Smallbone Deceased (3 page)

The girl stood looking after him. There was a quarter of a smile on her lips but her light blue eyes said nothing but “Danger.”

“It's far too early to go to bed,” said John Cove. “Come and have a drink.”

“All right,” said Bohun. He wondered whether John had observed the curious little scene; and if so, what he had made of it.

“Who's the redhead?” he asked.

“That's Anne Mildmay,” said John. “She works for Tubby Craine. Lecherous little beast. Craine, I mean,” he added. “Come on, I know a place in Shaftesbury Avenue which stays open till midnight.”

Over the bar of the Anchorage (which is “in” Shaftesbury Avenue in approximately the same sense that Boulestins is “in” the Strand) John Cove fixed Bohun with a gloomy stare and said: “Tell me. What brought you into the racket?”

“Which racket?” inquired Henry cautiously.

“The law.”

“It's hard to say. I was a research statistician, you know.”

“Well, I don't,” said John, “but it sounds quite frightful. Who did you research into statistics for?”

“It wasn't a question of researching
into
statistics,” said Henry patiently. “I collated statistics and other people used them for research. It was a nice job, too. All you needed was a fairly good memory and a head for figures.”

“Decent hours?”

“First class. Come when you like, go when you like.”

“Congenial company?”

“Very much so.”

“Then I say again,” said John, “why come into our racket at your age? No offense—I'm not a dewy-eyed youngster myself—two more, please, Ted. But at least I've got the excuse that I was in the game before the war. I would have finished my articles in 1941 had Hitler not willed otherwise.”

“Welt,” said Henry slowly. “I couldn't go back to my old firm. It was an oil combine, and it went and got itself amalgamated while I was away, and although mine was a good sort of job they're pretty few and far between. So I thought I'd take up law as a soft option.”

“You thought what?” John was so overcome that he spilled a good deal of his whisky, and quickly drank the rest of it before it could come to any harm.

“Why, certainly,” said Henry. “What I really like about the law is that it's so restful. You never have to think. It's all in the books.”

“Two more whiskies,” said John to the barman. “Doubles.”

“No fooling,” said Henry. “I did two years as a medical student when I left school, and I can assure you there's absolutely no comparison. Think how easy it would be to perform a surgical operation, if you had Butterworth's
Forms and Precedents
ever at your elbow. One, take a scapula, size six, in the right hand. Two, grasp the appendix firmly round the broad end—”

“Bung-ho!” said John.

“Can't I buy you a drink for a change?”

“Not unless you're a member.”

“Well, let's go somewhere where I can.”

At Raguzzi's, which is near the Berkeley Square end of Bruton Street, the conversation turned, not without a certain amount of willful steering on Henry's part, on to the subject of the firm of Horniman, Birley and Craine.

John had, by now, reached that well-defined stage in intoxication when every topic becomes the subject of exposition and generalization, when sequences of thought range themselves in the speaker's mind, strewn about with flowery metaphor and garlanded in chains of pellucid logic; airborne flights of oratory to which the only obstacle is a certain difficulty with the palatal consonants.

“Horniman, Birley and Craine,” said John, “is not one firm but four firms. It is a quadernity. It is the Gordon Selfridge of solicitors, different departments to suit all tastes and purses. For the humble but well-meaning citizens of Streatham or Brixton Mr. Brown and Mr. Baxter labour unceasingly, resting not day nor night. For the hard-faced, stern-browed moguls of commerce and industry our City offices are ever open, and the warm hearts and subtle brains of Mr. Bourlass, Mr. Bridewell and Mr. Burt beat in a mighty diapason, and their cunning fingers are never still-here underwriting a charter party, there endorsing a Bill of Exchange
sans recours;
and if all else palls, why, bless me, they can always fill in the time between lunch and tea by forming a limited company. In Piccadilly, those gilded darlings of fortune, Osric Ramussen and Emmanuel Oakshott, pin carnations to the palpitating bosoms of a horde of Cornely divorcees and spend their time, or such time as they can spare from race meetings and first nights, in drawing fantastic leases of flats in Half Moon Street and shops in the Burlington Arcade—”

“Two more whiskies,” said Henry. “What do
we
do in Lincoln's Inn?”

“I've never really found out,” said John, “but it's all most terribly gentlemanly. Our books of reference are Burke and Debrett and we're almost the last firm in London that draws up strict marriage settlements and calls the heir up on his twenty-first birthday to execute a disentailing deed and drink a glass of pre-1914 sherry.”

“I thought that the peerage were all broke these days.”

“So they are,” said John regretfully. “So they are. I expect that's why we bought up the other offices. All the real money's in Streatham.”

