Smallbone Deceased

‌Chapter Twelve —Thursday P.M.— £48 2s. 6d.

Cloud rolls over cloud: one train of thought suggests and is driven away by another: theory after theory is spun out of the bowels of his brain, not like the spider’s web, compact and round—a citadel and a snare, built for mischief and for use, but like the gossamer… flitting in the idle air and glittering only in the ray of fancy.

Hazlitt: The Plain Speaker

I

“You’re asking me,” said Dr. Bland, “to be scientific about something that has no real scientific basis.”

“In other words,” said Hazlerigg, “we’re asking you to perform the impossible.”

“That’s it.”

“And, as usual, you are going to oblige.”

“Soft soap,” said Dr. Bland. “All right. So long as you don’t expect me to get up in court and explain it all to a jury.”

“That’s the last thing I shall ask,” said Hazlerigg. “All I want you to do is to narrow the field. If you can indicate that certain Saturdays are more likely than other Saturdays, then we can concentrate, first, on the people who were in the office on those days.”

Dr. Bland raised a tufted eyebrow at the chief inspector.

“So long as you’re not arguing ex hypothesi,” he said.

“What the devil do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t perhaps have some particular person in mind already?”

“James Bland,” said Hazlerigg, “you’ve got a damned diagnosing mind. Yes. I am thinking of one particular person.”

“Then this may be helpful.”

He unfolded on to Hazlerigg’s desk an enormous sheet of graph paper ruled with the usual axes and traversed by nine or ten very attractive apical curves, each one of a different colour.

“They all start,” explained the pathologist, “from the zone of maximum improbability—that is zero on the vertical axis, and move upwards towards maximum probability. The horizontal line is a time line, covering the four weeks in question.”

“I see,” said Hazlerigg. “I think. What are the different colours?”

“Different parts of the body deteriorate, after death, at different speeds. The speed of deterioration of any part depends on a number of constant factors, such as the temperature and the humidity of the atmosphere and equally on a number of accidental circumstances. For instance, if the stomach happens to be full at death—”

“All right,” said Hazlerigg hastily, “you can skip that one. These lines, I take it, are the various items you have selected—”

“Test points, yes. The mauve, for instance, shows the degree of separation of the finger-nails from the hand. The yellow is the bladder-wall.”

“What’s the purple one?”

“Toe-nails.”

“I see. And the positioning of the curve enables you to see the likeliest time of death according to each individual symptom.”

“That’s about it,” said the doctor. “As I said at the beginning, there’s nothing very scientific about it all. I’ve just represented, graphically, the points which have influenced me in coming to a certain decision. Generally speaking, I have been helped a great deal by the fact that the body remained—or so I have assumed—in the same very confined place and at a fairly constant temperature.”

“And your decision?”

“From the moment of discovery, not less than six weeks, not more than eight.”

Hazlerigg took up his desk diary and ran a finger back through the pages.

“It’s April twenty-second today,” he said. “We found the body on the fourteenth. Just over a week ago. Six weeks back from there brings us to—yes. And eight weeks—hum!”

“Does the answer come out right?” said Dr. Bland.

“Yes,” said Hazlerigg. “Yes, I do believe it’s beginning to.”

II

Chaffham is on the coast of Norfolk. It is not a very large or a very prosperous place, and its principal feature, indeed the chief reason for its existence, is the deep-water inlet which affords anchorage here for a hundred or more craft great and small.

Inspector Hazlerigg, who had travelled down by police car, arrived at Chaffham at half-past three that afternoon. The sun would have done no discredit to a day of June. The water sparkled, as a light wind chased the clouds, and the grey, flat unlovely land did its best to simulate a smile.

Hazlerigg stood in the single main street which sloped to the jetty and the “hard”. He looked at the grey-walled, grey-roofed shops, and behind them at the whale-backed hill where only the thorn trees seemed tough enough to outface the savagery of the North Sea. And he felt, deep down inside him, the contentment which even the most unpromising county can bring to her own sons. For he was a Norfolk man; and thirty-two hard years in London had not served to overlay it.

