Smallbone Deceased

by Michael Gilbert

  'Is there any reason,' said Bohun, 'why they shouldn't have been social engagements? After all, he might easily keep two diaries, one for business and one for pleasure. He probably would keep the social one under lock and key.'

  'It didn't look like a social diary. Most of the engagements were in the evening but quite a lot of them were eleven in the morning and three-thirty in the afternoon, and that sort of time. You can't be social at three-thirty in the afternoon— not in a Horniman office.'

  'Then how does he get away with it?'

  'As I told you—by getting us to alibi him,' said John. 'Of course, we all do it, to a certain extent. The only difference with Eric is that he makes a business of it. I'll give you an example. This morning he wasn't in his room at half-past ten. I asked Florrie Bellbas where he was. She said he had gone across to Turberville and Trout to examine deeds.'

  'So he may have,' said Henry. 'Aren't Turberville's acting for the vendor in the Rookery sales?'

  'He might have,' said John. 'That's the point. But he ruddy well hadn't. I took the trouble to phone Turberville's and check up. Not only had he not gone over to inspect the deeds, but he couldn't have done so. They don't hold the deeds, they're in the hands of a mortgagee Bank.'

  T see,' said Bohun. 'Yes. That certainly was a bit of a slip-up. What are you going to do about all this?'

  'Well,' said John. 'My first idea was to follow Eric up when he went on one of these mysterious trips. However, I couldn't really see myself chasing round London after him in a false nose. So after a bit of thought I hired an assassin —I beg your pardon, sir. By all means borrow the mustard. . . .' This was to a very old gentleman, bearing a striking resemblance to Tenniel's White Knight, who had drifted across and was bending vaguely over the table. 'I'm afraid your sleeve is in my pudding. No, no, sir. Don't apologise. It couldn't affect the texture of the pudding. It's your sleeve I was thinking of.'

  'You were saying,' said Bohun.

  'Yes—I hired a detective. Rather fun, don't you think? This one is called Mr Brown. He will follow Eric this afternoon. I noticed from Eric's diary that there were two appointments down for today—one at four o'clock and one at seven. So he ought to get something out of it.'

  'Personally I think you ought to tell Hazlerigg,' said Bohun. 'I won't if you don't want me to, but I think it would be the wise thing.'

  'What a damn dull life it would be,' said John, 'if we always did the wise thing. Come and have some coffee upstairs.'

  Ill

  That afternoon Bohun divided his time between drawing up a trust deed for the Countess of Chiswick—a lady who appeared to have an almost Elizabethan ardour for the founding of strange settlements—and a steady consideration of Eric Duxford as Murderer.

  Quite frankly he found this latter proposition hard to swallow. Eric as a swindler, yes. Eric as an embezzler; Eric as a fraudulent converter or a confidence trickster, or the publisher of prospectuses contrary to the terms of the Companies Act. Eric, even, as the perpetrator of some small larceny which did not involve any element of bodily violence or any undue risk of detection to the larcenor. But Eric as a murderer, by force: Eric as a ruthless strangler and a disposer of bodies in boxes. No. The picture did not convince.

  'There he goes,' said John Cove, who had stationed himself where he could see out of the window. 'Look at him. Wearing a cavalry greatcoat. A relic, no doubt, of his frontline service in the Pay Corps. And an Old What's-is-name scarf. An Anthony Eden on his head and a briefcase in his hand. That is to underline the point that as well as being an officer and a gentleman he is also a professional man. The precious little snake. Let's find out what his alibi is this time.'

  Miss Bellbas, summoned to take a letter from John, informed them that Mr Duxford was going out to search the register at the Patent Office.

  'Funny he should be making for Lincoln's Inn Fields, then,' said John. 'Unless they've moved it, the Patent Office is the other side of Chancery Lane

  . However: Dear, Sir, With reference to yours of the sixteenth . . .'

  Half an hour later the telephone rang. The call was for John.

  'Oh, Mr Cove—Mr Brown speaking.' 'Carry on,' said John. 'Any luck?'

  T followed up the subject, sir,' said Mr Brown, with professional caution. 'I traced it as far as Suffolk Street

  , in the Strand.'

  'What happened to it then?'

  'I'm afraid I mislaid it, sir—I had to keep some distance from it, you understand—'

  'Up-wind, too, I expect,' said John. 'All right. I was just thinking aloud. What are you planning to do now? Where are you speaking from?'

  'From a box on the Embankment, sir. I am fairly confident that the subject is located in one of the larger buildings at this end of Suffolk Street

  or Devonshire Street

  .'

  'So much for the Patent Office,' said John to Henry. 'All right. Press on regardless. When do I hear from you next?'

  'I'll ring you at the office not later than six o'clock.'

  'Fine,' said John. 'Keep trying.' He replaced the receiver. 'Are you going to wait to hear the second instalment?'

  'Not me,' said Bohun. 'I've got better things to do with my evenings. Also I still think you ought to tell Hazlerigg.'

  'I expect I shall, eventually,' said John. 'But I might as well find out first just what it is I'm going to tell him. I can't draw back now. The hunt is up. From a view to a chase, from a chase to a kill. Yoicks and likewise Tallyho!'

  It was a quarter past six before the telephone rang again.

  'It's me, sir,' said the hoarse voice of Mr Brown. 'If you'd like to come along now—'

  'Where are you?'

  'Come down to the end of Suffolk Street

  , sir. First right, and then right again. It's a little place off Somerset Court

  . Merriman House. First door on the left and I'll meet you in the hall.'

  'Right away,' said John.

  The office by now was almost empty. In the secretaries' room, Anne Mildmay, who was putting on her hat, gave him a surprisingly friendly 'good night'. Miss Chittering was hammering out the first lines of what was evidently a very lengthy engrossment. In the basement, Sergeant

  Cockerill could be heard putting the muniments to bed and singing in a remarkably tuneful voice the tenor part of one of his favourite hymns. 'All are safely gathered in,' sang Sergeant Cockerill. 'Safe from sorrow, safe from sin.'

  John stepped out into New Square

  , turned into Carey Street

  and made his way through the precincts of the Court and into the Strand. It was cold, by the standards of an English April, though still quite light. But down under the arches of Somerset Court

  there appeared to reign an everlasting twilight.

  John found Merriman House without difficulty. The approaches were muted and depressing. Age and grime had worked their will. What had once been red was now the colour of old blood: what had been white was black.

  Mr Brown was waiting for him in the half light of the entrance. He spoke in a professional whisper.

  '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 names on. Wait whilst I strike a match. You can just make them out. There's 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 see
med 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 on 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 'Enquiries'. 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.

  'Well, 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 some time 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 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 and 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.

  T 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 than 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. The 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 s
hould 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 realised, 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 onwards, 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 co-operation; 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. T was informed by a lady whose name I afterwards 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 . . .'