Smallbone Deceased

Mr. Birley’s experience of the army was, in fact, confined to one year in the R.A.S.C., which he had joined in 1917 when it became clear that it was either that or conscription into the infantry, and Bob toyed for a moment with the unkind idea of reminding him of it.

Seeing no point in provoking hostilities, he said something non-committal and got out of the room.

Mr. Birley then rang for Miss Chittering, and as soon as she got inside the room started to dictate a lengthy lease at high speed. Miss Chittering was a competent shorthand-typist, but no one other than a contortionist could have taken down dictation at the speed at which Mr. Birley was speaking. As soon as she was forced to ask for a repetition Mr. Birley snapped at her and increased his speed.

Five minutes of this treatment was sufficient to reduce Miss Chittering to tears and to restore a certain amount of Mr. Birley’s amour-propre.

II

In the secretaries’ room Anne Mildmay and Miss Cornel, faintly assisted by Miss Bellbas, were trying to sort out the weekend roster for Bohun’s benefit.

“I’m sure,” said Anne, consulting a small diary, “that I came in on February 27th, because that was the day after my admiral took me out to the Criterion and tried to get me tight on gin.”

“Who’s your admiral?” said Miss Bellbas.

“A friend of father’s,” said Anne. “He’s over ninety. He commanded a gunboat in the Crimea. He’s been trying to rape me ever since I left school.”

“My goodness,” said Miss Bellbas. “What a persistent man.”

“So I remember perfectly well, I had a hangover like nobody’s business. Every time the telephone went I felt like screaming.”

“It was me the Saturday before. That’s right, anyway,” said Miss Cornel. “It shouldn’t have been my turn at all, you remember, but Cissie asked me to take it for her. I can’t think why—”

“Possibly she had a date,” suggested Henry.

This suggestion was greeted with a certain amount of levity, but Miss Bellbas said: “Do you know, I believe Miss Chittering has got a boy-friend.”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Cornel. “She doesn’t know one end of a man from the other.”

“Then why does she come up to town on Saturday mornings? She lives right out at Dulwich.”

“Shopping,” suggested Henry.

“Don’t be so Victorian,” said Miss Mildmay. “Girls don’t spend their Saturday mornings shopping in the West End. They do all that during their lunches.”

“Where did you see her?” asked Miss Cornel.

“In the Strand, about twelve o’clock. I believe he works in a shop opposite Charing Cross, and she comes up and meets him when he gets off at midday on Saturdays.”

“Oh! A counter-jumper. She’s welcome to him.”

“Anne. You’re a snob.”

“Certainly,” said Miss Mildmay with composure.

“Be that as it may,” said Henry. “Can anyone tell me about the other Saturdays.”

“What do you want to know all this for?” asked Miss Cornel.

“Don’t be silly,” said Miss Mildmay. “It’s Hawkeye the Inspector. He thinks we murdered the little man on a Saturday morning.”

She said this lightly enough, but Bohun thought he detected a very slight edge of strain in her voice, an artificial lightness which was not so very far from the fringe of hysteria.

The others evidently noticed something as well, and there was an awkward silence, broken as usual by Miss Bellbas, who said with alarming frankness:

“I didn’t murder him.”

“Of course you didn’t, Florrie,” said Miss Cornel. “If you had you’d have told us all about it, immediately afterwards. What are the other weekends you’ve got on your little list? Saturday 13th—well, that was Cissie, of course. She did mine, in return for me doing hers. March 6th, that would have been you, Florrie.”

“Oh, dear. I expect so,” said Miss Bellbas. “If the list says me, then that’s right. All I know is, I did my own turn.”

“Who was it with?”

“Mr. Craine.”

“That’s right, according to the list,” said Miss Cornel.

“I don’t expect you’d forget a long morning spent alone with Tubby,” said Anne. “It’s a thing that lingers in a girl’s memory. Did he make you sit very close on his left-hand side so that every time he opened his desk drawer he practically undressed you?”

“Good gracious, no,” said Miss Bellbas. “Is that what he does to you?”

“Of course,” said Miss Cornel. “It’s all right, though, isn’t it—he went to Marlborough.”

“Well,” said Anne. “What about that time he took you to the station in a taxi after the staff dinner?”

Henry withdrew.

III

“My husband’s a jockey, a jockey, a jockey, my husband a jockey is he,” sang Mr. Cove. “All day he rides horses, rides horses, rides horses—”

“Mr. Cove.”

“Yes, my love.”

“There’s a man to see you,” said Miss Bellbas.

“What sort of man, heart of my heart?”

“A little man, with grey hair.”

“Indeed?”

“Mr. Cove.”

“Yes, my sweet.”

“You oughtn’t to say things like that.”

“Good God!” said John. “I only said ‘Indeed’.”

“You said ‘my love’ and ‘my sweet’, and something about your heart. You oughtn’t to say that to me unless you’re in love with me.”

“But I am,” said John. “Madly.”

Miss Bellbas considered this.

“Then why don’t you ask me to marry you?”