Smallbone Deceased

“A bouncing little bastard,” said Anne thoughtfully. “No. I hardly expect so. I don’t know. Anyway, everything’s perfect. Now.”

“Allow me to congratulate you then,” said Miss Cornel.

“By the way,” said Anne. “There was one thing I couldn’t quite make out. Apparently Hazlerigg was down there.”

“Inspector Hazlerigg?”

“Yes. You don’t suppose that he thinks—no, that’s absurd.”

“What’s absurd?”

“He can’t think,” said Anne with a shaky laugh, “that Bob’s a—I mean, that he did these murders.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Miss Cornel slowly. A close observer might have noted the slight bunching of the muscles on the angle of the jaw, the very faint hardening of the grey eyes. “Is there any particular reason that he should?”

“Well, you know,” said Anne, “we’ve both had to tell an awful lot of lies. Everything seemed to happen when we were—involved. That Saturday morning—”

She explained about Saturday morning with modern frankness and Miss Cornel said doubtfully: “You’d have to alibi each other then?”

“Yes,” said Anne, “it wouldn’t be awfully convincing, I know. But that Tuesday night, when Miss Chittering got killed. That’s absolutely water-tight. We went to a little place in Frith Street. Bob’s very well known there. And he booked the table by telephone for a quarter to seven.”

“And you were there at a quarter to seven?”

“A bit before, I should say. The waiter—that is, he’s really the proprietor’s brother—said something to Bob about ‘On time, as usual’ and Bob said: ‘Your clock’s fast. We’re early.’ I should think we were sitting down by twenty to seven. We walked there from the office.”

Miss Cornel, like Hazlerigg, recognised the sound of the truth. For a moment she said nothing and then she got up and went over to the cupboard. When she came back she had a dark, squat bottle in her hand.

“We must drink to the health of the happy pair,” she said. “Can you pull the cork whilst I get the glasses?”

She was out of the room for a few minutes and came back with two green tumblers. She splashed in a generous three fingers and pushed the nearer tumbler across to Anne. “You mustn’t desecrate this stuff by showing water to it,” she said.

Anne drank and gasped. “It’s strong, isn’t it?”

“It should be,” said Miss Cornel composedly. “It’s genuine pre-war Glen Livet. I had this bottle given me when I won the Open Putter on the Ochterlony course in 1938.”

Both ladies sipped in respectful silence.

“That one’s to your address,” said Miss Cornel. “One more for your intended.”

“I don’t think—” said Anne.

“It’ll make you sleep,” said Miss Cornel genially.

“The funny thing is,” said Anne, “that I can hardly keep my eyes open—now.”

III

“Scotland Yard?”

“This is Scotland Yard. Duty sergeant speaking.”

“This is urgent. Can you put me through to—”

“Is this an emergency call?”

“It’s not a nine-nine-niner, if that’s what you mean,” said Bohun. “I must speak to Chief Inspector Hazlerigg.”

“I’ll see if I can contact him, sir.”

“It’s to do with the Lincoln’s Inn murder.”

“One minute, sir.”

There was a silence, a click, and a new voice said: “Can I help you? This is Inspector Pickup.”

Bohun recognised the name vaguely as one of the inspector’s colleagues. He said: “My name’s Bohun. I must speak to Inspector Hazlerigg.”

“I’m afraid that’s going to be rather difficult,” said Pickup. “The inspector was coming back from Norfolk tonight—”

“When does the train get in?”

“It got in fifteen minutes ago,” said Pickup. “Apparently he stopped the train en route and telephoned for a car to meet him at the terminus. He didn’t say where he was going.”

“Is Sergeant Plumptree there?”

“Sergeant Plumptree went in the car to meet him.”

“Damn,” said Bohun.

“If you have any information,” said Inspector Pickup, “perhaps I could take it. I’m standing in for Inspector Hazlerigg whilst he’s away.”

Bohun hesitated. He visualised himself trying to explain, over the telephone, to a complete stranger, the orbit of a steel screw on an inclined plane. Or the fact that people who play a lot of golf develop strong wrists. And that if they play right-handed the development of the left wrist will probably be greater than that of the right.

“No,” he said at last. “It doesn’t matter.”

He rang off. He thought for a moment of trying the stationmaster’s office at Liverpool Street, but abandoned the project before he had even reached for the phone. The train would be in by now and the passengers dispersed.

Direct action seemed to be the only answer.

Bohun kept his car in a private lock-up behind Bream’s Buildings. It was a 1937 Morris, not one of the uncrowned kings of the road, but a steady performer if handled properly.

Over the Thames by Blackfriars Bridge, he thought, there won’t be much traffic at this time of night. I hope the lights are all right. Bohun had never driven by road to Sevenoaks before, but he knew it lay to the west of Maidstone and he guessed that if he took the Old Kent Road to New Cross and forked right at Lewisham he could not be very wide of the mark. After that he would have to ask.