Smallbone Deceased

It often happens that Servants sent on messages are apt to stay out somewhat longer than the message requires—When you return, the Master storms, the Lady scolds; stripping, cudgelling and turning off is the Word. But here you ought to be provided with a set of excuses, enough to serve on all occasions. For Instance,—a Brother-Servant that borrowed money of you when he was out of place, was running away to Ireland: You were taking leave of an old fellow servant, who was shipping for Barbados: You were taking leave of a dear cousin, who is to be hanged next Saturday.

Swift: Directions to Servants

I

Tuesday morning passed off quietly.

There was prolonged debate in the secretaries’ room covering the following subjects: When did the mysterious letter arrive in the office? Who could have received it? Why had no one seen it before? And lastly, and most intriguing, how had it come to be under Miss Cornel’s desk?

None of these questions received any very conclusive answer.

Hazlerigg, who had learned by experience that it was better to take things in their proper order, had suspended all consideration of the letter until he should have received the reports of his handwriting and finger-print experts.

Instead, he was sitting in his own office at Scotland Yard, considering the weekend roster. He had in front of him eight statements. He read them through once, and then again.

Pulling the telephone towards him with a sort of gesture of despair, he dialled a number and spoke to Dr. Bland. The pathologist proved so rude that Hazlerigg knew he was working unusually hard on the case: He rang off and returned to a third reading of the papers.

“On Saturday, February 13th,” he said to Inspector Pickup, who happened to wander into his room at that moment, “Mr. Birley and Miss Chittering were at the office. Mr. Birley says that Miss Chittering left at about twelve o’clock, and that he left a few minutes afterwards. Miss Chittering, interrogated separately, says that she left at about ten minutes to twelve. She does not know when Mr. Birley left. On Saturday, February 20th, Mr. Duxford was on duty with Miss Cornel. Mr. Duxford thinks that he left at about eleven-thirty or a quarter to twelve. He says Miss Cornel left a few minutes before him. Miss Cornel says that she does not know what time she left, but she caught the eleven-fifty for Sevenoaks. On Saturday, February 27th, Mr. Horniman (junior) and Miss Mildmay were on duty. They state that they left at the same time—about ten past twelve—and walked together as far as Holborn Circus, a matter of about ten minutes, whence they took their respective ways home. Finally, we have Saturday, March 6th, when Mr. Craine and Miss Bellbas spent the morning together. Mr. Craine says that he thinks they finished work at about a quarter to twelve. He cannot remember which of them left first. Miss Bellbas cannot remember either. Mr. Craine says that on thinking it over, he is of the opinion that Miss Bellbas left before he did. Miss Bellbas says yes, she thinks so, too. Mr. Craine says that on thinking it over again, he recollects that Miss Bellbas was still in the office when he went and must therefore have left after him. Miss Bellbas, re-questioned, says yes, she thinks that’s right.”

“I should think they’re all lying,” said Inspector Pickup.

II

Bohun spent a quiet morning catching up with some of his arrears of work. He was rather assisted in this by the continued absence of John Cove, who had disappeared at about half-past ten without explanation.

At midday, however, John reappeared. He was plainly bursting with news and after some minutes spent scribbling on his blotting-pad, he could keep it to himself no longer.

“Look here,” he said. “I think the time has come for me to let you in on something—”

Bohun made a non-committal sound.

“It’s Eric Duxford,” said John. “You know what I told you—that he was up to no good—and you said that I hadn’t got any proof—well, I have.”

“You mean,” said Bohun slowly, “that you’ve got proof that he was the murderer of Smallbone?”

“Don’t be so meticulous,” said John. “No. Not exactly. Not in so many words. But I know that he’s up to some sort of dirty work. I know that he comes back to this office, at night, after everyone else has gone.”

“You know what?” said Bohun, considerably startled. “Where did you get this from?”

“I don’t know who he meets,” said John, evading the last part of the question. “But I shall know pretty soon. You see, he’s got a meeting tonight. And I intend to be present at it.”

“Good work,” said Bohun. “But how—oh, yes, Mrs. Porter, what is it?”

“It’s this letter, sir, about the insurance. I’m afraid I can’t quite read my own shorthand note.”

Bohun settled Mrs. Porter’s difficulties, and when she had left the room John said:

“It’s like this. Last Saturday I committed a little burglary.”

“You committed—dash it, there goes the telephone. I won’t be a minute.”