Smallbone Deceased

‌Chapter Eight —Monday— Discovery of a Document

Women never reason, and therefore they are (comparatively) seldom wrong. They judge instinctively of what falls under their immediate observation or experience, and do not trouble themselves about remote or doubtful consequences. If they make no profound discoveries, they do not involve themselves in gross absurdities.

Hazlitt: Characteristics

I

Mr. Birley started the day in a bad temper.

He was never at his best on Monday mornings. He regarded the presence of the police in the office as a personal affront; and his outlook had not been improved by a masochistic weekend among the newspapers.

Accounts of the Lincoln’s Inn murder were, in fact, less numerous and circumstantial than they might have been; this was partly due to shortage of space and partly to the climax of the Association Football season.

However, one paper had rubbed salt into his wounds by speaking of “the firm of Horniman, Barley and Craine”, and the Sunday Scribe, which ought to have known better, had referred to them as “the well-known firm of divorce lawyers”. (It was true that Horniman’s had recently abandoned their pre-war niceness in this matter—as had most of their professional brethren—and the firm now clutched out occasionally at the lucrative hem of the goddess of matrimonial discord; but well-known divorce lawyers! Good God, people would be coupling their names with —— and —— next.)

And then, no sooner had he reached the office, than Inspector Hazlerigg had come asking for him, with impertinent questions about a Mrs. Groot, and a Miss Holding, and a Miss Someone-or-other else. Questions, too, which Mr. Birley found himself annoyingly unable to answer.

“Now look here, Inspector,” he said, in his most intimidating voice, “I can understand that you have to ask questions about this—er—death, and about Smallbone, and his affairs and so on. But questions about the private workings of my firm, I cannot and will not tolerate. If you persist in wasting my time and my staff’s time in investigating matters which have no possible connection with this—er—death, then I shall have no alternative but to speak to the Commissioner—close personal friend of mine.”

“I am here,” said Inspector Hazlerigg without heat and without rancour, “to investigate a murder. I shall question whom I like when I like and about what I like. If you inconvenience me in any way I shall apply for an order to close this building, and no business will be able to be transacted until I have finished my investigation. And if you would like a word with the Commissioner, ring Whitehall 1212 and ask for extension nine. I will see that you get put through.”

“Oh, well—ah—hum—really,” said Mr. Birley. “I don’t want to be obstructive.”

When Hazlerigg had gone he sent for Bob.

“Who are these Groots and Holdings?”

“I’ve just been asking Miss Cornel,” said Bob. “It’s quite all right. They’re beneficiaries under Colonel Lincoln’s discretionary will trusts. You know he left Dad about five thousand to use the income as he thought fit—”

“Whether or not it is quite all right,” said Mr. Birley heavily, “I cannot say, since I have never been favoured with a sight of the will in question…”

“I’ll get Miss Cornel to look you out a copy.”

“If you please. I was about to add that as head of the firm I might perhaps expect to have been informed—”

“Well, I—”

“Your father saw fit to make you his sole beneficiary. That, of course, was entirely his affair. He also handed over to you, as he had power to do under our Articles of Partnership, his full share in this firm. In my opinion, and if you will excuse my saying so, that was a mistake. But it does not alter the fact that I have certain rights as the senior partner.”

“Of course,” said Bob.

“And another thing. I notice you lean a great deal on Miss Cornel. She is an admirable person in her way, but when all is said and done, she is only an employee—”

“Miss Cornel,” said Bob, flushing a little, “was very attached to my father. She is also extremely useful to me. Neither fact seems to constitute any very good reason for wanting to get rid of her.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that we got rid of her,” said Mr. Birley coldly. “But it is not a good thing for anyone to get too fixed in their routine. Supposing we made a change. Miss Cornel might work for Mr. Craine and you could have Miss Mildmay.”

The blood rushed to Bob’s face, and departed again as suddenly, leaving him white.

Fortunately Mr. Birley, who was in the full tide of oratory, noticed nothing.

“You know what we used to say in the army,” he went on. “It’s a bad officer who allows himself to be run by his N.C.O.s.”

Mr. Birley’s experience of the army was, in fact, confined to one year in the R.A.S.C., which he had joined in 1917 when it became clear that it was either that or conscription into the infantry, and Bob toyed for a moment with the unkind idea of reminding him of it.

Seeing no point in provoking hostilities, he said something non-committal and got out of the room.

