Smallbone Deceased

“Well, now, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Mullet.

“Does he come down here every weekend?”

“Oh, no. Not every weekend. Not until the summer. He was down here at the end of February—like you said. That was his first visit this year. Then again at the end of March, and last weekend.”

“Well, then,” said Hazlerigg. “If February 27th was his first trip, surely that’s some reason for it to stick in your memory.”

“I can remember it all right,” said Mrs. Mullet. “The thing I don’t know is whether I ought to tell you anything about it.”

Hazlerigg said: “Well, ma’am, I need hardly remind you that it’s your duty—”

“If I’m brought to court,” said Mrs. Mullet, “that’s one thing. If I’m brought to court I shall say what I know. But until then—”

Mr. Mullet swivelled his bright eyes on to the inspector to see how he would play this one.

“I must warn you,” said Hazlerigg, “that you may be guilty of obstructing—”

“It’s not a thing I approve of,” said Mrs. Mullet. “But yooman nature is yooman nature, and all the divorce courts in the world can’t stop it.”

A sudden warm glow of comprehension irradiated the inspector. It was as if the sun had come out in the Mullet kitchen.

“I don’t think you quite understand,” he said gently. “I’m investigating a murder.”

This got home all right. Mr. Mullet sat up in his chair and said quite sharply: “What’s that? Murder! ’As Mr. ’Orniman been murdered?”

Mrs. Mullet said weakly: “Are you a police detective?”

“Well, yes,” said Hazlerigg. “I’m not a private detective, if that’s what you mean. And I’m not trying to get evidence for a divorce.”

“Well, then,” said Mrs. Mullet. “I’m sure I’ll tell you what I can.”

Chaffham, it appeared, though difficult of access by road, had the advantage of being less than a mile from the direct London-Cromer railway line, and an excellent afternoon train left King’s Cross at two o’clock and reached Chaffham Halt at four. Bob Horniman, said Mrs. Mullet, used to catch this train, which was met by a single-decker bus (the Chaffham Bumper) driven by a one-eyed mechanic (the Chaffham Terror). This bus, barring enditchment and like accidents reached the cross-roads nearest to The Cabin at ten past four.

“Nice time for tea,” said Mrs. Mullet.

“And that was always how he came?”

“That’s right. I’d have a fire in and a meal ready. And not before he could do with it, I expect. After tea he’d go and look at his boat. He keeps it in Albert Tugg’s yard, when he’s not using it. Then he’d have a drink at the Lords. Highly popular, he was, with the gentlemen there. Then he’d go to bed. Sunday, he’d go sailing, and catch the six o’clock train from the Halt. He’d leave the key with me as he went past to catch his bus. Then I’d go in on Monday morning and clean up.”

It sounded a harmless and indeed rather a pleasant weekend. Hazlerigg reflected that you never really know a man until you meet him on holiday. He would not have visualised the quiet, bespectacled Bob Horniman as the life and soul of the public bar at Three Lords Hunting.

After a few more general questions he took his departure.

As soon as he had gone Mr. Mullet, who wasn’t half as deaf as he liked to make out, surfaced briskly and hobbled across to the cupboard. From the top shelf he took down a much-folded copy of his favourite Sunday newspaper and turned to the centre page.

“It be that Lincoln’s Inn murder,” he observed. “Thought it must be the same ’Orniman. A firm of lawyers. Found a body in a box. Fairly rotted away, it says.”

“Well, I never,” said Mrs. Mullet. “What will they do next! Such a nice-looking young man, too.”

“Lawyers,” said Mr. Mullet. “Good riddance if they all killed each other, I say. Snake eat snake.”

At about the same time that Mr. Mullet was making these uncharitable remarks, Inspector Hazlerigg had reached the end of the Sea Wall and was taking a quick look at Bob Horniman’s weekend cottage.

It was shuttered and deserted. Over a strip of sand-blown garden and rank lawn he saw the jetty, and the halyards of a little flag-staff. The sun had gone, merging sea and land in uniform unfriendly grey. With the evening a cold wind had arrived.

Hazlerigg walked back to the police station. It occurred to him that he had an urgent telephone call to make.

III

Sergeant Plumptree sat at Hazlerigg’s desk. In front of him he had a list. It had nearly three hundred names on it, and to almost each name was annexed a telephone number. Sergeant Plumptree looked at the list and sighed. He had already rung fifty-five of the numbers and he was feeling very tired. His ear-drums were buzzing with infernal dialling tones and his throat was sore with enforced bonhomie. He recollected a story he had once read about the wife of the President of the United States who had shaken hands with three thousand guests at a State reception and, when her husband said “Good morning” to her at breakfast, had started screaming hysterically.

He understood exactly how she had felt.