Smallbone Deceased

Hazlerigg was studying one or two of the reports. Something seemed to have puzzled him. He looked through the photographs again and selected one gruesome close-up which showed the body of Marcus Smallbone as it had lain packed in its metal coffin.

Then he looked again at the statement.

“I can’t quite make out from this,” he said, “who actually identified the body first?”

“I thought it was young Horniman.”

“Not from what it says here. Horniman says that the first time Smallbone’s name was actually mentioned was when Miss Bellbas—she’s one of the typists, I gather—ran out of the room screaming ‘It’s Mr. Smallbone’ and something about the stars foretelling it. Miss Bellbas denies it. She says she had never seen Mr. Smallbone when he was alive so how could she have recognised him when he was dead. Miss Cornel, one of the secretaries, says that she thought Bob Horniman mentioned the name first. Sergeant Cockerill says, No. He doesn’t think anyone actually mentioned the name, but there had been so much speculation about Smallbone’s disappearance that he, for his part, assumed at once that the body must be his.”

“Sounds plausible,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “Why are you making a special point of it…?”

“Well, sir”—Hazlerigg pointed to the photograph—“you see how the body was lying. The face was pushed right down on to the chest. Then again, after eight or ten weeks, I shouldn’t have imagined that anyone could say with certainty—”

“Yes. There may be something there. Bland did the autopsy. Have a word with him and see what he says. Incidentally, I can set your mind at rest on one point. There’s no doubt it was Smallbone. We’ve got very good prints which match up a dozen test samples from his lodgings. The man was a sort of pottery collector, bless him, and has left hundreds of beautiful prints. Colley will tell you about that.”

“Right,” said Hazlerigg. He replaced the photographs and gathered the typewritten sheets of Divisional Detective-Inspector Colley’s report, patting them into a neat bundle, then rose to go.

“There is one thing,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “You may need a bit of expert help. It doesn’t need me to point out to you that there is an obvious line here, and the obvious line is often the right line. On the face of it, there’s only one man who could have done this job. And his motive, when you get to it, is almost certain to be tied up in some legal jiggery-pokery. That’s the logical supposition, anyway. Now would you like me to lend you one of our legal fellows to help you. Just say the word…”

Hazlerigg hesitated. The offer, he knew, was helpfully meant: and yet it had a faint suggestion of dual control which was hateful. However, it was no doubt the sensible course and he had actually opened his mouth to say “Yes” when his eye caught a name on the top of the typescript report.

“May I take it that the offer will be kept open,” he said. “I’d like to start this in the ordinary routine way. I may find myself out of my depth. Quite likely I shall. If so—”

“Certainly,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “Just say the word. By the way,” he added shrewdly, “what was it on that paper that made you change your mind?”

Hazlerigg smiled.

“I saw a name I recognised,” he said. “Here—in the list of recent arrivals at the office.”

“Henry Winegarden Bohun,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “Never heard of him. What is he?”

“Presumably he is a solicitor. He was a statistician. Before that, I believe, an actuary. And at one time almost a doctor.”

“I don’t believe,” said the Assistant Commissioner, “that any normal man could find the time to train for all those professions.”

“Quite so, sir,” said the chief inspector. “No normal man could. Bohun’s not normal. I’ll tell you how I know about him. He happened to be in the same battalion as Sergeant Pollock—you may remember him—”

“The man the Garret crowd killed. He worked with you, didn’t he?”

“Yes. Well, he was a friend of Bohun’s. They were in the same company in North Africa. He told me about Bohun’s peculiarity. If this is the same chap—and heaven knows it’s not a common name—then he might be useful. Particularly if we can be certain that he wasn’t involved—I’ll check on that first, of course.”

“A friend in the enemy’s camp,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “It’s quite a good idea. Only for heaven’s sake don’t be like that mug in the detective story who confides all his best ideas to a friendly sort of character who turns out to be the murderer in Chapter Sixteen.”

II

Bohun was one of the first to leave the office that evening. In view of the fact that he had only joined the firm two days before, and had had no previous ascertainable connection with any member of it, if we except a very distant schoolboy acquaintanceship with Bob Horniman, he had occupied only a few minutes of Inspector Colley’s time.

In common with all the other members of the staff he had had his finger-prints taken.