'And when do you leave?'
'That all depends on what my programme is,' said John frankly. 'I have been away as early as half-past eleven. But it's usually a bit later than that. Say midday.'
'And does the typist get away at the same time, or later?'
'Usually about the same time. Earlier if anything. There's not much for her to do really. She takes a note of any telephone calls, and she might have to type a couple of letters. The man who's on duty on Saturday is supposed to read everything that comes in, and deal with anything absolutely urgent. So far as I'm concerned I usually decide it can wait over till Monday.'
'Well, now, what do we get out of all that?' said Hazlerigg, when the door had shut behind John Cove.
'It looks,' said Bohun diffidently, 'as if the scheme would work out quite well for a man, but it would be very risky for a woman. I mean, for instance, Mr Birley could easily have arranged an appointment with Smallbone for midday. At a quarter to twelve he would tell the typist that there was nothing more to be done, and that she could depart—a hint she would be happy enough to take, I expect. This would give him an absolutely safe forty-five minutes, or perhaps an hour, before Sergeant Cockerill came back to lock up.'
'Yes, I think that's fair enough. Or if he wanted to avoid suspicion altogether he could leave the office at the same time as the girl—he could easily slip back again as soon as the coast was clear.'
'But if one of the girls was planning the job'—Bohun considered the idea—'it wouldn't be impossible, but the risks would be bigger. She'd have to take a chance on the man leaving early, and then come back herself. Besides, could she get Smallbone to the office at the time she wanted him—?'
'There's nothing much in that,' said Hazlerigg. 'She'd only have to telephone him and pretend to be speaking on behalf of one of the partners. "Mr Birley wants to see you at the office. Would twelve o'clock on Saturday be possible?" That sort of thing. She'd have to accept the risk that he might check back on the appointment.'
Hazlerigg leaned back again, and treated himself to another bout of swivelling. It was a lovely chair.
'There's one thing we get out of this weekend business,' he said at last. 'I don't know whether you've spotted it, but I think it explains the rather curious method of concealing the body. What puzzled me before about this choice of hiding-place was this—that the body was certain to be discovered in the end. It was a fair chance that it might be several weeks before anyone opened any individual deed box. From that point of view the particular box was rather well chosen, for as I understand it, the Ichabod Stokes Trust was a matter in which Abel Horniman did most of the work himself and, as he was ill, it was the least likely to be disturbed. We can see now that all the murderer was concerned with was that the body should not come to light too soon. It had to stay hidden just long enough to make it uncertain which weekend was the fatal one.'
Ill
'Excuse me, Inspector.' 'Of course. Come in.'
'You wanted to know at once if I found anything at all. . . .' 'Certainly.'
'It's only a small thing.'
Mr Hoffman held in his hand two receipts.
'I found them among some miscellaneous papers belonging to Abel Horniman.'
Hazlerigg read the first. 'Dear Mr Horniman, I write to thank you for your cheque £15 0s. 0d. which arrived safely today and very welcome. Thanking you once again for your great kindness and hoping you are keeping well. Ada Groot (Mrs).' The second was in similar terms and was signed by Clarissa Holding.
'What about them?'
'Three things,' said Mr Hoffman primly. 'First I can't find any record of any client of the name of Groot or Holding. And it ought to be easy to locate any client, with the system they've got here. Secondly, I can't find any record in the books of these particular payments having been made. Thirdly—well, look at the date. March 29th. The receipt says: "Your cheque which arrived today." So it must have been posted on March 28th.'
'You mean—?'
'I mean,' said Mr Hoffman slowly, 'that Abel Horniman died on March 15th.'
'Yes,' said Hazlerigg. 'That's quite a point. What's your idea? Do you think they are faked receipts? Cover for some payment that was never made?'
'I should require more positive evidence before committing myself to a definite assertion—'
'And a very proper Civil Service reply,' said Hazlerigg. 'However, there's one place we might look for corroboration, if you haven't done so already.' He led the way out into the secretaries' office. 'All these secretaries keep address books. Try Miss Cornel's.'
One theory fell to the ground at once. Both Mrs Groot and Miss Holding were in the book.
