and more money.
‘That’s just what I thought,’ said Hewson. ‘I knew that you wanted my help.’
Marriner laughed. ‘Oh, I know that you are going to say next. Somebody told me that Madam Tussaud’s give people one hundred pounds to stay the night in their Murderers’ Room. But you mustn’t think that we are as rich as they are.