Mr. Birley then rang for Miss Chittering, and as soon as she got inside the room started to dictate a lengthy lease at high speed. Miss Chittering was a competent shorthand-typist, but no one other than a contortionist could have taken down dictation at the speed at which Mr. Birley was speaking. As soon as she was forced to ask for a repetition Mr. Birley snapped at her and increased his speed.

Five minutes of this treatment was sufficient to reduce Miss Chittering to tears and to restore a certain amount of Mr. Birley’s amour-propre.

II

In the secretaries’ room Anne Mildmay and Miss Cornel, faintly assisted by Miss Bellbas, were trying to sort out the weekend roster for Bohun’s benefit.

“I’m sure,” said Anne, consulting a small diary, “that I came in on February 27th, because that was the day after my admiral took me out to the Criterion and tried to get me tight on gin.”

“Who’s your admiral?” said Miss Bellbas.

“A friend of father’s,” said Anne. “He’s over ninety. He commanded a gunboat in the Crimea. He’s been trying to rape me ever since I left school.”

“My goodness,” said Miss Bellbas. “What a persistent man.”

“So I remember perfectly well, I had a hangover like nobody’s business. Every time the telephone went I felt like screaming.”

“It was me the Saturday before. That’s right, anyway,” said Miss Cornel. “It shouldn’t have been my turn at all, you remember, but Cissie asked me to take it for her. I can’t think why—”

“Possibly she had a date,” suggested Henry.

This suggestion was greeted with a certain amount of levity, but Miss Bellbas said: “Do you know, I believe Miss Chittering has got a boy-friend.”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Cornel. “She doesn’t know one end of a man from the other.”

“Then why does she come up to town on Saturday mornings? She lives right out at Dulwich.”

“Shopping,” suggested Henry.

“Don’t be so Victorian,” said Miss Mildmay. “Girls don’t spend their Saturday mornings shopping in the West End. They do all that during their lunches.”

“Where did you see her?” asked Miss Cornel.

“In the Strand, about twelve o’clock. I believe he works in a shop opposite Charing Cross, and she comes up and meets him when he gets off at midday on Saturdays.”

“Oh! A counter-jumper. She’s welcome to him.”

“Anne. You’re a snob.”

“Certainly,” said Miss Mildmay with composure.

“Be that as it may,” said Henry. “Can anyone tell me about the other Saturdays.”

“What do you want to know all this for?” asked Miss Cornel.

“Don’t be silly,” said Miss Mildmay. “It’s Hawkeye the Inspector. He thinks we murdered the little man on a Saturday morning.”

She said this lightly enough, but Bohun thought he detected a very slight edge of strain in her voice, an artificial lightness which was not so very far from the fringe of hysteria.

The others evidently noticed something as well, and there was an awkward silence, broken as usual by Miss Bellbas, who said with alarming frankness:

“I didn’t murder him.”

“Of course you didn’t, Florrie,” said Miss Cornel. “If you had you’d have told us all about it, immediately afterwards. What are the other weekends you’ve got on your little list? Saturday 13th—well, that was Cissie, of course. She did mine, in return for me doing hers. March 6th, that would have been you, Florrie.”

“Oh, dear. I expect so,” said Miss Bellbas. “If the list says me, then that’s right. All I know is, I did my own turn.”

“Who was it with?”

“Mr. Craine.”

“That’s right, according to the list,” said Miss Cornel.

“I don’t expect you’d forget a long morning spent alone with Tubby,” said Anne. “It’s a thing that lingers in a girl’s memory. Did he make you sit very close on his left-hand side so that every time he opened his desk drawer he practically undressed you?”

“Good gracious, no,” said Miss Bellbas. “Is that what he does to you?”

“Of course,” said Miss Cornel. “It’s all right, though, isn’t it—he went to Marlborough.”

“Well,” said Anne. “What about that time he took you to the station in a taxi after the staff dinner?”

Henry withdrew.

III

“My husband’s a jockey, a jockey, a jockey, my husband a jockey is he,” sang Mr. Cove. “All day he rides horses, rides horses, rides horses—”

“Mr. Cove.”

“Yes, my love.”

“There’s a man to see you,” said Miss Bellbas.

“What sort of man, heart of my heart?”

“A little man, with grey hair.”

“Indeed?”

“Mr. Cove.”

“Yes, my sweet.”

“You oughtn’t to say things like that.”

“Good God!” said John. “I only said ‘Indeed’.”

“You said ‘my love’ and ‘my sweet’, and something about your heart. You oughtn’t to say that to me unless you’re in love with me.”

“But I am,” said John. “Madly.”

