Smallbone Deceased

“Some people,” announced Miss Chittering to no one in particular, “think that because they’ve been here a long time they can say anything they like.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Anne. “How many r’s in referred?”

The typewriters resumed their clatter.

Meanwhile in Bob Horniman’s room he and Miss Cornel were looking rather hopelessly at a large black deed box labelled Ichabod Stokes.

“He can’t have lost the key,” said Miss Cornel. “He kept them all together on one ring. Let me have another look. Consequential, Marquis of Curragh, Lady Burberry, General Pugh—he always kept twelve boxes on this rack and six more under the bookshelf. That’s eighteen.” She counted the keys again. “You’re quite right,” she said. “There are only seventeen keys here. Stokes is missing—”

“First the trustee, then the key,” groaned Bob. “I knew it. I knew it. The next thing we shall find is that half the securities are gone.”

Miss Cornel looked at him sharply. “The securities aren’t kept in here,” she said. “They’re with Sergeant Cockerill in the strong-room. There’s nothing in this box but old files and papers and trust accounts.”

“I know,” said Bob, “but how am I to start checking up the securities unless I can get hold of the last set of trust accounts. Hasn’t Cockerill got a key?”

Miss Cornel thought for a moment. “There was a master-key with each set,” she said. “When your father had these new deed boxes put in, they came in sets. There was a master-key with each one, and it was a good thing there was—they were always losing single keys—not your father, he was very careful, but the others—”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t think Mr. Craine ever keeps his boxes locked at all,” said Bob. “Do you think his master-key would fit this lock?”

“I know it wouldn’t,” said Miss Cornel, “because about five years ago your father lost his master-key, and I remember we had to have another one made. It took months.”

“Well, we don’t want to go through all that if we can help it,” said Bob. “Ask Sergeant Cockerill to come up here for a minute.”

Sergeant Cockerill, summoned from the basement, denied any knowledge of master-keys.

“All the other keys I’ve got,” he said. “Strong-room, lockers, doors. Inside doors and outside doors. But not boxes. The partners look after them.” He spoke rather resentfully.

“I suppose we shall have to get through to the firm that made the boxes,” said Bob. “But, heavens, that’ll take weeks, and goodness knows where Mr. Smallbone will have got to by then.”

“I might be able to get a copy of the trust accounts from the auditors,” suggested Miss Cornel. “We could at least start to check the securities. After all,” she added, with considerable logic but a curious lack of conviction, “what’s all the fuss about, we don’t know that there’s anything wrong with this trust.”

“Excusing me,” said Sergeant Cockerill suddenly. “But do I understand that all you’re wanting is to open this box?”

“That’s right.”

“And it’s important?”

“Well,” said Bob, rather helplessly. “We don’t really know. Until we open the box we can’t tell whether it’s important to open it or not—if you see what I mean.”

“Well, if that’s all,” said the sergeant, “I’ll have her open in half of no time.”

“Don’t tell me,” said Miss Cornel in a thrilled tone of voice, “that you’re a retired burglar. One of those people who open locks with a little bent bit of wire.”

“Never you believe it,” said Sergeant Cockerill. “There’s no lock with a spring inside it worth the name was ever opened with bent wire. That’s a thing you see on the films—it’s not real…” He went away and came back with an ordinary heavy ball and plane hammer.

“Put her up on the window-seat where I can get at her,” he said.

“Let me give you a hand,” said Bob. “It’s mighty heavy—up she comes… Yes, what is it, Miss Bellbas?”

“Could you sign this receipt for Mr. Duxford, sir?”

“In a minute,” said Bob. “Hold her steady.”

Sergeant Cockerill took a careful sight down his hammer, swung it up, and brought it down fair and square on the circular brass lock.

IV

The senses sometimes record events in an illogical order. The first thing that Henry Bohun noticed as he came out of his room was that someone had been sick.

Then he saw Sergeant Cockerill, who said in his curiously gentle voice: “Look out you don’t tread in it, sir—it’s Miss Bellbas. I’m fetching something to clear it up.”

Then his ears insisted that someone was screaming; had been screaming for some seconds.

He pushed past the sergeant and through the door of Bob Horniman’s room. Here his nose took charge. Three years of active service had taught him the sweet, throat-catching smell of corrupted flesh.

He saw Bob, white to the lips, standing beside his desk, and Miss Cornel, the corners of her mouth drawn into a pucker.

“What’s happened?” he said sharply.

“It’s in that box.” It was Bob who spoke. “We’ve just found him. For God’s sake, someone, stop that girl screaming.”

Henry went quickly out of the slaughter-house stench, and found Miss Bellbas sitting on a chair inside the secretaries’ office.