Smallbone Deceased (19 page)

“I see you haven't grasped the full inwardness of the idea,” said Bohun. “When your valuer went down to Kent to inspect the farm he would naturally get in touch with the owner-arrange an appointment and so on.”

“Of course.”

“Well, the owner of this Stancomb Farm which we now know to be a figment of his own fertile imagination—was Abel Horniman. I've no doubt Abel met him with a car, took charge of him, and showed him round
his own farm.
That's why it was a plan of his own farm—Crook—ham Court Farm—and not a purely imaginary one, that he put on the forged set of deeds. Everything then tied up very neatly.”

A gleam of hope appeared in Mr. Manifold's eye. He pointed to the last deed.

“If that's really a plan of Crookham Court Farm,” he said, “can't we claim that our mortgage covers that farm—whatever it says in the deed?”

“I suppose you might,” said Bohun. “Only it won't do you much good. It's already very heavily mortgaged to the National Provincial Bank.”

“Why didn't you find that out?” said Mr. Manifold. He felt that it was intolerable that he should be able to blame nobody. “Didn't you search at the Land Registry? I take it you made the usual searches.” This was a minutia of the law which he happened to understand, and he got it off his chest with some pride.

“Certainly I searched,” said Mr. Fremlinghouse. “And I found Abel Horniman's mortgage of Crookham Court Farm duly recorded. Why should I worry about that? He was mortgaging Stancomb Farm to you. Of course, it really was Crookham Court Farm, too, but I wasn't to know that.”

Mr. Manifold said something like “Tchah,” and started to tear up a large clean sheet of blotting paper.

“Look here,” said Bohun. “It may not be as bad as it seems. I think there's every chance that the money will be repaid in full.”

The telephone bell rang. Mr. Manifold ignored it for as long as he could, and finally picked up the receiver with a very bad grace.

“What?” he said. “Who? Oh! Wait a minute.” He covered the mouthpiece and turned to Henry. “It's Scotland Yard,” he said. “Chief Inspector Hazlerigg wants you to go round there at once.”

“Tell him I'll be right along,” said Bohun.

As he and John Cove left they saw Mr. Manifold and Mr. Fremlinghouse looking at each other with a wild surmise.

III

“I'm sorry to drag you down here like this,” said Hazlerigg, “but things are moving quite fast and I wanted to hear your story.”

Bohun told it to him.

“It seems easy,” said Hazlerigg. “Ten thousand pounds for one sheet of writing. However, most great frauds look easy.”

“I don't think,” said Bohun, “that anyone except an expert conveyancer who also happened to be right on the spot, like Abel, could have pulled it off. Take one thing—supposing the valuer had been a local man who knew the property. That would have blown it sky high. I expect you'll find that Abel knew the Husbandmen employed a London valuer. He may even have known him personally. That would have made it easier still.”

“One thing puzzles me,” said Hazlerigg. “According to you he laid the foundations of this fraud as long ago as 1938. Did he know about the angina then?”

“Probably not,” said Bohun. “He knew he was running short of cash, though. One of the real beauties of this method was that it was reversible. So long as he kept up the interest payments he was pretty safe. Then, if things looked up and he could repay the money all he had to do was discharge the mortgage. Then he would get the deeds back. He could burn them if he liked. The Husbandmen got their money. Everybody happy. No questions asked. Really, just like the office boy who steals from the petty cash and hopes to make it up next week on the pools.”

“They're all the same,” said Hazlerigg. “However, that part of the business is reasonably clear now. Thanks to your efforts,” he added generously. “Here's what must have happened. Smallbone got to hear of Stancomb Farm, and something—we shall never know what—led him to suspect its nonexistence. On February 17th—that was Friday—he went down to make sure. We ought to have paid more attention to that remark he made to his landlady: ‘If I find what I'm looking for, that'll be the beginning of great things.” The nasty little man already saw a
cause célèbre,
dirty washing galore, himself perhaps in the witness box. Well, he found what he was looking for—or he didn't find it, which amounted to the same thing. He came back that same night to his rooms and the next day—”

“Yes,” said Bohun. “How did he spend the next fortnight?”

