“This is all right,” said John Cove. “Now, as I was saying—”
When he had finished, Bohun said: “It certainly does seem odd. You say there was a second appointment diary for this year kept locked up in that drawer, and all the appointments in it were in code.”
“It wasn’t exactly a code. Everything was in initials.”
“Is there any reason,” said Bohun, “why they shouldn’t have been social engagements. After all, he might easily keep two diaries, one for business and one for pleasure. He probably would keep the social one under lock and key.”
“It didn’t look like a social diary. Most of the engagements were in the evening but quite a lot of them were eleven in the morning and three-thirty in the afternoon, and that sort of time. You can’t be social at three-thirty in the afternoon—not in a Horniman office.”
“Then how does he get away with it?”
“As I told you—by getting us to alibi him,” said John. “Of course, we all do it, to a certain extent. The only difference with Eric is that he makes a business of it. I’ll give you an example. This morning he wasn’t in his room at half-past ten. I asked Florrie Bellbas where he was. She said he had gone across to Turberville and Trout to examine deeds.”
“So he may have,” said Henry. “Aren’t Turberville’s acting for the vendor in the Rookery sales?”
“He might have,” said John. “That’s the point. But he ruddy well hadn’t. I took the trouble to phone Turberville’s and check up. Not only had he not gone over to inspect the deeds, but he couldn’t have done so. They don’t hold the deeds, they’re in the hands of a mortgagee Bank.”
“I see,” said Bohun. “Yes. That certainly was a bit of a slip-up. What are you going to do about all this?”
“Well,” said John. “My first idea was to follow Eric up when he went on one of these mysterious trips. However, I couldn’t really see myself chasing round London after him in a false nose. So after a bit of thought I hired an assassin—I beg your pardon, sir. By all means borrow the mustard…” This was to a very old gentleman, bearing a striking resemblance to Tenniel’s White Knight, who had drifted across and was bending vaguely over the table. “I’m afraid your sleeve is in my pudding. No, no, sir. Don’t apologise. It couldn’t affect the texture of the pudding. It’s your sleeve I was thinking of.”
“You were saying,” said Bohun.
“Yes—I hired a detective. Rather fun, don’t you think. This one is called Mr. Brown. He will follow Eric this afternoon. I noticed from Eric’s diary that there were two appointments down for today—one at four o’clock and one at seven. So he ought to get something out of it.”
“Personally I think you ought to tell Hazlerigg,” said Bohun. “I won’t if you don’t want me to, but I think it would be the wise thing.”
“What a damn dull life it would be,” said John, “if we always did the wise thing. Come and have some coffee upstairs.”
III
That afternoon Bohun divided his time between drawing up a trust deed for the Countess of Chiswick—a lady who appeared to have an almost Elizabethan ardour for the founding of strange settlements—and a steady consideration of Eric Duxford as Murderer.
Quite frankly he found this latter proposition hard to swallow. Eric as a swindler, yes. Eric as an embezzler; Eric as a fraudulent converter or a confidence trickster, or the publisher of prospectuses contrary to the terms of the Companies Act. Eric, even, as the perpetrator of some small larceny which did not involve any element of bodily violence or any undue risk of detection to the larcenor. But Eric as a murderer, by force: Eric as a ruthless strangler and a disposer of bodies in boxes. No. The picture did not convince.
“There he goes,” said John Cove, who had stationed himself where he could see out of the window. “Look at him. Wearing a cavalry greatcoat. A relic, no doubt, of his front-line service in the Pay Corps. And an Old What’s-is-name scarf. An Anthony Eden on his head and a brief-case in his hand. That is to underline the point that as well as being an officer and a gentleman he is also a professional man. The precious little snake. Let’s find out what his alibi is this time.”
Miss Bellbas, summoned to take a letter from John, informed them that Mr. Duxford was going out to search the register at the Patent Office.
“Funny he should be making for Lincoln’s Inn Fields, then,” said John. “Unless they’ve moved it, the Patent Office is the other side of Chancery Lane. However: Dear Sir, With reference to yours of the sixteenth…”
Half an hour later the telephone rang. The call was for John.
“Oh, Mr. Cove—Mr. Brown speaking.”
“Carry on,” said John. “Any luck?”
“I followed up the subject, sir,” said Mr. Brown, with professional caution. “I traced it as far as Suffolk Street, in the Strand.”
“What happened to it then?”
“I’m afraid I mislaid it, sir—I had to keep some distance from it, you understand—”
“Up-wind, too, I expect,” said John. “All right. I was just thinking aloud. What are you planning to do now? Where are you speaking from?”
“From a box on the Embankment, sir. I am fairly confident that the subject is located in one of the larger buildings at this end of Suffolk Street or Devonshire Street.”
“So much for the Patent Office,” said John to Henry. “All right. Press on regardless. When do I hear from you next?”
“I’ll ring you at the office not later than six o’clock.”
“Fine,” said John. “Keep trying.” He replaced the receiver. “Are you going to wait to hear the second instalment?”
“Not me,” said Bohun. “I’ve got better things to do with my evenings. Also I still think you ought to tell Hazlerigg.”
“I expect I shall, eventually,” said John. “But I might as well find out first just what it is I’m going to tell him. I can’t draw back now. The hunt is up. From a view to a chase, from a chase to a kill. Yoicks and likewise Tallyho!”
It was a quarter past six before the telephone rang again.
“It’s me, sir,” said the hoarse voice of Mr. Brown. “If you’d like to come along now—”
“Where are you?”
“Come down to the end of Suffolk Street, sir. First right, and then right again. It’s a little place off Somerset Court. Merriman House. First door on the left and I’ll meet you in the hall.”
“Right away,” said John.
The office by now was almost empty. In the secretaries’ room, Anne Mildmay, who was putting on her hat, gave him a surprisingly friendly “good night”. Miss Chittering was hammering out the first lines of what was evidently a very lengthy engrossment. In the basement, Sergeant Cockerill could be heard putting the muniments to bed and singing in a remarkably tuneful voice the tenor part of one of his favourite hymns. “All are safely gathered in,” sang Sergeant Cockerill. “Safe from sorrow, safe from sin.”
John stepped out into New Square, turned into Carey Street and made his way through the precincts of the Court and into the Strand. It was cold, by the standards of an English April, though still quite light. But down under the arches of Somerset Court there appeared to reign an everlasting twilight.
John found Merriman House without difficulty. The approaches were muted and depressing. Age and grime had worked their will. What had once been red was now the colour of old blood: what had been white was black.
Mr. Brown was waiting for him in the half light of the entrance. He spoke in a professional whisper.