In the Vouchers:
Mr. Binns. An elegant youth who had gone out at 3 o’clock to inquire for last September’s number of the Connoisseur for Mr. Armstrong, and had unaccountably taken an hour and a half over the transaction. (Witness: Sam, whose elder sister was a typist in the Vouchers, and had given it as her opinion that young Binns had had a date for tea with his best girl.) (Note: Mr. Binns was already known to Mr. Bredon as the darts expert who had often lunched with Victor Dean.)
In the various group-managers’ offices:
Mr. Haagedorn (Sopo and allied products). Leave of absence all day to attend aunt’s funeral. But said to have been seen during the afternoon attending a matinee at the Adelphi. (Witnesses: Jack Dennis, the boy who thought he had seen him, and Mr. Tompkin’s attendance-register consulted by Cyril.)
Mr. Tallboy. Exact location at the moment of the action not quite certain. At 3.30 or thereabouts, Mr. Wedderburn had come down to the Vouchers to ask for certain back numbers of the Fishmonger’s Gazette, saying that Mr. Tallboy wanted them in a hurry. On returning ten minutes later, after having the required numbers sorted out for him, Mr. Wedderburn had run into all the excitement about Mr. Dean and had forgotten the Fishmonger’s Gazette. He had, in fact, been talking to Miss Fearney in the Executive, when Mr. Tallboy had come in and rather abruptly asked whether he was expected to wait all night for them. Mr. Wedderburn had explained that the alarm about Mr. Dean had put the matter out of his head, and Mr. Tallboy had replied that the work had got to be done, notwithstanding. (Witnesses: Horace, the messenger-boy in the Vouchers, and Cyril.)
Mr. McAllister. Group-secretary to Dairyfields, Ltd., under Mr. Smayle. Absent all afternoon on visit to dentist. (Witness: Mr. Tompkin’s register.)
In the Studio:
Mr. Barrow. At British Museum, studying Greek vases with view to advertising display for Klassika Corsets. (Witness: Mr. Barrow’s time-sheet.)
Mr. Vibart. Supposed to be at Westminster, making a sketch of the Terrace of the House of Commons for Parley’s Footwear. (“The feet that tread this historic pavement are, more often than not, clad in Parley Fashion Footwear.”) Absent 2.30-4.30. (Witnesses: Mr. Vibart’s time-sheet and the sketch itself.)
Wilfred Cotterill. At 3 o’clock complained of nose-bleeding and sent to lie down by himself in the Boys’ Room, the other boys being told to leave him alone. Completely forgotten by everybody till 5 o’clock, when he was discovered, asleep, by the boys going in to change their tunics. Alleged that he had slept through the whole of the excitement. (Witnesses: All the other boys.) Wilfred Cotterill was a small, pale, excitable child of fourteen, but looking much younger. When told what he had missed he merely remarked “Oo-er!”
A very creditable piece of work on Ginger Joe’s part, thought Mr. Bredon, if we may continue so to call him during office-hours, but leaving much room for further inquiry. His own investigations were not going too well. In his search for Darling Special Pencils he had been brought face to face with the practical communism of office life. The Copy Department preferred 5B or even 6B drawing-pencils for writing its roughs, and was not much interested in Darling’s product, except, of course, Mr. Garrett, who had been drawing up a little panel for display in Darling’s advertisements, calling attention to the generous offer of the pencil. He had two specimens, and four, in various stages of decay, were found in the typists’ room. There was one on Mr. Armstrong’s desk. Mr. Hankin had none. Mr. Ingleby admitted to having thrown his out of the window in a fit of temper, and Miss Meteyard said she thought she had one somewhere if Mr. Bredon really wanted it, but he had better ask Miss Parton. The other departments were even worse. The pencils had been taken home, lost, or thrown away. Mr. McAllister, mysteriously but characteristically, said he had no less than six. Mr. Wedderburn had lost his, but produced one which he had bagged from Mr. Tallboy. Mr. Prout said he couldn’t be bothered; the pencil was a silly, gimcrack thing anyway; if Bredon really wanted a propelling pencil he ought to get an Eversharp. He (Mr. Prout) had never seen the thing since he’d had it to photograph; he added that for a first-class photographer to spend his life photographing tin pencils and jelly cartons was enough to drive any sensitive person to suicide. It was heart-breaking work.
In the matter of his own address, Bredon did get one piece of information. Mr. Willis had asked for it one day. Discreet questioning fixed the date to within a day or so, one way or another, of Chief-Inspector Parker’s unfortunate encounter on the stairs. Nearer than this, Miss Beit (the telephonist, who also presided over the office address-book) could not go. It was all rather unnerving as well as exasperating. Mr. Bredon hoped that the assailant would have been sufficiently alarmed by the failure of his first attempt to forswear blunt instruments and violence for the future; nevertheless, he developed a habit of keeping a careful lookout for following footsteps whenever he left the office. He went home by circuitous routes, and when engaged on his daily duties, found himself avoiding the iron staircase.
Meanwhile, the great Nutrax row raged on with undiminished vigour, developing as it went an extraordinary number of offshoots and ramifications, of which the most important and alarming was a violent breach between Mr. Smayle and Mr. Tallboy.
It began, rather absurdly, at the bottom of the lift, where Mr. Tallboy and Miss Meteyard were standing, waiting for Harry to return and waft them to their sphere of toil above. To them, enter Mr. Smayle, fresh and smiling, his teeth gleaming as though cleaned with Toothshine, a pink rosebud in his buttonhole, his umbrella neatly rolled.
“Morning, Miss Meteyard, morning, morning,” said Mr. Smayle, raising his bowler, and replacing it at a jaunty angle. “Fine day again.”
Miss Meteyard agreed that it was a fine day. “If only,” she added, “they wouldn’t spoil it with income-tax demands.”
“Don’t talk about income-tax,” replied Mr. Smayle with a smile and a shudder. “I said to the wife this morning, ‘My dear, we shall have to take our holiday in the back garden, I can see.’ And I’m sure it’s a fact. Where the money for our usual little trip to Eastbourne is to come from, I don’t know.”
“The whole thing’s iniquitous,” said Mr. Tallboy. “As for this last budget-”
“Ah! you must be paying super-tax, old man,” said Mr. Smayle, giving Mr. Tallboy a prod in the ribs with his umbrella.
“Don’t do that,” said Mr. Tallboy.
“Tallboy needn’t worry,” said Mr. Smayle, with a rallying air. “He’s got more money than he knows what to do with. We all know that, don’t we, Miss Meteyard?”
“He’s luckier than most, then,” said Miss Meteyard.
“He can afford to chuck his quids over the office, fifty at a time,” pursued Mr. Smayle. “Wish I knew where he gets it from. Daresay the income-tax authorities would like to know too. I’ll tell you what, Miss Meteyard, this man’s a dark horse. I believe he runs a dope-den or a bucket-shop on the sly, eh? You’re a one, you are,” said Mr. Smayle, extending a roguish forefinger and jabbing it into Mr. Tallboy’s second waistcoat button. At this moment the lift descended and Miss Meteyard stepped into it. Mr. Tallboy, rudely thrusting Mr. Smayle aside, stepped in after her.