A telephone message had gone ahead of him, and a sergeant of the Norfolk Constabulary was in the main street when the car stopped. Five minutes later Hazlerigg was seated in Chaffham police station, which was, in fact, the front room in Sergeant Rolles’s cottage, studying a large-scale map of the district.

“If he’s a visitor,” said Sergeant Rolles, “a summer visitor, or a yachtsman, he’ll not live in Chaffham. He’ll have one of the houses along Station Road or Sea Wall.”

The sergeant ran his thumb-nail along the two roads, roughly parallel, which joined the station to the village street, following the south bank of the inlet, and forming the crosspiece of a “T” to which the main street was the upright.

“You know all the people who live up and down this street, I expect,” said Hazlerigg.

“And their fathers and their grandfathers,” said Sergeant Rolles. “But the visitors—well, they come and go. I know the regulars. Let’s see that name again. Horniman. Young chap, would it be? Dark hair, wears glasses. Was in the navy—the R.N.V.R., I should say. That’s him, then. Keeps a little place almost at the end of Sea Wall. Comes down most weekends. It’s shut up now, I expect.”

“Has he got local help?”

“Mrs. Mullet does for him,” said the sergeant. “Cleans the place, and gets in his stores. He telephones her when he’s coming down and she opens the house. I call it a house. It’s a bungalow really. The Cabin, or some name like that.”

“What’s she like?”

“Mrs. Mullet? A most respectable woman. Her father used to keep the Three Lords Hunting. But he’s been dead fifteen years. Fell down his cellar flap on New Year’s Eve and cracked his skull. She’s all right, sir. Her husband’s as deaf as a post. He’s a wicked old man.”

“I think I’ll have a word with Mrs. Mullet, if you’re agreeable,” said Hazlerigg.

“Help yourself,” said the sergeant.

Mrs. Mullet received the inspector, with proper Norfolk caution, in a dim kitchen. Her husband sat in a high chair beside the range. His bright eyes moved from speaker to speaker, but he took no part in the opening formalities.

“It’s like this, Mrs. Mullet,” said Hazlerigg. “I’m very anxious to check exactly when Mr. Horniman arrived at his cottage each weekend. More particularly”—he took a quick glance at his notebook—“on the weekend of February 27th.”

“Well, now, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Mullet.

“Does he come down here every weekend?”

“Oh, no. Not every weekend. Not until the summer. He was down here at the end of February—like you said. That was his first visit this year. Then again at the end of March, and last weekend.”

“Well, then,” said Hazlerigg. “If February 27th was his first trip, surely that’s some reason for it to stick in your memory.”

“I can remember it all right,” said Mrs. Mullet. “The thing I don’t know is whether I ought to tell you anything about it.”

Hazlerigg said: “Well, ma’am, I need hardly remind you that it’s your duty—”

“If I’m brought to court,” said Mrs. Mullet, “that’s one thing. If I’m brought to court I shall say what I know. But until then—”

Mr. Mullet swivelled his bright eyes on to the inspector to see how he would play this one.

“I must warn you,” said Hazlerigg, “that you may be guilty of obstructing—”

“It’s not a thing I approve of,” said Mrs. Mullet. “But yooman nature is yooman nature, and all the divorce courts in the world can’t stop it.”

A sudden warm glow of comprehension irradiated the inspector. It was as if the sun had come out in the Mullet kitchen.

“I don’t think you quite understand,” he said gently. “I’m investigating a murder.”

This got home all right. Mr. Mullet sat up in his chair and said quite sharply: “What’s that? Murder! ’As Mr. ’Orniman been murdered?”

Mrs. Mullet said weakly: “Are you a police detective?”

“Well, yes,” said Hazlerigg. “I’m not a private detective, if that’s what you mean. And I’m not trying to get evidence for a divorce.”

“Well, then,” said Mrs. Mullet. “I’m sure I’ll tell you what I can.”

Chaffham, it appeared, though difficult of access by road, had the advantage of being less than a mile from the direct London-Cromer railway line, and an excellent afternoon train left King’s Cross at two o’clock and reached Chaffham Halt at four. Bob Horniman, said Mrs. Mullet, used to catch this train, which was met by a single-decker bus (the Chaffham Bumper) driven by a one-eyed mechanic (the Chaffham Terror). This bus, barring enditchment and like accidents reached the cross-roads nearest to The Cabin at ten past four.

