“That’s the style,” said John. “What’s so madly exciting about it? If you’re looking forward to a long Saturday morning alone with Anne Mildmay, take my tip and lay off. That girl’s ginger.”
“No. It wasn’t that. Tell me, who opens up the office on these occasions?”
“Sergeant Cockerill. He gets here at nine, and opens everything up. Then he comes back after everyone’s gone and locks up again. That’s about twelve-thirty, after the mid-morning post has come in.”
“Excuse me a moment,” said Henry, and fled.
He found Hazlerigg on the point of departure.
“Yes,” said Hazlerigg, when he had told him. “Yes. That certainly does sound promising. I’m afraid we’ve been wasting our time a bit. Thank you very much. Oh, and by the way, you might get me a list showing who was on duty on different weekends for the last three months.”
He took up the phone and dialled a code number, asked for an extension, and found Dr. Bland in his laboratory. “Hazlerigg here. That Smallbone job. Yes. I want a re-autopsy.”
The telephone said something grudging.
“Certainly it’s important,” said Hazlerigg. “I want to know exactly when he died. Anyway, to within a week.”
This time the telephone sounded distinctly rude.
Chapter Seven —Saturday and Sunday— Local Searches
I have often been told—I do not know whether it is true—that, in country cases particularly, local searches are often not made (laughter). Well, if that is so, I dare say it is all right, but it will not do in future.
A. F. Topham, K.C.,
to the Solicitors’ Managing Clerks’ Association (1925)
I
Saturday morning in Lincoln’s Inn was generally a restful time. Most of the firms observed the Saturday truce, and such members as turned up were apt to appear, briefly, in loose and disreputable clothes. Contrary to the general rule, however, a good deal of quiet activity seemed to be taking place in the offices of Horniman, Birley and Craine.
True, none of the partners put in an appearance, and the only official representatives of the firm were John Cove and Mrs. Porter. But in other rooms Mr. Hoffman and his industrious assistants were poring over books and papers, only too glad of a free hand for forty-eight hours. In Bob Horniman’s office Mr. Gissel pursued his patient study of the bound volumes of Law Reports. He had disposed of the courts of Queen’s and King’s Bench and was working his way, via Admiralty and Probate, to Divorce.
John Cove was looking unenthusiastically at the morning mail when he was surprised by a visit from Bohun.
“What on earth are you doing here?” he asked. “You needn’t imagine,” he went on uncharitably, “that you’ll get any credit for attention to duty. None of the partners are here.”
“It isn’t that,” said Bohun. “I want your help. You know you were talking about this weekend roster business. Can you tell me who was on duty and when—in the last few months, I mean?”
“It’s all on the notice board,” said John.
“Yes, I know. I’ve got the list here. But did it actually happen as it says or was it fiddled about?”
“The Horniman system is not susceptible to fiddling. Let me look—yes. That’s about right. I was ‘on’ last on March 15th, and it was Tubby the week before, I remember, and Bob before him: then Eric. That would have been February 20th, and that’s right, too, because he wanted me to stand in for him and I couldn’t, because I had a heavy date—not that I would have done it anyway. The week before was Bill Birley, and before that, me again. You could check it with Sergeant Cockerill, of course.”
“Abel Horniman didn’t take a turn with the rest of you?”
“Good heavens, no. Not in my time, anyway. He may have done it in the old days.”
“What about the girls—are they as stated?”
“I’m not sure,” said John. “I think so. I say, what’s it all about? Are we supposed to have murdered the old boy on a Saturday morning?”
“Well—I—”
“Not a bad idea at that,” said John. “The office would be nice and quiet. Supplies a motive too. I mean, any client who comes to see you on a Saturday morning is really asking for trouble, isn’t he?”
II
“That’s far enough,” said Hazlerigg. “Until we get a re-autopsy. Bland said that Smallbone had been dead at least six weeks and he always errs on the side of caution. It gives quite enough scope as it is. In fact, unless Bland can be more definite it doesn’t take us much further than List Two.”
“It lets out John Cove.”
“It would seem to do so,” agreed Hazlerigg cautiously. “Has the list been checked?”
“Not exactly. Cove says the male side of it is right.”
“Does he now?” The inspector regarded the eight names thoughtfully, clothing each set of symbols with its living flesh.
“If you accept this idea,” said Bohun diffidently, “about the murder being committed on a Saturday morning, does it mean that it must have been a joint effort by two people?”
“Not necessarily. It depends a little on the Saturday routine. Let’s get in young thingummy and ask him about it.”
“John Cove?”
“Yes. He ought to be able to help us.”
“You’re accepting his innocence as proved?”
“Not a bit of it,” said the inspector cheerfully. “I’m only going to ask him some questions. If he tells us the truth then we know what we want. If he doesn’t, then that’s interesting, too, isn’t it?”
John Cove was apparently a candid witness. He said: “I’m not sure how other people manage it. When I’m on duty I turn up about half-past ten. Sergeant Cockerill gets here first and opens the offices, and takes in the post and sorts it out and so on. When I arrive, or the girl, whichever turns up first, that’s the signal for the sergeant to push off. I don’t know what time he gets back to lock up, because, speaking personally, I’m always gone by then. About half-past twelve, I think, or perhaps one o’clock.”
“And when do you leave?”
“That all depends what my programme is,” said John frankly. “I have been away as early as half-past eleven. But it’s usually a bit later than that. Say midday.”
“And does the typist get away at the same time, or later?”
“Usually about the same time. Earlier if anything. There’s not much for her to do really. She takes a note of any telephone calls, and she might have to type a couple of letters. The man who’s on duty on Saturday is supposed to read everything that comes in, and deal with anything absolutely urgent. So far as I’m concerned I usually decide it can wait over till Monday.”
“Well, now, what do we get out of all that?” said Hazlerigg, when the door had shut behind John Cove.
“It looks,” said Bohun diffidently, “as if the scheme would work out quite well for a man, but it would be very risky for a woman. I mean, for instance, Mr. Birley could easily have arranged an appointment with Smallbone for midday. At a quarter to twelve he would tell the typist that there was nothing more to be done, and that she could depart—a hint she would be happy enough to take, I expect. This would give him an absolutely safe forty-five minutes, or perhaps an hour, before Sergeant Cockerill came back to lock up.”
“Yes, I think that’s fair enough. Or if he wanted to avoid suspicion altogether he could leave the office at the same time as the girl—he could easily slip back again as soon as the coast was clear.”
“But if one of the girls was planning the job”—Bohun considered the idea—“it wouldn’t be impossible, but the risks would be bigger. She’d have to take a chance on the man leaving early, and then come back herself. Besides, could she get Smallbone to the office at the time she wanted him—?”