Smallbone Deceased Read online

  Henry was on the point of going home to his own lunch at Mrs Magoli's, but good-naturedly took off his coat again and followed Miss Chittering.

  'You want to look out,' she said. 'He's in an awful temper.'

  'Indeed,' said Henry.

  Mr Birley opened fire as soon as the enemy was inside the door.

  'Now, look here, Bohun,' he said. 'There's something I've been meaning to say to you. We pay you to attend to our business. I've no doubt you do very good work—at all events I've no information to the contrary—but I can't have you spending so much of your time talking to that policeman. Anything that must be said, go along after office hours to Scotland Yard, or wherever it may be, and say it there. You understand.'

  'Perfectly.'

  'Well, then—'

  'I mean that I understand perfectly,' explained Henry. 'Whether I shall take any notice of your advice is, of course, a separate question.'

  For a moment Mr Birley was almost bereft of the power of speech. Then he recovered sufficiently to say: 'If I understood that as insolent I should have no alternative but to have you dismissed.'

  'I have no doubt you would,' said Henry pleasantly. 'Only I doubt if you have the power. I understand that you need the consent of both your other partners before employing or dismissing anybody. It says so in your partnership articles, so I expect it's correct. If you think that you can persuade Mr Craine and Mr Horniman to support you, then no doubt it would be worth trying.'

  'I—'

  'But there's one thing I must warn you about. If you did succeed in dismissing me frivolously—out of mere temper, I mean, and not for professional incompetence or inattention to duty—then I should put the whole case in writing before the Law Society.'

  This time Mr Birley really was speechless. Henry resumed, even more pleasantly: 'In any case, since you pay me the lowest possible salary for a qualified man, I can't see that I should be much worse off if I did have to go. Mind you, I don't want to leave. I like it here. It isn't every solicitor's office which has an undetected murderer working in it. Why, it's even possible that he may repeat his performance.' Pausing at the door he added thoughtfully: 'He might even pick a more suitable victim this time.'

  VII

  And so, after a thoroughly unsatisfactory and irritating morning, the various components of the firm departed for their lunches: Mr Birley and Mr Craine to their clubs, Bob Horniman and Eric Duxford to the dining-room of the Law Society. John Cove to the less exclusive canteen of the same. Henry Bohun to his home. Mr Prince and Mr Waugh to a subterranean and cavernous restaurant attached to the Law Courts. Miss Cornel and Miss Mildmay to an A.B.C., and Miss Bellbas and Mrs Porter to a Lyons. Sergeant Cockerill and Charlie ate sandwiches in the basement and Miss Chittering, who was on duty at the partners' telephone, stifled the pangs of hunger with a bag of macaroons.

  Comparative silence descended on the offices of Horniman, Birley and Craine.

  It was later that afternoon, in the secretaries' room, that a scene took place which was not without importance in the scheme of things. And it is sobering to reflect that the fact that it took place, and the far-reaching results which sprang from it, were directly attributable to feminine vanity.

  Miss Chittering decided that the small wooden mirror screwed to the back of the door, was badly placed to fulfil the functions for which it was designed.

  'It's absurd,' she said, 'to put a mirror where no light falls on it at all.'

  'I suppose it is,' said Miss Cornel. 'It's always been there, though,' she added, as if this was a conclusive argument in a legal office.

  'Anyway,' said Anne, 'it isn't as if any of us were such ravishing beauties that we always wanted to be looking at our faces.'

  The use of the first person plural did little to soften the aspersion. Miss Chittering flushed slightly and said: 'If we've got a mirror we might as well put it somewhere where it's going to be some use.'

  'Why not put it up beside the window,' said Miss Bellbas, who usually dropped in about that time for her afternoon cup of tea.

  'Well, it's all the same to me,' said Miss Cornel. 'Only someone will have to unscrew it first. If you're so keen on the idea nip down and get hold of Sergeant Cockerill.'

  'Why bother the sergeant,' said Miss Chittering. 'It's only two tiny little screws. Look, I've got a pair of nail scissors. I'll use the tip of the—oh!'

  'Bang goes one pair of nail scissors,' said Miss Cornel complacently. 'You know, you might just as well fetch the sergeant.'

