Smallbone Deceased (14 page)

“The party,” he said, “is up on the second or third floor. I have not as yet been able to ascertain which office he went into. I thought perhaps you might know.”

“Haven't the least idea,” said John. He found himself whispering too. “It might be almost anything from an abattoir to a den of coiners, mightn't it?”

“It isn't very cheerful,” agreed Mr. Brown. “There's a board here. sir, with the names on. Wait while I strike a match. You can just make them out. Thereco, Makepeace and Holly on the second floor, and Holdfast Investments Limited. Would it be either of those?”

“I've no idea,” said John. “What's wrong with the light?”

“I think it's an electricity cut,” said Mr. Brown. “It went dim about ten minutes ago. Now, on the top floor there's Bannister and Dean, Accountants, and Smith and Selverman, Solicitors.”

“Let's have a look at that,” said John. He, too, struck a match. “Smith and Selverman (H.V. Selverman).” It seemed to strike a chord – yes, of course! Those were the initials in the diary. H.V.S.

“All right,” he said to Mr. Brown. “I think this is it. I haven't the faintest idea what it's all about, but I'm going up to see. You'd better hang around in case there's any violence.”

“I'm not a violent man,” said Mr. Brown doubtfully.

“That's all right,” said John. “I'm quite violent enough for two when I get going. You stay on the stairs so that you can double off and phone for the police if I yell.”

Up on the third floor the gloom was even thicker. Messrs. Bannister and Dean had plainly finished their accounting and shut up shop for the night, but in the offices on the other side of the landing lights still showed.

There were two doors. On one was painted “Smith & Selverman, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths.” The other simply said “Inquiries.” After a moment of hesitation John Cove tried the latter door. It opened. He walked in quickly without knocking.

The only occupant of the room was a sharp-nosed, red haired boy. His hands and cuffs were black with copying ink, but from a white face looked out a pair of remarkably intelligent eyes. He did not seem to be surprised, either by the lateness of John's arrival or the unceremonious nature of his entry. Indeed, he looked a difficult sort of boy to surprise.

“Weil, mister, what is it?” he said.

“I've got an appointment,” said John.

“Which of 'em are you seeing?”

John was visited by an inspiration. “I'm seeing Mr. Duxford,” he said.

“All right,” said the boy. “Wasser name?”

“Mr. Robertson, of Robertson, Robertson, Levi and Robertson.”

“You'll have to wait. There's someone in with him.”

“It's all the same to me,” said John. He sat down on a chair and crossed his legs. “Mr. Duxford very busy these days?”

“So, so,” said the boy. “Of course, he isn't here always—he's got his other businesses.”

“Of course,” said John. “One of the world's workers, our Mr. Duxford. Come to think of it, you know, I don't think I will wait. Perhaps I'll come sometime when he's less busy.” A bell sounded.

“Please yourself,” said the boy. “He's just finishing.”

“As a matter of fact,” said John, “I fancy I've found out all I wanted to know. Good night to you, sir. Give my best wishes to Mr. Duxford. Tell him Mr. Cove called, but was unable to wait,” He backed out, leaving the boy staring.

IV

Back in New Square, in the offices of Horniman, Birley and Craine, Miss Chittering typed doggedly. She ought to have told Mr. Birley that she
couldn't possibly
complete the engrossment that night. She should have said that eleven o'clock the next morning was the earliest that it could be ready. But the truth was that few people had the courage to say things like that to Mr. Birley, Miss Chittering least of all.

Therefore, though the clock on the Inn Chapel had, some time ago, struck the half-hour past six; though the electric light had gone suddenly and unaccountably dim; though her eyes watered and her wrists ached. Miss Chittering continued to type.

Outside, in the dusk, the Square emptied and grew quiet. The office cleaners came and went. The porter locked the Carey Street gate and retired to light the lanterns which hang in festoons from the chains under the library arch. The red post-office vans rolled into the Square and clip-clopped out again, heavy with the correspondence of fifty offices.

As it grew darker, Chancery, the one-eared black cat, moved from his hiding place in New Court Passage and drifted silently across the roadway on to the grass plot in the centre of the Square. He had long had his eye on a particularly stupid pigeon which roosted in the plane tree at the south end of the garden. He had noticed that lately it had formed a habit of making its evening toilet perched on the lowest branch of the tree. Chancery had given a good deal of thought to the possibilities of this situation.

In the office Miss Chittering looked at her watch. Sergeant Cockerill, she knew, was coming back to lock up at seven o'clock. She had only one more page to do. She should be able to manage.

The office and the street outside the Square were all silent. The light was so dim that she found on looking up that she could hardly read the names on the deed boxes which stood, black rank on black rank, at the far end of the room.

Quite suddenly Miss Chittering felt frightened.

It was quiet. Yet, she knew her ears had not deceived her, a soft foot had moved in the passage outside. For a moment she sat paralysed, her muscles refusing to obey the panic-stricken messages from her brain. Then, wrenching herself to her feet, quietly but with desperate speed, she flew across the room. The door had a slip lock and it was the work of a moment to thumb down the catch.

Then she stood in the dim light, her heart bumping uncomfortably. She told herself not to be a fool. She forced herself to listen calmly. There wasn't a sound. It was all her imagination.

Then something really rather horrible did happen.

In front of her eyes, and only a few inches away, the handle of the Yale lock started to turn, softly, checked at the catch, and turned as silently back again.

Miss Chittering had suddenly no doubts at all. Murder stood outside in the passage. Yet, even in that moment, her overmastering feeling was more curiosity than fear. There was a chair beside the door. She stepped up on to it, steadied herself for a moment, and peered out, through the dusty fanlight, into the passage.

