Smallbone Deceased

“Why do you suppose,” said Mr. Birley, “that the firm should be in need of twenty thousand pounds?” Curiously, he did not put the question in an offensive or rhetorical manner. He asked it as if he was genuinely in search of information; and Bohun answered in the same tone.

“You know as well as I do, that Abel Horniman borrowed ten thousand pounds from the Ichabod Stokes Trust, and used it to bolster up the finances of the firm.”

“He put it all back,” said Mr. Craine sharply.

“If he ever took it,” said Mr. Birley. “It’s never been proved.”

“And never will be now,” said Mr. Craine.

“I expect you’re right,” said Bohun. “If Mr. Hoffman can’t spot the join, I don’t suppose anyone will ever do any better. Particularly as the money was put back almost at once: and all the interim trust accounts seem to have disappeared into the limbo.”

“Then what—” said Mr. Birley.

“But the fact that no one seems to know where it ultimately came from doesn’t alter the fact that at some time or other this money will have to be paid back.”

“How do you know that it was a loan,” said Mr. Birley. “He may—well, he may have been left the money.”

“I can’t think you intend the suggestion seriously,” said Bohun. “If the money had been left to him you’d certainly have known of it—but in any case, it doesn’t arise. It’s now quite certain that Abel Horniman was paying interest on the money down to the day of his death. The item appears in his bank book. Forty-eight pounds two and sixpence. Three and a half per cent per annum on ten thousand pounds, less tax. Rather a significant item.”

“Who was the money paid to?” said Mr. Craine.

One of the oddest points of this odd conversation was that both the partners seemed unconsciously to be treating Bohun as an equal.

“The money was drawn by Abel in cash,” said Bohun. “We’ve just found that out. I presume he paid the money for security reasons into a private account—at another bank. Then he could pay the interest by cheque—to—”

“To whom,” said Mr. Birley and Mr. Craine in a grammatical dead-heat.

“Well, that’s just it,” said Bohun smoothly. “To whoever he got the money from, I suppose.”

“The whole thing’s inexplicable,” said Mr. Craine. “Speaking quite frankly—since all the cards are on the table—Abel had no security he could borrow on. He had this business, of course. That produced a good income—but there was no equity in it. Certainly nothing he could pledge. His London house and his farm and estate were mortgaged to the hilt, and over.”

“Where he got it from,” said Bohun, “heaven knows. It’s even been suggested that he took a gun and robbed a bank. One thing seems certain—or anyway highly probable. Smallbone found out the truth about it. And the truth, if it had been exposed—as Smallbone would have revelled in exposing it, he was that sort of person—would have resulted in ruin for Abel Horniman and disaster for his firm. That, it seems plain, is why he was killed.”

He paused.

“Now that Abel is dead the first threat has lost its sting. The second one, of course, remains. That’s why I took the liberty just now of suggesting that the firm might find itself in need of some ready capital.”

V

“Major Fernough?” said Sergeant Plumptree. He wondered if he sounded as tired as he felt.

“Yes, this is Major Fernough speaking.”

“I’m sorry to trouble you. I am speaking on behalf of Horniman, Birley and—that’s right. Your solicitors. We are trying to trace a call made to the office on February 27th.”

“Was that a Saturday?”

“That’s right.”

“In the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Funny thing you should mention it,” said Major Fernough. “Wait a moment whilst I look at my diary. Yes. You’re quite right. I did ring the office that morning. Just after eleven o’clock. What about it?”

“Well—er—who did you speak to?” said Sergeant Plumptree cautiously.

“Don’t be silly,” said Major Fernough. “That’s the whole point. That’s what I complained about. I didn’t speak to anybody. There was no one there. I rang up three times. Damnably slack. If you say you’re going to have someone in the office on Saturday morning then you ought to have someone in the office.”

“Quite so, sir,” said Sergeant Plumptree, with heartfelt gratitude. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, indeed.”

VI

As soon as Mr. Birley reached his house in St. George’s Square that evening, he went upstairs to his bedroom. A glass-topped hospital table stood beside the bed, and above the bed was a large white cupboard.

Mr. Birley opened the cupboard and surveyed the solid array of bottles. He considered his latest symptoms with the earnest zest of a practised hypochondriac. Latterly he had been seeing dashes. Not dots or spots—these were common enough and could easily be dealt with by a dose of salts—but bar-shaped dashes sometimes flanking, sometimes superimposed upon the dots. The whole effect was not unlike a message in morse.