“Nice time for tea,” said Mrs. Mullet.

“And that was always how he came?”

“That’s right. I’d have a fire in and a meal ready. And not before he could do with it, I expect. After tea he’d go and look at his boat. He keeps it in Albert Tugg’s yard, when he’s not using it. Then he’d have a drink at the Lords. Highly popular, he was, with the gentlemen there. Then he’d go to bed. Sunday, he’d go sailing, and catch the six o’clock train from the Halt. He’d leave the key with me as he went past to catch his bus. Then I’d go in on Monday morning and clean up.”

It sounded a harmless and indeed rather a pleasant weekend. Hazlerigg reflected that you never really know a man until you meet him on holiday. He would not have visualised the quiet, bespectacled Bob Horniman as the life and soul of the public bar at Three Lords Hunting.

After a few more general questions he took his departure.

As soon as he had gone Mr. Mullet, who wasn’t half as deaf as he liked to make out, surfaced briskly and hobbled across to the cupboard. From the top shelf he took down a much-folded copy of his favourite Sunday newspaper and turned to the centre page.

“It be that Lincoln’s Inn murder,” he observed. “Thought it must be the same ’Orniman. A firm of lawyers. Found a body in a box. Fairly rotted away, it says.”

“Well, I never,” said Mrs. Mullet. “What will they do next! Such a nice-looking young man, too.”

“Lawyers,” said Mr. Mullet. “Good riddance if they all killed each other, I say. Snake eat snake.”

At about the same time that Mr. Mullet was making these uncharitable remarks, Inspector Hazlerigg had reached the end of the Sea Wall and was taking a quick look at Bob Horniman’s weekend cottage.

It was shuttered and deserted. Over a strip of sand-blown garden and rank lawn he saw the jetty, and the halyards of a little flag-staff. The sun had gone, merging sea and land in uniform unfriendly grey. With the evening a cold wind had arrived.

Hazlerigg walked back to the police station. It occurred to him that he had an urgent telephone call to make.

III

Sergeant Plumptree sat at Hazlerigg’s desk. In front of him he had a list. It had nearly three hundred names on it, and to almost each name was annexed a telephone number. Sergeant Plumptree looked at the list and sighed. He had already rung fifty-five of the numbers and he was feeling very tired. His ear-drums were buzzing with infernal dialling tones and his throat was sore with enforced bonhomie. He recollected a story he had once read about the wife of the President of the United States who had shaken hands with three thousand guests at a State reception and, when her husband said “Good morning” to her at breakfast, had started screaming hysterically.

He understood exactly how she had felt.

He dialled the next number. “Mrs. Freestone? Oh, it’s Mrs. Freestone’s maid. Could I have a word with Mrs. Freestone? I’m speaking on behalf of Horniman, Birley and Craine. Oh—hello, Mrs. Freestone. I’m very sorry to trouble you. We are trying to trace a telephone call which the firm had some time ago—at the end of February. Saturday, February 27th, to be exact. Can you remember if you rang the firm up about that time? Yes, it is rather a long time ago—but being a Saturday morning we thought it might have stuck in your memory—No—Yes—No, of course you couldn’t be expected to remember every telephone call you made two months ago. Very sorry to have troubled you, Mrs. Freestone.”

Another tick on the list.

“Hullo. Is that Sir Henry Rollaway—Oh, it’s Sir Henry’s man. Would you tell Sir Henry that Horniman, Birley and Craine…”

IV

That same afternoon, Bohun put down the draft will he was perusing and hit the desk softly with the open palm of his hand.

“Of course,” he said. “I knew it meant something.”

“Knew what meant something?” asked John Cove.

“Forty-eight pounds, two shillings and sixpence.”

“Don’t be silly,” said John.

“That’s because you haven’t had an actuarial training,” said Bohun. “Every figure has a meaning. To the discerning eye there is all the difference in the world between a seductive little multiplicand and a sinister prime.”

After a few minutes’ thought he went to look for Mr. Hoffman, whom he found at a table in Mr. Waugh’s room. Mr. Hoffman was thumbing through a batch of cancelled cheques with absent-minded enthusiasm.

