Stay of Execution

by Michael Gilbert

  Mr. Beeding was an extremely methodical man. Attention to detail was one of the keys to his success. Planning ahead was another.

  A simple solution would be to sack Mr. Henry. But there were arguments against that. To start with he was a very experienced litigation clerk. And if he was sacked, he would start making wild accusations. And however wild an accusation might be, in Mr. Beeding’s experience, if it was repeated often enough people would start believing it.

  His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a door slamming, followed by a scuffle of feet down the passage.

  Mr. Beeding got up and opened his own door.

  “Come in here,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”

  Mr. Henry shambled in and sat down, uninvited, in the chair beside the desk.

  “Have you been drinking all afternoon?”

  “I’ve been with an official of the court.”

  “Drinking?”

  “We might have had a drink or two.”

  “I’m afraid it’s got to stop.”

  Mr. Henry looked at him. The firelight gleamed on Mr. Beeding’s round, polished glasses. His face was smooth and composed. The mouth pursed up in a tight smile which hid the teeth. It was a face carefully composed to conceal the thoughts behind it.

  “Why the hell should I stop?” said Mr. Henry suddenly. “If I want a drink, I’ll have it.”

  “You can drink yourself to perdition. But you’ll do it in your own time. Not in the firm’s.”

  Mr. Henry leaned forward in his chair. He seemed to be trying to penetrate the screen to see what lay behind the rosy light which hid Mr. Beeding’s eyes.

  He said, “I’ll take no orders from you.”

  “In that case, I presume you’ll be leaving us.”

  “No. You’re not sacking me, either.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Beeding. “That will produce rather a difficult situation, won’t it? Why should I agree to having you here if you’re not going to do what you are told?”

  “I’ll tell you why,” said Mr. Henry. “It’s because I stayed here late one night, about four months ago.”

  Mr. Beeding shifted in his chair. If Mr. Henry had chanced to be looking, he could have seen into his eyes, now.

  “It’s not a thick wall between your room and mine. I heard someone come in through that door,” he indicated the private door which led from the office direct to the street. “I wondered who could be visiting you after office hours and I soon found out. She didn’t trouble to keep her voice down.”

  “It was a lady, then?”

  “It was Janine Mann. And she was asking for money.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Beeding. He had moved again and the red light was back in his eyes. “Indeed. And did I let her have any?”

  “Not there and then. You told her to come down that night to your house at Staines. You said you’d let her have two hundred pounds in cash. You told her it’d be the last payment she’d get. And,” said Mr. Henry gently, “it was the last, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Mr. Beeding, “that I understand you.”

  “You understand me all right,” said Mr. Henry. “But if you want it plain, I’ll give it to you plain. Janine Mann came in here asking for money and, from what I heard, it wasn’t the first time either. You said, ‘I haven’t got any money here’ – which was a bloody lie, because there was nearly seven hundred pounds in there.” He indicated the green and gold door of the big wall safe, almost a small strong-room, behind the desk. “I’d put it there myself that morning. However, we’ll pass that up. You told her she could have two hundred pounds if she came down to your house that evening, which happens to be the evening she was found, dead, in her car.”

  “In Harry Gordon’s back yard. With a bullet from Gordon’s pistol in her.”

  “Oh, it came out very nice for you in the end.”

  “It seems to me,” said Mr. Beeding, “that you must have been telling yourself some story about all this. Some story which involves me. Suppose you allow me to hear it.”

  As he spoke, he shifted, very slightly, in his chair. If Mr. Henry had been watching him closely, he might have noticed it. It was the sort of controlled premeditated move which a domestic cat makes as it works into position for the pounce.

  Mr. Henry said, “It’s plain enough. She had something on you. And it’s not hard to guess what it was. Because I’ve been looking at the Stewart Barker papers. You pinched our office file, but you forgot there’s a second set of papers over in the Court. And I was talking to one of their men about it this afternoon. Curious case, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t remember it particularly. You must remind me.”