Miss Bellbas considered this.

“Then why don’t you ask me to marry you?”

“I would,” said John, “but—please don’t tell anyone, it’s not a thing I want generally known—I’m married already.”

“Who to?” said Miss Bellbas.

“A female taxing master in Chancery,” said John. “Show the gentleman in, there’s a dear. You mustn’t keep the aristocracy waiting.”

“He said his name was Mr. Brown.”

“That’s just his incognito,” explained John. “It’s the Earl of Bishopsgate.”

The gentleman whom Miss Bellbas brought in certainly didn’t look like an earl. His salient features were, as she had said, smallness and greyness. He looked not unlike a little beaver. John addressed him as Brown and gave him a number of instructions which were accepted with servility. At the end of the interview a couple of pound notes were pushed across the table and the stranger departed, almost colliding, on his way out, with Mr. Bohun.

Henry, however, was too occupied with his own troubles to ask any questions.

“What unsatisfactory witnesses girls are,” he said. “I’ve spent about half an hour with them and I’m still not absolutely certain who came in on what day.”

“If it’s your precious list you’re worrying about,” said John, “you needn’t. It’s all right. I’ve asked Sergeant Cockerill.”

“Good,” said Henry absently. He was still thinking about that curious little incident in the secretaries’ room.

“Do you know Anne Mildmay well?” he asked abruptly.

“No,” said John. “But it’s not for want of trying. I rather went for her at one time, you know.”

He sounded serious. Henry looked at him for a moment and then said: “Yes, a very nice girl.”

“There’s a certain lack of conviction in your tone,” said John. “But don’t apologise. Anne is that type. Either she gets you completely, or she leaves you cold. Cove on Love.

“Anyway,” he went on, “I left her cold. She didn’t allow me any doubts about that. If she didn’t actually throw a lump of mud in my eye, that’s only because it wasn’t a muddy day. I then behaved in the most traditional manner, and went out and got roaring tight, and finished up in the fountain in Trafalgar Square and spent the night at Bow Street. Since then we’ve been fairly good friends.”

“I see,” said Henry. He hadn’t invited the confidence, and he felt no scruple in docketing it for future reference. There was a point of chronology which it might be useful to confirm.

Later that morning the opportunity presented itself. John had gone out to examine deeds and Bob Horniman, dropping in to borrow a volume of Prideaux, stopped to chat.

“You were in School House, too, weren’t you?” he said.

“Years ago,” said Bohun. “I’d be lying if I said I remembered you.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, anyway,” said Bob. “I remember you very well. You were aloof, thin, scholarly and mysterious.”

“Good God!” said Bohun. “I expect I was covered with spots as well, but you’re too kind to say so.”

“How are you finding it here?”

“Splendid, thank you,” said Bohun. “Never a dull moment, really.”

“We can’t guarantee a corpse a week. How’s the work? I expect it’s all quite easy. With your Final only just over you’ve probably got everything in your head.”

There was a note of envy in his voice, and Bohun guessed that the responsibilities of partnership might be sitting shakily on an almost complete lack of technical knowledge.

“Here a bit and there a bit,” said Bohun. “I’d hate to have to go through with my articles again. That really was uncomfortably like hard work. John Cove seems to bear up all right, though.”

“John’s a good chap,” said Bob. “And not nearly such a fool as he makes out. If only he found things a bit more difficult he might have to work a bit harder—which wouldn’t do him any harm. It’s that fatal charm of his—”

“A charm,” said Bohun, “which Miss Mildmay appears to have been the only person in the office capable of resisting.”

He perpetrated this thundering indiscretion deliberately, turning his back on Bob as he did so. The glass front of the bookcase made a convenient reflector.

The shot went home with surprising effect. On Bob’s face, in the fleeting, reflected glimpse which he allowed himself, Bohun saw a look which he had no difficulty in recognising. Half of it was made up of possession and the other half of apprehension.

A small section of the puzzle fell neatly into its place.

“Why do you say that?” Bob made a perfunctory effort to sound casual.

“Really,” said Bohun. “I’m afraid that was very indiscreet of me. I imagined that it was public knowledge—from the way he discussed it with me.”

“John and Anne—Miss Mildmay.”

“Yes. Apparently she turned him down. It was unforgivable of me. If I hadn’t thought that you knew, I should never have mentioned it.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“You’ll oblige me very much, then,” said Bohun, “by forgetting all about it.”

“Of course,” said Bob. “Naturally.”

“Liar,” said Henry. But this was to himself, after Bob had left the room.

