Smallbone Deceased

‌Chapter Nine —Tuesday— A Matter of Execution

It often happens that Servants sent on messages are apt to stay out somewhat longer than the message requires—When you return, the Master storms, the Lady scolds; stripping, cudgelling and turning off is the Word. But here you ought to be provided with a set of excuses, enough to serve on all occasions. For Instance,—a Brother-Servant that borrowed money of you when he was out of place, was running away to Ireland: You were taking leave of an old fellow servant, who was shipping for Barbados: You were taking leave of a dear cousin, who is to be hanged next Saturday.

Swift: Directions to Servants

I

Tuesday morning passed off quietly.

There was prolonged debate in the secretaries’ room covering the following subjects: When did the mysterious letter arrive in the office? Who could have received it? Why had no one seen it before? And lastly, and most intriguing, how had it come to be under Miss Cornel’s desk?

None of these questions received any very conclusive answer.

Hazlerigg, who had learned by experience that it was better to take things in their proper order, had suspended all consideration of the letter until he should have received the reports of his handwriting and finger-print experts.

Instead, he was sitting in his own office at Scotland Yard, considering the weekend roster. He had in front of him eight statements. He read them through once, and then again.

Pulling the telephone towards him with a sort of gesture of despair, he dialled a number and spoke to Dr. Bland. The pathologist proved so rude that Hazlerigg knew he was working unusually hard on the case: He rang off and returned to a third reading of the papers.

“On Saturday, February 13th,” he said to Inspector Pickup, who happened to wander into his room at that moment, “Mr. Birley and Miss Chittering were at the office. Mr. Birley says that Miss Chittering left at about twelve o’clock, and that he left a few minutes afterwards. Miss Chittering, interrogated separately, says that she left at about ten minutes to twelve. She does not know when Mr. Birley left. On Saturday, February 20th, Mr. Duxford was on duty with Miss Cornel. Mr. Duxford thinks that he left at about eleven-thirty or a quarter to twelve. He says Miss Cornel left a few minutes before him. Miss Cornel says that she does not know what time she left, but she caught the eleven-fifty for Sevenoaks. On Saturday, February 27th, Mr. Horniman (junior) and Miss Mildmay were on duty. They state that they left at the same time—about ten past twelve—and walked together as far as Holborn Circus, a matter of about ten minutes, whence they took their respective ways home. Finally, we have Saturday, March 6th, when Mr. Craine and Miss Bellbas spent the morning together. Mr. Craine says that he thinks they finished work at about a quarter to twelve. He cannot remember which of them left first. Miss Bellbas cannot remember either. Mr. Craine says that on thinking it over, he is of the opinion that Miss Bellbas left before he did. Miss Bellbas says yes, she thinks so, too. Mr. Craine says that on thinking it over again, he recollects that Miss Bellbas was still in the office when he went and must therefore have left after him. Miss Bellbas, re-questioned, says yes, she thinks that’s right.”

“I should think they’re all lying,” said Inspector Pickup.

II

Bohun spent a quiet morning catching up with some of his arrears of work. He was rather assisted in this by the continued absence of John Cove, who had disappeared at about half-past ten without explanation.

At midday, however, John reappeared. He was plainly bursting with news and after some minutes spent scribbling on his blotting-pad, he could keep it to himself no longer.

“Look here,” he said. “I think the time has come for me to let you in on something—”

Bohun made a non-committal sound.

“It’s Eric Duxford,” said John. “You know what I told you—that he was up to no good—and you said that I hadn’t got any proof—well, I have.”

“You mean,” said Bohun slowly, “that you’ve got proof that he was the murderer of Smallbone?”

“Don’t be so meticulous,” said John. “No. Not exactly. Not in so many words. But I know that he’s up to some sort of dirty work. I know that he comes back to this office, at night, after everyone else has gone.”

“You know what?” said Bohun, considerably startled. “Where did you get this from?”

“I don’t know who he meets,” said John, evading the last part of the question. “But I shall know pretty soon. You see, he’s got a meeting tonight. And I intend to be present at it.”

“Good work,” said Bohun. “But how—oh, yes, Mrs. Porter, what is it?”

“It’s this letter, sir, about the insurance. I’m afraid I can’t quite read my own shorthand note.”

Bohun settled Mrs. Porter’s difficulties, and when she had left the room John said:

“It’s like this. Last Saturday I committed a little burglary.”

“You committed—dash it, there goes the telephone. I won’t be a minute.”

In fact it took several minutes to dispose of a querulous person from the Public Trustee’s Office who was worrying himself into a decline over the absence of one and ninepence from a trust account.

At the end of it, John said: “Look here, if I’m going to do justice to this dramatic revelation I insist on going somewhere where we won’t be constantly interrupted. Come and have lunch.”

“All right,” said Bohun. “Where?”

“Let’s go to the Law Society,” said John. “There’s always such a row in the canteen that no one can hear what anyone else says. We shall be safer there than in a restaurant.”

“By the way,” said Bohun, as they crossed Carey Street and turned into Bell Yard. “Are you a member of the Society?”

“In fact, no,” said John. “But I expect you are, aren’t you? That’s all right, then. I’ll go as your guest.”

The canteen of the Law Society is not, as John Cove had indicated, a quiet place. At one o’clock it was full of food, light, steam, crosstalk and solicitors. However, it possessed the advantage of having a number of small tables, set in nooks and corners, and to one of these John led the way. Their nearest neighbours were two middle-aged solicitors, one of whom was eating spaghetti and reading a law journal, whilst the other appeared to be amending a draft contract on a diet of fish cakes.

“This is all right,” said John Cove. “Now, as I was saying—”

When he had finished, Bohun said: “It certainly does seem odd. You say there was a second appointment diary for this year kept locked up in that drawer, and all the appointments in it were in code.”

“It wasn’t exactly a code. Everything was in initials.”

“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.”

“I 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.”

III

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 front-line service in the Pay Corps. And an Old What’s-is-name scarf. An Anthony Eden on his head and a brief-case 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?”

“I 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 the 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 seemed 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 in 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 in festoons 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.

“I 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 then 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. Then 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.