“He spent the next week attending a sale of china and pottery at Lyme Regis. That's one of the items of information that's just come in. Ordinary routine. There's no doubt about it, perfect identification. He wasn't hiding or anything. He registered in his own name.”

“And in the intervals between bidding for might—be Ming and dubious Chelsea, he was thinking about how to wring the most enjoyment out of the Horniman scandal?”

“Yes. I think he wrote at least two letters and I think he wrote them to Bob Horniman. He may have known by then that Abel was pretty far gone. Perhaps he didn't want the shock to kill him before he could get him into the dock. That was the sort of way his mind would work. The first letter would set out the facts he had discovered, and ask what the firm intended to do about it. Were they going to pay the money back? (He knew damn well they couldn't.) And even if they did, he was afraid it was his duty to go to the police-criminal proceedings, Larceny Act, etc. etc. Bob thinks this over and writes back making an appointment for the morning of Saturday 27th. Told him he could explain everything.”

“Then,” said Bohun, “I suppose he got busy manufacturing his cheese cutter and clearing out one of the larger deed boxes. By the way, how did Smallbone spend the following week? At a sale of glass at Hemel Hempstead?”

“We don't know yet,” said Hazlerigg. “We shall,” he added with calm conviction.

“I don't doubt it,” said Bohun, who was beginning to have a healthy respect for the results of routine. “What happened next?”

“Smallbone acknowledged Bob Horniman's answer and confirmed the appointment. Hoped what Bob had to tell him would be satisfactory. That was the letter we found, of course. It was written to Bob's private address. That's why it didn't go through the office filing system.”

“Written to Bob?”

“Yes, it took a committee of typists to point out to me the difference between a letter starting ‘Dear Horniman,' and ‘Dear Mr. Horniman.'”

“And Bob had it in his pocket and dropped it at the office?”

“Something like that. This is only the rough outline. We'll fill in the details later. On Saturday morning, Marcus Smallbone comes up to Lincoln's Inn at twelve-fifteen, as arranged. Bob is alone by that time. He tries argument. Quite futile. So it has to be the other thing. Into the box with the body. Chuck away the key. Sit tight.”

“It would need a bit of nerve that last bit. Sitting tight, I mean.”

“Yes,” said Hazlerigg. “You ought to read his citation,” he added inconsequently. “Did you know he got a D.S.C.? It was quite a good one. He got it on Arctic convoy.”

Bohun thought about this for a bit and then said: “Have you got any direct proof?”

“You don't often get direct proof of murder,” said Hazlerigg mildly. “We're beginning to get quite a lot of indirect proof. It's starting to add up. That's all I can say. The time of that second murder for instance. Three or four people haven't got a firm alibi for the half-hour that matters. But Bob Horniman, so far as I know, is the only person who's troubled to offer us a false one.”

“You're sure of that?”

“Morally certain. I'm prepared to put every single waitress in the restaurant he says he went to that night into the box to swear they've never set eyes on him. We've done a lot of hard work on that bit.”

“Anything else?”

“One other thing to date. According to his story he and Miss Mildmay were in the office that Saturday morning together until after twelve o'clock. Say they were mistaken. Say they left at five to twelve. We wouldn't quarrel over ten or fifteen minutes. But how do you explain the fact that a client rang your firm up three times at
eleven
o'clock and got no answer?”

“H'm! What's your explanation?”

“I don't have to explain it. Bob Horniman has to do that. But let's suppose he got rid of Miss Mildmay almost at once-said there was no work for her—asked her to keep her mouth shut about it, though, afterward. And supposing he was busy himself. He had to get rid of a lot of books and papers.”

“Yes,” said Bohun. He had just remembered something. He had remembered the way Anne Mildmay had looked at Bob Horniman, after the office party, on his first evening with the firm. That was ten days ago. It seemed a lot longer. It seemed …

Quite suddenly he got to his feet.

“If you don't want me for anything else at the moment,” he said, “I'll be off.”

“Can I get you a taxi?”

“No, thank you,” said Bohun. “I'll walk.”

“Quite sure?”

