Smallbone Deceased Page 14

  From the Surrey Constabulary, P.C. Rook of Epsom: 'I went to the house indicated, but was informed that Mr Craine had not yet returned. I said that I would wait. Mr Craine arrived home at eight minutes to nine. When asked why he was so late he said that he had got tired of waiting for his train to proceed from Surbiton where it had been stationary for nearly three-quarters of an hour. He had therefore got out and tried to hire a taxi but without success. That would have been at about seven-fifteen. He had eventually obtained a lift from a commercial traveller as far as Banstead cross-roads and had walked home from there. He considered that the Electricity Board . . .'

  'Miss Bellbas, when interrogated, stated that she had entered a Northern Line train, on the Edgware branch, at Tottenham Court Road station. The train had come to a halt somewhere between Mornington Crescent

  and Camden Town. The carriage was very full, but she had managed to obtain a seat. When the train had been stationary for some considerable period the lady next to her had asked her what she thought would happen if there was a fire. Miss Bellbas had replied that if there was a fire they would all be burnt to death. The lady had thereupon uttered a number of hysterical screams. Fortunately at this point the train had restarted. Miss Bellbas was of the opinion that people who were unable to control themselves should not travel in Underground trains . . .'

  Tt's all too utterly bad to be true,' said Hazlerigg to Bohun. 'The people we aren't really interested in at all—Mrs Porter, Mr Prince, Mr Waugh, and so on, seem to have got home safely and in good time. On the other hand, out of the members of List Two, five seem to have got stuck at unidentifiable spots round the London Transport system and the rest don't seem to have gone home at all.'

  'John Cove and Eric Duxford—' suggested Bohun.

  'Yes, I heard about them,' said Hazlerigg. 'That's almost the only satisfactory aspect of the whole evening. Cove seems to be clear. And there's no doubt at all about Duxford. He's out.'

  If he isn't he soon will be,' said Bohun grimly.

  'What do you—oh, that. Yes. I suppose it was a bit irregular. I can't help his private troubles. Whatever else he's guilty of, he isn't guilty of murder. Not this one, anyway. I only wish we could be as definite about everybody else. You might be interested to hear the score to date. Mr Birley— Left the office at six o'clock. Arrived home in Pimlico at twenty-five past seven. Fifty minutes spent in a crowd on an Underground platform. Mr Craine—Left the office at five to six. Caught the six-fifteen from Waterloo. Arrived home at about ten to nine. Some of his story should be checkable. I'm having an enquiry made at Surbiton station. Bob Horniman didn't go home at all. It seems he never does go home on Tuesdays. It's his landlady's night off. So on that night he eats out.'

  'Well, that should be easy to confirm.'

  'I'll believe it when it happens,' said Hazlerigg. 'Miss Cornel—Had to walk to Charing Cross owing to crowds trying to go by bus. Missed the six-ten for Sevenoaks. Caught the six-forty. Train didn't start till seven-twenty. Reached Sevenoaks at a quarter past eight. Stood all the way and saw no one she knew. Miss Bellbas—You've heard some of that. We might be able to get hold of the hysterical type who sat next to her. Or we might not. People aren't always keen to come forward and admit they made fools of themselves. Miss Mildmay—Left the office at about six-twenty. Waited for twenty minutes in Holborn for a bus, but the buses were all full of disappointed train-goers. Gave it up and walked home to Kensington. Arrived at eight o'clock. That's about the strength of it. And I'll tell you what it all adds up to. It adds up to a hell of a lot more work.'

  Bohun said diffidently: T suppose you've not—er—you haven't overlooked Sergeant Cockerill?'

  'No,' said Hazlerigg. T haven't overlooked Sergeant Cockerill.' He turned over the last of the statements. 'Sergeant Cockerill finished locking up at about twenty-five past six. He saw Miss Chittering and she told him that she had an

  TP

  important engrossment for Mr Birley which had to be completed before she left that night, and offered to lock the outer door for him. He said no, he would come back and lock up the outer door at seven, by which time Miss Chittering hoped she would have finished. Sergeant Cockerill walked round to the Fall of Troy which is a small public house—you may know it—on this side of Fetter Lane

  . Here he spent thirty minutes, drinking gin and warm water and talking to the landlord. At seven o'clock he returned and, happening to meet one of the Inn porters, walked round with him to this office. The rest I think you've heard. . . .' 'And is all that—?'

  'Oh, yes,' said Hazlerigg. 'It's fully corroborated. The landlord of the Fall of Troy and three of his saloon-bar cronies. Completely corroborated.'

  Ill

  Very little legal work was done in the office that morning. Mr Birley appeared to have passed the point where shocks could affect him further. This may even have been providential because he really had got quite a lot to put up with. For a start there was practically a Press siege. The police kept them out of the office itself, but anyone coming or going had the gauntlet to run. John Cove had already told the crime reporter of the Nation a quantity of startling facts about the firm, quite a few of which had got into the Lunch Edition. The Daily Monitor had a picture of Mr Craine standing on the top step with his umbrella grasped sword-like in one hand and his hat over his eye, and Miss Bellbas had given an interview to the Woman's World in which she had attributed everything to the influence of the stars.