IV

Mr. Birley, having disposed of Miss Chittering, looked round for fresh conquests. After a moment’s thought he rang the bell and summoned Mr. Prince to his presence.

Mr. Prince, who has already flitted vaguely on the outskirts of the story, was an elderly Common Law clerk. He had spent his professional life with the firm of Cockroft, Chasemore and Butt, whom he had served efficiently, and on the whole happily, for forty years. Unfortunately the firm had failed to survive the war and Mr. Prince had found himself thrown on the labour market. Bill Birley had snapped him up gratefully, made full use of him and paid him a good deal less than he was worth. Since Mr. Prince stood in considerable awe of Mr. Birley, and in even greater fear of losing his job, he was a very convenient whipping-block. Mr. Birley reduced him to a state of quivering impotence in something less than five minutes, and then clumped downstairs to plague Mr. Waugh, the cashier.

Mr. Waugh had heavier reserves than Mr. Prince, but was at the disadvantage of only having been a fortnight in the firm. It was not long before Mr. Birley had cornered him into admitting several small breaches of the Horniman routine. Using these as his text he proceeded to preach Mr. Waugh a pungent sermon on the virtues of Order and Method.

Mr. Hoffman, who was working at a table in the cashier’s room, was a silent spectator. When Mr. Birley had taken himself off he added at the foot of the account he was casting, a note in his meticulous handwriting. It seemed to cause him some amusement.

V

“You seem to be a bit off colour, Miss Mildmay.”

“Yes, Mr. Craine.”

“Not sickening for anything, I hope.”

“I hope not, Mr. Craine.”

“I expect you’ve been put out by all these unpleasant goings-on in the office. You mustn’t let it get you down, you know.”

“No, Mr. Craine.”

“Anyhow. It’s obviously nothing to do with you. We shan’t begin to suspect a little girl like you of running round committing murders. Ha, ha.”

“I feel like it sometimes,” said Miss Mildmay, moving her chair two foot further to the left.

“Dear me, I expect we all do sometimes. But, seriously, my dear, the thing is not to worry.”

“I’m not worrying, Mr. Craine.”

“That’s right, then.”

“And, Mr. Craine.”

“Yes.”

“I only mention it in case it has escaped your attention, but that’s my hand you’ve got hold of.”

“Goodness gracious, so it is. Well, now. Dear Sir, We thank you for yours of the fourteenth ultimo enclosing the draft Conveyance as amended and approved, and we are now proceeding to have the same engrossed for execution by his Lordship.”

VI

Mr. Birley felt as Napoleon might have felt after the destruction of a couple of minor European monarchies and a German bishopric. His appetite was sharpened by his victories, and he was contemplating with some pleasure the approach of lunch-time. It occurred to him that there was one more recalcitrant subject to reduce to submission.

He rang the bell and sent for Bohun.

Henry was on the point of going home to his own lunch at Mrs. Magoli’s, but good-naturedly took off his coat again and followed Miss Chittering.

“You want to look out,” she said. “He’s in an awful temper.”

“Indeed,” said Henry.

Mr. Birley opened fire as soon as the enemy was inside the door.

“Now, look here, Bohun,” he said. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you. We pay you to attend to our business. I’ve no doubt you do very good work—at all events I’ve no information to the contrary—but I can’t have you spending so much of your time talking to that policeman. Anything that must be said, go along after office hours to Scotland Yard, or wherever it may be, and say it there. You understand.”

“Perfectly.”

“Well, then—”

“I mean that I understand perfectly,” explained Henry. “Whether I shall take any notice of your advice is, of course, a separate question.”

For a moment Mr. Birley was almost bereft of the power of speech. Then he recovered sufficiently to say: “If I understood that as insolent I should have no alternative but to have you dismissed.”

“I have no doubt you would,” said Henry pleasantly. “Only I doubt if you have the power. I understand that you need the consent of both your other partners before employing or dismissing anybody. It says so in your partnership articles, so I expect it’s correct. If you think that you can persuade Mr. Craine and Mr. Horniman to support you, then no doubt it would be worth trying.”

“I—”

“But there’s one thing I must warn you about. If you did succeed in dismissing me frivolously—out of mere temper, I mean, and not for professional incompetence or inattention to duty—then I should put the whole case in writing before the Law Society.”