  'Is there anything I can do?' said Bohun, poking his head giraffe-like over the partition.

  'Cissie's broken her scissors trying to undo those screws,' said Miss Mildmay. 'The general idea is to move the looking-glass from behind the door to over there, beside the window.'

  'The task,' said Bohun, 'should not be beyond our combined resources. Has anyone got a large nail-file?'

  'So long as you don't break it,' said Miss Mildmay.

  'I promise to temper vigour with discretion,' said Henry. Using the butt-end he soon had the screws undone. 'Now, if I may use your scissors, for a moment, Miss Chittering.'

  'Well, you can't make them much worse.'

  'Thank you.' Bohun soon had two small holes bored in the woodwork beside the window, and he was on the point of inserting the screws when one of the inner doors opened and Mr Craine poked his head out. 'Oh, Bohun. I rang on the office phone for you, but I thought you must be out. I just wanted to check that address.'

  'So sorry,' said Bohun. He deposited everything into the hands of Miss Cornel and followed Mr Craine into his office.

  'Just like men,' said Miss Cornel. 'Begin a job and leave it in the middle.' She steadied the glass against the wall with one hand, grasped the nail-file in the other, put the screws in her mouth, and hooked a deed box into position with one foot. Having made these necessary preparations, she climbed on to the deed box, spat out one screw into her hand, placed it in the hole Bohun had made, and proceeded to line it up with as much concentration as if it had been a putt on the eighteenth green.

  At this exceedingly critical moment the bell just above her head rang loudly twice, with the natural result that she dropped everything.

  'Heavens, that's me,' said Miss Chittering.

  'Thank goodness the glass hasn't broken,' said Miss Bellbas.

  'What are you up to now?' said Bohun, reappearing.

  'Devil take those screws,' said Miss Cornel. She was grovelling on her knees behind the deed box. 'I've got one of them. The other seems to have rolled . . .' She scanned the wainscoting for some yards and finally gave a cry of triumph. 'Yes, there it is, it's got under my desk.' She poked with the nail-file. 'It's no good. I can't quite get at it. It's lucky you're back, Mr Bohun. Could you just lift the corner of the desk—'

  'I suppose, sometime, I shall be allowed to do some of my own . . . ' began Bohun. The words died.

  He found himself staring, and Miss Cornel, Miss Mildmay and Miss Bellbas stared with him.

  There was a very uncomfortable silence, which Bohun broke by saying:

  'If I lift a little higher, could one of you pull it out carefully?'

  Miss Cornel bent forward, and edged out, very gingerly, the whole of a sheet of notepaper. The only part which had been visible before had been the cramped, characteristic signature: 'Marcus Smallbone.'

  'The dead,' said Miss Bellbas, with compelling simplicity, 'have spoken.'

  'Nonsense,' said Miss Cornel angrily. 'It may have been written months ago—years even.'

  'It doesn't look very old,' said Miss Mildmay.

  'Well, there's one thing about it,' said Miss Cornel, with the assurance of a Horniman expert. 'It never came to this office—not in the ordinary way. Look—it hasn't been numbered or stamped—it hasn't even been punched for filing.'

  The letter was on a single sheet of cream bond notepaper, with the address, 20 Wellingboro' Road, embossed in heavy black letter printing. It was typewritten and undated.

  '
Dear Mr Horniman. I just write to confirm our arrangement. I will be at the office at 12.15 on Saturday. I hope that what you will have to tell me will be satisfactory.'

  It was signed, without any suffix: 'Marcus Smallbone.'

  T think this ought to go straight in to the inspector,' said Henry. 'Perhaps one of you would like to come along with me and explain about how it was found.'

  Inspector Hazlerigg read the letter without comment.

  Then he handed it over to Gissel. 'Let's have two or three handsome life-size portraits,' he said, 'and dust it over, of course, just in case. Then let Brinkman have it for the signature. I'll give him some cancelled cheques to compare it against. Oh, and you might send Plumptree out to Belsize Park to get hold of a few sheets of Smallbone's notepaper.'

  He then listened to Miss Bellbas's account of the discovery, and disappointed that lady bitterly by asking her no questions.

