Smallbone Deceased

In fact it took several minutes to dispose of a querulous person from the Public Trustee’s Office who was worrying himself into a decline over the absence of one and ninepence from a trust account.

At the end of it, John said: “Look here, if I’m going to do justice to this dramatic revelation I insist on going somewhere where we won’t be constantly interrupted. Come and have lunch.”

“All right,” said Bohun. “Where?”

“Let’s go to the Law Society,” said John. “There’s always such a row in the canteen that no one can hear what anyone else says. We shall be safer there than in a restaurant.”

“By the way,” said Bohun, as they crossed Carey Street and turned into Bell Yard. “Are you a member of the Society?”

“In fact, no,” said John. “But I expect you are, aren’t you? That’s all right, then. I’ll go as your guest.”

The canteen of the Law Society is not, as John Cove had indicated, a quiet place. At one o’clock it was full of food, light, steam, crosstalk and solicitors. However, it possessed the advantage of having a number of small tables, set in nooks and corners, and to one of these John led the way. Their nearest neighbours were two middle-aged solicitors, one of whom was eating spaghetti and reading a law journal, whilst the other appeared to be amending a draft contract on a diet of fish cakes.

“This is all right,” said John Cove. “Now, as I was saying—”

When he had finished, Bohun said: “It certainly does seem odd. You say there was a second appointment diary for this year kept locked up in that drawer, and all the appointments in it were in code.”

“It wasn’t exactly a code. Everything was in initials.”

“Is there any reason,” said Bohun, “why they shouldn’t have been social engagements. After all, he might easily keep two diaries, one for business and one for pleasure. He probably would keep the social one under lock and key.”

“It didn’t look like a social diary. Most of the engagements were in the evening but quite a lot of them were eleven in the morning and three-thirty in the afternoon, and that sort of time. You can’t be social at three-thirty in the afternoon—not in a Horniman office.”

“Then how does he get away with it?”

“As I told you—by getting us to alibi him,” said John. “Of course, we all do it, to a certain extent. The only difference with Eric is that he makes a business of it. I’ll give you an example. This morning he wasn’t in his room at half-past ten. I asked Florrie Bellbas where he was. She said he had gone across to Turberville and Trout to examine deeds.”

“So he may have,” said Henry. “Aren’t Turberville’s acting for the vendor in the Rookery sales?”

“He might have,” said John. “That’s the point. But he ruddy well hadn’t. I took the trouble to phone Turberville’s and check up. Not only had he not gone over to inspect the deeds, but he couldn’t have done so. They don’t hold the deeds, they’re in the hands of a mortgagee Bank.”

“I see,” said Bohun. “Yes. That certainly was a bit of a slip-up. What are you going to do about all this?”

“Well,” said John. “My first idea was to follow Eric up when he went on one of these mysterious trips. However, I couldn’t really see myself chasing round London after him in a false nose. So after a bit of thought I hired an assassin—I beg your pardon, sir. By all means borrow the mustard…” This was to a very old gentleman, bearing a striking resemblance to Tenniel’s White Knight, who had drifted across and was bending vaguely over the table. “I’m afraid your sleeve is in my pudding. No, no, sir. Don’t apologise. It couldn’t affect the texture of the pudding. It’s your sleeve I was thinking of.”

“You were saying,” said Bohun.

“Yes—I hired a detective. Rather fun, don’t you think. This one is called Mr. Brown. He will follow Eric this afternoon. I noticed from Eric’s diary that there were two appointments down for today—one at four o’clock and one at seven. So he ought to get something out of it.”

“Personally I think you ought to tell Hazlerigg,” said Bohun. “I won’t if you don’t want me to, but I think it would be the wise thing.”

“What a damn dull life it would be,” said John, “if we always did the wise thing. Come and have some coffee upstairs.”

III

That afternoon Bohun divided his time between drawing up a trust deed for the Countess of Chiswick—a lady who appeared to have an almost Elizabethan ardour for the founding of strange settlements—and a steady consideration of Eric Duxford as Murderer.

Quite frankly he found this latter proposition hard to swallow. Eric as a swindler, yes. Eric as an embezzler; Eric as a fraudulent converter or a confidence trickster, or the publisher of prospectuses contrary to the terms of the Companies Act. Eric, even, as the perpetrator of some small larceny which did not involve any element of bodily violence or any undue risk of detection to the larcenor. But Eric as a murderer, by force: Eric as a ruthless strangler and a disposer of bodies in boxes. No. The picture did not convince.