  “She wasn’t getting anywhere – not until she produced this letter – on Stewart Barker’s notepaper – typed in his office – with what looked like his signature on the bottom of it.”

  “And are you suggesting that Janine typed that letter herself? And forged his signature? Rather an elaborate plot for a young girl to have thought out, surely.”

  “I don’t suppose she thought it out for herself,” said Mr. Henry. “My idea was that you put her up to it, and won her case for her, so that you could get – whatever it was you wanted. Which was very nice for you. For a time. Only you hadn’t thought things out quite as clearly as she had. Because what you hadn’t realised was that it put you in her power, not her in yours. Any time she chose to open her pretty little mouth she could land you up to your neck in the dirt. All she had to say was, ‘I was only a girl. He told me what to do. I didn’t realise how wrong it was.’ People might have been sorry for her – but they wouldn’t have been sorry for you. Not on your life, they wouldn’t. What a lovely blow-up. What a gorgeous meal for the papers. Middle-aged solicitor seduces girl client. Forgery and fraud. Law Society acts. It’d have been as good as a Cup Final.”

  “I see. And I shot her, that night, at my house, to prevent her squeezing any further money out of me?”

  “That’s about it,” said Mr. Henry. “It was a bit of luck for you she had her boyfriend’s gun with her. Maybe that’s what put you in mind to drop her back in his yard. Mind you, I don’t expect you to admit any of this.”

  “Oh, but I do,” said Mr. Beeding. “You’re absolutely right. That’s almost exactly what happened. Except that the actual shooting was an accident. The gun went off when I was trying to get it away from her.”

  Mr. Henry looked up sharply. He seemed to become aware of the stillness in the office. It was silent in the square outside, too. The last car had driven away; no more voices, no more footsteps on the pavement; a very few scattered lights in the windows opposite. For the first time, the idea of danger penetrated Mr. Henry’s drink-dulled brain.

  “Why are you telling me this?” He pulled himself out of the chair, and swayed to his feet. Mr. Beeding had moved, too, and was standing beside him.

  “I’m telling you,” he said, “because I’m sure that you’ll respect the confidence.”

  Mr. Henry said, “Certainly.” And it was all that he had time to say, for Mr. Beading’s hand whipped round from behind him, grasping a heavy, black cylindrical ruler. He hit Mr. Henry once, on the side of the forehead. The sound was like billiard balls, kissing gently. Mr. Henry folded forward on to his knees.

  Moving with surprising speed, Mr. Beeding got round behind the old man and, clasping his arms around his chest, half carried, half dragged him to the tall safe. Holding the limp body in the crook of his left arm, and supporting it with his knee. Mr. Beeding lifted the flaccid right hand and clasped it round the big brass handle. Keeping Mr. Henry’s hand carefully under his own, he turned and pulled. The door opened.

  There were shelves on each side, stacked with documents, and at the back a number of locked drawers. In the middle there was just enough clear space for a man to stand upright.

  Mr. Henry had started groaning softly and shaking his head.

  Mr. Beeding hoisted him forward, until his feet were inside
the threshold, then he released him, stepped back, and slammed the door shut. Using the ruler, he tapped the brass handle, very gently, until he felt it engage.

  “It was horrible,” said Bridget. “He was dead. I never liked him, but I was nearly sick when I heard.”

  They were sitting in Mr. Harbord’s room and, Mr. Harbord having departed on one of his rare, official errands, they were alone.

  She looked so white and shaken that Harry felt an absurd impulse to stroke her on the side of the neck, as if she had been a frightened horse. He resisted the impulse.

  “No wonder it upset you,” he said. “Was the safe shut?”

  “I don’t think so. At least – not properly. They seem to think it was an accident.”

  “The police think that?”

  “Yes. At least, that’s what Mr. Beeding told us.”

  “He did, did he?” said Harry. There was a problem which had to be tackled sooner or later. He said, “Do you think we ought to let Mr. Beeding in on this? He is my solicitor. He ought to be on my side.” He could feel her resistance to the idea. “Or don’t you think that’s a good idea?”