'They both live at Sevenoaks. The same street, too,' said Hazlerigg thoughtfully. 'Sevenoaks. Now isn't that where— yes, of course it is. Miss Cornel herself has a habitation at Sevenoaks. Is that only the arm of coincidence or is it something more sinister? We will send Sergeant Plumptree down there. Get hold of Mr Cove, Hoffman, and find out Miss Cornel's address.'
Mr Cove, who was busy in his office, managed to disengage his attention from his six-away forecasts long enough to oblige with Miss Cornel's address.
Inspector Hazlerigg telephoned Sergeant Plumptree with a fresh set of instructions, and went back to Scotland Yard in the hope of securing a few moments' conversation with Dr Bland. In one of the basement rooms—the one used by Mr Prince, the litigation clerk, Mr Hoffman made a final note in his meticulous handwriting, cast a couple of columns of figures and then re-cast them absent-mindedly, closed the books and went home to a vegetarian lunch.
Mr Gissel finished with the last volume of the reported cases from the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council and straightened his aching back. He thought that it was all very probably a waste of time, but it didn't do to leave anything undone. He had once hanged a man by finding a single strand of wool caught in the join of a lavatory seat.
In his room John Cove listened to these sounds of diminishing activity. Twelve had struck some time ago from the Temple Church and Mrs Porter had long been dismissed to her flat and her husband at Bow. At last he got to his feet and set out on a careful tour of the offices. It was as he had thought. They were empty. John consulted his watch again.
Sergeant Cockerill, he knew, would be back at any time between half-past twelve and a quarter to one. He had, therefore, twenty minutes. With rather a malicious smile on his face he made his way into the room next to his own—the one normally occupied by Eric Duxford.
Once inside he slipped the catch and started to search. In deference to what he had observed of Mr Gissel's methods he took the trouble to put on a pair of wash-leather gloves and wore them throughout the proceedings.
A knowledge of Horniman routine saved him a certain amount of trouble, and he paid only nominal attention to the card index, the neat rows of folders and the stack of black deed boxes.
'It's the desk or nothing,' said John to himself, and without more ado he sat himself down in Eric's chair and started to pull open the drawers. The bottom ones on either side of the knee-hole contained the usual jetsam of a lawyer's office —old appointment diaries, prints of the National Conditions of Sale, apportionment tables, a paper-knife (put out as an advertisement by an enterprising Law stationer), a carton of saccharine tablets, several sets of auction particulars, a small box of legal seals, a number of rubber bands and the endless lengths of red tape which coil, Laocoon-like, through the pigeon-holes of any solicitor's desk.
Only one drawer was locked: the one in the top left-hand corner: and finding this circumstance suspicious, John immediately devoted his whole attention to it. Like Sergeant Cockerill, he was of the opinion that opening locks with bent pieces of wire was an operation confined almost entirely to fiction. First, therefore, he tried all his own keys in the lock, only stopping when he had nearly jammed one of them on the pivot. 'And it wouldn't look too good if I had to leave half a key broken off in the lock,' he reflected. 'I think perhaps the time has come for some brute f
orce and bloody ignorance.' He examined the office fire-irons with an eye to their felonious possibilities, but finally left the room and went downstairs, bringing back with him a strong spade used by Sergeant Cockerill for shovelling coke.
He inserted the steel end, which fortunately had worn both flat and thin, into the space between the top of the desk and the drawer, and leaned downwards on the handle. The result was excellent. There was a sharp crack and the whole of the top of the desk came up three inches. Keeping his weight on the spade John used one hand to slip the drawer open under its now ineffective lock.
The only thing in the drawer was a book, which he saw, when he'd taken it out, was an appointment diary for that year. This didn't seem very promising and John was on the point of putting it back when a further idea occurred to him. He searched round among the papers on Eric Duxford's desk and presently unearthed another similar diary. This second one was clearly used for ordinary office appointments. John looked through it quickly, recognising the names of several clients.
