Smallbone Deceased

“Not exactly. Cove says the male side of it is right.”

“Does he now?” The inspector regarded the eight names thoughtfully, clothing each set of symbols with its living flesh.

“If you accept this idea,” said Bohun diffidently, “about the murder being committed on a Saturday morning, does it mean that it must have been a joint effort by two people?”

“Not necessarily. It depends a little on the Saturday routine. Let’s get in young thingummy and ask him about it.”

“John Cove?”

“Yes. He ought to be able to help us.”

“You’re accepting his innocence as proved?”

“Not a bit of it,” said the inspector cheerfully. “I’m only going to ask him some questions. If he tells us the truth then we know what we want. If he doesn’t, then that’s interesting, too, isn’t it?”

John Cove was apparently a candid witness. He said: “I’m not sure how other people manage it. When I’m on duty I turn up about half-past ten. Sergeant Cockerill gets here first and opens the offices, and takes in the post and sorts it out and so on. When I arrive, or the girl, whichever turns up first, that’s the signal for the sergeant to push off. I don’t know what time he gets back to lock up, because, speaking personally, I’m always gone by then. About half-past twelve, I think, or perhaps one o’clock.”

“And when do you leave?”

“That all depends what my programme is,” said John frankly. “I have been away as early as half-past eleven. But it’s usually a bit later than that. Say midday.”

“And does the typist get away at the same time, or later?”

“Usually about the same time. Earlier if anything. There’s not much for her to do really. She takes a note of any telephone calls, and she might have to type a couple of letters. The man who’s on duty on Saturday is supposed to read everything that comes in, and deal with anything absolutely urgent. So far as I’m concerned I usually decide it can wait over till Monday.”

“Well, now, what do we get out of all that?” said Hazlerigg, when the door had shut behind John Cove.

“It looks,” said Bohun diffidently, “as if the scheme would work out quite well for a man, but it would be very risky for a woman. I mean, for instance, Mr. Birley could easily have arranged an appointment with Smallbone for midday. At a quarter to twelve he would tell the typist that there was nothing more to be done, and that she could depart—a hint she would be happy enough to take, I expect. This would give him an absolutely safe forty-five minutes, or perhaps an hour, before Sergeant Cockerill came back to lock up.”

“Yes, I think that’s fair enough. Or if he wanted to avoid suspicion altogether he could leave the office at the same time as the girl—he could easily slip back again as soon as the coast was clear.”

“But if one of the girls was planning the job”—Bohun considered the idea—“it wouldn’t be impossible, but the risks would be bigger. She’d have to take a chance on the man leaving early, and then come back herself. Besides, could she get Smallbone to the office at the time she wanted him—?”

“There’s nothing much in that,” said Hazlerigg. “She’d only have to telephone him and pretend to be speaking on behalf of one of the partners. ‘Mr. Birley wants to see you at the office. Would twelve o’clock on Saturday be possible?’ That sort of thing. She’d have to accept the risk that he might check back on the appointment.”

Hazlerigg leaned back again, and treated himself to another bout of swivelling. It was a lovely chair.

“There’s one thing we get out of this weekend business,” he said at last. “I don’t know whether you’ve spotted it, but I think it explains the rather curious method of concealing the body. What puzzled me before about this choice of hiding-place was this—that the body was certain to be discovered in the end. It was a fair chance that it might be several weeks before anyone opened any individual deed box. From that point of view the particular box was rather well chosen, for as I understand it, the Ichabod Stokes Trust was a matter in which Abel Horniman did most of the work himself and, as he was ill, it was the least likely to be disturbed. We can see now that all the murderer was concerned with was that the body should not come to light too soon. It had to stay hidden just long enough to make it uncertain which weekend was the fatal one.”

III

“Excuse me, Inspector.”

“Of course. Come in.”

“You wanted to know at once if I found anything at all…”

“Certainly.”

“It’s only a small thing.”

Mr. Hoffman held in his hand two receipts.

“I found them among some miscellaneous papers belonging to Abel Horniman.”

Hazlerigg read the first. “Dear Mr. Horniman, I write to thank you for your cheque £15 0s. 0d. which arrived safely today and very welcome. Thanking you once again for your great kindness and hoping you are keeping well. Ada Groot (Mrs.).” The second was in similar terms and was signed by Clarissa Holding.

“What about them?”