Smallbone Deceased

“Certainly. A man or a woman. Using this little weapon all you need is the initial surprise, and a certain amount of luck. Consider now. I am going to strangle you.” He pushed the inspector into the late Abel Horniman’s office chair. “You have no cause to suspect me. Right? I am standing quietly behind you. I put my hands round your throat. What do you do? Ah—as I thought. You put your own hands up and try to tear away my fingers. You find it difficult because, strong as you are, you’re sitting down, your knees are under the desk, and you can’t use your weight. But not impossibly difficult. You catch one of my little fingers and bend—all right—all right—you needn’t be too realistic. You manage to break my grip. If you are a man and I am a woman you’d probably break out quite easily. But consider the murderer who is using a wire loop. It’s strong, and it’s as sharp as a cheese-cutter, and it’s an inch into your neck before you know what’s happening. You can’t shout. You’re half paralysed with the shock of the attack and there’s nothing to catch hold of. That’s the crux of it. You can’t get so much as the tip of a finger between the wire and your neck. Yes, yes. I think a woman could kill a man with a weapon like that.”

VI

Hazlerigg had a word with Bohun before he left the office that evening.

He summed things up, principally for his own comfort and edification.

“Abel Horniman is out,” he said. “That’s a pity, because he was our number one candidate. He was the man who ought to have committed this murder. He was the man who might have had every reason for removing Smallbone. But he didn’t do it.”

He paused for a moment; then went on: “I don’t say that we could get up in court and prove that it was impossible for him to have done it. It’s difficult to prove a negative. I suppose he might have crept out of bed in the middle of the night and made his way to Lincoln’s Inn. He might have got in without attracting attention, let himself into the office and killed Smallbone, though I can’t imagine how he’d have got him there unnoticed. It’s theoretically possible. But so improbable that I intend to disregard it. It’s my experience that in real life criminals tend to do their jobs the easiest way. Not the most difficult or the most picturesque. They don’t haul the corpses to the top of Nelson’s Column or exhibit them in the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s. Not unless they are mad.”

As Hazlerigg said this he contemplated for a moment the uncomfortable spectre which must haunt all policemen. He thought of Chief Inspector Aspinall and Inspector Hervey scouring the Midlands for a man who specialised in the murder of six-year-old girls. A man who might be a clerk or a labourer. A lay preacher or a lawyer or a Lord Mayor. A kindly father, an indulgent elder brother, a rational man for twenty-nine days out of thirty. And on the thirtieth—a creature, in the hunting of whom there was no logic and in the hanging of whom no satisfaction.

He shook his head angrily. “I’ll believe in a madman if I have to,” he said. “Not till then. Good night.”

“Good night,” said Bohun.

He walked home across the darkening square, his mind astir with alarming fancies.

‌Chapter Six —Friday— Preliminary Enquiries

But above all, those judicious Collectors of bright parts and flowers and observanda’s are to be nicely dwelt on; by some called the sieves and boulters of learning; tho’ it is left undetermined, whether they dealt in pearls or Meal; and consequently whether they are more value to that which passed thro’ or what staid behind.

Swift: Tale of a Tub

I

“Bohun seems to spend a lot of his time chattering to that policeman,” said Mr. Birley.

“Which policeman?” It seemed to Mr. Craine that the office was full of policemen. Already he had been forced to postpone visits from one ducal and two lesser clients.

“The one who asks all the questions.”

“Oh, yes. The chief inspector.”

“Chief inspector? I don’t think the fellow’s even a gentleman.” Mr. Birley himself had been to Sherborne.

“Oh, well,” said Mr. Craine, tolerantly, “I expect the fact is that he—er—rose from the ranks: or whatever they do in the police force. We mustn’t mind his questions. He’s got his job to do.”

“I don’t mind him doing his job,” said Mr. Birley. “It’s Bohun spending all day chattering to him. If he wants advice why doesn’t he come to me? Bohun can’t know much about things. He only joined us this week.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“We don’t pay him a large salary for him to spend all his time chattering with policemen.”

“Of course not,” said Mr. Craine. “I’ll have a word with him about it. By the way, let me see, what do we pay him?”

“Four hundred and fifty a year,” said Mr. Birley without a blush.

II

“The trouble with you,” said Inspector Hazlerigg, “is that you read too many detective stories.”

He pivoted slowly round in the Horniman swivel-chair.

“How do you make that out?” said Bohun.