At the Silver Slipper, which is between Regent Street and Glasshouse Street, and of which Mr. Bohun appeared to be a member, John found occasion, between glasses of champagne, to ask:

“You didn't seriously mean what you said, did you?”

“What are you talking about now?”

“About solicitoring being so easy.”

“Certainly I did. If you want a really difficult job you ought to try actuarial work. I trained for eighteen months as an actuary in New York.”

At the Lettre de Cachet, a small club off the west end of Old Compton Street, John swallowed his thimbleful of apricot brandy, started to say something, folded neatly forward over the table and fell into a dreamless sleep.

When he woke up the electric clock beside the band platform showed four, the band was packing up and the last of the clientele were leaving.

Henry Bohun finished his drink and rose to his feet.

“I think we ought to be getting along,” he said regretfully. “It's been a splendid evening.”

“Splendid,” said John. Something odd about his companion struck him.

“Aren't you tired?” he asked.

“No,” said Henry.

“Don't you ever get tired?”

“Not often,” said Henry.

“Why not?” said John. For himself an overmastering desire to sleep was rolling round him, enveloping him, dimming his eyes and anaesthetising his brain.

“I've no idea,” said Henry truthfully. “It's just one of those things.”

Chapter Two

… Tuesday …

THE IRRITATING ABSENCE OF A TRUSTEE

The Law is utilitarian.

James Barr Ames:
Law and Morals

“All that messuage tenement or building,” said John Cove reluctantly, “together with the outbuildings farm buildings cottages barns sheds closets and other buildings of a permanent or quasi-permanent 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 tightrope 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 upward and backward 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.”

“It was commonly believed in the office,” said John, “that once, just before the turn of the present century, one of Abel Horniman's leases had the signature eaten off by a mouse, a mishap which gave rise to expensive litigation in the Chancery Division. Accordingly he sat down and devised the Horniman dust-proof, moistureproof, air-proof and, indeed, mouse-proof deed box—”

“I see.”

“With all due respect for the departed” – John placed both his feet tenderly on the desk – “it's typical of a lot that the old boy did. All his ideas were sound enough in themselves, you know, the indexes and the cross—checking and what not—it was just the
lengths
to which he carried everything—Hello, yes—”

“Mr. Craine wants you.”

“Curse him. All right, Anne—”

“Miss Mildmay to you.”

“I say, you haven't got a hangover too, have you?”

“Certainly not, Mr. Cove.”

“Well, stop trying to put me in my place, Anne, and convey my respects to Tubby and tell him I'll be along in a minute.”

“You convey your own respects,” said Miss Mildmay. “And take the Batchelor file with you. I gather Mr. Craine wants to discuss the arithmetic in your completion statement.”

“Does he though,” said John uneasily.

He took his legs off the desk and departed.

“Have you got all you want, Mr. Bohun?”

“Thank you,” said Henry. “John Cove has been initiating me gently into some of the mysteries of the Horniman office system.”

“No doubt you were scared. I know I was at first. However, cheer up. It works quite well when you get used to it.”

“I expect it does. Can you tell me who's going to do my work?”

“That'll be Mrs. Porter. By the way, she's new, too. She arrived at the end of last week. She doubles for you and Mr. Prince—he's our Common Law clerk. You'll find her in Miss Bellbas's room. Just inside the door on the right as you come in.”

“Thank you,” said Henry. “I'll go and have a word with her—as soon as I've got some ideas about what I want her to do.”

However, when he did get there, the room just inside the door was empty. Judging from the sounds coming out of it the entire staff of Horniman, Birley and Craine was collected in the partners' secretaries' room, on the other side of the entrance hall. He guessed that this was the hour of morning coffee. After some hesitation he hardened his heart, opened the door and went in.

He might have spared himself any embarrassment. Nobody took the slightest notice of him.

“But, Florrie,” Miss Chittering was saying, “when you'd made all your arrangements. It's too bad.”

“You haven't changed your mind again, have you?” said Miss Cornel.

“You can't go altering your holiday” – Miss Mildmay sounded angry. “You'll put everyone else's out.”

“You've bought your ticket and everything.”

“Pull yourself together, Florrie.”

“It's no good,” said Miss Bellbas. “The stars are against it.”

“Then defy the stars.”

“It's no good, Miss Cornel.”

“Or take a different newspaper.”

“It isn't the paper, Anne, it's the stars.”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Mildmay. “How can you suppose that the stars can take any interest in your holiday. They
must
have more important things to think about.”

This reasoning fell on deaf ears. Miss Bellbas was fumbling in her capacious handbag and eventually produced a folded newspaper. The others crowded round her.