'Then what the hell's the other one?' said John. He picked it up carefully and walked over to the window. At first sight it seemed very similar. Times were noted on various days in the weeks just gone by, only here, instead of names, were sets of initials. H.V.S. cropped up in most of the entries. Against February 20th was 'H.V.S. and self to see C.P.G.', and later, 'H.V.S. to see M.L. I am to see him next Tuesday if possible.' John turned the page to next Tuesday which was, in fact, the Tuesday of the previous week. Sure enough, against 3 p.m. was the entry, 'M.L. re 20 H.G.' The only other notable point about the entries was that a lot of them seemed to be rather late at night; 8 p.m. and 9 p.m. were favourite times.
'Damned suspicious,' said John. 'Obviously comes back here after everyone else has gone.' He slipped the book into the drawer and withdrew the spade. The top settled back quite comfortably. John cleaned off the marks as well as he could.
'I wonder,' he said to himself, 'if I ought to tell the inspector about this. Rather a pity to spoil the fun. I can always tell him later if it turns out to be serious. Better put this spade away before Cockerill comes back.'
As he left the office he noticed that the time was a quarter to one.
IV
Scotland Yard, like the British Army, is fond of its weekends. But once war has been declared even Sundays are apt to go by the board. Sergeant Plumptree caught the two o'clock train from Charing Cross and, after a leisurely progress, arrived at Tubs Hill, Sevenoaks, shortly before three. It was a warm afternoon, with April beginning to relent towards May, and enthusiasts were already out for a net on the Vine cricket ground.
A lot of Sergeant Plumptree's troubles would never have occurred if he had managed to secure the proper address of either of the ladies he was visiting. The receipts unearthed by Mr Hoffman had both said 'Styleman Road
, Sevenoaks'. No number in either case. Sergeant Plumptree debated for a moment the advisability of going to the police station and looking at the householders' list, but then thought better of it. After all, he reflected, Groot and Holding weren't terribly common names. Also he was in plain clothes, and if he went to the police station it would mean presenting his credentials and giving a long account of what he was up to: also, whilst Styleman Road
was conveniently close to the railway the police station was uphill and at the other end of the town; also it was a hot day.
Fortunately, Styleman Road
was not a very long thoroughfare—one large house at the near end, and about fifteen small houses on either side. Sergeant Plumptree selected one of these at random and knocked. The door was flung open at once by a lady of indeterminate age. Her light yellow hair was cut in a page-boy bob, and she was wearing a smock.
'Oh, I beg your pardon,' said Sergeant Plumptree, with well-simulated surprise. 'My fault entirely. I thought this was Mrs Groot's house.'
'That's right,' said the lady.
'Oh, I see. What a bit of luck.' Sergeant Plumptree wished that thirty-to-one chances came off as frequently on the race course.
'Are you Mrs Groot?'
'That's right.'
'I wonder if I might have a word with you.' 'Yes.'
'Shall we go inside. It's rather a confidential matter.'
'Very well,' said the lady. 'Come into the parlour and be confidential in there.'
She led the way into the front room, folded up on to the edge of a chair, and planted her hands, in a masculine manner, on her knees. Since she had not invited him to sit, Sergeant Plumptree, who was punctilious in these matters, remained standing.
'I wonder,' he began, 'if you could help us. We are enquiring about a Mr Smallbone—'
'Oh, yes.' Either she had never heard the name or was a fine natural poker player.
'I don't suppose you've heard of him?'
'Oh yes, I have,' said the lady. 'Often.'
'You have! I wonder if you could tell me when you saw him last?'
The lady pursed her lips and opened them slightly, closed both eyes and then said faintly: 'The day before yesterday.'
Fortunately, at this point, Sergeant Plumptree's system was spared further shocks by the arrival of a nurse, who led him out into the hall. 'Is she—er—?'
'Yes,' said the nurse. 'She is. Sometimes it's worse than other times.'
'I'm very sorry to hear it.' Some explanation, he felt, was necessary. 'A friend asked me to look Mrs Groot up—' 'Her name isn't Groot.' 'She said—'
'She'd say anything. That's the form it takes. She told the postman yesterday that she was Mrs Roosevelt.' 'I see.'
'As a matter of fact her name is Lemon.'
Sergeant Plumptree found himself outside.
