“No, no. There are still a number of loose ends to be tied up. It’ll be a day or so before I can make…”
“An arrest?”
“I wasn’t going to say that, sir—a full report. That’s what I’m hoping to make.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. No arrest?”
“I don’t think,” said Henry carefully, “that it will be necessary.”
“But if you know who killed Mason—I gather that you do know?”
“Oh, yes. But I don’t know why.”
“That’s surely beside the point. If you know who killed him…”
“I’m hoping, Sir John,” said Henry firmly, “that an arrest may not be necessary. I really can’t say more. This is a public telephone line, you know. I shall be making my report to you very soon, tomorrow, I hope.”
There was a helpless pause. Then Sir John said, “I see. Very interesting. Yes. Well. Keep in touch, won’t you?”
“Of course, Sir John.”
The next morning Henry got up early and drove to London. He arrived at Dell Street, Mayfair, early enough to find a parking meter for his car at a reasonable distance from the offices of Raymond Mason Ltd., Turf Accountants, before the Monday morning rush began in earnest.
The firm was established in a pretty Regency house not far from Hyde Park Corner, the only indication of its occupancy being a discreet brass plate fastened to the pilastered, white-painted doorway. Inside, a carpeted hall ended abruptly at a businesslike counter with a frosted-glass panel marked INQUIRIES which was firmly closed. There was, however, a bell, and Henry pushed it.
There was a sound of scuffling and giggling from behind the frosted glass and then it was drawn back by a pretty blonde girl of about seventeen, who had gone pink from the effort of trying to keep a straight face. Behind her, in a large office, several other teenagers of both sexes pretended to be busy at typewriters and calculating machines. The blonde looked disappointed when she saw Henry.
“Oh,” she said, “only you?”
“Were you expecting someone else?” Henry asked.
All the girls giggled, and then the blonde said, “I thought there’d be several of you with photographers and all. You are the gentleman from the Daily Scoop, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Oh. Then you’ll be from the Planet.”
“I’m not a journalist at all, I’m afraid,” said Henry.
“Oh. Oh, well, they’ll be along soon,” The blonde patted her elaborate hair-do complacently.
“Will they really?” Henry asked. He was interested. The police had issued the briefest of statements about Raymond Mason’s death, and he was surprised that the sensational press should be so intrigued by it. “Well, it’s just as well that I got here before them. I’d like to see the general manager, please.”
“Mr. Mumford isn’t in yet,” said the girl. “You could wait, if you like.” It was apparent that her interest in Henry had reached the vanishing point.
“Yes, I will,” said Henry. “Can you show me his office?”
“This way,” said the blonde. “What name is it?”
“Tibbett.”
The girl ushered Henry through the large outer office and into a small inner sanctum which was equipped with a haircord carpet, filing cabinets, an enormous mahogany desk, and a great many charts on the walls. It was only a minute or so later that the door opened and a small, neat man with a black mustache came bustling in. He looked exactly like the chief clerk of a respectable City firm—precise, a little fussy, painstaking, utterly reliable, and above all indomitably conventional. Not at all, Henry thought, the sort of person one would associate with the rip-roaring, slightly rakish profession of bookmaking. Then he remembered that Raymond Mason himself had been the larger-than-life character behind this enterprise. Mr, Mumford was, in fact, no more nor less than an expert accountant, running this business with the same humorless efficiency that he would have brought to the statistics of import/export or the computation of income-tax liability. The Mr. Mumfords of this world do not launch business enterprises; they administer them for other people.
As he came through the door of his office, Mumford was saying over his shoulder, “I absolutely forbid it. Is that understood, Miss Jenkins? If and when they arrive, they are to be shown the door. At once.” His head came around with a jerk, and he saw Henry. “Who are you and what do you want?” he snapped.
“I am Chief Inspector Tibbett of Scotland Yard,” said Henry, producing his official card. Nothing but hard facts and figures would cut any ice with Mr. Mumford. “I am investigating the death of Mr. Raymond Mason.”
Mumford’s attitude changed at once. “Oh, I see. Yes, inevitable, I suppose. Please sit down. Perhaps you can do something about this intolerable persecution, Inspector.”
