Smallbone Deceased

“That’s it,” said Bohun. “A problem. What’s this pitch like?”

“Oh, very snug. Very nice little business.” The bald man waved a proprietorial arm round the shadowy warehouse. “Enough whisky to give us a hangover just for looking at it.”

“Where do we sit?” said Henry.

“In here.” The bald man showed him into a sort of porters’ room, just inside the main warehouse. “Gas-fire, gas-ring for our cuppers.” He demonstrated certain other arrangements. “All the fixings.”

“Very nice,” said Bohun. “What’s the routine?”

“Ten minutes in the hour. We’ll take it in turns. Takes eight minutes to get round, allowing two for extras. If the other chap’s not back by the end of ten minutes, then you know what.”

“Fine,” said Henry.

He tilted his chair at a convenient angle and resumed his interrupted train of thought. Fortunately, the bald man was not talkative, and after a bit, silence descended on the little room, broken only by the purring of the gas-fire, and ticking of the gold-and-green time-clock in the corner.

Security—mortgage—lien—bill of sale—pledge—collateral. How could a man mortgage something which he hadn’t got? That was what it boiled down to. What sort of security could he have offered? It must have been good security, thought Henry, if the borrower only had to pay three and a half per cent for his loan. You didn’t get risky money at that rate of interest.

He took his problem with him when he went on his round at half-past three, down the corridors of crates and boxes, under the great unwinking night lamps. It was with him as he tested the automatic alarms on the two steel-roller-covered entrance doors; and it was still no nearer to an answer when he got back and found the bald man brewing one more in an endless series of cups of tea.

He put it to him. “How can you raise money on something you haven’t got?” he said.

“Search me,” said the bald man. “I’m not a borrowing man.”

Bohun felt that he was reaching a stage of mental exhaustion and nullity. He took out a well-thumbed copy of the Plain Speaker and was soon adrift on the strong tide of Hazlitt’s prose.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bald man leave the room and noticed that it was exactly half-past four.

“Cloud rolls over cloud; one train of thought suggests and is driven away by another; theory after theory is spun out of the bowels of his brain, not like the spider’s web, compact and round, a citadel and a snare, built for mischief and for use—”

“‘A citadel and a snare’,” said Bohun, “‘built for mischief and for use.’ There’s glory for you.” He saw that the bald man was still absent, and the hands of the clock said nearly a quarter to five.

“Hell,” said Bohun uneasily. “I do hate this sort of thing.” He put the book back in his pocket and tilted his chair forward so that he could see the doorway reflected in the glass over the fireplace. He felt with his toe for the concealed, spring-loaded switch.

The door opened softly and a young man came in. They all look so alike, thought Bohun. Young, tough, white, boxer’s face. Black hair, white silk scarf, old battledress. This one carried a gun and looked as if he knew how to use it.

Bohun let him get three paces in the room before he kicked the switch. A steel shutter came down across the door, thudding softly home against its counter-balance. Bohun got cautiously to his feet and said with almost ludicrous earnestness:

“Think before you do anything rash. I’m certain you wouldn’t like the police to find you locked in here with a dead body.”

“Open that unprintable door,” said the young man.

“It’s no good,” said Bohun. “I can’t, really. Here’s the switch. No deception. You can see for yourself. It just works one way, to drop the door. It can only be opened now from the outside, with a proper key, when the police get here.”

“When they get here,” said the young man nastily.

“That’s pretty soon, really,” said Bohun. “The same switch sounds the alarm at Cloak Lane and Bishopsgate, and drops the outer doors. They can get cars here in three minutes. Your pals are all in the bag, too.”

“Wonderful thing, science,” said the young man.

Bohun saw that everything was going to be all right and sat down again.

“I’ve got a good mind to bash you, all the same,” said the young man.

“It wouldn’t do you any good really, would it?” said Bohun. “Look here, shall I give you a tip?”

“I’m not fussy,” said the young man.

Bohun walked over to the window, which was heavily barred, and raised the sash. The young man came and stood beside him.

“I wasn’t suggesting that you could get out,” said Bohun, “but I happen to know that there’s an old ditch down there—it’s a drain really—six foot of nettles and then God knows how many feet of mud.”

“Thanks,” said the young man. He pushed his gun through the bars, and they heard the soft thud as it fell into the darkness. “It wasn’t loaded. Very civil of you, all the same. Anything I can do by way of exchange.” He sat down on the chair recently vacated by the bald man.