Smallbone Deceased

“There he goes,” said John Cove, who had stationed himself where he could see out of the window. “Look at him. Wearing a cavalry greatcoat. A relic, no doubt, of his front-line service in the Pay Corps. And an Old What’s-is-name scarf. An Anthony Eden on his head and a brief-case in his hand. That is to underline the point that as well as being an officer and a gentleman he is also a professional man. The precious little snake. Let’s find out what his alibi is this time.”

Miss Bellbas, summoned to take a letter from John, informed them that Mr. Duxford was going out to search the register at the Patent Office.

“Funny he should be making for Lincoln’s Inn Fields, then,” said John. “Unless they’ve moved it, the Patent Office is the other side of Chancery Lane. However: Dear Sir, With reference to yours of the sixteenth…”

Half an hour later the telephone rang. The call was for John.

“Oh, Mr. Cove—Mr. Brown speaking.”

“Carry on,” said John. “Any luck?”

“I followed up the subject, sir,” said Mr. Brown, with professional caution. “I traced it as far as Suffolk Street, in the Strand.”

“What happened to it then?”

“I’m afraid I mislaid it, sir—I had to keep some distance from it, you understand—”

“Up-wind, too, I expect,” said John. “All right. I was just thinking aloud. What are you planning to do now? Where are you speaking from?”

“From a box on the Embankment, sir. I am fairly confident that the subject is located in one of the larger buildings at this end of Suffolk Street or Devonshire Street.”

“So much for the Patent Office,” said John to Henry. “All right. Press on regardless. When do I hear from you next?”

“I’ll ring you at the office not later than six o’clock.”

“Fine,” said John. “Keep trying.” He replaced the receiver. “Are you going to wait to hear the second instalment?”

“Not me,” said Bohun. “I’ve got better things to do with my evenings. Also I still think you ought to tell Hazlerigg.”

“I expect I shall, eventually,” said John. “But I might as well find out first just what it is I’m going to tell him. I can’t draw back now. The hunt is up. From a view to a chase, from a chase to a kill. Yoicks and likewise Tallyho!”

It was a quarter past six before the telephone rang again.

“It’s me, sir,” said the hoarse voice of Mr. Brown. “If you’d like to come along now—”

“Where are you?”

“Come down to the end of Suffolk Street, sir. First right, and then right again. It’s a little place off Somerset Court. Merriman House. First door on the left and I’ll meet you in the hall.”

“Right away,” said John.

The office by now was almost empty. In the secretaries’ room, Anne Mildmay, who was putting on her hat, gave him a surprisingly friendly “good night”. Miss Chittering was hammering out the first lines of what was evidently a very lengthy engrossment. In the basement, Sergeant Cockerill could be heard putting the muniments to bed and singing in a remarkably tuneful voice the tenor part of one of his favourite hymns. “All are safely gathered in,” sang Sergeant Cockerill. “Safe from sorrow, safe from sin.”

John stepped out into New Square, turned into Carey Street and made his way through the precincts of the Court and into the Strand. It was cold, by the standards of an English April, though still quite light. But down under the arches of Somerset Court there appeared to reign an everlasting twilight.

John found Merriman House without difficulty. The approaches were muted and depressing. Age and grime had worked their will. What had once been red was now the colour of old blood: what had been white was black.

Mr. Brown was waiting for him in the half light of the entrance. He spoke in a professional whisper.

“The party,” he said, “is up on the second or third floor. I have not as yet been able to ascertain which office he went into. I thought perhaps you might know.”

“Haven’t the least idea,” said John. He found himself whispering too. “It might be almost anything from an abattoir to a den of coiners, mightn’t it?”

“It isn’t very cheerful,” agreed Mr. Brown. “There’s a board here, sir, with the names on. Wait whilst I strike a match. You can just make them out. There’s Makepeace and Holly on the second floor, and Holdfast Investments Limited. Would it be either of those?”

“I’ve no idea,” said John. “What’s wrong with the light?”

“I think it’s an electricity cut,” said Mr. Brown. “It went dim about ten minutes ago. Now, on the top floor there’s Bannister and Dean, Accountants, and Smith and Selverman, Solicitors.”

“Let’s have a look at that,” said John. He, too, struck a match. “Smith and Selverman (H. V. Selverman).” It seemed to strike a chord—yes, of course! Those were the initials in the diary. H.V.S.

“All right,” he said to Mr. Brown. “I think this is it. I haven’t the faintest idea what it’s all about, but I’m going up to see. You’d better hang around in case there’s any violence.”

“I’m not a violent man,” said Mr. Brown doubtfully.