Smallbone Deceased by Michael Gilbert Page B

all this for some time, but made no comment. Finally, he said: “Well, then—that box.”
    â€œThat’s more difficult still,” said Bohun. “You can see that it’s a good lock—a five-lever-more like a strongbox than a deed box. It can be forced, as Sergeant Cockerill demonstrated—but it wouldn’t be easy to pick, I should think—not without leaving traces.”
    â€œRight,” said Hazlerigg. “And the keys.”
    â€œThe boxes were in sets. Each partner’s room had a set. There was a master key for each set, with a ‘single variant’ key for each box in the set. But no key of one set would fit another set. The partner concerned kept the ring of keys for his boxes, and the master key, in case he lost an individual key.”
    â€œWasn’t that rather overelaborate?”
    â€œYou just didn’t know Abel Horniman,” said Bohun. “It was right up his street. One key—one box—one client. I don’t think the other partners enjoyed the system quite so much. Birley lost all his keys in the course of time and had to have a new set made. Craine, I know, keeps his boxes permanently unlocked. But that doesn’t affect the point at issue, since none of their keys would Fit the Ichabod Stokes box, anyway. Only Abel Horniman had that key—and apparently he didn’t have it either. I don’t know what Bob Horniman’s story is—but Miss Cornel says that he couldn’t find either the key for this particular box, or the master. The other seventeen were there all right.”
    â€œThank you,” said Hazlerigg. “I think I’d better have a word with Bob Horniman.”
    Bob could tell him very little about the keys.
    â€œI was father’s sole executor,” he explained. “And I took everything over. There were a lot of keys. House keys as well as office keys. I knew that this bunch belonged to the office, so I brought them here and kept them in my desk drawer. I never realized that one of them was missing. I used the others from time to time to open various boxes—”
    â€œBut, of course, you’d never had occasion to go to this particular box until this morning.”
    â€œWell, no, I hadn’t,” said Bob. “As a matter of fact I hadn’t really done much about the Ichabod Stokes Trust at all. It had been on my conscience a bit—but a trust isn’t like a conveyancing or litigation matter that has to be kept marching strictly along—and you know how it is. I was a bit rushed and the least urgent job went to the wall.”
    â€œI quite understand,” said Hazlerigg. “Now, about your father. Can you give me some idea of his routine? When he arrived at the office, and so on. Particularly in the last months of his life.”
    Bob looked faintly surprised, but said: “He had to take it quite easy. He was under doctor’s orders for the last six months. I think they’d have been happier if he hadn’t come to the office at all, but that was out of the question with Dad. The office was his life, you know. He used to get here at about half-past ten and leave at about half-past four.”
    â€œI suppose that the rest of you arrived earlier than that.”
    â€œGood Lord, yes,” said Bob. “Nine-thirty sharp. Even Mr. Craine was usually behind his desk before ten o’clock.”
    â€œI see. Were you and your father living together?”
    â€œNo,” said Bob shortly. “I’ve got a flat.”
    â€œI suppose that your father’s house comes to you under the will. Are you going to live there now?”
    Bob looked for a moment as if he was searching for some cause of offense in this question. In the end he said: “No. Certainly not. I couldn’t possibly keep it up. It’s a great barracks of a place in Kensington.”
    IV
    Sergeant Plumptree would have assented to this description. It wasn’t