Smallbone Deceased

by Michael Gilbert

  T see,' said the Assistant Commissioner.

  He drew a truculent rabbit on the scribbling-pad in front of him: thought for a few minutes, then took out a four-colour propelling pencil from his inside pocket and dressed it in a Harlequin tie.

  'The ball's in your court,' he said.

  T can't see any way round it,' agreed Hazlerigg. 'The trouble is that all this recent stuff has come in so fast that I haven't had time to put any of it to him.'

  'He's been questioned, of course.'

  'On the preliminary matters—like everyone else—yes.'

  T see.' The Assistant Commissioner returned to the rabbit and presented it with a top hat, and eyeglass and, as an afterthought, a wooden leg. 'He certainly had the opportunity for both murders. The means weren't beyond him. And he'd got plenty of motive.'

  'Too much motive, in a way, sir.'

  'Why do you say that?'

  'Well,' said Hazlerigg diffidently, 'I've always believed that a certain type will kill in anger and another type for gain. In a sort of way he seems to have done it for both.'

  'Too much motive makes a nice change, anyway,' said the Assistant Commissioner. 'Look at Aspinall's chap! However, there's also the fact that he lied about his movements on both occasions. That's the sort of thing a jury can appreciate. By the way, I think Sergeant Plumptree might get a pat on the back for tracing that Saturday morning phone call. It was sound work.'

  Hazlerigg nodded.

  'I don't see what else we can do,' went on the Assistant Commissioner. 'You're quite right. He'll have to be given a chance to explain this new stuff. Where is he now?'

  'Somewhere on the North Sea, I imagine.'

  'Oh—yes, he's staying down at that weekend cottage, isn't he?'

  'He arrived late last night. I've got the local sergeant keeping an eye on him. He rings me up from time to time. He's a good man, too.'

  'It mightn't be a bad thing—from our point of view—if he did try to bolt.'

  'He's not the sort of chap who'll lose his nerve easily,' said Hazlerigg.

  The Assistant Commissioner appeared to make up his mind.

  'I can't see that we stand to gain anything by waiting,' he said. 'Take a warrant and go down this afternoon. Whether you use it or not is entirely up to you. You'll just have to see what you think of his explanation. I can't give you any guidance—you've had as much experience in that sort of thing as I have. I needn't remind you that once you do make up your mind—'

  'I know, I know,' groaned Hazlerigg. T shall have to caution him. It's going to need the most devilishly accurate timing. How any police officer can be expected to decide at exactly what point in an interview he thinks the man he is questioning is the guilty party when the sole object of his questions is to arrive at exactly that proposition—'

  'Save it for the Court of Criminal Appeal,' said the Assistant Commissioner callously.

  II

  'I don't like the looks of it,' said Sergeant Rolles.

  He and Hazlerigg were standing together in the darkness of Sea Lane

  . Somewhere in front of them, a dim box, was The Cabin. Visibility was limited.

  'Four o'clock he brought her in, sir. He's been up and down the estuary all afternoon—beating about and getting the feel of her, you might say. She's a thirty-two foot cutter, sir, with an Austin '7' Marine converted engine. A two-berth boat really—but he handles her alone and it's wholly pretty to watch him.'

  'Didn't he come ashore at all?'

  'He did. Came back to the house and had his tea which Mrs Mullet had got for him. Then went aboard again. He's there now.'

  'What's he doing?'

  'Just sitting on his bottom,' said Sergeant Rolles. 'One thing, she is still there. He hasn't taken her off to Rooshia.'

  'You've got better eyes than mine, then,' said Hazlerigg handsomely. He could scarcely see the house, let alone anything beyond it.

  'I've been standing here longer in the dark, sir,' said Sergeant Rolles. 'Now who's that? Oh—it's Mrs Mullet.' A heavily coated and skirted figure loomed up.

  'What's this?' said Mrs Mullet. 'A police smoking concert?'

  'You keep a civil tongue in your head, Mrs Mullet. This is Chief Inspector Hazlerigg of Scotland Yard.' 'We've met,' said Mrs Mullet.

  'And he wants to know what your Mr 'Orniman's doing in that boat.'

  'It's a free country,' said Mrs Mullet. If you want to find out why don't you ask him?'

  T think that's quite a good idea,' said Hazlerigg. 'But I'd like you to do it, if you wouldn't mind.'