“Thank you. I'll be all right.”

“Well, I'll ring you up if anything transpires. And you might keep in touch with me.”

“All right,” said Bohun. He went out quickly.

Hazlerigg watched him go and there was a thoughtful look in his grey eyes.

Bohun walked all the way home.

It had come to him quite suddenly: the monstrous idea that Bob Horniman really was a murderer and that he really was going to pay for it: was going to have his arms strapped to his side and a hood put over his head: was going to be made to stand on a chalked “T” on a trap; was going to have his neck snapped by the deadfall of his own descending weight. Up to that moment he had been intrigued by the machinery of detection and had not cared to look beyond it.

Now he felt quite sick.

It was not that he knew Bob very well. He could hardly be described as a friend. But they had been at school together. And Bob had done well in the war, and had always shown himself very friendly to Bohun; and he was Bohun's sort of person.

“If only he had stopped after the first one,” said Bohun. “That could have been forgiven. Not by the law perhaps—the law took an absurdly narrow-minded view of the sanctity of creatures like Marcus Smallbone—but by his friends. None of them would have moved a step in his detection. But to kill the pathetically stupid and harmless Miss Chittering. From motives of self-preservation—”

“I wouldn't step under that bus, sir,” said the policeman at the Aldwych corner. “Not while it's actually moving. Fatal accidents, very upsetting to the schedule.”

“I'm sorry, constable. I wasn't looking.” Bohun proceeded more circumspectly, past the Law Courts and up Bell Yard. Another thought had occulted to him. What would
his
position have been as a partner, if Bob had completed the recently proposed deal? Suppose Bob had transferred his share in the partnership to him and removed himself quietly to a farm in Cornwall before anything had come to light. The demand from the Husbandmen for their June installment of interest would, he imagined, have been the match which would finally have set off the powder keg. Suppose Bob had already extricated himself by that time?

“The man's a crook,” said Bohun firmly. “Sympathy's wasted on him. He's also a particularly cold-blooded murderer.” A further installment of awful thoughts. Was there not one person who, if their theories were correct, held Bob in the hollow of her hand? Anne Mildmay. They didn't want to get back to the office
on
Monday morning and find that Anne had gone the same way as Miss Chittering.

Bohun, now back in his room, thought for a moment of ringing up Hazlerigg. Then he decided that this was a thing which he could settle for himself, with a little cooperation. There was at least one trustworthy ally at hand. He sought out Miss Cornel.

There was not much time for finesse.

“You're pretty good friends with Anne Mildmay, aren't you?” he said.

Miss Cornel looked faintly surprised, but confined herself to saying: “Yes.”

“Good. Could you possibly have her to stay with you this weekend?”

“Friday night to Sunday night?”

“That should cover it.”

“I could ask her,” said Miss Cornel. “No, wait a minute. It's my Saturday morning on duty.”

“We're not opening tomorrow morning,” said Henry. “I heard Mr. Craine saying so.”

“The firm's going downhill,” said Miss Cornel. “I suppose it's no use asking what this is all about?”

“I'd much rather you didn't,” said Henry. “Just for forty-eight hours.”

Miss Cornel looked at him shrewdly.

“I see,” she said. “It's like that, is it? All right, I'll do what I can. Maybe she'll have plans of her own, though.”

“Try and persuade her,” said Bohun. “Yes, Charlie. What is it?”

“Mr. Craine wants you, sir, right away.”

“All right.”

He found Mr. Craine reading a letter. The little man was as near worried as Bohun had ever seen him.

“We may need you yourself almost more than your money,” he said.

“What's happened, sir?”

“Birley's quit,” said Mr. Craine. “Here you are. It's all in this letter. Lock, stock and barrel. He's not even claiming his share in the equity.”

“What happens now?” said Bohun.

He felt a little dazed. He had a feeling that the next time he opened his eyes the Duchy of Lancaster would have taken over the firm.

“His share reverts, I imagine, to the other partners,” said Mr. Craine slowly. “You'll be getting more for your money, that's all.”

“I see,” said Henry. “Well, I ought to be in a position to let you have an answer one way or the other by Monday.”