“What do you mean, appreciated it?”
“Well,” Mumford coughed, “Mr. Frank had used the word murder, as you pointed out. And since you are here, Chief Inspector, I can only conclude that Mr. Mason’s death was not accidental. But it seemed clear to me that the Cregwell police” — Mumford gave the word enough emphasis to draw a comparison between Cregwell and Scotland Yard, in the former’s favor — “the Cregwell police were keeping any unsavory aspects of the matter out of the hands of the public. After all, anybody may have a shooting accident, especially in the country.” Mumford spoke as though Fenshire lay beyond the bounds of civilization in the Great Outback. “That is why I was appalled — I do not use the word lightly, Chief Inspector — appalled when Miss Jenkins told me this morning…”
“Tell me about Mr. Mason,” said Henry.
Mr. Mumford stopped in full spate, surprised. “About him, Chief Inspector? What about him?”
“What sort of man was he?”
“Why,” Mumford was aghast at Henry’s obtuseness, “why you only have to look around this office. Mr. Mason was a highly successful man. A tycoon, one might almost say.”
“Yes, but what sort of man was he?”
“He was a wealthy man, Chief Inspector.” Mumford’s voice held a note of reproof. It was clear that he suspected Henry of lèse-majesté. Raymond Mason had been a rich, successful man, and Mumford’s employer. There was no more to be said.
Henry changed his line of approach. “When did you last see Mr. Mason?” he asked.
“Let me see — it must have been about a week ago. He came into the office nearly every week, you see. Kept a close eye on things.”
“And you noticed nothing unusual? He seemed perfectly normal?”
“Oh, perfectly, Chief Inspector, perfectly. Mind you, Mr. Mason was a — well — he was a character, if you know what I mean. Always chaffing with the girls in the office — delightful informality, and — well — unconventional.” Mr. Mumford cleared his throat. Clearly, behavior which would have scandalized him in any ordinary mortal became charming eccentricity in his employer. “Of course,” Mr. Mumford added rather hastily, “he moved in what I can only call elevated circles. A great number of the nobility were among his friends, you know. You’d be surprised, Chief Inspector.”
“I dare say I would,” said Henry. “The last time he came to the office was the time that he met his son here, was it?”
“No, no. That was on the previous occasion. He particularly asked me to let him know when Mr. Frank was coming in. That was a bit of a poser, of course. I never know when Mr. Frank may not drop in. However, by good luck Mr. Frank did telephone me the day before and I was able to inform Mr. Mason. Frankly, I was a little surprised.”
“Really? Why?”
“Oh — no reason,” Mr. Mumford fussed with his fountain pen and went a little pink.
“You mustn’t worry about betraying confidences, Mr. Mumford,” said Henry gently, “not to Scotland Yard. It is your duty as a citizen to tell us all you can.”
“Now, please don’t read anything sinister into my remarks, Inspector. It was just that — well — Mr. Mason and Mr. Frank generally went out of their way to avoid each other. It was an open secret that they didn’t get on well together. Mr. Frank has very modern political views, you know.”
“Yes,” said Henry. “I know. Well that seems to cover that. Perhaps you’d now show me the files of the business.”
“The files? You mean, you want to inspect our accounts?”
“Not at the moment,” said Henry. “I’m not a qualified accountant. I’m prepared to take your word for it. I take it that business was flourishing?”
“Indeed it was. In fact, it is.” Mr. Mumford relaxed, sat back in his chair, and prepared to enjoy himself. “Our figures over the past ten years have shown a most satisfactory rise in profit rate from season to season. Thanks to efficient and careful management, together with scientifically-calculated laying-off of…”
“I’m afraid it’s all rather above my head,” said Henry. “Let’s just take it that business was good and the bank balance healthy.”
“Ah, now,” said Mr. Mumford, “that’s something I fear I cannot enlighten you about.”
“But you just said…”
“Business is excellent,” said Mr. Mumford, “and the bank balance should be healthy. Indeed, I have no reason to suspect that it is not. But,” he hesitated, “as I’ve told you, Mr. Mason was unconventional. The bank was positively forbidden to divulge the exact position of the firm’s account to anyone but Mr. Mason himself. I had authority to draw checks for the day-to-day running of the office — wages and so on — and to pay out winning bets, and I need hardly say that no check was ever dishonored by the bank, but…”
“But Mr. Mason didn’t want even you to know what he was taking out of the business privately,” said Henry.
“I wouldn’t have put it like that,” said Mumford stiffly.
“No, I’m sure you wouldn’t,” said Henry. “Well now, perhaps you’d show me the files.”
“I’ve told you, Chief Inspector…”
“I mean, of course,” Henry pursued, “the personal files of your clients. I want to know who was betting with you, and whether any of them were in serious debt to you, or…”
“Our clients!” Mr. Mumford spoke as though Henry had uttered some gross obscenity. “Chief Inspector, I would never under any circumstances reveal the name of a client, let alone his financial position on our books. It would be altogether…”
It took a good half-hour and a lot of throwing about of official weight before Mr. Mumford was convinced; and even then, it was with the utmost reluctance that he eventually unlocked the large green filing cabinet and allowed Henry to inspect the written record of the flutters of Raymond Mason’s clients. As it turned out, they were of no interest at all. As Mr. Mumford had hinted, there were quite a few illustrious names on the register, and Henry was privately amused at the parsimony with which some of the wealthiest of them placed their bets. There was a black list of defaulters from whom bets were not to be accepted, but none of these names appeared to be in any way relevant. A few unfortunate characters appeared to be fairly deeply in debt to Raymond Mason, but again the names signified nothing, and, in any case, Henry reflected, it would do a debtor no good to remove Raymond Mason from the scene. The firm, and Mr. Mumford, went marching on.
At last he closed the final dossier and said, “Thank you, Mr. Mumford. That’s the lot, is it?”
“It is, Chief Inspector. Except for Mr. Mason’s personal files. of course.”
“His what?”
“His personal files. Mr. Mason had a very limited number of special clients whose affairs he dealt with on a strictly personal basis.”
“And where are these personal files?” Henry asked.
“In Mr. Mason’s own filing box.” Mr. Mumford indicated a smaller green cabinet in the corner. “And it’s no use asking me to open it, Chief Inspector, because I have no key to it. Mr. Mason kept that himself.” Mumford spoke with considerable satisfaction.
“In that case,” said Henry, “the key is probably here. I have Mr. Mason’s key ring, which was in his pocket when he died.”