  However, he said 'Thank you' politely when she had finished and held the door open for her in, Miss Bellbas considered, a very gentlemanly way indeed.

  It was later that evening, when the staff had all gone, that Hazlerigg took Bohun with him to inspect the scene of the discovery.

  'First,' he said, 'just explain the lay-out once again. Who sits where? This desk, by the door, I suppose is Miss Mildmay's?'

  'A fair deduction,' said Bohun. 'Being the last-comer she gets the draughtiest place for her desk. Under the window— that's Miss Chittering's. A good seat in summer but a bit draughty now. The big desk in the middle is Miss Cornel's.'

  The inspector made some quick measurements with a spring tape and jotted the figures down. His grey eyes passed coldly from point to point and finally came to rest on the long shelf which ran along the full length of the back of the room. There was an inch of space between the back of the shelf and the wall.

  'Any paper,' said the inspector, 'which slipped off the back of that shelf, ought to finish up in the right place. Let's try it.' He stood on a chair, and Bohun handed him three sheets of the firm's notepaper. 'They're not quite as stiff as Smallbone's stuff,' he said. 'But here goes.' Two of the pieces fluttered down on to Miss Cornel's desk. The third stayed close to the wall and planed away out of sight behind the desk. It came to rest, half upright, against the wainscoting.

  'Not too good,' said Bohun. 'The one we found was lying flat, and almost under the front of the desk.'

  'Supposing it had blown off Miss Chittering's desk,' said the inspector. 'It was on that side, wasn't it?'

  'It might,' said Bohun. 'It's an awfully long glide, though, isn't it? More than ten feet. It would have had to be a deuce of a wind to blow it that distance.'

  'I agree,' said the inspector. He sat on the edge of the desk, swinging his leg and thinking.

  'Did you notice anything odd about the letter?' he said.

  'No,' said Bohun, 'except, as Miss Cornel noticed, that it hadn't been filed or marked. Was there anything?'

  'Didn't you think,' said the inspector, 'that the signature was a bit high up the paper? It had the effect of cramping the rest of the letter.'

  'The spacing of the lines of type did look a bit amateur,' agreed Bohun. 'But then, I don't suppose Smallbone was much of a typist.'

  'No. I don't suppose he was. There was another thing, though. Did you look at the top left-hand corner of the paper?'

  'No,' said Bohun. 'Not particularly. What should I have seen?'

  'Two pin-holes,' said the inspector. 'A very important clue. I'm surprised you overlooked it.'

  Bohun would have been hard put to it to say whether the inspector was serious or not.

  Chapter Nine

  TUESDAY

  A Matter of Execution

  It often happens that Servants sent on messages are apt to stay out somewhat longer than the message requires—When you return, the Master storms, the Lady scolds; stripping, cudgelling and turning off is the Word. But here you ought to be provided with a set of excuses, enough to serve on all occasions. For Instance—a Brother-Servant that borrowed money of you when he was out of place, was running away to Ireland: You were taking leave of an old fellow servant, who was shipping for Barbados: You were taking leave of a dear cousin, who is to be hanged next Saturday.

  —SWIFT: Directions to Servants.

  Tuesday morning passed off quietly.

  There was prolonged debate in the secretaries' room covering the following subjects: When did the mysterious letter arrive in the office? Who could have received it? Why had no one seen it before? And lastly, and most intriguing, how had it come to be under Miss Cornel's desk?

  None of these questions received any very conclusive answer.

  Hazlerigg, who had learned by experience that it was better to take things in their proper order, had suspended all consideration of the letter until he should have received the reports of his handwriting and finger-print experts. Instead, he was sitting in his own office at Scotland Yard, considering the weekend roster. He had in front of him eight statements. He read them through once, and then again.

  Pulling the telephone towards him with a sort of gesture of despair, he dialled a number and spoke to Dr Bland. The pathologist proved so rude that Hazlerigg knew he was working unusually hard on the case. He rang off and returned to a third reading of the papers.