  T could oblige,' said Mrs Mullet. For all the indifference in her voice, they could see her black eyes winking and snapping with curiosity.

  She moved away down the path, and round the house. The two men followed discreetly.

  Bob Horniman's voice hailed out of the darkness: 'Is that you, Mrs Mullet?'

  'That's right, Mr 'Orniman, it's me. And I've brought your milk for brekfus. Are you coming ashore?'

  'Not yet,' said Bob. The edge in his voice, which had been scarcely noticeable before was now more evident. 'Leave it in the porch, would you. Has that wire come?'

  'Not when I left the cottage it hadn't,' said Mrs Mullet. She walked back from the jetty. 'You see,' she said. 'Noncommittal.'

  'All right,' said Hazlerigg. 'I suppose we've got to take the chance.'

  He was liking the situation less and less. He could make Bob Horniman out, now, against the light reflected off the water. He seemed to be crouching on the low roof of the well deck, legs crossed, looking down, apparently oblivious to the cold night wind that was whipping off the foreshore. The boat, at stern anchor only, was ten feet out on to shelving beach. Certainly too far to risk a jump.

  Ever since the Assistant Commissioner had asked him whether he though Bob would bolt, he had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew the answer. He had said nothing. It had seemed stupid to prophesy about something which would have to be answered one way or the other so soon.

  He took a deep breath.

  'Mr Horniman.'

  'Hallo. Who the hell's that?, said Bob.

  'Inspector Hazlerigg here. I wanted a word with you.'

  There was a very short silence.

  'You've chosen a condemnation odd place for it, then,' said Bob.

  'I know,' said Hazlerigg. 'But what I've got to say happens to be rather important.'

  There was another rather longer silence.

  'Then we'd better not stand here shouting at each other across the water.' Bob was on his feet now. 'Sound carries across water, you know.' He had undone a hand rope and was kedging himself inshore against the pull of the anchor chain. When he had closed the gap sufficiently he stepped on to the jetty and tied the hand rope neatly through a ring. 'Come up to the kitchen,' he said. There was no expression left in his voice at all now.

  Hazlerigg followed him up the little flagged path. For the life of him he couldn't say whether he was more relieved or surprised. Ten minutes later he was still undecided.

  Bob Horniman had not fenced with his questions. Neither, Hazlerigg was sure, had he answered them quite candidly.

  The two men were facing each other across the table in the back kitchen. Under the strong unshaded light Bob's face looked whiter than ever, and his eyes behind his heavy glasses were wary.

  Suddenly he broke in on what the inspector was saying.

  'Will you answer me one question?'

  If I can,' said Hazlerigg.

  'Am I supposed to have murdered Smallbone?'

  Now this was the one question in the world which Hazlerigg wished to avoid having to answer. But before he could temporise, Bob went on, with a suggestion of flippancy. 'Was I supposed to be sitting on deck debating whether or not to cast myself into the waters of self-destruction?'

  'Well—'

  'Look here, Inspector, if I were to promise you, on my most solemn word, that there is an explanation for the apparent discrepancies in my statement about Saturday morning and Tuesday night
, but that it has got nothing at all to do with Smallbone's or Miss Chittering's death—would you be prepared to leave it at that?'

  'No,' said Hazlerigg steadily. T shouldn't.'

  'Very well,' said Bob, and his jaw came forward dangerously. T suppose I can't prevent you nosing round and looking for what you can pick up in the way of information.

  Only don't expect me to help you.'

  'In that case,' said Hazlerigg, taking a deep breath, 'I have no alternative but to caution you—'

  A sharp double rap made both men jump. Then, before either of them could say a word, the door burst open, and the aged Mr Mullet appeared. He was out of breath and mauve with excitement.

  'It's come,' he piped. 'I thought you'd like to have it at once, so I brought it.' He was waving an opened telegram in the air. Seeming to feel that some explanation was necessary, he added: 'It's all right, m'dear. I looked.'

  Bob smoothed the orange form on the table and Hazlerigg read over his shoulder.

  'A-Z negative. McNeil.'

  'Thank God for that!' said Bob. 'Excuse me a moment, I've got to use the telephone.' He strode out of the kitchen into the hall and they heard the 'ting' as he took off the receiver.

  'Have you got any idea what all this is about?' said Hazlerigg. He found himself speaking to Mrs Mullet, who seemed to have materialised behind her husband.

