“A one-man firm?”
“And what of it?” said Eric. “He knows more about the law than any two of the stuck-up ducal bootlickers in this office.”
“No doubt,” said John. “I should say he must have a very close—almost a personal—acquaintance with certain branches of the law. Breach of contract, for instance, or that lovely, old-fashioned tort, seduction of servants—”
“Look here,” said Eric. “If I thought you’d gone and told Birley—”
“You know damned well I didn’t,” said John coolly. “And if it’s any consolation to you, I never intended to. However, since you have chosen to award yourself that order of the boot which, in my opinion, you so richly deserved—”
“You filthy cad.”
“Control yourself,” said John. He tilted his chair to an even more impossible angle. “You’re too fat for fighting and, in any case, we are both long past the age when exhibitions of personal violence have anything to recommend them.”
“I have no intention,” said Eric, “of demeaning myself by laying hands on you.”
“That hissing noise you heard,” said John to Bohun, “was me sighing with relief.”
“But I will say this”—Eric paused at the door—“I’m bloody glad I’m not staying in this place. It makes me sick. Day after day: ‘Yes, me lord, no, me lord. May I have the honour of blacking your lordship’s boots for you.’ You’re not solicitors. You’re flunkies. I can tell you, I shall be glad to get into an office where we do some real work. It mayn’t be as swanky as this, but we are our own masters…”
Bohun listened, fascinated. Excitement was rubbing all the careful gloss off Eric’s speech, and the brass was showing through in increasing patches.
“That’s the boy,” said John. “I should slam the door, too. It’s almost the only way of rounding off a good sentence like that.”
Eric gave him a final annihilating look and stalked out.
“Do you know,” said John, when he had gone, “if he’d had the guts to say that whilst he was employed here—actually on the pay-roll, I mean—I’d almost have been forced to applaud him. There was a good deal of truth in it. As it is, however, it seems a bit like spitting and running away.”
II
Hazlerigg, at this moment, was considering a series of reports. They dealt in great detail with the letter which had been found under Miss Cornel’s desk.
“The exhibit,” said the first, “corresponds in twelve distinct instances with the test sample supplied. Texture, colour, weave, depth of impress, colour of impress, etc. etc. etc.”
“I have examined the two samples of handwriting under a magnification of one hundred,” began the second. “The number of characteristics which correspond in each sample is too high for me to come to any other reasonable conclusion than that they were written by the same person at about the same period.”
And then a very interesting note from Mr. Allpace, stationer, of Belsize Park. “I supply Mr. Smallbone with writing paper and have in my possession the die-stamp for heading the same. Mr. Smallbone wrote to me early in February ordering a new supply and stating that his present supply was nearly exhausted. I had five hundred sheets stamped, but they have never been called for. I have written twice to Mr. Smallbone reminding him that his notepaper was ready, but have had no reply.”
Sergeant Plumptree said: “That’s quite right, sir. When I went up to get a sample of Mr. Smallbone’s notepaper, on your instructions, I had some difficulty in finding a piece. There was none in his writing-case or desk. In the end I got a bit from Mrs. Tasker. Apparently when he paid his rent he used to fasten the cheque to a sheet of notepaper and leave it on the table outside her sitting-room, so luckily she was able to produce a piece.”
“Then it looks,” said Hazlerigg, “as if the notepaper was genuine, and it looks as if the signature was genuine. And yet—was there any sign of a typewriter?”
“No, sir. He never had a typewriter. Mrs. Tasker said she thought he used to type his letters in a friend’s office. She didn’t know the name of the friend or anything else about him—”
“Well, it’s feasible,” said Hazlerigg.
He said it absent-mindedly. In fact, his thoughts were far away. When Sergeant Plumptree had gone he sent for Miss Cornel.
“Something’s just occurred to me,” he said without preamble. “Should have thought of it long ago, but what with one thing and another… However, here it is. Where are the papers and files and books and things which ought to have been in that deed box? All the Ichabod Stokes stuff. It must have added up to something fairly bulky. Not the sort of thing you could take away under your coat. Well, where is it?”
“I can tell you one thing for certain,” said Miss Cornel slowly. “It’s not in the office.”
“What makes you say that?”
“In any other solicitor’s office,” said Miss Cornel, “a bundle of papers, a couple of account books, a folder of documents, might get pushed away and overlooked—not here. Not in a Horniman office.”
“I see,” said Hazlerigg. “How much was there—roughly I mean?”
Miss Cornel made a vague gesture with her hands.
“It’s difficult to say,” she said. “The box was about half full. There were all sorts of odds and ends. More than anyone would care to have to lug around with them.”
“Yes,” said Hazlerigg. “Yes. That’s just what I was thinking.”
III
Bob Horniman, exiled from his own office and driven for the time being to work in the deed examination room, a dismal apartment in the basement, had got into the habit of spending a good deal of time in dropping in on other people, and Bohun was therefore not surprised to receive a visit which corresponded with the arrival of his eleven o’clock tea.
“You can have John Cove’s cup,” said Bohun. “He’s out at a completion.”
“Thanks.” Bob sat on the edge of John’s desk, swinging his legs, until Miss Bellbas had removed herself, and then said: “I’m glad Cove’s out, because there’s something I’ve been wanting—well, to tell you the truth, something I’ve been plucking up the courage to ask you for some time.”
“Yes,” said Bohun cautiously.
“Oh, it’s nothing to do with this police business,” said Bob, noting his reserve. “It’s—look here, your father’s got money, hasn’t he?”
“A pound or two,” admitted Bohun.
“I’m sorry. I’m not doing this very tactfully. I remember being told that he was something in the City, and I’ve always heard of him as a sort of mystery financier with millions at his fingertips.”
“I don’t think it runs to that,” said Bohun. “I don’t think anyone really has millions nowadays. He has certain capital resources which he is free to invest—”
Bob seized on the word. “That’s it. That’s just what I meant. It would be a sort of investment.”
“Perhaps,” said Bohun patiently, “you would explain exactly what it is you have in mind.”
“I want to sell my share in this firm,” said Bob. “I thought you might like to buy it,” he added.
“Are you serious?”
“Oh, absolutely.” Now that Bob had got it off his chest he seemed much happier. “It’s not a thing I’d offer to anybody, but—well. I know you, and Craine seems to cotton on to you all right, and Birley—well, quite frankly, if he gets a few more shocks like he’s had lately, I don’t think he’ll last out much longer.”
“Yes, but why do you want to do it—why are you getting out? Dash it all, you can’t just throw everything up as if…” Bohun, looking round helplessly, happened to catch the eye of a large photographic portrait of Abel Horniman which glared back at him. “It’s your vocation.”