The next house he tried was either empty, or its inhabitants were all asleep. He crossed the road, walked along a few yards, and tried again.
This time a small shrewd, grey-haired woman answered the door and denied any knowledge of Mrs Groot or Miss Holding. What number did they live at? Sergeant Plumptree was afraid he didn't know. What did they look like then? Sergeant Plumptree didn't know that either. The grey-haired woman said it was a pity he hadn't obtained a little more information before he had started. Sergeant Plumptree agreed and took himself out into the street once again. The grey-haired lady looked thoughtfully after him and then picked up the telephone.
Accordingly, when Sergeant Plumptree came out of the next house but two, and was beginning to doubt the existence of Mrs Groot and Miss Holding, he found himself face to face with a member of the Kent Constabulary, who opened the conversation with a request for a sight of his identity card.
So he had to walk up the hill to the police station after all.
When they discovered who he was, the Sevenoaks police were, of course, helpful. They were also amused, and made little attempt to disguise their amusement. ' "Suspicious character", according to our Miss Parkins,' said the station inspector, * "snooping round the houses, with a very unlikely story about some ladies who lived there." What were the names? Groot and Holding. Just take a look in the householders' register. No, no one of that name. That's an up-to-date list, too. You're sure you weren't mistaken in the name of the road?'
'No. It was Styleman Road
right enough,' said Sergeant Plumptree absently. His thoughts were elsewhere. // there was no Groot and no Holding in Styleman Road
was that in itself significant? Might the fiasco not have served a useful purpose? It looks as if those two receipts—but wait a bit, the addresses had been in Miss Cornel's book. That fact began to assume an interest of its own.
T think I'll make another call,' he said. 'Miss Cornel—Red Roofs—I understand that it's a bungalow out on the Wrotham Road
.'
'That's the one,' said the inspector. 'Would you like me to send a man with you?'
'Thank you very much,' said Sergeant Plumptree with dignity, 'but I think I can manage this by myself.'
He found Red Roofs without difficulty and Miss Cornel driving a mower across a well-discipl
ined lawn. A few words with her cleared up quite a number of misconceptions.
'Mrs Groot and Miss Holding? Yes, of course I know them. They both live in that corner house in Styleman Road
—the large one. You probably noticed it. It calls itself the Rochester House. It's an almshouse, really, only they're both a bit shy about admitting it. I expect that's why they just put Styleman Road
on their letters.'
'I see,' said Sergeant Plumptree. 'Could you explain what these payments were?'
'Why on earth do you want to know?'
'The inspector asked me to check up,' murmured Sergeant Plumptree. 'Apparently he found the receipts and wondered—'
'What snoops you are,' said Miss Cornel. It was difficult to tell whether she was annoyed or amused. 'Well, if you'd looked far enough you'd have found three or four others— there's a Mr Abetts, of Northampton, a Miss Mutch and a Mrs Hopper, of Melset, and—let me see—yes, a Miss Percy, of Potters Bar.'
'And who are those persons, miss?'
'They're a private charity. Abel Horniman had certain sums of money left him, from time to time, which he could spend at his absolute discretion. It wasn't very much—the income amounted to three or four hundred pounds a year. That was how he spent it. All those people have been servants or governesses in big families, and they're all in what is commonly called reduced circumstances. Mr Horniman used to divide the money among them—it amounted to about sixty pounds a year each. I acted as unofficial almoner. I used to send them their money each quarter, and I'd visit them when I could. Particularly Mrs Groot and Miss Holding, being almost on my doorstep.'
'I see, miss.'
'I observe in your eye a barely-suppressed desire to check all this up,' said Miss Cornel. 'I'll give you the addresses of the other four to write down in your notebook. And you might call on Mrs Groot and Miss Holding on your way to the station. Ask for the matron and mention my name.'
'Thank you,' said Sergeant Plumptree. 'I'll do that.'
It was late when he got back to London, but he found Inspector Hazlerigg at his desk. When Plumptree had finished his account the inspector took out a sheet of paper headed 'Ideas'. It contained a list of numbered items. The inspector crossed one of them out.
Smallbone Deceased Page 10