There was a sound of scuffling and giggling from behind the frosted glass and then it was drawn back by a pretty blonde girl of about seventeen, who had gone pink from the effort of trying to keep a straight face. Behind her, in a large office, several other teenagers of both sexes pretended to be busy at typewriters and calculating machines. The blonde looked disappointed when she saw Henry.
“Oh,” she said, “only you?”
“Were you expecting someone else?” Henry asked.
All the girls giggled, and then the blonde said, “I thought there’d be several of you with photographers and all. You are the gentleman from the Daily Scoop, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Oh. Then you’ll be from the Planet.”
“I’m not a journalist at all, I’m afraid,” said Henry.
“Oh. Oh, well, they’ll be along soon,” The blonde patted her elaborate hair-do complacently.
“Will they really?” Henry asked. He was interested. The police had issued the briefest of statements about Raymond Mason’s death, and he was surprised that the sensational press should be so intrigued by it. “Well, it’s just as well that I got here before them. I’d like to see the general manager, please.”
“Mr. Mumford isn’t in yet,” said the girl. “You could wait, if you like.” It was apparent that her interest in Henry had reached the vanishing point.
“Yes, I will,” said Henry. “Can you show me his office?”
“This way,” said the blonde. “What name is it?”
“Tibbett.”
The girl ushered Henry through the large outer office and into a small inner sanctum which was equipped with a haircord carpet, filing cabinets, an enormous mahogany desk, and a great many charts on the walls. It was only a minute or so later that the door opened and a small, neat man with a black mustache came bustling in. He looked exactly like the chief clerk of a respectable City firm — precise, a little fussy, painstaking, utterly reliable, and above all indomitably conventional. Not at all, Henry thought, the sort of person one would associate with the rip-roaring, slightly rakish profession of bookmaking. Then he remembered that Raymond Mason himself had been the larger-than-life character behind this enterprise. Mr, Mumford was, in fact, no more nor less than an expert accountant, running this business with the same humorless efficiency that he would have brought to the statistics of import/export or the computation of income-tax liability. The Mr. Mumfords of this world do not launch business enterprises; they administer them for other people.
As he came through the door of his office, Mumford was saying over his shoulder, “I absolutely forbid it. Is that understood, Miss Jenkins? If and when they arrive, they are to be shown the door. At once.” His head came around with a jerk, and he saw Henry. “Who are you and what do you want?” he snapped.
“I am Chief Inspector Tibbett of Scotland Yard,” said Henry, producing his official card. Nothing but hard facts and figures would cut any ice with Mr. Mumford. “I am investigating the death of Mr. Raymond Mason.”
Mumford’s attitude changed at once. “Oh, I see. Yes, inevitable, I suppose. Please sit down. Perhaps you can do something about this intolerable persecution, Inspector.”
“Persecution?”
“The press. They actually telephoned to my home this morning. How they got hold of the number is beyond me. It gave my wife a very nasty shock. These people have absolutely no right to invade the privacy of the individual.”
“They’re only doing their job, Mr. Mumford,” said Henry.
“You call that a job? Ghouls, Inspector. That’s what they are. Parasites. I gave them short shrift, I can tell you. But now I hear that they’ve been telephoning the office, and these feather-brained young girls like Miss Jenkins and Miss Cooper — I don’t like to think what will happen if they gain access to the building. You really must help me, Inspector.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do, Mr. Mumford, unless they actually commit a trespass or use violence…”
“Violence! I feel like using violence myself!” Mumford settled himself peevishly into his chair. “In any case, this must be your doing. You have been spreading stories about poor Mr. Mason to the press, otherwise how would they know?”
“That’s a point which interests me,” said Henry. “I can assure you, they’ve had nothing but a very curt announcement from us.”
Mumford looked at Henry disbelievingly. “I have to think of the firm’s reputation,” he said. “This is a very high-class business, you know, Inspector. Some of the most respected and highest-placed people in the land are among our clients. I can’t have them caused embarrassment.”
“Sudden death is always embarrassing, Mr. Mumford,” said Henry. He had considered avoiding the cliché, but decided that it was the quickest way to Mumford’s comprehension. “The best we can do for you is to clear up the whole matter as soon as possible.”
“There I agree with you,” said Mr. Mumford. “I’ll help in any way I can.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Henry.
“Not at all, Chief Inspector,” said Mumford expansively. “I can see that we understand each other, you and I, speak the same language.”
Henry winced, in spite of the fact that he had labored to create just this impression. He said aloud, “First of all, I’d be interested to know how you first heard of Mr. Mason’s death.”
“Why, from Mr. Frank, of course. He telephoned me at my home on Friday evening. It came as a terrible shock.”
“I’m sure it did. What time did Mr. Frank Mason telephone you?”
“Let me see. It must have been just before eight in the evening. We were at the table. It quite spoiled my dinner.”
“And what did he say?”
“You want his exact words?”
“If you can remember them.”
“Well, now — he started off by saying, ‘Is that you, Mumford?’ — he makes a habit of addressing me by my surname, which I do not consider quite — well, Mr. Raymond Mason always did me the courtesy of calling me Mr. Mumford and I appreciated it. I am sure you take my point, Inspec — that is, Chief Inspector. One’s name is one’s name.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Henry. For no very good reason Aunt Dora’s mnemonic was running relentless circles in his brain. Tibbett, Tibbett, hang him from a gibbet. Thank goodness, that particular nightmare was ended now, thanks to enlightened legislation. Nevertheless, the rhyme ran inside his head like a mouse on a treadmill. He became aware that Mumford was speaking again.
“Mr. Frank said, ‘My father has been murdered, Mumford.’ And I said…”
Henry was fully alert now. “You’re sure he used the word murder?”
“Quite sure, Chief Inspector. I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘I can’t believe my ears, Mr. Frank,’ I said. To tell you the truth, I thought at first that he might have had — em — one over the eight, as you might say. It seemed so fantastic, ‘Are you sure, Mr. Frank?’ I said, and he said, ‘Of course I’m sure. The Cregwell police have just telephoned me.’ ‘Well!’ I said, ‘what a dreadful thing!’ And it was, I mean, wasn’t it, Chief Inspector?”
“Certainly it was,” said Henry.
“‘What should I do now?’ I asked Mr. Frank. ‘Just carry on, Mumford,’ he said, ‘just carry on. You run the office on your own anyway, don’t you? No trouble there, I hope?’ ‘I really don’t know what you mean by trouble, Mr. Frank,’ I said. He’s always been — well — a little difficult, Chief Inspector. Not the man his father was. Not in any way. Then he said a funny thing. ‘Heads are going to roll, Mumford,’ he said. These were his very words. ‘Heads are going to roll, but it’s no concern of yours. You just carry on.’ ‘I certainly intend to, Mr. Frank,’ I said. I was considerably upset, but I trust I kept my dignity. Then he rang off.” Mr. Mumford paused, and wiped his spectacles. Then he went on. “Sergeant Duckett from Cregwell police station telephoned me soon afterward. He told me that Mr. Mason had been accidentally shot. I appreciated that.”