  'Trunks,' said Bob's voice in the hall. 'Sevenoaks 07632.'

  'It's that young leddy,' said Mrs Mullet. 'The one he brings down here for the weekends.'

  'Good God,' said Hazlerigg. 'Of course. What a fool I've been.'

  'Ten minutes? Well. I'll wait for it.' Bob came back into the room. He was holding himself straighter and seemed somehow to have grown in size. 'Now,' he said. 'What would you like to know?'

  'The truth would be helpful,' said Hazlerigg. 'That is, if you've no objection to—'

  'Oh, Mrs Mullet knows most of it,' said Bob. 'She thought you were a divorce sleuth the first time she saw you. However, I expect it would be easier without an audience. Would you mind taking your husband into the front room, for a few minutes Mrs Mullet. You might make the fire up, and open one of the bottles in the sideboard and get some glasses out. I think we might have something to celebrate.

  'Bottles it is, Captain,' said Mr Mullet, who seemed to have a remarkable facility for picking up promising messages. 'Leave it to me.'

  'Now, Mr Horniman,' said Hazlerigg. 'Perhaps you'll explain what it's all about.'

  'It's Anne Mildmay, of course,' said Bob. I’m madly in love with her, and in about seven and a half minutes I intend to propose to her over the telephone.'

  'And that telegram was . . .?'

  'Yes. I thought—we both thought—she was going to have a child. My child. Now we know that she's not. She had an Aschheim-Zondek a fortnight ago. That telegram was the result. Don't you see? If she's not going to have a child it makes it easy. I can ask her to marry me.'

  T should have thought,' said Hazlerigg doubtfully, 'that if she had been going to have a child you'd have felt bound—'

  'That's just it,' said Bob. T should have felt bound. So would she. It would have been a hopeless basis for marriage. Now everything's all right.'

  If you say so,' said Hazlerigg. 'It's your marriage. Now perhaps you wouldn't mind explaining—'

  'Of course,' said Bob. 'Well, that evening Miss Chittering was killed, of course, we were having dinner together. Not at that place in the Strand. At a little restaurant in Frith Street

  . I had a table booked for a quarter to seven.'

  'Do they know you there?'

  'They ought to,' said Bob. 'I've been going there, on and off, for the last ten years. It's quite a tiny place—just the proprietor and his brother who does the waiting. They both know me.'

  Hazlerigg recognised the truth when he heard it. 'I'd better have the name,' he said. 'Now what about that Saturday?'

  'Well,' said Bob, 'that really was rather awkward. You

  see, that was the day—well—that was when all the trouble started.'

  Hazlerigg stared at him for a moment, and then in spite of himself he started to laugh.

  'Do you mean to say—' he began.

  'Yes,' said Bob uncomfortably. 'I'm afraid I do.'

  'No wonder you were too busy to answer the telephone,' said Hazlerigg.

  'Yes,' said Bob. 'Well, as you can imagine, we neither of us felt like doing much office work. We pushed off at about a quarter past eleven, as a matter of fact, and caught the midday train for Chaffham. It gets in at two o'clock. I expect Mrs Mullet would confirm—oh, there's the phone.'

  He jumped for the door. Hazlerigg got up and warmed the seat of his trousers at the hob. He heard Bob pick up the receiver and say: 'Sevenoaks—Oh! Is that you, Miss Cornel? It's Bob Horniman here. . . . Could I speak to Miss Mildmay?' Then, a pause. Then Bob's voice: 'Anne, darling, it's all right.'

  Hazlerigg shut the door, and returned to his place in front of the fire. He could no longer hear what Bob was saying, but he judged from the tone of his voice that everything was all right.

  Ill

  'God's fresh air,' said the stout girl in hiking shorts. 'That's right,' said her companion. 'God's free fresh air,' said the stout girl. 'That's what they say, don't they?' 'That's right.'

  'Like hell it's free,' said the stout girl. 'Railway fares up, purchase tax on walking shoes, four and sixpence for a so-called lunch.'

  'That's right,' said the Yes-girl.

  'Before the war,' said the stout girl, 'I walked through the Lake District. Right through it. I stayed at Youth Hostels. I took ten days and it cost me three pounds sixteen shillings and eightpence, including fares.'

  'Well, I never,' said the Yes-girl. 'You'd hardly credit it.'

