Smallbone Deceased

He inserted the steel end, which fortunately had worn both flat and thin, into the space between the top of the desk and the drawer, and leaned downwards on the handle. The result was excellent. There was a sharp crack and the whole of the top of the desk came up three inches. Keeping his weight on the spade John used one hand to slip the drawer open under its now ineffective lock.

The only thing in the drawer was a book, which he saw, when he’d taken it out, was an appointment diary for that year. This didn’t seem very promising and John was on the point of putting it back when a further idea occurred to him. He searched round among the papers on Eric Duxford’s desk and presently unearthed another similar diary. This second one was clearly used for ordinary office appointments. John looked through it quickly, recognising the names of several clients.

“Then what the hell’s the other one?” said John. He picked it up carefully and walked over to the window. At first sight it seemed very similar. Times were noted on various days in the weeks just gone by, only here, instead of names, were sets of initials. H.V.S. cropped up in most of the entries. Against February 20th was “H.V.S. and self to see C.P.G.”, and later, “H.V.S. to see M.L. I am to see him next Tuesday if possible.” John turned the page to next Tuesday which was, in fact, the Tuesday of the previous week. Sure enough, against 3 p.m. was the entry, “M.L. re 20 H.G.” The only other notable point about the entries was that a lot of them seemed to be rather late at night; 8 p.m. and 9 p.m. were favourite times.

“Damned suspicious,” said John. “Obviously comes back here after everyone else has gone.” He slipped the book into the drawer and withdrew the spade. The top settled back quite comfortably. John cleaned off the marks as well as he could.

“I wonder,” he said to himself, “if I ought to tell the inspector about this. Rather a pity to spoil the fun. I can always tell him later if it turns out to be serious. Better put this spade away before Cockerill comes back.”

As he left the office he noticed that the time was a quarter to one.

IV

Scotland Yard, like the British Army, is fond of its weekends. But once war has been declared even Sundays are apt to go by the board. Sergeant Plumptree caught the two o’clock train from Charing Cross and, after a leisurely progress, arrived at Tubs Hill, Sevenoaks, shortly before three. It was a warm afternoon, with April beginning to relent towards May, and enthusiasts were already out for a net on the Vine cricket ground.

A lot of Sergeant Plumptree’s troubles would never have occurred if he had managed to secure the proper address of either of the ladies he was visiting. The receipts unearthed by Mr. Hoffman had both said “Styleman Road, Sevenoaks”. No number in either case. Sergeant Plumptree debated for a moment the advisability of going to the police station and looking at the householders’ list, but then thought better of it. After all, he reflected, Groot and Holding weren’t terribly common names. Also he was in plain clothes, and if he went to the police station it would mean presenting his credentials and giving a long account of what he was up to: also, whilst Styleman Road was conveniently close to the railway the police station was uphill and at the other end of the town; also it was a hot day.

Fortunately, Styleman Road was not a very long thoroughfare—one large house at the near end, and about fifteen small houses on either side. Sergeant Plumptree selected one of these at random and knocked. The door was flung open at once by a lady of indeterminate age. Her light yellow hair was cut in a page-boy bob, and she was wearing a smock.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Sergeant Plumptree, with well-simulated surprise. “My fault entirely. I thought this was Mrs. Groot’s house.”

“That’s right,” said the lady.

“Oh, I see. What a bit of luck.” Sergeant Plumptree wished that thirty-to-one chances came off as frequently on the race course.

“Are you Mrs. Groot?”

“That’s right.”

“I wonder if I might have a word with you.”

“Yes.”

“Shall we go inside. It’s rather a confidential matter.”

“Very well,” said the lady. “Come into the parlour and be confidential in there.”

She led the way into the front room, folded up on to the edge of a chair, and planted her hands, in a masculine manner, on her knees. Since she had not invited him to sit, Sergeant Plumptree, who was punctilious in these matters, remained standing.

“I wonder,” he began, “if you could help us. We are enquiring about a Mr. Smallbone—”

“Oh, yes.” Either she had never heard the name or was a fine natural poker player.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him?”

“Oh yes, I have,” said the lady. “Often.”

“You have! I wonder if you could tell me when you saw him last?”

The lady pursed her lips and opened them slightly, closed both eyes and then said faintly:

“The day before yesterday.”