Smallbone Deceased

“Three things,” said Mr. Hoffman primly. “First, I can’t find any record of any client of the name of Groot or Holding. And it ought to be easy to locate any client, with the system they’ve got here. Secondly, I can’t find any record in the books of these particular payments having been made. Thirdly—well, look at the date. March 29th. The receipt says: ‘Your cheque which arrived today.’ So it must have been posted on March 28th.”

“You mean—?”

“I mean,” said Mr. Hoffman slowly, “that Abel Horniman died on March 15th.”

“Yes,” said Hazlerigg. “That’s quite a point. What’s your idea? Do you think they are faked receipts? Cover for some payment that was never made?”

“I should require more positive evidence before committing myself to a definite assertion—”

“And a very proper Civil Service reply,” said Hazlerigg. “However, there’s one place we might look for corroboration, if you haven’t done so already.” He led the way out into the secretaries’ office. “All these secretaries keep address books. Try Miss Cornel’s.”

One theory fell to the ground at once. Both Mrs. Groot and Miss Holding were in the book.

“They both live at Sevenoaks. The same street, too,” said Hazlerigg thoughtfully. “Sevenoaks. Now isn’t that where—yes, of course it is. Miss Cornel herself has a habitation at Sevenoaks. Is that only the arm of coincidence or is it something more sinister? We will send Sergeant Plumptree down there. Get hold of Mr. Cove, Hoffman, and find out Miss Cornel’s address.”

Mr. Cove, who was busy in his office, managed to disengage his attention from his six-away forecasts long enough to oblige with Miss Cornel’s address.

Inspector Hazlerigg telephoned Sergeant Plumptree with a fresh set of instructions, and went back to Scotland Yard in the hope of securing a few moments’ conversation with Dr. Bland. In one of the basement rooms—the one used by Mr. Prince, the litigation clerk, Mr. Hoffman made a final note in his meticulous handwriting, cast a couple of columns of figures and then re-cast them absent-mindedly, closed the books and went home to a vegetarian lunch.

Mr. Gissel finished with the last volume of the reported cases from the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council and straightened his aching back. He thought that it was all very probably a waste of time, but it didn’t do to leave anything undone. He had once hanged a man by finding a single strand of wool caught in the join of a lavatory seat.

In his room John Cove listened to these sounds of diminishing activity. Twelve had struck some time ago from the Temple Church and Mrs. Porter had long been dismissed to her flat and her husband at Bow. At last he got to his feet and set out on a careful tour of the offices. It was as he had thought. They were empty.

John consulted his watch again.

Sergeant Cockerill, he knew, would be back at any time between half-past twelve and a quarter to one. He had, therefore, twenty minutes.

With rather a malicious smile on his face he made his way into the room next to his own—the one normally occupied by Eric Duxford.

Once inside he slipped the catch and started to search. In deference to what he had observed of Mr. Gissel’s methods he took the trouble to put on a pair of wash-leather gloves and wore them throughout the proceedings.

A knowledge of Horniman routine saved him a certain amount of trouble, and he paid only nominal attention to the card index, the neat rows of folders and the stack of black deed boxes.

“It’s the desk or nothing,” said John to himself, and without more ado he sat himself down in Eric’s chair and started to pull open the drawers. The bottom ones on either side of the knee-hole contained the usual jetsam of a lawyer’s office—old appointment diaries, prints of the National Conditions of Sale, apportionment tables, a paper-knife (put out as an advertisement by an enterprising Law stationer), a carton of saccharine tablets, several sets of auction particulars, a small box of legal seals, a number of rubber bands and the endless lengths of red tape which coil, Laocoön-like, through the pigeon-holes of any solicitor’s desk.

Only one drawer was locked: the one in the top left-hand corner: and finding this circumstance suspicious, John immediately devoted his whole attention to it. Like Sergeant Cockerill, he was of the opinion that opening locks with bent pieces of wire was an operation confined almost entirely to fiction. First, therefore, he tried all his own keys in the lock, only stopping when he had nearly jammed one of them on the pivot. “And it wouldn’t look too good if I had to leave half a key broken off in the lock,” he reflected. “I think perhaps the time has come for some brute force and bloody ignorance.” He examined the office fire-irons with an eye to their felonious possibilities, but finally left the room and went downstairs, bringing back with him a strong, stubby spade used by Sergeant Cockerill for shovelling coke.