“Last month it was all right,” she said. “Look, there you are. ‘Virgo, August 24th to September 23rd—that's me—' You will find fortune and a good companion on the great waters. Proceed boldly and overcome your natural qualms'—that's right, too. Why, sometimes I'm sick before I even get on the boat. ‘Lucky colour red.' Well, that was plain as plain. I went straight out and got a ticket for this cruise—”

“Why a Baltic cruise?”

“Well-lucky colour red—”

“Some might think it so, I suppose,” said Miss Cornel. “What happened next?”

“What happened?” said Miss Bellbas, almost in tears. “Why, look at it now!” She pointed to another paper, and Miss Cornel read out ‘Virgo, etc., etc. Avoid the sea at all costs. Your happiness lies in the hills. Turn your eyes to them. Things will open up surprisingly about the middle of the week. From a sum of money expended now you will reap a modest benefit in fourteen days' time. Lucky colour grey.'”

“It's so
definite
” said Miss Bellbas. “I couldn't go on, not in the face of that. Luckily the company took back the cruise ticket. I shall just have to wait till the stars come round again.”

“But, Florrie—”

“Now wait.” Miss Cornel spoke in an authoritative voice. She picked up both newspapers and a deep silence fell on the secretaries' room, broken only by the plaintive ringing of the interoffice telephone, of which no one took the least notice. After close study of both papers she announced: “I have it. No—wait. Yes, of course.”

“What, Miss Cornel?”

“Last month's paper doesn't actually mention the sea, does it? As I thought. It says ‘the great waters.' Why, it's as clear as clear can be. You must take your holiday in the Lake District. Great Waters and High Hills. Red for the—let me see—for the ironstone crags and grey for the lakes.”

“Yes, yes,” said Miss Bellbas.

“And the last bit's quite clear, too. You must lake a cheap fortnightly return ticket. That'll save you a modest sum in fourteen days' time.”

This last stroke convinced everybody. Even Mrs. Porter, a quiet, middle-aged woman who had so far held herself aloof from the discussion, joined in to contribute an account of how her brother had avoided a train accident by intelligent reading of the tea leaves.

“I wonder if you'd mind coming in and taking a few letters,” said Bohun timidly, and as it proved inaudibly, since no one looked in his direction.

“You must make it a walking tour,” said Miss Cluttering. “You can have that big walking stick. You know—the one the Duke of Laxater left in the waiting room—and Miss Cornel will lend you her big green rucksack.”

“Well,” said Miss Cornel, “since you're so kindly lending her everybody else's belongings, why not start with your own dressing case?”

“Oh, no, really. I couldn't do that,” said Miss Cluttering, anxiously. “You wouldn't want a dressing case, would you, Florrie? Not on a walking tour. Why, it's made of real crocodile skin. A rucksack would be much more suitable.”

“I—” said Miss Bellbas.

“If your dressing case is crocodile, my fur coat's polar bear,” said Miss Cornel flatly.

“Mrs. Porter,” said Bohun.

“I was assured when I bought it,” said Miss Chittering, “that it was absolutely genuine Congo crocodile—”

“MRS. PORTER!”

“Oh, Mr. Bohun, I didn't see you come in.”

“Would you mind coming in and taking some letters?”

At this moment John Cove appeared looking slightly flushed. Evidently he had got the worst of his arithmetical discussion with Mr. Craine.

“Heave ho. Miss Bellbas,” he said. “We've got to do it all again.”

Miss Bellbas, however, seemed to have something on her mind.

“I should never have thought it,” she said to Miss Cornel.

“Thought what?”

“That your fur coat was polar bear.”

“That's just it,” said Miss Cornel patiently. “It isn't.”

“But I thought you said—”

“Florrie, my love,” said John Cove. “You really are the most literal creature on earth. Does irony mean nothing to you? Has sarcasm no place in your life? Do the shafts of satire pass you by? Have you never even heard of the homely figure of speech?”

“Yes,” said Miss Bellbas doubtfully.

“If I said to you, ‘I'm dying of hunger' would you hurry out to summon the coroner and the undertaker? Would you search yourself anxiously for traces of strawberry jam if someone accused you of being a—”

“Really, Mr. Cove!”

II

“It would appear, Miss Chittering,” said Mr. Birley smoothly, “that you must imagine me to be a highly moral man.”

Miss Chittering looked blank but surmised it was something to do with the letter she had just typed and which Mr. Birley was now perusing.

“I take it as a compliment, of course.”

“Yes, Mr. Birley.”

“But I'm afraid it won't do.” He scored the letter heavily through. “When I said, ‘This is a matter which will have to be conducted entirely by principals,' I intended it to be understood that the work would be done by a partner in the firm concerned, not that it would be carried out according to ethical standards.”