  On top of the Press, Mr Birley had other worries. A number of clients had already been on the telephone, needing to be placated. As the Duke of Hornsey had put it, with that penchant for expressing the obvious which had made him a pillar of the Lords for a quarter of a century: 'You know, Birley, you'll have to stop it. There are some things which are not done in a good solicitor's office.' Then there were the police, even more offensive than formerly. And that curious business about Duxford. And the aftermath of bilious indigestion from the postponement of his dinner the night before.

  What with one thing and another Mr Birley found that by twelve o'clock he had had enough. Seizing a moment when most of the journalists were away in search of sandwiches, he had slipped out and made for home.

  IV

  T say,' said Bohun, 'what did happen last night? About Eric Duxford, I mean.'

  If you hadn't been so damned snooty,' said John Cove, 'you could have come along and seen the fun. And fixed yourself up a nice alibi at the same time,' he added.

  'So I could. Pity one doesn't think of things like that at the time. But, tell me, what happened?'

  John told him.

  T see,' said Bohun, 'and what does it amount to?' 'Well—breach of contract.'

  'What contract? Oh, you mean his implied contract of service with Horniman, Birley and Craine?' 'Yes.'

  'Sounds rather a technical offence.'

  'It isn't so damned technical when it comes to pinching clients from this firm and carrying them off to his own outfit and collaring the costs.'

  'Did he do that?'

  'Yes. I thought I recognised some of the initials in that book of his. I expect he offered them reduced fees if he could do the work himself.'

  T see. Are you going to tell Birley?'

  T haven't made my mind up,' said John.

  'You wouldn't object to Birley finding out, I take it, but you don't want the onus of having to tell him?'

  'That's about it. I say, Bohun.' John was suddenly completely serious. 'Who's doing these things?'

  'I don't know.' Bohun got to his feet and looked down at John Cove from his greater height. T don't think anybody knows. But the field is narrowing down a bit, isn't it?'

  V

  Inspector Hazlerigg was saying much the same thing in different words, and at greater length, to the Commissioner.

  'I'm sorry for the girl,' he said. 'That goes without saying. I don't suppose she even knew why she was killed. And I'm sorry that it had to happen right under our noses like that. The papers are bound to take that up—'<
br />
  'They have,' said the Commissioner.

  'I look at it like this, sir. The first murder was a prepared murder. The murderer was able to choose his opportunity and his place as carefully as he liked: and he had plenty of time to work out the angles. There are people with minds like that. The sort of mind that can cope with a double-dummy bridge problem and work out all the variations— you know, if South ducks the third round of trumps when West must put up his queen and throw away a small heart at round six instead of a small diamond.'

  'Hrrmp!' said the Commissioner.

  'But you face the same man with a snap decision in the actual play of the hand: something that's going to mean the difference between making his contract and going down: with everybody watching him and waiting for him to play: that's when expensive mistakes get made.'

  'Well,' said the Commissioner, who was not a bridge player, 'I hope you're right. Because, make no mistake about it, we want this murderer.'

  VI

  The checking of alibis is neither an easy nor a certain business. There are too many unknowns to make it a mathematical process. And even the known facts have a way of varying themselves in the process of verification.

  Sergeant Plumptree visited a large catering establishment at the Wellington Street

  end of the Strand. He had in his pocket a statement by Bob Horniman who, it appeared, had had his evening meal there the night before. T got there at about half-past six,' the statement said, T went into the first dining-room you come to. I can't remember which table I sat at. It was somewhere on the right. I left at about half-past seven.'

  Sergeant Plumptree had some difficulty, to start with, in making up his mind which of the many rooms answered the description of 'the first dining-room you come to'. There were three at almost the same distance from the main entrance. He got on the telephone and spoke to Hazlerigg who had another word with Bob Horniman.

  'It's the one straight ahead,' he reported.

  'There are two straight ahead,' said Sergeant Plumptree.

  'Then check them both,' said Hazlerigg.

  Sergeant Plumptree then interviewed, in turn, a junior floorwalker, who clearly knew nothing, a senior floorwalker, who had something of the look of a rural dean, and finally an attractive woman of about thirty who seemed, despite her youth, to be a senior executive. She proved surprisingly helpful, and organised Sergeant Plumptree's search for him. 'It can't have been the Minervan Room,' she said, 'because that closes when the teas are finished. So it must have been the Arcadian Salon. On the right, you said. Well, there are three or four waitresses who might have served a table on the right. The shift is from midday to eight, so they should be available now.' She rang a number of bells, pressed two coloured buttons on her desk and spoke into a house telephone—presently Sergeant Plumptree was showing a photograph to one thin blonde, one stout blonde, one brunette and one nondescript waitress. None of them recognised it.

  'Perhaps if you could tell me which table . . .?'

  'Well, that's exactly what I can't do,' said Sergeant Plumptree. It had occurred to him previously that it might have been simpler to have brought Bob Horniman along with him, but apparently police etiquette forbade it.

