Smallbone Deceased

Miss Chittering accepted this at its face value. “He’s very clever,” she said, “and such an interesting man to work for, isn’t he, Florrie?”

“Frightfully,” said Florrie. “I can never understand a single word he says. But then, I don’t think I was really cut out for the law. Oh, thank you.”

This was to John Cove who had appeared alongside and was contriving, with an expertness which suggested considerable practice, to carry four pink gins.

“You mustn’t believe a word of it,” said John. “I don’t know what we should do without our Miss Bellbas. To watch her spelling ‘cestui que trust’ and ‘puisne Mortgage’ by the light of pure phonetics—”

“Really, Mr. Cove!” said Miss Chittering.

“But never mind, Miss Bellbas. What are brains beside beauty?”

“Well, what are they?” asked Miss Bellbas, who seemed to be a very literal-minded girl.

“Fully to explain that,” said John, “I should have to take you to a secluded corner for a course of private instruction.”

“Really, Mr. Cove,” said Miss Chittering. “You mustn’t talk like that. Mr. Bohun will be thinking you mean what you say. Tell me, why didn’t you recite for us this evening?”

“The committee, I regret to say, censored both my proffered contributions. Well, ladies, we mustn’t be keeping you from your admirers. I see old Mr. Ramussen has one of his ancient but inviting eyes on you already, Miss Bellbas—” He piloted Henry away: “Come and meet Sergeant Cockerill.”

“Who?”

“Sergeant Cockerill, our muniments clerk, desk sergeant, post clerk, chief messenger, housekeeper, librarian, butler and tea-maker in chief. The Admirable Crichton in person.”

Despite his title, Sergeant Cockerill proved to be a most unmilitary-looking person. He was a neat spare man and had something of the look of a Victorian Under-Secretary of State, with his stiff, chin-prop collar, his correct deportment and his intelligent brown eyes.

Bohun found, rather to his relief, that little was expected of him here in the way of conversation and he was entertained for the next fifteen minutes by a discourse on the subject of “futures”. He missed the significance of some of the earlier remarks owing to a mistaken belief that “futures” were commodities dealt with on the Stock Exchange. It was some time before he realised they were things which the sergeant grew in the garden of his house at Winchmore Hill.

As ten o’clock approached there was a tendency amongst the elder members of the party to think about the times of trains and the crowd began to thin out. Bohun drifted with the current, which had set towards the stairs leading down to the ground floor and the cloakrooms.

Immediately ahead of him he noticed Bob Horniman and the red-haired girl. As they reached the foot of the staircase he heard Bob say: “Would you like me to see if I can get you a taxi?”

“Thank you, Mr. Horniman. I can look after myself quite easily.”

Now this was an answer which might have been made in any tone of voice and denoting any shade of feeling ranging from indifference to something fairly rude. The red-haired girl managed to invest it with a degree of venom which surprised Mr. Bohun considerably. He saw Bob Horniman flush, hesitate for a moment, and then dive down the stairs leading to the cloakroom.

The girl stood looking after him. There was a quarter of a smile on her lips but her light blue eyes said nothing but “Danger”.

“It’s far too early to go to bed,” said John Cove. “Come and have a drink.”

“All right,” said Bohun. He wondered whether John had observed the curious little scene; and if so, what he had made of it.

“Who’s the redhead?” he asked.

“That’s Anne Mildmay,” said John. “She works for Tubby Craine. Lecherous little beast. Craine, I mean,” he added. “Come on, I know a place in Shaftesbury Avenue which stays open till midnight.”

Over the bar of the Anchorage (which is “in” Shaftesbury Avenue in approximately the same sense that Boulestins is “in” the Strand) John Cove fixed Bohun with a gloomy stare and said: “Tell me. What brought you into the racket?”

“Which racket?” enquired Henry cautiously.

“The law.”

“It’s hard to say. I was a research statistician, you know.”

“Well, I don’t,” said John, “but it sounds quite frightful. Who did you research into statistics for?”

“It wasn’t a question of researching into statistics,” said Henry patiently. “I collated statistics and other people used them for research. It was a nice job, too. All you needed was a fairly good memory and a head for figures.”

“Decent hours?”

“First class. Come when you like, go when you like.”

“Congenial company?”

“Very much so.”

“Then I say again,” said John, “why come into our racket at your age? No offence—I’m not a dewy-eyed youngster myself—two more, please, Ted. But at least I’ve got the excuse that I was in the game before the war. I would have finished my articles in 1941 had Hitler not willed otherwise.”