“Inspector Hazlerigg told me,” said Bohun, “that when you were examining Abel Horniman’s private bank account, you could only find one item which you couldn’t explain. As I remember, that was a quarterly payment of £48 2s. 6d.”

“That is quite correct.”

“It just occurred to me to wonder,” said Bohun apologetically, “—it seems such an obvious suggestion—but have you tried grossing it up at 3½ per cent?”

Mr. Hoffman looked surprised. “With or without tax,” he said.

“Adding on tax. In view of what you said, I thought it was rather a coincidence.”

Mr. Hoffman’s pencil moved across the paper. Then he clicked the tip of his tongue delicately against the roof of his mouth and said: “Tchk, tchk. Yes, indeed. How very surprising. To think that I never noticed it.”

It was the grudging salute of one mathematician to another.

Henry went slowly upstairs, and across into the partners’ side of the building.

It seemed to him that circumstances were conspiring to force decisions on him; decisions which he had little desire to face.

“Yes,” said Mr. Birley, “what is it?”

“I wondered if I might have a word with you and Mr. Craine.”

“All right,” said Mr. Birley. The thought struck him that Bohun also might be going to give notice. Nothing would surprise him now.

“Certainly,” said Mr. Craine. “What’s the trouble?”

“No trouble really,” said Bohun. And without further preamble he told them of Bob Horniman’s surprising offer made to him that morning. It occurred to him that he might be committing a breach of confidence, and it also occurred to him that in the circumstances it could not matter much.

When Mr. Birley had grasped what was going on he said explosively:

“Bob can’t do that. Really, Bohun. I’m surprised at you.”

Mr. Craine said nothing. He looked thoughtful.

“I should have thought you would have known enough about the Law of Partnership,” went on Mr. Birley, “to know that one partner can’t transfer his share just as if it was so much personal property. His other partners have got some say in the matter, you know. It was different with Abel. He was the founder of the firm and he reserved the right to transmit his share to his son. That was agreed. I never entirely approved of it, but that’s neither here nor there. But Bob’s got no more right to hand it on to you than to Miss Bellbas. I don’t mean to be rude,” continued Mr. Birley—who clearly did—“but you’ve only been here a week. And you’ve hardly been qualified a month.”

He looked to Mr. Craine for moral support, but Mr. Craine, who had been looking at Bohun speculatively, remained silent.

“Of course, in a few years’ time,” said Mr. Birley, “when you’ve—er—proved your metal—we might perhaps consider a salaried partnership.”

“Quite,” said Bohun. “And I much appreciate the confidence in my abilities which inspires the offer. A moment ago you said that you might just as well have offered a partnership to Miss Bellbas. Now I don’t suppose you meant that seriously, but it enables me to put what I have to put quite clearly. Considered as potential partners, the essential difference between myself and Miss Bellbas is that I am in a position to put twenty thousand pounds into the business—as an investment, of course.”

“Why do you suppose,” said Mr. Birley, “that the firm should be in need of twenty thousand pounds?” Curiously, he did not put the question in an offensive or rhetorical manner. He asked it as if he was genuinely in search of information; and Bohun answered in the same tone.

“You know as well as I do, that Abel Horniman borrowed ten thousand pounds from the Ichabod Stokes Trust, and used it to bolster up the finances of the firm.”

“He put it all back,” said Mr. Craine sharply.

“If he ever took it,” said Mr. Birley. “It’s never been proved.”

“And never will be now,” said Mr. Craine.

“I expect you’re right,” said Bohun. “If Mr. Hoffman can’t spot the join, I don’t suppose anyone will ever do any better. Particularly as the money was put back almost at once: and all the interim trust accounts seem to have disappeared into the limbo.”

“Then what—” said Mr. Birley.

“But the fact that no one seems to know where it ultimately came from doesn’t alter the fact that at some time or other this money will have to be paid back.”

“How do you know that it was a loan,” said Mr. Birley. “He may—well, he may have been left the money.”

