Smallbone Deceased by Michael Gilbert

the clock. Five years ago he came here to lodge. Put down six months’ rent on the table, the one we’re sitting at at this moment, and said to me. ‘Mrs. Tasker, I’m a rolling stone. I gather no moss. But somewhere I must have to lay my head.’ ‘The first floor front pair’s vacant,’ I said, ‘and use of the ring at the back for cooking.’ That’s all that passed between us, if I go to my Maker tonight.”
    â€œWhich—” said Sergeant Plumptree.
    â€œIt wasn’t as if he didn’t warn me straight out. ‘I’m a collector, Mrs. Tasker,’ he said. ‘Pots and pans there’ll be in my room aplenty. And if it’s extra trouble for you to dust we’ll come to an understanding. And another thing he said: ‘I’ll come and go as I like.’ And so he did. ‘Expect me when you see me.’ That was the rule. Last year he was in Italy, at his house in Florence. The address is on his card. You can see it for yourself. Three months he was away, and one morning back he came, without a word, with a carpetbag full of flower pots.”
    â€œHow—” persevered Sergeant Plumptree.
    â€œAnd then this February he goes away again. The twelfth of February. I’ve marked it in the rent book—see, Friday the twelfth of February ‘I’m going down to Kent,’ he said. I didn’t catch the name. Stanton, I thought he said. It may have been Stancomb.”
    â€œI thought—” said Sergeant Plumptree.
    â€œI know what you’re going to say,” said Mrs. Tasker. “But wait. He went away on the Friday. ‘I’m going down to Kent,’ he said. ‘And if I find what I’m looking for, that’ll be the beginning of great things, Mrs. Tasker. Great things. I’ll be back tonight.’ he said.”
    â€œAnd he never came back?”
    â€œCertainly he did. That night, as he said. Then the next day he went out again. No luggage. Nothing. That was always his way. ‘Ah,’ I thought. ‘He’ll be off to Italy. He’s found what he’s looking for.’ And when one week went by and then another, I knew I was right.”
    â€œYou knew he—?”
    â€œI knew he was in Italy, where he is now,” concluded Mrs. Tasker triumphantly. “Enjoying the hot weather.”
    With a discretion beyond his years Sergeant Plumptree refrained from any comment on this interesting speculation.
    III
    â€œIt’s the question of access which is worrying me,” said Hazlerigg, “and that’s the sort of thing where you can help.”
    â€œAccess to what?” asked Bohun.
    â€œAccess to that deed box in which we found the body,” said Hazlerigg. He added as an afterthought: “Access to this room, access to the office building, access to Lincoln’s Inn.”
    â€œWell,” said Bohun. “Anyone can get into any of the public parts of Lincoln’s Inn at any time by day. If you came in very late or very early—or on Saturday afternoon or Sunday—then you’d probably be noticed.”
    â€œParticularly if you were a prominent resident like Abel Horniman.”
    â€œYes. The porters certainly knew him by sight. At any time during office hours you can get into the Inn by at least six routes and there’s no check of any sort.”
    â€œRight,” said Hazlerigg. “Now the office.”
    â€œThat’s more difficult,” said Bohun. “I haven’t been here long, and perhaps this week hasn’t been exactly a typical one, but I really have been surprised at the number of people who wander through these offices without question. Not only the staff, but outsiders, too. On our side of the office we’ve got the reception room—where the junior typists sit. All visitors to the office are supposed to look in there first—clients, messengers, clerks from other offices, people