Smallbone Deceased (17 page)

“Inspector Hazlerigg told me,” said Bohun, “that when you were examining Abel Horniman's private bank account, you could only find one item which you couldn't explain. As I remember, that was a quarterly payment of £48 2
s.
6
d.
”

“That is quite correct.”

“It just occurred to me to wonder” said Bohun apologetically, “—it seems such an obvious suggestion—but have you tried grossing it up at 3½ percent?”

Mr. Hoffman looked surprised. “With or without tax?” he said.

“Adding on tax. In view of what you said, I thought it was rather a coincidence.”

Mr. Hoffman's pencil moved across the paper. Then he clicked the tip of his tongue delicately against the roof of his mouth and said: “Tchk, tchk. Yes, indeed. How very surprising. To think that I never noticed it.”

It was the grudging salute of one mathematician to another.

Henry went slowly upstairs, and across into the partners' side of the building.

It seemed to him that circumstances were conspiring to force decisions on him; decisions which he had little desire to face.

“Yes,” said Mr. Birley, “what is it?”

“I wondered if I might have a word with you and Mr. Craine.”

“All right,” said Mr. Birley. The thought struck him that Bohun also might be going to give notice. Nothing would surprise him now.

“Certainly,” said Mr. Craine. “What's the trouble?”

“No trouble really,” said Bohun. And without further preamble he told them of Bob Horniman's surprising offer made to him that morning. It occurred to him that he might be committing a breach of confidence, and it also occurred to him that in the circumstances it could not matter much.

When Mr. Birley had grasped what was going on he said explosively:

“Bob can't do that. Really, Bohun, I'm surprised at you.”

Mr. Craine said nothing. He looked thoughtful.

“I should have thought you would have known enough about the Law of Partnership,” went on Mr. Birley, “to know that one partner can't transfer his share just as if it was so much personal property. His other partners have got some say in the matter, you know. It was different with Abel. He was the founder of the firm and he reserved the right to transmit his share to his son. That was agreed. I never entirely approved of it, but that's neither here nor there. But Bob's got no more right to hand it on to you than to Miss Bellbas. I don't mean to be rude,” continued Mr. Birley – who clearly did – “but you've only been here a week. And you've hardly been qualified a month.”

He looked to Mr. Craine for moral support, but Mr. Craine, who had been looking at Bohun speculatively, remained silent.

“Of course, in a few years' time,” said Mr. Birley, “when you've—er—proved your mettle—we might perhaps consider a salaried partnership.”

“Quite,” said Bohun. “And I much appreciate the confidence in my abilities which inspires the offer. A moment ago you said that you might just as well have offered a partnership to Miss Bellbas. Now I don't suppose you meant that seriously, but it enables me to put what I have to put quite clearly. Considered as potential partners, the essential difference between myself and Miss Bellbas is that I am in a position to put twenty thousand pounds into the business—as an investment, of course.”

“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 check-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 while 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 practiced 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.

Mr. Birley weighed his symptoms against his powerful array of remedies, and finally selected a large green bottle and poured himself out a measured medicine glass of ruby-coloured liquid. He stirred it for a moment with a rod, then downed it in one. After this he inspected his tongue in the glass, felt his pulse, and closed his eyes again.

The dashes were still there, but fainter.

Mr. Birley repeated the dose twice and quite suddenly began to feel happier. (This was not actually surprising, since what he was drinking was, had he known it, very inferior port masquerading as a health tonic and sold in small bottles at a very superior price.)

Mr. Birley went downstairs to his study and sat at his desk. He thought with distaste of Henry Bohun and with active dislike of Mr. Craine. He thought of Bob Horniman and, with no very great charity, of the dead Abel Horniman. He thought of the future. Ahead of him stretched unbroken reefs of trouble. Endless shocks to his nervous system; endless assaults on his gastric fluids; endless nights when fear of insomnia would prove more potent than insomnia itself.

After all, he reflected, he had no need of his professional earnings. He had never spent half of them and the accumulation of years served only to excite the rapacity of the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

And lastly, and by no means least, if anything unpleasant did happen-and that damned fellow Bohun had sounded very confident – might it not be better if it could be shown that he had taken steps
before
…

He pulled a sheet of paper toward him and started to write.

VII

After supper that night Bohun put on his working clothes, told Mrs. Magoli not to wait up for him, and started out.

He wanted to think, and he had found that walking at night through the streets of the City was one of the best ways of thinking. He was not due on his watchman's job until ten o'clock, so there was no need to hurry.

It was a lovely night, with high, packed white clouds and the moon playing hide-and-seek between them. Bohun made his way steadily eastward, only dimly conscious of the route he was taking but certain with the certainty of a born Londoner that he could not stray very far from his bearing.

There were two distinct and separate problems. He saw that now. It was confusion over this prime fact that had created to date so much unnecessary obscurity. The first was the problem of who had killed Mr. Smallbone, and why they had done it – with the pendant to it, of why it had been necessary to remove Miss Chittering. The other problem was how Abel Horniman had managed to lay his hands on ten thousand pounds.

The two problems were connected, of course. Here Bohun felt himself to be on secure ground. The chain of causation, in outline, was as he had laid it before Birley and Craine. Abel Horniman had raised ten thousand pounds by some method on the windy side of the law. Marcus Smallbone had found out about it. Marcus Smallbone was the sort of man who was known to be untiring in nosing out scandals, indefatigable in his zeal for proclaiming them to the world. Therefore somebody who did not wish the facts to be known had removed Mr. Smallbone with a homemade cheese cutter. And seeing exposure threatened from some indiscretion of Miss Chittering, had removed her, too.

It was becoming increasingly and painfully plain who that somebody must be. Motive and opportunity were both evident. It was necessary now only to solve the fundamental problem behind Abel's acquisition of wealth.

Bohun had reached this point when he found himself at Aldgate Pump. He therefore turned southeast and devoted his thoughts for the next fifteen minutes to a consideration of methods by which a hard-working, systematic, professionally knowledgeable, not very active solicitor might manufacture ten thousand pounds.

The obvious solution would be to dip into a trust fund-some fund of which he was, in effect, the sole active trustee. And this, as a first effort, was no doubt what Abel had done. He had borrowed the money from the Ichabod Stokes Trust. That did not afford a final or satisfactory solution. The system of solicitors accounting is designed to reveal such illicit borrowings, and beneficiaries, even though charitable in every sense of the word, are certain in the end to raise objections to the disappearance of substantial portions of their income. Realizing this, Abel had very promptly paid back into the Stokes Trust an equivalent sum of money which he had succeeded in raising in some other and more ingenious way. The repayment into the Stokes Trust had passed without detection and, in Bohun's opinion, would never now be proved, particularly since most of the relevant accounts were lost.

This left unsolved, however, the question of where the money had ultimately come from. It had been borrowed, he was fairly certain, but on what conceivable security?

VIII

“Thoughtful tonight, 'Enery,” said the bald man.

“Something on my mind,” said Bohun.

“A problem?”

“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 often minutes, then you know what.”