Smallbone Deceased

“All that messuage tenement or building,” said John Cove reluctantly, “together with the outbuildings farmbuildings cottages barns sheds closets and other buildings of a permanent or quasipermanent nature erected thereon or on some part thereof together also with the several pieces or parcels of land thereto belonging and the several brothels and—”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Cove.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Bellbas. The word was ‘abuttals’. I’m afraid my eyesight isn’t quite what it should be this morning.”

“No, Mr. Cove?”

“In fact, if I may let you into a secret, I find some difficulty in opening both eyes at once.”

“I expect it was all those drinks you drank last night, Mr. Cove.”

“And when I do open them,” said John, properly ignoring this interruption, “what do I see?”

“I—”

“I see a greyish-yellowish mist, Miss Bellbas, and floating round in it, like the corpses of men long drowned, are Things, frightful indescribable Things.”

“I expect you need a cup of coffee, Mr. Cove.”

“That’s a very sensible idea, Florrie. See if you can get the sergeant to produce a cup—two cups. Mr. Bohun will have one as well.”

When Miss Bellbas had departed Mr. Cove said petulantly: “I really don’t know how you contrive to look so disgustingly fit. So far as I can recollect you drank exactly the same as I did.”

“I’ll let you into the secret some day,” said Bohun. “It’s a system you have to start young or not at all—like tight-rope walking and Yogi.”

“Then it’s altogether too late,” said John, “for I am at death’s door.”

Nevertheless, after a cup of strong coffee, he found himself revived sufficiently to begin Mr. Bohun’s education.

The latter was staring in a rather helpless way at a small mountain of filing cards.

“That is the Horniman Case Index Card. At the top you will see the name of the client. On the left, in purple ink, a series of letters; on the bottom, in pencil, a number. Now what’s the first card you’ve got there? Dogberry and Usk… That’s the ninth baron. ‘Children’s Settlement No. 5’, well, that’s plain enough. It’s a tax-dodging stunt, of course. Now the letter ‘C’. That tells you what stage the thing has got to. I forget just what ‘C’ stands for in Settlements—appointment of trustees, I think. You’ll find all that explained in the Horniman Index. Then last of all the number—52. That means that letter No. 52 was the last one to go out from this office. When you write the next letter you rub that out and put 53. Simple.”

“Do we have to number all our letters then?”

“Every letter written in this office,” said John, “is numbered, top copy and carbon, press-copied for the letter book and stamped for outgoing mail. The carbon is then filed and indexed.”

“Nothing else?” said Henry. “Surely you send a copy to The Times as well?”

“No. But you mustn’t imagine that your labours are over when a letter has been dispatched or an answer received. In the inside of every cardboard file cover—specially designed, I may say, by Abel Horniman—is a pro-forma into which you fill the essential details of each transaction. This pro-forma is finally reproduced, in a slightly condensed form, on one of the cards you’ve got there. Once a file is closed, it may go into a number of different places. If the client is a grade three client—one whose affairs are of small importance or who himself possesses only minor status—”

“The younger sons of younger sons of dukes?”

“That’s it. You’re getting the hang of it nicely. Well, his files will go in the tea-room—that’s the glory-hole next to Sergeant Cockerill’s lair. A second-class client travels the same route, but ends up in a locker in the muniments room. But a first-class client—” John waved his hand round the room.

“Has a BOX!”

“Right. And no ordinary box.”

John went over to the rack at the far end of the room and drew out a black tin receptacle labelled “The Venerable the Archdeacon of Melchester, D.D.”

It was after the same style as, but larger than, the normal deed box found in a solicitor’s office. Its most unusual feature was the closing device on the lid. This was a cantilever and clip, like the gadget which operates a simple trouser-press. Henry pulled the handle upwards and backwards and tugged at the lid. Nothing happened.

“You have to open it with a jerk,” said John. “It’s hermetically sealed.”

When the lid came off, Henry saw what he meant. It was not, in point of scientific fact, hermetically sealed, but it was very tightly shut. Round the inside lip of the box ran a thick rubber lining into a groove in which the sharp edges of the lid fitted, pressed down by the leverage of the clamp.

“What a contraption. I’ve never seen anything like it. Surely the ordinary deed box is good enough.”