Mr. Manifold said something like “Tchah”, and started to tear up a large clean sheet of blotting-paper.
“Look here,” said Bohun. “It may not be as bad as it seems. I think there’s every chance that the money will be repaid in full.”
The telephone bell rang. Mr. Manifold ignored it for as long as he could, and finally picked up the receiver with a very bad grace.
“What?” he said. “Who? Oh! Wait a minute.” He covered the mouthpiece and turned to Henry. “It’s Scotland Yard,” he said. “Chief Inspector Hazlerigg wants you to go round there at once.”
“Tell him I’ll be right along,” said Bohun.
As he and John Cove left they saw Mr. Manifold and Mr. Fremlinghouse looking at each other with a wild surmise.
III
“I’m sorry to drag you down here like this,” said Hazlerigg, “but things are moving quite fast and I wanted to hear your story.”
Bohun told it to him.
“It seems easy,” said Hazlerigg. “Ten thousand pounds for one sheet of writing. However, most great frauds look easy.”
“I don’t think,” said Bohun, “that anyone except an expert conveyancer who also happened to be right on the spot, like Abel, could have pulled it off. Take one thing—supposing the valuer had been a local man, who knew the property. That would have blown it sky-high. I expect you’ll find that Abel knew the Husbandmen employed a London valuer. He may even have known him personally. That would have made it easier still.”
“One thing puzzles me,” said Hazlerigg. “According to you he laid the foundations of this fraud as long ago as 1938. Did he know about the angina then?”
“Probably not,” said Bohun. “He knew he was running short of cash, though. One of the real beauties of this method was that it was reversible. So long as he kept up the interest payments he was pretty safe. Then, if things looked up and he could repay the money all he had to do was discharge the mortgage. Then he would get the deeds back. He could burn them if he liked. The Husbandmen got their money. Everybody happy. No questions asked. Really, just like the office boy who steals from the petty cash and hopes to make it up next week on the pools.”
“They’re all the same,” said Hazlerigg. “However, that part of the business is reasonably clear now. Thanks to your efforts,” he added generously. “Here’s what must have happened. Smallbone got to hear of Stancomb Farm, and something—we shall never know what—led him to suspect its non-existence. On February 17th—that was Friday—he went down to make sure. We ought to have paid more attention to that remark he made to his landlady: ‘If I find what I’m looking for, that’ll be the beginning of great things.’ The nasty little man already saw a cause célèbre, dirty washing galore, himself perhaps in the witness box. Well, he found what he was looking for—or he didn’t find it, which amounted to the same thing. He came back that same night to his rooms and the next day—”
“Yes,” said Bohun. “How did he spend the next fortnight?”
“He spent the next week attending a sale of china and pottery at Lyme Regis. That’s one of the items of information that’s just come in. Ordinary routine. There’s no doubt about it, perfect identification. He wasn’t hiding or anything. He registered in his own name.”
“And in the intervals between bidding for might-be Ming and dubious Chelsea, he was thinking about how to wring the most enjoyment out of the Horniman scandal?”
“Yes. I think he wrote at least two letters and I think he wrote them to Bob Horniman. He may have known by then that Abel was pretty far gone. Perhaps he didn’t want the shock to kill him before he could get him into the dock. That was the sort of way his mind would work. The first letter would set out the facts he had discovered, and ask what the firm intended to do about it. Were they going to pay the money back? (He knew damn well they couldn’t.) And even if they did, he was afraid it was his duty to go to the police—criminal proceedings, Larceny Act, etc. etc. Bob thinks this over and writes back making an appointment for the morning of Saturday 27th. Told him he could explain everything.”
“Then,” said Bohun, “I suppose he got busy manufacturing his cheese-cutter and clearing out one of the larger deed boxes. By the way, how did Smallbone spend the following week? At a sale of glass at Hemel Hempstead?”
“We don’t know yet,” said Hazlerigg. “We shall,” he added with calm conviction.
“I don’t doubt it,” said Bohun, who was beginning to have a healthy respect for the results of routine. “What happened next?”
“Smallbone acknowledged Bob Horniman’s answer and confirmed the appointment. Hoped what Bob had to tell him would be satisfactory. That was the letter we found, of course. It was written to Bob’s private address. That’s why it didn’t go through the office filing system.”
“Written to Bob?”
“Yes. It took a committee of typists to point out to me the difference between a letter starting ‘Dear Horniman’, and ‘Dear Mr. Horniman’.”
“And Bob had it in his pocket and dropped it at the office?”
“Something like that. This is only the rough outline. We’ll fill in the details later. On Saturday morning, Marcus Smallbone comes up to Lincoln’s Inn at twelve-fifteen, as arranged. Bob is alone by that time. He tries argument. Quite futile. So it has to be the other thing. Into the box with the body. Chuck away the key. Sit tight.”
“It would need a bit of nerve that last bit. Sitting tight, I mean.”
“Yes,” said Hazlerigg. “You ought to read his citation,” he added inconsequently. “Did you know he got a D.S.C.? It was quite a good one. He got it on Arctic convoy.”
Bohun thought about this for a bit and then said: “Have you got any direct proof?”
“You don’t often get direct proof of murder,” said Hazlerigg mildly. “We’re beginning to get quite a lot of indirect proof. It’s starting to add up. That’s all I can say. The time of that second murder for instance. Three or four people haven’t got a firm alibi for the half-hour that matters. But Bob Horniman, so far as I know, is the only person who’s troubled to offer us a false one.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Morally certain. I’m prepared to put every single waitress in the restaurant he says he went to that night into the box to swear they’ve never set eyes on him. We’ve done a lot of hard work on that bit.”
“Anything else?”
“One other thing to date. According to his story he and Miss Mildmay were in the office that Saturday morning together until after twelve o’clock. Say they were mistaken. Say they left at five to twelve. We wouldn’t quarrel over ten or fifteen minutes. But how do you explain the fact that a client rang your firm up three times at eleven o’clock and got no answer?”
“H’m! What’s your explanation?”
“I don’t have to explain it. Bob Horniman has to do that. But let’s suppose he got rid of Miss Mildmay almost at once—said there was no work for her—asked her to keep her mouth shut about it, though, afterwards. And supposing he was busy himself. He had to get rid of a lot of books and papers.”
“Yes,” said Bohun. He had just remembered something. He had remembered the way Anne Mildmay had looked at Bob Horniman, after the office party, on his first evening with the firm. That was ten days ago. It seemed a lot longer. It seemed…
Quite suddenly he got to his feet.
“If you don’t want me for anything else at the moment,” he said, “I’ll be off.”