“Persecution?”
“The press. They actually telephoned to my home this morning. How they got hold of the number is beyond me. It gave my wife a very nasty shock. These people have absolutely no right to invade the privacy of the individual.”
“They’re only doing their job, Mr. Mumford,” said Henry.
“You call that a job? Ghouls, Inspector. That’s what they are. Parasites. I gave them short shrift, I can tell you. But now I hear that they’ve been telephoning the office, and these feather-brained young girls like Miss Jenkins and Miss Cooper—I don’t like to think what will happen if they gain access to the building. You really must help me, Inspector.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do, Mr. Mumford, unless they actually commit a trespass or use violence…”
“Violence! I feel like using violence myself!” Mumford settled himself peevishly into his chair. “In any case, this must be your doing. You have been spreading stories about poor Mr. Mason to the press, otherwise how would they know?”
“That’s a point which interests me,” said Henry. “I can assure you, they’ve had nothing but a very curt announcement from us.”
Mumford looked at Henry disbelievingly. “I have to think of the firm’s reputation,” he said. “This is a very high-class business, you know, Inspector. Some of the most respected and highest-placed people in the land are among our clients. I can’t have them caused embarrassment.”
“Sudden death is always embarrassing, Mr. Mumford,” said Henry. He had considered avoiding the cliché, but decided that it was the quickest way to Mumford’s comprehension. “The best we can do for you is to clear up the whole matter as soon as possible.”
“There I agree with you,” said Mr. Mumford. “I’ll help in any way I can.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Henry.
“Not at all, Chief Inspector,” said Mumford expansively. “I can see that we understand each other, you and I, speak the same language.”
Henry winced, in spite of the fact that he had labored to create just this impression. He said aloud, “First of all, I’d be interested to know how you first heard of Mr. Mason’s death.”
“Why, from Mr. Frank, of course. He telephoned me at my home on Friday evening. It came as a terrible shock.”
“I’m sure it did. What time did Mr. Frank Mason telephone you?”
“Let me see. It must have been just before eight in the evening. We were at the table. It quite spoiled my dinner.”
“And what did he say?”
“You want his exact words?”
“If you can remember them.”
“Well, now—he started off by saying, ‘Is that you, Mumford?’—he makes a habit of addressing me by my surname, which I do not consider quite—well, Mr. Raymond Mason always did me the courtesy of calling me Mr. Mumford and I appreciated it. I am sure you take my point, Inspec—that is, Chief Inspector. One’s name is one’s name.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Henry. For no very good reason Aunt Dora’s mnemonic was running relentless circles in his brain. Tibbett, Tibbett, hang him from a gibbet. Thank goodness, that particular nightmare was ended now, thanks to enlightened legislation. Ne
vertheless, the rhyme ran inside his head like a mouse on a treadmill. He became aware that Mumford was speaking again.
“Mr. Frank said, ‘My father has been murdered, Mumford.’ And I said…”
Henry was fully alert now. “You’re sure he used the word murder?”
“Quite sure, Chief Inspector. I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘I can’t believe my ears, Mr. Frank,’ I said. To tell you the truth, I thought at first that he might have had—em—one over the eight, as you might say. It seemed so fantastic, ‘Are you sure, Mr. Frank?’ I said, and he said, ‘Of course I’m sure. The Cregwell police have just telephoned me.’ ‘Well!’ I said, ‘what a dreadful thing!’ And it was, I mean, wasn’t it, Chief Inspector?”
“Certainly it was,” said Henry.
“‘What should I do now?’ I asked Mr. Frank. ‘Just carry on, Mumford,’ he said, ‘just carry on. You run the office on your own anyway, don’t you? No trouble there, I hope?’ ‘I really don’t know what you mean by trouble, Mr. Frank,’ I said. He’s always been—well—a little difficult, Chief Inspector. Not the man his father was. Not in any way. Then he said a funny thing. ‘Heads are going to roll, Mumford,’ he said. These were his very words. ‘Heads are going to roll, but it’s no concern of yours. You just carry on.’ ‘I certainly intend to, Mr. Frank,’ I said. I was considerably upset, but I trust I kept my dignity. Then he rang off.” Mr. Mumford paused, and wiped his spectacles. Then he went on. “Sergeant Duckett from Cregwell police station telephoned me soon afterward. He told me that Mr. Mason had been accidentally shot. I appreciated that.”