This time Mr. Birley really was speechless. Henry resumed, even more pleasantly: “In any case, since you pay me the lowest possible salary for a qualified man, I can’t see that I should be much worse off if I did have to go. Mind you, I don’t want to leave. I like it here. It isn’t every solicitor’s office which has an undetected murderer working in it. Why, it’s even possible that he may repeat his performance.” Pausing at the door he added thoughtfully: “He might even pick a more suitable victim this time.”

VII

And so, after a thoroughly unsatisfactory and irritating morning, the various components of the firm departed for their lunches: Mr. Birley and Mr. Craine to their clubs, Bob Horniman and Eric Duxford to the dining-room of the Law Society. John Cove to the less exclusive canteen of the same. Henry Bohun to his home. Mr. Prince and Mr. Waugh to a subterranean and cavernous restaurant attached to the Law Courts. Miss Cornel and Miss Mildmay to an A.B.C., and Miss Bellbas and Mrs. Porter to a Lyons. Sergeant Cockerill and Charlie ate sandwiches in the basement and Miss Chittering, who was on duty at the partners’ telephone, stifled the pangs of hunger with a bag of macaroons.

Comparative silence descended on the offices of Horniman, Birley and Craine.

It was later that afternoon, in the secretaries’ room, that a scene took place which was not without importance in the scheme of things. And it is sobering to reflect that the fact that it took place, and the far-reaching results which sprang from it, were directly attributable to feminine vanity.

Miss Chittering decided that the small wooden mirror screwed to the back of the door, was badly placed to fulfil the functions for which it was designed.

“It’s absurd,” she said, “to put a mirror where no light falls on it at all.”

“I suppose it is,” said Miss Cornel. “It’s always been there, though,” she added, as if this was a conclusive argument in a legal office.

“Anyway,” said Anne, “it isn’t as if any of us were such ravishing beauties that we always wanted to be looking at our faces.”

The use of the first person plural did little to soften the aspersion. Miss Chittering flushed slightly and said: “If we’ve got a mirror we might as well put it somewhere where it’s going to be some use.”

“Why not put it up beside the window,” said Miss Bellbas, who usually dropped in about that time for her afternoon cup of tea.

“Well, it’s all the same to me,” said Miss Cornel. “Only someone will have to unscrew it first. If you’re so keen on the idea nip down and get hold of Sergeant Cockerill.”

“Why bother the sergeant,” said Miss Chittering. “It’s only two tiny little screws. Look, I’ve got a pair of nail scissors. I’ll use the tip of the—oh!”

“Bang goes one pair of nail scissors,” said Miss Cornel complacently. “You know, you might just as well fetch the sergeant.”

“Is there anything I can do?” said Bohun, poking his head giraffe-like over the partition.

“Cissie’s broken her scissors trying to undo those screws,” said Miss Mildmay. “The general idea is to move the looking-glass from behind the door to over there, beside the window.”

“The task,” said Bohun, “should not be beyond our combined resources. Has anyone got a large nail-file?”

“So long as you don’t break it,” said Miss Mildmay.

“I promise to temper vigour with discretion,” said Henry. Using the butt-end he soon had the screws undone. “Now, if I may use your scissors, for a moment, Miss Chittering.”

“Well, you can’t make them much worse.”

“Thank you.” Bohun soon had two small holes bored in the woodwork beside the window, and he was on the point of inserting the screws when one of the inner doors opened and Mr. Craine poked his head out. “Oh, Bohun. I rang on the office phone for you, but I thought you must be out. I just wanted to check that address.”

“So sorry,” said Bohun. He deposited everything into the hands of Miss Cornel and followed Mr. Craine into his office.

“Just like men,” said Miss Cornel. “Begin a job and leave it in the middle.” She steadied the glass against the wall with one hand, grasped the nail-file in the other, put the screws in her mouth, and hooked a deed box into position with one foot. Having made these necessary preparations, she climbed on to the deed box, spat out one screw into her hand, placed it in the hole Bohun had made, and proceeded to line it up with as much concentration as if it had been a putt on the eighteenth green.

At this exceedingly critical moment the bell just above her head rang loudly twice, with the natural result that she dropped everything.

“Heavens, that’s me,” said Miss Chittering.

“Thank goodness the glass hasn’t broken,” said Miss Bellbas.

“What are you up to now,” said Bohun, reappearing.

“Devil take those screws,” said Miss Cornel. She was grovelling on her knees behind the deed box. “I’ve got one of them. The other seems to have rolled…” She scanned the wainscoting for some yards and finally gave a cry of triumph. “Yes, there it is, it’s got under my desk.” She poked with the nail-file. “It’s no good. I can’t quite get at it. It’s lucky you’re back, Mr. Bohun. Could you just lift the corner of the desk—”

“I suppose, sometime, I shall be allowed to do some of my own…” began Bohun. The words died.

