Smallbone Deceased

Bohun said diffidently: “I suppose you’ve not—er—you haven’t overlooked Sergeant Cockerill.”

“No,” said Hazlerigg. “I haven’t overlooked Sergeant Cockerill.” He turned over the last of the statements. “Sergeant Cockerill finished locking up at about twenty-five past six. He saw Miss Chittering and she told him that she had an important engrossment for Mr. Birley which had to be completed before she left that night, and offered to lock the outer door for him. He said no, he would come back and lock up the outer door at seven, by which time Miss Chittering hoped she would have finished. Sergeant Cockerill walked round to the Fall of Troy which is a small public house—you may know it—on this side of Fetter Lane. Here he spent thirty minutes, drinking gin and warm water and talking to the landlord. At seven o’clock he returned and, happening to meet one of the Inn porters, walked round with him to this office. The rest I think you’ve heard…”

“And is all that—?”

“Oh, yes,” said Hazlerigg. “It’s fully corroborated. The landlord of the Fall of Troy and three of his saloon-bar cronies. Completely corroborated.”

III

Very little legal work was done in the office that morning. Mr. Birley appeared to have passed the point where shocks could affect him further. This may even have been providential because he really had got quite a lot to put up with. For a start there was practically a Press siege. The police kept them out of the office itself, but anyone coming or going had the gauntlet to run. John Cove had already told the crime reporter of the Nation a quantity of startling facts about the firm, quite a few of which had got into the Lunch Edition. The Daily Monitor had a picture of Mr. Craine standing on the top step with his umbrella grasped sword-like in one hand and his hat over his eye, and Miss Bellbas had given an interview to the Woman’s World in which she had attributed everything to the influence of the stars.

On top of the Press, Mr. Birley had other worries. A number of clients had already been on the telephone, needing to be placated. As the Duke of Hornsey had put it, with that penchant for expressing the obvious which had made him a pillar of the Lords for a quarter of a century: “You know, Birley, you’ll have to stop it. There are some things which are not done in a good solicitor’s office.” Then there were the police, even more offensive than formerly. And that curious business about Duxford. And the aftermath of bilious indigestion from the postponement of his dinner the night before.

What with one thing and another Mr. Birley found that by twelve o’clock he had had enough. Seizing a moment when most of the journalists were away in search of sandwiches, he had slipped out and made for home.

IV

“I say,” said Bohun, “what did happen last night? About Eric Duxford, I mean.”

“If you hadn’t been so damned snooty,” said John Cove, “you could have come along and seen the fun. And fixed yourself up a nice alibi at the same time,” he added.

“So I could. Pity one doesn’t think of things like that at the time. But, tell me, what happened?”

John told him.

“I see,” said Bohun, “and what does it amount to?”

“Well—breach of contract.”

“What contract? Oh, you mean his implied contract of service with Horniman, Birley and Craine?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds rather a technical offence.”

“It isn’t so damned technical when it comes to pinching clients from this firm and carrying them off to his own outfit and collaring the costs.”

“Did he do that?”

“Yes. I thought I recognised some of the initials in that book of his. I expect he offered them reduced fees if he could do the work himself.”

“I see. Are you going to tell Birley?”

“I haven’t made my mind up,” said John.

“You wouldn’t object to Birley finding out, I take it, but you don’t want the onus of having to tell him?”

“That’s about it. I say, Bohun.” John was suddenly completely serious. “Who’s doing these things?”

“I don’t know.” Bohun got to his feet and looked down at John Cove from his greater height. “I don’t think anybody knows. But the field is narrowing down a bit, isn’t it?”

V

Inspector Hazlerigg was saying much the same thing in different words, and at greater length, to the Commissioner.

“I’m sorry for the girl,” he said. “That goes without saying. I don’t suppose she even knew why she was killed. And I’m sorry that it had to happen right under our noses like that. The papers are bound to take that up—”

“They have,” said the Commissioner.

“Nevertheless, sir, I can’t be wholly sorry it’s happened. Because I think it means that now we shall be pretty certain to catch the murderer.”

“How do you make that out?” said the Commissioner.