  'On Saturday, February 13th,' he said to Inspector

  Pickup, who happened to wander into his room at that moment, 'Mr Birley and Miss Chittering were at the office. Mr Birley says that Miss Chittering left at about twelve o'clock, and that he left a few minutes afterwards. Miss Chittering, interrogated separately, says that she left at about ten minutes to twelve. She does not know when Mr Birley left. On Saturday, February 20th, Mr Duxford was on duty with Miss Cornel. Mr Duxford thinks that he left at about eleven-thirty or a quarter to twelve. He says Miss Cornel left a few minutes before him. Miss Cornel says that she does not know what time she left, but she caught the eleven-fifty for Sevenoaks. on Saturday February 27th, Mr Horniman (junior) and Miss Mildmay were on duty. They state that they left at the same time—about ten past twelve— and walked together as far as Holborn Circus, a matter of about ten minutes, whence they took their respective ways home. Finally, we have Saturday, March 6th, when Mr Craine and Miss Bellbas spent the morning together. Mr Craine says that he thinks they finished work at about a quarter to twelve. He cannot remember which of them left first. Miss Bellbas cannot remember either. Mr Craine says that on thinking it over, he is of the opinion that Miss Bellbas left before he did. Miss Bellbas says yes, she thinks so, too. Mr Craine says that on thinking it over again, he recollects that Miss Bellbas was still in the office when he went and must therefore have left after him. Miss Bellbas, re-questioned, says yes, she thinks that's right.'

  'I should think they're all lying,' said Inspector Pickup.

  II

  Bohun spent a quiet morning catching up with some of his arrears of work. He was rather assisted in this by the continued absence of John Cove, who had disappeared at about half-past ten without explanation.

  At midday, however, John reappeared. He was plainly bursting with news and after some minutes spent scribbling on his blotting-pad, he could keep it to himself no longer.

  'Look here,' he said. T think the time has come for me to let you in on something—'

  Bohun made a non-committal sound.

  'It's Eric Duxford,' said John. 'You know what I told you—that he was up to no good—and you said that I hadn't got any proof—well, I have.'

  'You mean,' said Bohun slowly, 'that you've got proof that he was the murderer of Smallbone?'

  'Don't be so meticulous,' said John. 'No. Not exactly. Not in so many words. But I know that he's up to some sort of dirty work. I know that he comes back to this office, at night, after everyone else has gone.'

  'You know what?' said Bohun, considerably startled. 'Where did you get this from?'

  'I don't know who he meets,' said John, evading the last part of the question. 'But I shall know pretty
soon. You see, he's got a meeting tonight. And I intend to be present at it.'

  'Good work,' said Bohun. 'But how—oh, yes, Mrs Porter what is it?'

  'It's this letter, sir, about the insurance. I'm afraid I can't quite read my own shorthand note.'

  Bohun settled Mrs Porter's difficulties, and when she had left the room John said:

  'It's like this. Last Saturday I committed a little burglary.'

  'You committed—dash it, there goes the telephone. I won't be a minute.'

  In fact it took several minutes to dispose of a querulous person from the Public Trustee's Office who was worrying himself into a decline over the absence of one and ninepence from a trust account.

  At the end of it, John said: 'Look here, if I'm going to do justice to this dramatic revelation I insist on going somewhere where we won't be constantly interrupted. Come and have lunch.'

  'All right,' said Bohun. 'Where?'

  'Let's go to the Law Society,' said John. 'There's always such a row in the canteen that no one can hear what anyone else says. We shall be safer there than in a restaurant.'

  'By the way,' said Bohun, as they crossed Carey Street

  and turned into Bell Yard. 'Are you a member of the Society?'

  'In fact, no,' said John. 'But I expect you are, aren't you? That's all right, then. I'll go as your guest.'

  The canteen of the Law Society is not, as John Cove had indicated, a quiet place. At one o'clock it was full of food, light, steam, crosstalk and solicitors. However, it possessed the advantage of having a number of small tables, set in nooks and corners, and to one of these John led the way. Their nearest neighbours were two middle-aged solicitors, one of whom was eating spaghetti and reading a law journal, whilst the other appeared to be amending a draft contract on a diet of fish cakes.

  'This is all right,' said John Cove. 'Now, as I was saying—'

  When he had finished, Bohun said: 'It certainly does seem odd. You say there was a second appointment diary for this year kept locked up in that drawer, and all the appointments in it were in code.'

  'It wasn't exactly a code. Everything was in initials.'