Smallbone Deceased (12 page)

“John's a good chap,” said Bob. “And not nearly such a fool as he makes out. If only he found things a bit more difficult he might have to work a bit harder—which wouldn't do him any harm. It's that fatal charm of his—”

“A charm,” said Bohun, “which Miss Mildmay appears to have been the only person in the office capable of resisting.”

He perpetrated this thundering indiscretion deliberately, turning his back on Bob as he did so. The glass front of the bookcase made a convenient reflector.

The shot went home with surprising effect. On Bob's face, in the fleeting, reflected glimpse which he allowed himself, Bohun saw a look which he had no difficulty in recognizing. Half of it was made up of possession and the other half of apprehension.

A small section of the puzzle fell neatly into its place.

“Why do you say that?” Bob made a perfunctory effort to sound casual.

“Really,” said Bohun. “I'm afraid that was very indiscreet of me. I imagined that it was public knowledge—from the way he discussed it with me.”

“John and Anne—Miss Mildmay.”

“Yes. Apparently she turned him down. It was unforgivable of me. If I hadn't thought that you knew, I should never have mentioned it.”

“No, I didn't know.”

“You'll oblige me very much, then,” said Bohun, “by forgetting all about it.”

“Of course,” said Bob. “Naturally.”

“Liar,” said Henry. But this was to himself, after Bob had left the room.

IV

Mr. Birley, having disposed of Miss Chittering, looked round for fresh conquests. After a moment's thought he rang the bell and summoned Mr. Prince to his presence.

Mr. Prince, who has already flitted vaguely on the outskirts of the story, was an elderly Common Law clerk. He had spent his professional life with the firm of Cockroft, Chasemore and Butt, whom he had served efficiently, and on the whole happily, for forty years. Unfortunately the firm had failed to survive the war and Mr. Prince had found himself thrown on the labour market. Bill Birley had snapped him up gratefully, made full use of him and paid him a good deal less than he was worth. Since Mr. Prince stood in considerable awe of Mr. Birley, and in even greater fear of losing his job, he was a very convenient whipping block. Mr. Birley reduced him to a state of quivering impotence in something less than five minutes, and then clumped downstairs to plague Mr. Waugh, the cashier.

Mr. Waugh had heavier reserves than Mr. Prince, but was at the disadvantage of only having been a fortnight in the firm. It was not long before Mr. Birley had cornered him into admitting several small breaches of the Horniman routine. Using these as his text he proceeded to preach Mr. Waugh a pungent sermon on the virtues of Order and Method.

Mr. Hoffman, who was working at a table in the cashier's room, was a silent spectator. When Mr. Birley had taken himself off he added at the foot of the account he was casting, a note in his meticulous handwriting. It seemed to cause him some amusement.

V

“You seem to be a bit off colour. Miss Mildmay.”

“Yes, Mr. Craine.”

“Not sickening for anything, I hope.”

“I hope not, Mr. Craine.”

“I expect you've been put out by all these unpleasant goings—on in the office. You mustn't let it get you down, you know.”

“No, Mr. Craine.”

“Anyhow. It's obviously nothing to do with you. We shan't begin to suspect a little girl like you of running round committing murders. Ha, ha.”

“I feel like it sometimes,” said Miss Mildmay, moving her chair two feet further to the left.

“Dear me, I expect we all do sometimes. But, seriously, my dear, the thing is not to
worry
.”

“I'm not worrying, Mr. Craine.”

“That's right, then.”

“And, Mr. Craine.”

“Yes.”

“I only mention it in case it has escaped your attention, but that's my hand you've got hold of.”

“Goodness gracious, so it is. Well, now. Dear Sir, We thank you for yours of the fourteenth ultimo enclosing the draft Conveyance as amended and approved, and we are now proceeding to have the same engrossed for execution by his Lordship.”

VI

Mr. Birley felt as Napoleon might have felt after the destruction of a couple of minor European monarchies and a German bishopric. His appetite was sharpened by his victories, and he was contemplating with some pleasure the approach of lunchtime. It occurred to him that there was one more recalcitrant subject to reduce to submission.

He rang the bell and sent for Bohun.

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 Glittering.

“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 fulfill 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 vigor 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 groveling 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 tile. “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. It said:

“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.”

“I think this ought to go straight 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 checks 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 at all.

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.