Smallbone Deceased

“And in the intervals between bidding for might-be Ming and dubious Chelsea, he was thinking about how to wring the most enjoyment out of the Horniman scandal?”

“Yes. I think he wrote at least two letters and I think he wrote them to Bob Horniman. He may have known by then that Abel was pretty far gone. Perhaps he didn’t want the shock to kill him before he could get him into the dock. That was the sort of way his mind would work. The first letter would set out the facts he had discovered, and ask what the firm intended to do about it. Were they going to pay the money back? (He knew damn well they couldn’t.) And even if they did, he was afraid it was his duty to go to the police—criminal proceedings, Larceny Act, etc. etc. Bob thinks this over and writes back making an appointment for the morning of Saturday 27th. Told him he could explain everything.”

“Then,” said Bohun, “I suppose he got busy manufacturing his cheese-cutter and clearing out one of the larger deed boxes. By the way, how did Smallbone spend the following week? At a sale of glass at Hemel Hempstead?”

“We don’t know yet,” said Hazlerigg. “We shall,” he added with calm conviction.

“I don’t doubt it,” said Bohun, who was beginning to have a healthy respect for the results of routine. “What happened next?”

“Smallbone acknowledged Bob Horniman’s answer and confirmed the appointment. Hoped what Bob had to tell him would be satisfactory. That was the letter we found, of course. It was written to Bob’s private address. That’s why it didn’t go through the office filing system.”

“Written to Bob?”

“Yes. It took a committee of typists to point out to me the difference between a letter starting ‘Dear Horniman’, and ‘Dear Mr. Horniman’.”

“And Bob had it in his pocket and dropped it at the office?”

“Something like that. This is only the rough outline. We’ll fill in the details later. On Saturday morning, Marcus Smallbone comes up to Lincoln’s Inn at twelve-fifteen, as arranged. Bob is alone by that time. He tries argument. Quite futile. So it has to be the other thing. Into the box with the body. Chuck away the key. Sit tight.”

“It would need a bit of nerve that last bit. Sitting tight, I mean.”

“Yes,” said Hazlerigg. “You ought to read his citation,” he added inconsequently. “Did you know he got a D.S.C.? It was quite a good one. He got it on Arctic convoy.”

Bohun thought about this for a bit and then said: “Have you got any direct proof?”

“You don’t often get direct proof of murder,” said Hazlerigg mildly. “We’re beginning to get quite a lot of indirect proof. It’s starting to add up. That’s all I can say. The time of that second murder for instance. Three or four people haven’t got a firm alibi for the half-hour that matters. But Bob Horniman, so far as I know, is the only person who’s troubled to offer us a false one.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Morally certain. I’m prepared to put every single waitress in the restaurant he says he went to that night into the box to swear they’ve never set eyes on him. We’ve done a lot of hard work on that bit.”

“Anything else?”

“One other thing to date. According to his story he and Miss Mildmay were in the office that Saturday morning together until after twelve o’clock. Say they were mistaken. Say they left at five to twelve. We wouldn’t quarrel over ten or fifteen minutes. But how do you explain the fact that a client rang your firm up three times at eleven o’clock and got no answer?”

“H’m! What’s your explanation?”

“I don’t have to explain it. Bob Horniman has to do that. But let’s suppose he got rid of Miss Mildmay almost at once—said there was no work for her—asked her to keep her mouth shut about it, though, afterwards. And supposing he was busy himself. He had to get rid of a lot of books and papers.”

“Yes,” said Bohun. He had just remembered something. He had remembered the way Anne Mildmay had looked at Bob Horniman, after the office party, on his first evening with the firm. That was ten days ago. It seemed a lot longer. It seemed…

Quite suddenly he got to his feet.

“If you don’t want me for anything else at the moment,” he said, “I’ll be off.”

“Can I get you a taxi?”

“No, thank you,” said Bohun. “I’ll walk.”

“Quite sure?”

“Thank you. I’ll be all right.”

“Well, I’ll ring you up if anything transpires. And you might keep in touch with me.”

“All right,” said Bohun. He went out quickly.

Hazlerigg watched him go and there was a thoughtful look in his grey eyes.

Bohun walked all the way home.

It had come to him quite suddenly: the monstrous idea that Bob Horniman really was a murderer and that he really was going to pay for it: was going to have his arms strapped to his side and a hood put over his head: was going to be made to stand on a chalked “T” on a trap; was going to have his neck snapped by the dead-fall of his own descending weight. Up to that moment he had been intrigued by the machinery of detection and had not cared to look beyond it.

Now he felt quite sick.