  “I don’t know,” she said unhappily.

  “You don’t like him, do you?”

  “He’s all right. He’s perfectly easy to work for, I mean.”

  “He doesn’t ask you to take dictation sitting on his knee?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “The point is,” said Harry, “do we trust him, or don’t we? You know him a lot better than I do. That’s why I’m asking you.”

  “It’s that file. The one that disappeared.”

  “Do you think Beeding took it?”

  “Either it’s a coincidence – if so it’s a pretty big coincidence—or else, well, I mean—who else could it have been? He and Mr. Henry were the only two people who could have had any interest in it. They were the only two who were in the office when the Stewart Barker case was on. The rest of us are all new. Anyway, why should a typist or a post room boy bother to steal a seven-year-old file?”

  As she was talking, Harry was watching her face. He thought, she’s got brains as well. She is a nice girl.

  “It’s a thought,” he said. “But I don’t quite see where it gets us. What you’ll have to do is keep your eyes and ears wide open. I’m sure there is a connection between the two cases. I’ve felt it all along. But I’m damned if I can see just what it is.”

  “According to our pathologist’s report,” said Superintendent Lacey, “he didn’t die of suffocation. He died of shock. If he’d kept his head, there was enough air in the strong-room to have lasted him until morning.”

  “What a thousand pities,” said Mr. Beeding. “Have you any idea how – any further evidence to show what actually happened?”

  “He could have come in to put away some papers. The door slammed shut behind him. That could shift the handle. It was only barely engaged. Enough to stop him opening the door, though. You’ve no idea what time he came back?”

  “The whole thing’s a mystery,” said Mr. Beeding. “He went over to the Courts at about half past eleven. He had an appointment in front of the Master. It shouldn’t have taken him more than fifteen minutes. But no one saw him come back to the office. He certainly hadn’t got back by the time I left, which was well after six.”

  “We know how he spent some of that time,” said the superintendent. “His stomach was still full of whisky. Did you know that he drank?”

  “I’m afraid so. Yes.”

  “Wasn’t it a little dangerous – keeping an employee like that?”

  “It’s only very recently that it’s got bad. As a matter of fact, I’d made my mind up to talk to him about it. Is it important—now?”

  “It could have been one of the subsidiary causes of death. If he came in so full of drink he didn’t know what he was doing – blundered about in that strong-room . . . There was quite a bruise on his forehead. It looks as if he fell forward – tripped over one of those boxes on the floor, perhaps – and hit his head.”

  “But surely if—?” Mr. Beeding stopped, got up abruptly and walked across to the window.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I was going to say, I don’t suppose we shall ever know exactly what happened.”

  “Probably not,” said the superintendent politely.

  “By the way,” he added, “on quite a different topic. We’ve found some property of yours. If you’d like to come round to Cannon Row and sign for it you can have it.”

  “Of mine?”

  “Unless there’s another Alfred Beeding in the Law List?”

  “What sort of property?”

  “It’s a silver cigarette box. With your name in it. A gift from a grateful client?”

  “Good heavens! Where on earth did it turn up?”

  “At a pawnbroker’s. An honest one, luckily. He was a bit suspicious about the customer who handed it in, along with some other items. Thought he recognised him as a man with a record. So he gave us details of the stuff.”

  “I’ll certainly be glad to get it back.”

  “Did you report the loss, sir?”

  “It disappeared from my desk in this room about a month ago. I didn’t wish to cast suspicion on either my staff or my clients, so I kept quiet about it. Not now, Miss Avery. We’re busy.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Bridget. “I thought the superintendent had gone.”

  “I’m just going,” said Superintendent Lacey. “And thank you for being so helpful.”

  “It’s a lie,” said Bridget. “A complete, absolute, downright lie.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Mr. Harbord.

  “He said that this silver cigarette box was stolen from the desk in his office – and that he didn’t say anything about it because he didn’t want to upset his staff and his clients. All lies.”

  Harry said, “Calm down, Bridget. Take a deep breath. Explain.”