“I can’t think you intend the suggestion seriously,” said Bohun. “If the money had been left to him you’d certainly have known of it—but in any case, it doesn’t arise. It’s now quite certain that Abel Horniman was paying interest on the money down to the day of his death. The item appears in his bank book. Forty-eight pounds two and sixpence. Three and a half per cent per annum on ten thousand pounds, less tax. Rather a significant item.”

“Who was the money paid to?” said Mr. Craine.

One of the oddest points of this odd conversation was that both the partners seemed unconsciously to be treating Bohun as an equal.

“The money was drawn by Abel in cash,” said Bohun. “We’ve just found that out. I presume he paid the money for security reasons into a private account—at another bank. Then he could pay the interest by cheque—to—”

“To whom,” said Mr. Birley and Mr. Craine in a grammatical dead-heat.

“Well, that’s just it,” said Bohun smoothly. “To whoever he got the money from, I suppose.”

“The whole thing’s inexplicable,” said Mr. Craine. “Speaking quite frankly—since all the cards are on the table—Abel had no security he could borrow on. He had this business, of course. That produced a good income—but there was no equity in it. Certainly nothing he could pledge. His London house and his farm and estate were mortgaged to the hilt, and over.”

“Where he got it from,” said Bohun, “heaven knows. It’s even been suggested that he took a gun and robbed a bank. One thing seems certain—or anyway highly probable. Smallbone found out the truth about it. And the truth, if it had been exposed—as Smallbone would have revelled in exposing it, he was that sort of person—would have resulted in ruin for Abel Horniman and disaster for his firm. That, it seems plain, is why he was killed.”

He paused.

“Now that Abel is dead the first threat has lost its sting. The second one, of course, remains. That’s why I took the liberty just now of suggesting that the firm might find itself in need of some ready capital.”

V

“Major Fernough?” said Sergeant Plumptree. He wondered if he sounded as tired as he felt.

“Yes, this is Major Fernough speaking.”

“I’m sorry to trouble you. I am speaking on behalf of Horniman, Birley and—that’s right. Your solicitors. We are trying to trace a call made to the office on February 27th.”

“Was that a Saturday?”

“That’s right.”

“In the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Funny thing you should mention it,” said Major Fernough. “Wait a moment whilst I look at my diary. Yes. You’re quite right. I did ring the office that morning. Just after eleven o’clock. What about it?”

“Well—er—who did you speak to?” said Sergeant Plumptree cautiously.

“Don’t be silly,” said Major Fernough. “That’s the whole point. That’s what I complained about. I didn’t speak to anybody. There was no one there. I rang up three times. Damnably slack. If you say you’re going to have someone in the office on Saturday morning then you ought to have someone in the office.”

“Quite so, sir,” said Sergeant Plumptree, with heartfelt gratitude. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, indeed.”

VI

As soon as Mr. Birley reached his house in St. George’s Square that evening, he went upstairs to his bedroom. A glass-topped hospital table stood beside the bed, and above the bed was a large white cupboard.

Mr. Birley opened the cupboard and surveyed the solid array of bottles. He considered his latest symptoms with the earnest zest of a practised hypochondriac. Latterly he had been seeing dashes. Not dots or spots—these were common enough and could easily be dealt with by a dose of salts—but bar-shaped dashes sometimes flanking, sometimes superimposed upon the dots. The whole effect was not unlike a message in morse.

Mr. Birley weighed his symptoms against his powerful array of remedies, and finally selected a large green bottle and poured himself out a measured medicine glass of ruby-coloured liquid. He stirred it for a moment with a rod, then downed it in one. After this he inspected his tongue in the glass, felt his pulse, and closed his eyes again.

The dashes were still there, but fainter.

Mr. Birley repeated the dose twice and quite suddenly began to feel happier. (This was not actually surprising, since what he was drinking was, had he known it, very inferior port masquerading as a health tonic and sold in small bottles at a very superior price.)

Mr. Birley went downstairs to his study and sat at his desk. He thought with distaste of Henry Bohun and with active dislike of Mr. Craine. He thought of Bob Horniman and, with no very great charity, of the dead Abel Horniman. He thought of the future. Ahead of him stretched unbroken reefs of trouble. Endless shocks to his nervous system; endless assaults on his gastric fluids; endless nights when fear of insomnia would prove more potent than insomnia itself.