  As he was going the manageress said:

  'I see that this gentleman states that he was at his table for about an hour. I'm sure that the girls would have remembered that. Six-thirty or seven-thirty is a very good time for tips and if anyone sits on for too long after their meal they'll get up to almost any dodge to get rid of them. Why, I've even known them spill a whole pot of hot coffee.'

  The girls were summoned again and the point was put to them. They were all quite certain that the young man in the picture had not sat at any table for which they were responsible for anything like an hour. 'He might have been in and out for a quick snack,' said the thin blonde, summing it up, 'but not an hour.' The other concurred.

  Sergeant Plumptree came away thoughtfully.

  VII

  'I caught the six-forty from Charing Cross,' Miss Cornel had said. 'I had to hurry to do that. Not that I need have worried. It didn't start till about twenty past seven. It was absolutely full, so I had to stand. It's an electric, non-corridor train. You can get a steam train to Sevenoaks. Why didn't I? Because I didn't know it was an electric breakdown, of course. And by the time I'd grasped that, the steam train had gone. Did I speak to anyone in the carriage? I expect so. What did I say? Well, we all said 'Thank God' when the train started. There wasn't anyone in the carriage I knew—none of the regulars. They'd all got away on the earlier train, I expect. The only person I saw to recognise was the ticket collector on duty. I don't know his name, but he's got a face like a duck—'

  Sergeant Plumptree found the ticket collector with surprisingly little difficulty. As soon as he mentioned Miss Cornel's description the stationmaster laughed and said: 'That'll be Field. Face like a duck. That's him. Donald, the other men call him. Donald Duck, you see.'

  Field, who really did look quite startlingly like a duck, picked out Miss Cornel's photograph without any hesitation.

  'She's one of our regulars,' he said. 'Been coming up and down on this line for fifteen years. We get to know our regulars, specially during the war, what with the raids and one thing and another. Very friendly we got. She's a golfer, isn't she?'

  'That's the one,' said Sergeant Plumptree. 'Now can you tell me what time—about what time—I don't mean the exact minute—that she got here last night?'

  'Last night?'

  'Yes—at about twenty to seven.'

  'You know what happened here last night, chum, don't you?'

  'Yes,' said Sergeant Plumptree. He had a sinking feeling that success was going to evade him again.

  'What with one thing and another,' said Field, 'what with the people who was on the trains trying to get off and the people who was off trying to get on, if my own mother had come up to me and spoken to me, I shouldn't have remembered it. And she's been in her grave these ten years and more.'

  Sergeant Plumptree finished a hard day by interrogating the taxi-drivers who ply for hire outside Surbiton station. Here he scored his first positive success.

  Mr Ringer, who owned and drove an ancient Jowett, immediately picked out Mr Craine's photograph from half a dozen others.

  'Stout little party?'

  'That's him,' said Sergeant Plumptree.

  'Came out of the station 'bout quarter past seven. There was a train stopped there—something to do with the current. Had been there more than half an hour. Some of the langwidge the gentlemen were using,' said Mr Ringer virtuously, 'wooder suprised you.'

  'And this person asked you to take him somewhere?'

  'Epsom,' said Mr Ringer. T wooder obliged, but I was waiting for a lady I always pick up. Pity. Offered me a quid. Woody be a lawyer, by any chance?'

  'Well, yes,' said Sergeant Plumptree. 'If this party is the party we think he is, he was certainly a lawyer. How did you know?'

  'Norways tell a lawyer,' said Mr Ringer.

  VIII

  Meanwhile, Inspector Hazlerigg had had two visitors.

  The first was a Miss Pott, of North Finchley. She had been unearthed by a mixture of luck and imagination. Hazlerigg had put in an enquiry with the London Passenger Transport Board on the subject of complaints received as a result of the electricity cut. One of these seemed promisingly near the right time and place.

  'I understand,' he said to Miss Pott, 'that you made a complaint as a result of your experiences last night on one of the Northern Line Underground trains.'

  'That's right,' said Miss Pott, 'and between you and me I'm sorry I ever opened my mouth. I was a bit upset at the time, or I'd never have done it. I can see now it wasn't the railway's fault. I mean, they couldn't help it, could they? It was that awful girl sitting next to me—'

  Hazlerigg slid a photograph in front of her.

  'Yes. That's the one. Every time I said anything, she just agreed with me. I said, "I expect we might be here all
night," and she said, "Yes. We might". Then I said "Supposing the train catches on fire—" '

  'Yes,' said Hazlerigg sympathetically. He felt that Miss Bellbas would probably not be the ideal companion for a long hold-up in a crowded Underground train.

  'What time would it have been when you first got on to the train? About six-fifteen? I see. And when you got off it?'

  'Well, I wasn't home till seven-thirty, and I live almost opposite the station.'

  'Thank you,' said Hazlerigg. He made a note of Miss Pott's address. He had never thought of Miss Bellbas as a terribly likely murderer. But it was nice to be sure.

  When he read the short note which Sergeant Crabbe had written, introducing his next visitor, Hazlerigg experienced a sudden sinking feeling, but before he had time to take any decisive action Herbert Hayman was in the room.

  Herbert was a neat little man. He dressed neatly, and walked neatly, and Hazlerigg did not need to be told his calling.