He found himself staring, and Miss Cornel, Miss Mildmay and Miss Bellbas stared with him.

There was a very uncomfortable silence, which Bohun broke by saying:

“If I lift a little higher, could one of you pull it out carefully.”

Miss Cornel bent forward, and edged out, very gingerly, the whole of a sheet of notepaper. The only part which had been visible before had been the cramped, characteristic signature: “Marcus Smallbone.”

“The dead,” said Miss Bellbas, with compelling simplicity, “have spoken.”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Cornel angrily. “It may have been written months ago—years even.”

“It doesn’t look very old,” said Miss Mildmay.

“Well, there’s one thing about it,” said Miss Cornel, with the assurance of a Horniman expert. “It never came to this office—not in the ordinary way. Look—it hasn’t been numbered or stamped—it hasn’t even been punched for filing.”

The letter was on a single sheet of cream bond notepaper, with the address, 20 Wellingboro’ Road, embossed in heavy black letter printing. It was typewritten and undated. It said:

“Dear Mr. Horniman. I just write to confirm our arrangement. I will be at the office at 12.15 on Saturday. I hope that what you will have to tell me will be satisfactory.”

It was signed, without any suffix: “Marcus Smallbone.”

“I think this ought to go straight in to the inspector,” said Henry. “Perhaps one of you would like to come along with me and explain about how it was found.”

Inspector Hazlerigg read the letter without comment.

Then he handed it over to Gissel. “Let’s have two or three handsome life-size portraits,” he said, “and dust it over, of course, just in case. Then let Brinkman have it for the signature. I’ll give him some cancelled cheques to compare it against. Oh, and you might send Plumptree out to Belsize Park to get hold of a few sheets of Smallbone’s notepaper.”

He then listened to Miss Bellbas’s account of the discovery, and disappointed that lady bitterly by asking her no questions at all.

However, he said “Thank you” politely when she had finished and held the door open for her in, Miss Bellbas considered, a very gentlemanly way indeed.

It was later that evening, when the staff had all gone, that Hazlerigg took Bohun with him to inspect the scene of the discovery.

“First,” he said, “just explain the lay-out once again. Who sits where? This desk, by the door, I suppose is Miss Mildmay’s?”

“A fair deduction,” said Bohun. “Being the last-comer she gets the draughtiest place for her desk. Under the window—that’s Miss Chittering’s. A good seat in summer but a bit draughty now. The big desk in the middle is Miss Cornel’s.”

The inspector made some quick measurements with a spring tape and jotted the figures down. His grey eyes passed coldly from point to point and finally came to rest on the long shelf which ran along the full length of the back of the room. There was an inch of space between the back of the shelf and the wall.

“Any paper,” said the inspector, “which slipped off the back of that shelf, ought to finish up in the right place. Let’s try it.” He stood on a chair, and Bohun handed him three sheets of the firm’s notepaper. “They’re not quite as stiff as Smallbone’s stuff,” he said. “But here goes.” Two of the pieces fluttered down on to Miss Cornel’s desk. The third stayed close to the wall and planed away out of sight behind the desk. It came to rest, half upright, against the wainscoting.

“Not too good,” said Bohun. “The one we found was lying flat, and almost under the front of the desk.”

“Supposing it had blown off Miss Chittering’s desk,” said the inspector. “It was on that side, wasn’t it?”

“It might,” said Bohun. “It’s an awfully long glide, though, isn’t it? More than ten feet. It would have had to be a deuce of a wind to blow it that distance.”

“I agree,” said the inspector. He sat on the edge of the desk, swinging his leg and thinking.

“Did you notice anything odd about the letter?” he said at last.

“No,” said Bohun, “except, as Miss Cornel noticed, that it hadn’t been filed or marked. Was there anything?”

“Didn’t you think,” said the inspector, “that the signature was a bit high up the paper? It had the effect of cramping the rest of the letter.”

“The spacing of the lines of type did look a bit amateur,” agreed Bohun. “But then, I don’t suppose Smallbone was much of a typist.”

“No. I don’t suppose he was. There was another thing, though. Did you look at the top left-hand corner of the paper?”

“No,” said Bohun. “Not particularly. What should I have seen?”

“Two pin-holes,” said the inspector. “A very important clue. I’m surprised you overlooked it.”

Bohun would have been hard put to it to say whether the inspector was serious or not.