After all, he reflected, he had no need of his professional earnings. He had never spent half of them and the accumulation of years served only to excite the rapacity of the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

And lastly, and by no means least, if anything unpleasant did happen—and that damned fellow Bohun had sounded very confident—might it not be better if it could be shown that he had taken steps before…

He pulled a sheet of paper towards him and started to write.

VII

After supper that night Bohun put on his working clothes, told Mrs. Magoli not to wait up for him, and started out.

He wanted to think, and he had found that walking at night through the streets of the City was one of the best ways of thinking. He was not due on his watchman’s job until ten o’clock, so there was no need to hurry.

It was a lovely night, with high, packed white clouds and the moon playing hide-and-seek between them. Bohun made his way steadily eastwards, only dimly conscious of the route he was taking but certain with the certainty of a born Londoner that he could not stray very far from his bearing.

There were two distinct and separate problems. He saw that now. It was confusion over this prime fact that had created to date so much unnecessary obscurity. The first was the problem of who had killed Mr. Smallbone, and why had they done it—with the pendant to it, of why it had been necessary to remove Miss Chittering. The other problem was how Abel Horniman had managed to lay his hands on ten thousand pounds.

The two problems were connected, of course. Here Bohun felt himself to be on secure ground. The chain of causation, in outline, was as he had laid it before Birley and Craine. Abel Horniman had raised ten thousand pounds by some method on the windy side of the law. Marcus Smallbone had found out about it. Marcus Smallbone was the sort of man who was known to be untiring in nosing out scandals, indefatigable in his zeal for proclaiming them to the world. Therefore somebody who did not wish the facts to be known had removed Mr. Smallbone with a homemade cheese cutter. And seeing exposure threatened from some indiscretion of Miss Chittering, had removed her, too.

It was becoming increasingly and painfully plain who that somebody must be. Motive and opportunity were both evident. It was necessary now only to solve the fundamental problem behind Abel’s acquisition of wealth.

Bohun had reached this point when he found himself at Aldgate Pump. He therefore turned south-east and devoted his thoughts for the next fifteen minutes to a consideration of methods by which a hardworking, systematic, professionally knowledgeable, not very active solicitor might manufacture ten thousand pounds.

The obvious solution would be to dip into a trust fund—some fund of which he was, in effect, the sole active trustee. And this, as a first effort, was no doubt what Abel had done. He had borrowed the money from the Ichabod Stokes Trust. That did not afford a final or satisfactory solution. The system of solicitors accounting is designed to reveal such illicit borrowings, and beneficiaries, even though charitable in every sense of the word, are certain in the end to raise objections to the disappearance of substantial portions of their income. Realising this, Abel had very promptly paid back into the Stokes Trust an equivalent sum of money which he had succeeded in raising in some other and more ingenious way. The repayment into the Stokes Trust had passed without detection and, in Bohun’s opinion, would never now be proved, particularly since most of the relevant accounts were lost.

This left unsolved, however, the question of where the money had ultimately come from. It had been borrowed, he was fairly certain, but on what conceivable security?

VIII

“Thoughtful tonight, ’Enery,” said the bald man.

“Something on my mind,” said Bohun.

“A problem?”

“That’s it,” said Bohun. “A problem. What’s this pitch like?”

“Oh, very snug. Very nice little business.” The bald man waved a proprietorial arm round the shadowy warehouse. “Enough whisky to give us a hangover just for looking at it.”

“Where do we sit?” said Henry.

“In here.” The bald man showed him into a sort of porters’ room, just inside the main warehouse. “Gas-fire, gas-ring for our cuppers.” He demonstrated certain other arrangements. “All the fixings.”

“Very nice,” said Bohun. “What’s the routine?”

“Ten minutes in the hour. We’ll take it in turns. Takes eight minutes to get round, allowing two for extras. If the other chap’s not back by the end of ten minutes, then you know what.”

“Fine,” said Henry.

He tilted his chair at a convenient angle and resumed his interrupted train of thought. Fortunately, the bald man was not talkative, and after a bit, silence descended on the little room, broken only by the purring of the gas-fire, and ticking of the gold-and-green time-clock in the corner.