  It was nine o'clock that evening. Hazlerigg was sitting in a third-class railway carriage, on his way back to London. When he had got into the carriage it had been empty, but he had been vaguely aware that two girls had got in at Ipswich. He was deeply engaged with his own thoughts.

  He was reviewing the case to see how it looked without its central character. For Bob Horniman, in his opinion, was out of it. Not that his Saturday morning alibi was worth much. He could have murdered Smallbone and been in plenty of time to catch the midday train for Chaffham. Nor could you describe as strong corroboration the evidence of the girl with whom you were in love. But on one factor of certainty, on one base of the living rock, Hazlerigg rested his conviction of Bob's innocence. The same pair of hands had committed both murders. No one, be they never so crafty or calculating, could have reproduced that fractional left-handed pull which hall-marked both killings. And if Bob had been at his Soho restaurant at a quarter to seven he could not have killed Miss Chittering. The alibi had to be verified, but he was certain he would find that it was so.

  It was true, also, that Bob's explanation had not covered everything. Any explanation would have been, perhaps, open to suspicion if it had. On the subject of the letter discovered in the typists' room, for instance. Bob had simply said that he knew nothing about it. He had never received it. If he was speaking the truth, it began to look very much as if the letter might be a plant. The possibility had been in Hazlerigg's mind all along; ever since he had noticed those pin-marks in the top left-hand corner of the paper. He had remembered that it was quite a common habit for a busy man to pin cheques or receipted bills to blank pieces of notepaper with or without the addition of a signature. Lawyers got them every day. Indeed, now he thought of it, had not Plumptree told him that Smallbone had pinned his last rent cheque to a piece of notepaper and left it on the hall table for Mrs Tasker to find. Anyone in the office might therefore have received such a missive from Smallbone. They would only have to remove the cheque and they could then type in what message they liked in the space between the address and the signature. Forgery without tears.

  'You see them going off from Paddington,' said the stout girl. 'Torquay, Paignton, and places like that. Piles and piles of luggage
. I don't call that a holiday.'

  'Nor do I,' said the Yes-girl.

  'But take a nice large rucksack,' said the stout girl, nodding down at hers, where it stood, bulging formidably, on the seat beside her.

  With a sweet click the last tumbler fell into place.

  'God in heaven, what idiots we've been,' said Hazlerigg loudly.

  Both girls jumped. Hazlerigg, who was a bit of a lip-reader, saw the stout girl forming the word 'Drink'. Her companion, for once, had an opinion of her own: 'Barmy.'

  'When does this train stop next?' he demanded.

  The stout girl felt for her alpenstock and estimated with a quick glance the distance to the corridor door. 'It doesn't stop,' she said. 'It goes straight through to London.'

  'Then stop it we must,' said Hazlerigg. Out of the window he saw the lights of a fair-sized town approaching.

  He got to his feet and before either of his travelling companions could guess his intention, he had reached up and jerked the communication cord.

  He could not have timed it more perfectly. There was a momentary pause as the vacuum brake took charge: then a series of shuddering jolts, a sharp decrease in momentum. The dark world outside slowed down, the blur of lights separated out into individual windows, and with a long, indignant hiss, the train slid to a halt opposite the deserted platform of a fair-sized station.

  Hazlerigg was out before it had fairly stopped.

  A door marked 'Stationmaster' flung open and a startled and indignant official appeared. Hazlerigg said a word to him, produced his warrant card, and fairly trundled him back into his office.

  T want to use your telephone,' he said. 'You've got some priority arrangement for up-calls to London. Use it, please, and get me Scotland Yard.'

  The stationmaster got busy.

  Hazlerigg looked back on to the platform. Heads were out all the way down the train, and he could see the bobbing of a lantern as one of the guards climbed the ramp. He reckoned the situation was just in hand.

  Five seconds later he was talking to Sergeant Plumptree.

  'Look here,' he said. 'You'll have to listen and not ask questions. I've just stopped the Cromer Express and I reckon I've got two minutes. Get hold of that chap Hayman —the shop assistant in that bag shop in the Strand—yes— Miss Chittering's boy friend. I want to find out who bought a rucksack there on the morning of—let me see—Saturday, February 20th. A large green rucksack. Play fair. Show him all the photographs. Yes, I know it's Saturday night. I don't care how you set about it. You can ask for what help you like. If he isn't at home, put out a general alert and pick him up where you find him. At the cinema, at the pub, on the streets. This train is due at Liverpool Street