  “First, he never had a silver cigarette box in the office – not in the last two years.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m his secretary. I ought to know.”

  “Right.”

  “And if he had had one, and it had been stolen, he’d have raised the roof. Good heavens, I remember about six months ago, when a fiver disappeared from the petty cash float, we practically had to turn our pockets out.”

  “The important point,” said Mr. Harbord, “is not that he’s lying. Lots of people do that. The important point is, why is he lying?”

  “He’s worried about something.”

  “Mr. Henry?”

  “No, before that. He’s been worried for months. And more than worried. He’s scared.”

  “If we knew what he was scared of,” said Harry, “I believe we might be getting somewhere.”

  “He could be telling the truth,” said Superintendent Lacey to Anderson, the Assistant Commissioner. “It could all have happened exactly as he said. We’ve traced Henry’s movements. He’d been drinking at the Law Courts Bar at lunchtime, and after that in a private club. He must have had half to three-quarters of a bottle of whisky inside him by the time he got back to the office. He could have wanted to put something away in the safe – he and Beeding both had keys – and the door could have slammed shut. He might have got into a panic and stumbled forward and hit his head. The shock and the blow could easily have stopped his heart.”

  “Yes?” said the Assistant Commissioner.

  “We fingerprinted the safe handle. There are old prints of Beeding’s and a thumbprint of his secretary. But quite clearly superimposed on all of them – and obviously the newest – is a perfect set of prints from Henry’s right hand. Thumb and all four fingers.”

  “And yet,” said the Assistant Commissioner, “you don’t seem very happy about it.”

  “It was a tiny thing, sir. But it occurred to me that if Henry had gone into the strong-room – either to put something away or take something out – wouldn’t he have turned the light on?”
r />   “Is there a light?”

  “Oh yes, sir. The switch is just outside the door.”

  “And the light wasn’t on when he was found?”

  “Apparently not, sir.”

  “Someone might have turned it off afterwards. The cleaner?”

  “They might,” agreed Superintendent Lacey. “And it wasn’t really the fact of the light being off that was odd. What was strange was that Beeding suddenly thought of it himself – it was when I was talking about Mr. Henry tripping over something on the floor. He started to say, ‘but surely, if the light was on, he’d have seen it?’ Something like that, anyway. Then he suddenly changed his mind and turned it, rather clumsily, into something else.”

  The Assistant Commissioner considered the matter. He respected Lacey’s instinct, but it hardly sounded like concrete evidence of wrong-doing.

  “Anything on the Harry Gordon case?”

  “We’ve had an enormous number of reports from people who’ve seen him in different places, from Gretna Green to the Isle of Wight. We check ‘em if they look at all promising.” The superintendent chuckled. “There’s one I meant to show you. It was from a middle-aged lady with a rather eccentric style of writing. Apparently she sat next to him on two occasions in the public gallery of the Law Courts.”

  The Assistant Commissioner laughed too. “He hasn’t got very far, has he then? Could there be any connection?”

  “Connection between what, sir?”

  “The two cases – Harry Gordon and Mr. Henry.”

  The superintendent was used to eccentric suggestions from his chief, but he felt that this one went a bit far.

  “How could there be, sir?”

  “Beeding’s a common factor. He was Gordon’s solicitor, wasn’t he?”

  “He was, sir. But even so—”

  “I know. It’s mad. All the same – would you leave the files on both cases here for an hour. I’ll browse through them. Something might strike me.”

  “I’ll have them sent up straightaway,” said the superintendent, and made his escape.

  Ten minutes later the Assistant Commissioner suddenly stopped turning the papers in the folder which dealt with the death of Mr. Henry. What he was reading was a report from Detective Sergeant Knight, who had been looking into the question of how Mr. Henry had spent the last afternoon of his life. Enquiries had led the sergeant to a senior employee of the Royal Courts of Justice, who had admitted drinking with Mr. Henry both at lunchtime and afterwards in a private club. The employee’s name was Harbord.