Security—mortgage—lien—bill of sale—pledge—collateral. How could a man mortgage something which he hadn’t got? That was what it boiled down to. What sort of security could he have offered? It must have been good security, thought Henry, if the borrower only had to pay three and a half per cent for his loan. You didn’t get risky money at that rate of interest.

He took his problem with him when he went on his round at half-past three, down the corridors of crates and boxes, under the great unwinking night lamps. It was with him as he tested the automatic alarms on the two steel-roller-covered entrance doors; and it was still no nearer to an answer when he got back and found the bald man brewing one more in an endless series of cups of tea.

He put it to him. “How can you raise money on something you haven’t got?” he said.

“Search me,” said the bald man. “I’m not a borrowing man.”

Bohun felt that he was reaching a stage of mental exhaustion and nullity. He took out a well-thumbed copy of the Plain Speaker and was soon adrift on the strong tide of Hazlitt’s prose.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bald man leave the room and noticed that it was exactly half-past four.

“Cloud rolls over cloud; one train of thought suggests and is driven away by another; theory after theory is spun out of the bowels of his brain, not like the spider’s web, compact and round, a citadel and a snare, built for mischief and for use—”

“‘A citadel and a snare’,” said Bohun, “‘built for mischief and for use.’ There’s glory for you.” He saw that the bald man was still absent, and the hands of the clock said nearly a quarter to five.

“Hell,” said Bohun uneasily. “I do hate this sort of thing.” He put the book back in his pocket and tilted his chair forward so that he could see the doorway reflected in the glass over the fireplace. He felt with his toe for the concealed, spring-loaded switch.

The door opened softly and a young man came in. They all look so alike, thought Bohun. Young, tough, white, boxer’s face. Black hair, white silk scarf, old battledress. This one carried a gun and looked as if he knew how to use it.

Bohun let him get three paces in the room before he kicked the switch. A steel shutter came down across the door, thudding softly home against its counter-balance. Bohun got cautiously to his feet and said with almost ludicrous earnestness:

“Think before you do anything rash. I’m certain you wouldn’t like the police to find you locked in here with a dead body.”

“Open that unprintable door,” said the young man.

“It’s no good,” said Bohun. “I can’t, really. Here’s the switch. No deception. You can see for yourself. It just works one way, to drop the door. It can only be opened now from the outside, with a proper key, when the police get here.”

“When they get here,” said the young man nastily.

“That’s pretty soon, really,” said Bohun. “The same switch sounds the alarm at Cloak Lane and Bishopsgate, and drops the outer doors. They can get cars here in three minutes. Your pals are all in the bag, too.”

“Wonderful thing, science,” said the young man.

Bohun saw that everything was going to be all right and sat down again.

“I’ve got a good mind to bash you, all the same,” said the young man.

“It wouldn’t do you any good really, would it?” said Bohun. “Look here, shall I give you a tip?”

“I’m not fussy,” said the young man.

Bohun walked over to the window, which was heavily barred, and raised the sash. The young man came and stood beside him.

“I wasn’t suggesting that you could get out,” said Bohun, “but I happen to know that there’s an old ditch down there—it’s a drain really—six foot of nettles and then God knows how many feet of mud.”

“Thanks,” said the young man. He pushed his gun through the bars, and they heard the soft thud as it fell into the darkness. “It wasn’t loaded. Very civil of you, all the same. Anything I can do by way of exchange.” He sat down on the chair recently vacated by the bald man.

“Well,” said Bohun, “perhaps you can tell me the answer to a question that’s been puzzling me all evening. How can a man raise money on something he hasn’t got?”

The young man thought for a moment. “That’s dead easy,” he said. “Pawn the same article twice. It’s the quickness of the hand deceives the eye. My old man used to do it with cuff links. It’s quite a lark… Oh, here come our feathered friends… Remind me to tell you about it some time.”

It was half-past five when Bohun got home. A City police car gave him a lift as far as the end of Chancery Lane. As he walked up the Rents the answer came to him in all its stunning and beautiful simplicity.

“Pawn the same thing twice.”

Bohun climbed into bed. For the first time in years he slept for a full three hours.