Smallbone Deceased

“That’s all right,” said John. “I’m quite violent enough for two when I get going. You stay on the stairs so that you can double off and phone for the police if I yell.”

Up on the third floor the gloom was even thicker. Messrs. Bannister and Dean had plainly finished their accounting and shut up shop for the night, but in the offices on the other side of the landing lights still showed.

There were two doors. On one was painted “Smith & Selverman, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths”. The other simply said “Enquiries”. After a moment of hesitation John Cove tried the latter door. It opened. He walked in quickly without knocking.

The only occupant of the room was a sharp-nosed, red-haired boy. His hands and cuffs were black with copying-ink, but from a white face looked out a pair of remarkably intelligent eyes. He did not seem to be surprised, either by the lateness of John’s arrival or the unceremonious nature of his entry. Indeed, he looked a difficult sort of boy to surprise.

“Well, mister, what is it?” he said.

“I’ve got an appointment,” said John.

“Which of ’em are you seeing?”

John was visited by an inspiration. “I’m seeing Mr. Duxford,” he said.

“All right,” said the boy. “Wasser name?”

“Mr. Robertson, of Robertson, Robertson, Levi and Robertson.”

“You’ll have to wait. There’s someone in with him.”

“It’s all the same to me,” said John. He sat down on a chair and crossed his legs. “Mr. Duxford very busy these days?”

“So, so,” said the boy. “Of course, he isn’t here always—he’s got his other businesses.”

“Of course,” said John. “One of the world’s workers, our Mr. Duxford. Come to think of it, you know, I don’t think I will wait. Perhaps I’ll come some time when he’s less busy.”

A bell sounded.

“Please yourself,” said the boy. “He’s just finishing.”

“As a matter of fact,” said John, “I fancy I’ve found out all I wanted to know. Good night to you, sir. Give my best wishes to Mr. Duxford. Tell him Mr. Cove called, but was unable to wait.” He backed out, leaving the boy staring.

IV

Back in New Square, in the offices of Horniman, Birley and Craine, Miss Chittering typed doggedly. She ought to have told Mr. Birley that she couldn’t possibly complete the engrossment that night. She should have said that eleven o’clock the next morning was the earliest that it could be ready. But the truth was that few people had the courage to say things like that to Mr. Birley. Miss Chittering least of all.

Therefore, though the clock on the Inn Chapel had, some time ago, struck the half-hour past six; though the electric light had gone suddenly and unaccountably dim; though her eyes watered and her wrists ached, Miss Chittering continued to type.

Outside, in the dusk, the Square emptied and grew quiet. The office cleaners came and went. The porter locked the Carey Street gate and retired to light the lanterns which hang in festoons from the chains under the library arch. The red post-office vans rolled into the Square and clip-clopped out again, heavy with the correspondence of fifty offices.

As it grew darker, Chancery, the one-eared black cat, moved from his hiding-place in New Court Passage and drifted silently across the roadway on to the grass plot in the centre of the Square. He had long had his eye on a particularly stupid pigeon which roosted in the plane tree at the south end of the garden. He had noticed that lately it had formed a habit of making its evening toilet perched on the lowest branch of the tree. Chancery had given a good deal of thought to the possibilities of this situation.

In the office Miss Chittering looked at her watch. Sergeant Cockerill, she knew, was coming back to lock up at seven o’clock. She had only one more page to do. She should be able to manage.

The office and the street outside and the Square were all silent. The light was so dim that she found on looking up that she could hardly read the names on the deed boxes which stood, black rank on black rank, at the far end of the room.

Quite suddenly Miss Chittering felt frightened.

It was quiet. Yet, she knew her ears had not deceived her, a soft foot had moved in the passage outside. For a moment she sat paralysed, her muscles refusing to obey the panic-stricken messages from her brain. Then, wrenching herself to her feet, quietly but with desperate speed, she flew across the room. The door had a slip lock and it was the work of a moment to thumb down the catch.

Then she stood in the dim light, her heart bumping uncomfortably. She told herself not to be a fool. She forced herself to listen calmly. There wasn’t a sound. It was all her imagination.

Then something really rather horrible did happen.

In front of her eyes, and only a few inches away, the handle of the Yale lock started to turn, softly, checked at the catch, and turned as silently back again.