What she saw brought an almost hysterical cackle of relief to her lips.

“Heavens,” she said. “It's you! You did give me a fright.”

Stepping down from her chair she slipped up the catch and opened the door.

V

Seven o'clock was striking as Sergeant Cockerill turned into Lincoln's Inn from Chancery Lane. Outside Stone Buildings he encountered an old friend, one of the porters of the Inn.

“Good evening, Mr. Mason,” said the sergeant.

“Good evening, Sergeant. Working for your overtime?”

“Just going to lock up. One of our girls staying late.”

“I'll walk across with you, Mr. Cockerill,” said Mason. “How's the fuchsias?”

“It's early to tell,” said the sergeant. “They look healthy enough. It's not too late for a last frost, though. A late frost could take them all off.”

“We shan't have any more frost now.”

“With a Government like this one,” said Sergeant Cockerill, “you could expect a frost in August.” They stopped in front of the office. There was no light showing and both the inner doors seemed to be shut.

“I expect she's gone,” said the sergeant. “Better make sure. You never know with girls nowadays. Probably left the fire on.” He disappeared.

Mason was about to move on when something caught his eye. Something white in the dusk.

“Why, bless my soul, if that cat hasn't got one of the pigeons.”

He stopped and prodded with the butt end of his staff at the darkness under the plane tree. Chancery swore at him, then backed a few reluctant paces into the tangled safety of a laurustinus. The front of the flower bed was a mess of grey and white feathers.

“Cunning old devil,” said Mason. “If he hasn't clawed that bird too much I might see what the missus can make of it. It's off the ration, and that's something these days.”

As he was stooping down he heard a cry. It came from the building behind him. Then silence. Then footsteps running. It was Sergeant Cockerill and Mason, startled, saw that his face was white.

“What is it?” he said. “What's up?”

“Have you got a telephone in your lodge?”

“Yes, what—”

“Come on. No time to lose. Got to get the police.”

He set off at a lumbering trot and Mason, after a moment's hesitation, followed him.

Chancery crept cautiously from his retreat under the laurustinus and retrieved the pigeon.

Chapter Ten

… Wednesday …

DE MINIMIS NON CURAT LEX

It sometimes happens that a valid requisition on title receives an evasive reply, viz.: “This is a matter of record” or “This should be within the Purchaser's own knowledge” or “The Purchaser must search.” Such an answer must never be accepted without further enquiry.

Up to that point, Bohun realized, it had been just possible – not easy, but just barely possible – to treat the affair impersonally: to regard the discovery of Mr. Smallbone's body as a problem; an affair which could intrigue and puzzle without directly affecting.

Now it was different. The discovery of Miss Chittering, her sightless eyes protruding, her lips drawn up in a parody of agony, her neck indented with the deep mark of the wire noose which had killed her; that had changed things, for good.

Looking at their faces next morning, Bohun saw this very clearly.

From now onward, until the matter was ended, one way or the other, they were never going to trust each other again, because they were never going to be quite certain.

II

The news had reached Hazlerigg within five minutes of the discovery of the body.

A lesser man would have departed at once for the scene of the crime. Instead, after a short moment of thought, Hazlerigg pulled up the office phone and started to give orders. As a result of which, three county police forces received urgent requests for cooperation; two North London squad cars were stopped on patrol and diverted to new destinations; and several members of the Metropolitan Force spent an active evening.

“With the least luck in the world,” said Hazlerigg to Sergeant Crabbe, “we should be able to alibi half of them clean out of it this time. It looks as if six-thirty to seven is the important time. All virtuous office workers are home by seven.”

“They
should
have been home,” agreed Sergeant Crabbe, who was a notorious pessimist. “Things don't always work out the way they should do.”

How tiresomely right he was became apparent the next morning, by which time the reports had come in. Hazlerigg read them through quickly, said something unkind on the subject of the Electricity Board, and then read them through again.

The first one was typical.

“At approximately seven-twenty I arrived at the address which had been indicated to me, in St. George's Square, Pimlico,” it said, in that stilted manner which is encouraged in police reports, no doubt with the idea that they will sound more convincing when read out in court. “I was informed by a lady whose name I afterward understood to be Miss Birley, that her brother, Mr. Birley, had not yet returned home. I asked if this was unusual, and Miss Birley said that it was most unusual. She said that her brother was normally home by a quarter to seven, and would always telephone if he was going to be late. As I was interrogating Miss Birley, Mr. Birley arrived. He seemed surprised to see me and appeared to be considerably upset and was in an excited condition. He stated that owing to an alleged electricity cut he had been forced to wait for fifty-two minutes on the platform of Charing Cross Underground station. Such a thing had never happened to him before. After waiting approximately twenty minutes he had tried to get out and take a bus, but the crowd had been so dense that he had been unable to move. He stated that in his opinion the Government—”

From the Surrey Constabulary, P.C. Rook of Epson: “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 crossroads 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 burned 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—”

“It'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 inquiry 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 traingoers. 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: “I suppose you've not—er—you haven't overlooked Sergeant Cockerill.”

“No,” said Hazlerigg. “I 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 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 arid 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.”

III

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 swordlike 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 die 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 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

“I 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.

“I 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 offense.”

“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 recognized some of the initials in that book of his. I expect he offered them reduced fees if he could do the work himself.”

“I see. Are you going to tell Birley?”

“I 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. “I 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—”

“They have,” said the Commissioner.

“Nevertheless, sir. I can't be wholly sorry it's happened. Because I think it means that now we shall be pretty certain to catch the murderer.”

“How do you make that out?” 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 then 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. “I got there at about half-past six,” the statement said, “I 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.