Smallbone Deceased

Miss Cornel bent forward, and edged out, very gingerly, the whole of a sheet of notepaper. The only part which had been visible before had been the cramped, characteristic signature: “Marcus Smallbone.”

“The dead,” said Miss Bellbas, with compelling simplicity, “have spoken.”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Cornel angrily. “It may have been written months ago—years even.”

“It doesn’t look very old,” said Miss Mildmay.

“Well, there’s one thing about it,” said Miss Cornel, with the assurance of a Horniman expert. “It never came to this office—not in the ordinary way. Look—it hasn’t been numbered or stamped—it hasn’t even been punched for filing.”

The letter was on a single sheet of cream bond notepaper, with the address, 20 Wellingboro’ Road, embossed in heavy black letter printing. It was typewritten and undated. It said:

“Dear Mr. Horniman. I just write to confirm our arrangement. I will be at the office at 12.15 on Saturday. I hope that what you will have to tell me will be satisfactory.”

It was signed, without any suffix: “Marcus Smallbone.”

“I think this ought to go straight in to the inspector,” said Henry. “Perhaps one of you would like to come along with me and explain about how it was found.”

Inspector Hazlerigg read the letter without comment.

Then he handed it over to Gissel. “Let’s have two or three handsome life-size portraits,” he said, “and dust it over, of course, just in case. Then let Brinkman have it for the signature. I’ll give him some cancelled cheques to compare it against. Oh, and you might send Plumptree out to Belsize Park to get hold of a few sheets of Smallbone’s notepaper.”

He then listened to Miss Bellbas’s account of the discovery, and disappointed that lady bitterly by asking her no questions at all.

However, he said “Thank you” politely when she had finished and held the door open for her in, Miss Bellbas considered, a very gentlemanly way indeed.

It was later that evening, when the staff had all gone, that Hazlerigg took Bohun with him to inspect the scene of the discovery.

“First,” he said, “just explain the lay-out once again. Who sits where? This desk, by the door, I suppose is Miss Mildmay’s?”

“A fair deduction,” said Bohun. “Being the last-comer she gets the draughtiest place for her desk. Under the window—that’s Miss Chittering’s. A good seat in summer but a bit draughty now. The big desk in the middle is Miss Cornel’s.”

The inspector made some quick measurements with a spring tape and jotted the figures down. His grey eyes passed coldly from point to point and finally came to rest on the long shelf which ran along the full length of the back of the room. There was an inch of space between the back of the shelf and the wall.

“Any paper,” said the inspector, “which slipped off the back of that shelf, ought to finish up in the right place. Let’s try it.” He stood on a chair, and Bohun handed him three sheets of the firm’s notepaper. “They’re not quite as stiff as Smallbone’s stuff,” he said. “But here goes.” Two of the pieces fluttered down on to Miss Cornel’s desk. The third stayed close to the wall and planed away out of sight behind the desk. It came to rest, half upright, against the wainscoting.

“Not too good,” said Bohun. “The one we found was lying flat, and almost under the front of the desk.”

“Supposing it had blown off Miss Chittering’s desk,” said the inspector. “It was on that side, wasn’t it?”

“It might,” said Bohun. “It’s an awfully long glide, though, isn’t it? More than ten feet. It would have had to be a deuce of a wind to blow it that distance.”

“I agree,” said the inspector. He sat on the edge of the desk, swinging his leg and thinking.

“Did you notice anything odd about the letter?” he said at last.

“No,” said Bohun, “except, as Miss Cornel noticed, that it hadn’t been filed or marked. Was there anything?”

“Didn’t you think,” said the inspector, “that the signature was a bit high up the paper? It had the effect of cramping the rest of the letter.”

“The spacing of the lines of type did look a bit amateur,” agreed Bohun. “But then, I don’t suppose Smallbone was much of a typist.”

“No. I don’t suppose he was. There was another thing, though. Did you look at the top left-hand corner of the paper?”

“No,” said Bohun. “Not particularly. What should I have seen?”

“Two pin-holes,” said the inspector. “A very important clue. I’m surprised you overlooked it.”

Bohun would have been hard put to it to say whether the inspector was serious or not.

‌Chapter Nine —Tuesday— A Matter of Execution