Smallbone Deceased

Miss Chittering had suddenly no doubts at all. Murder stood outside in the passage. Yet, even in that moment, her overmastering feeling was more curiosity than fear. There was a chair beside the door. She stepped up on to it, steadied herself for a moment, and peered out, through the dusty fanlight, into the passage.

What she saw brought an almost hysterical cackle of relief to her lips.

“Heavens,” she said. “It’s you? You did give me a fright.”

Stepping down from her chair she slipped up the catch and opened the door.

V

Seven o’clock was striking as Sergeant Cockerill turned into Lincoln’s Inn from Chancery Lane. Outside Stone Buildings he encountered an old friend, one of the porters of the Inn.

“Good evening, Mr. Mason,” said the sergeant.

“Good evening, Sergeant. Working for your overtime?”

“Just going to lock up. One of our girls staying late.”

“I’ll walk across with you, Mr. Cockerill,” said Mason. “How’s the fuchsias?”

“It’s early to tell,” said the sergeant. “They look healthy enough. It’s not too late for a last frost, though. A late frost could take them all off.”

“We shan’t have any more frost now.”

“With a Government like this one,” said Sergeant Cockerill, “you could expect a frost in August.” They stopped in front of the office. There was no light showing and both the inner doors seemed to be shut.

“I expect she’s gone,” said the sergeant. “Better make sure. You never know with girls nowadays. Probably left the fire on.” He disappeared.

Mason was about to move on when something caught his eye. Something white in the dusk.

“Why, bless my soul, if that cat hasn’t got one of the pigeons.”

He stopped and prodded with the butt-end of his staff at the darkness under the plane tree. Chancery swore at him then backed a few reluctant paces into the tangled safety of a laurustinus. The front of the flower-bed was a mess of grey and white feathers.

“Cunning old devil,” said Mason. “If he hasn’t clawed that bird too much I might see what the missus can make of it. It’s off the ration, and that’s something these days.”

As he was stooping down he heard a cry. It came from the building behind him. Then silence. Then footsteps running. It was Sergeant Cockerill and Mason, startled, saw that his face was white.

“What is it?” he said. “What’s up?”

“Have you got a telephone in your lodge?”

“Yes, what—”

“Come on. No time to lose. Got to get the police.”

He set off at a lumbering trot and Mason, after a moment’s hesitation, followed him.

Chancery crept cautiously from his retreat under the laurustinus and retrieved the pigeon.

‌Chapter Ten —Wednesday— “De Minimis Non Curat Lex”

It sometimes happens that a valid requisition on title receives an evasive reply, viz.: “This is a matter of record” or “This should be within the Purchaser’s own knowledge” or “The Purchaser must search”. Such an answer must never be accepted without further enquiry—

I

Up to that point, Bohun realised, it had been just possible—not easy, but just barely possible—to treat the affair impersonally: to regard the discovery of Mr. Smallbone’s body as a problem; an affair which could intrigue and puzzle without directly affecting.

Now it was different. The discovery of Miss Chittering, her sightless eyes protruding, her lips drawn up in a parody of agony, her neck indented with the deep mark of the wire noose which had killed her; that had changed things, for good.

Looking at their faces next morning, Bohun saw this very clearly.

From now onwards, until the matter was ended, one way or the other, they were never going to trust each other again, because they were never going to be quite certain.

II

The news had reached Hazlerigg within five minutes of the discovery of the body.

A lesser man would have departed at once for the scene of the crime. Instead, after a short moment of thought, Hazlerigg pulled up the office phone and started to give orders. As a result of which, three county police forces received urgent requests for co-operation; two North London squad cars were stopped on patrol and diverted to new destinations; and several members of the Metropolitan Force spent an active evening.

“With the least luck in the world,” said Hazlerigg to Sergeant Crabbe, “we should be able to alibi half of them clean out of it this time. It looks as if six-thirty to seven is the important time. All virtuous office workers are home by seven.”

“They should have been home,” agreed Sergeant Crabbe, who was a notorious pessimist. “Things don’t always work out the way they should do.”

How tiresomely right he was became apparent the next morning, by which time the reports had come in. Hazlerigg read them through quickly, said something unkind on the subject of the Electricity Board, and then read them through again.

The first one was typical.