“What do you mean, appreciated it?”
“Well,” Mumford coughed, “Mr. Frank had used the word murder, as you pointed out. And since you are here, Chief Inspector, I can only conclude that Mr. Mason’s death was not accidental. But it seemed clear to me that the Cregwell police”—Mumford gave the word enough emphasis to draw a comparison between Cregwell and Scotland Yard, in the former’s favor—“the Cregwell police were keeping any unsavory aspects of the matter out of the hands of the public. After all, anybody may have a shooting accident, especially in the country.” Mumford spoke as though Fenshire lay beyond the bounds of civilization in the Great Outback. “That is why I was appalled—I do not use the word lightly, Chief Inspector— appalled when Miss Jenkins told me this morning…”
“Tell me about Mr. Mason,” said Henry.
Mr. Mumford stopped in full spate, surprised. “About him, Chief Inspector? What about him?”
“What sort of man was he?”
“Why,” Mumford was aghast at Henry’s obtuseness, “why you only have to look around this office. Mr. Mason was a highly successful man. A tycoon, one might almost say.”
“Yes, but what sort of man was he?”
“He was a wealthy man, Chief Inspector.” Mumford’s voice held a note of reproof. It was clear that he suspected Henry of lèse-majesté. Raymond Mason had been a rich, successful man, and Mumford’s employer. There was no more to be said.
Henry changed his line of approach. “When did you last see Mr. Mason?” he asked.
“Let me see—it must have been about a week ago. He came into the office nearly every week, you see. Kept a close eye on things.”
“And you noticed nothing unusual? He seemed perfectly normal?”
“Oh, perfectly, Chief Inspector, perfectly. Mind you, Mr. Mason was a—well—he was a character, if you know what I mean. Always chaffing with the girls in the office—delightful informality, and—well—unconventional.” Mr. Mumford cleared his throat. Clearly, behavior which would have scandalized him in any ordinary mortal became charming eccentricity in his employer. “Of course,” Mr. Mumford added rather hastily, “he moved in what I can only call elevated circles. A great number of the nobility were among his friends, you know. You’d be surprised, Chief Inspector.”
“I dare say I would,” said Henry. “The last time he came to the office was the time that he met his son here, was it?”
“No, no. That was on the previous occasion. He particularly asked me to let him know when Mr. Frank was coming in. That was a bit of a poser, of course. I never know when Mr. Frank may not drop in. However, by good luck Mr. Frank did telephone me the day before and I was able to inform Mr. Mason. Frankly, I was a little surprised.”
“Really? Why?”
“Oh—no reason,” Mr. Mumford fussed with his fountain pen and went a little pink.
“You mustn’t worry about betraying confidences, Mr. Mumford,” said Henry gently, “not to Scotland Yard. It is your duty as a citizen to tell us all you can.”
“Now, please don’t read anything sinister into my remarks, Inspector. It was just that—well—Mr. Mason and Mr. Frank generally went out of their way to avoid each other. It was an open secret that they didn’t get on well together. Mr. Frank has very modern political views, you know.”
“Yes,” said Henry. “I know. Well that seems to cover that. Perhaps you’d now show me the files of the business.”
“The files? You mean, you want to inspect our accounts?”
“Not at the moment,” said Henry. “I’m not a qualified accountant. I’m prepared to take your word for it. I take it that business was flourishing?”
“Indeed it was. In fact, it is.” Mr. Mumford relaxed, sat back in his chair, and prepared to enjoy himself. “Our figures over the past ten years have shown a most satisfactory rise in profit rate from season to season. Thanks to efficient and careful management, together with scientifically-calculated laying-off of…”
“I’m afraid it’s all rather above my head,” said Henry. “Let’s just take it that business was good and the bank balance healthy.”
“Ah, now,” said Mr. Mumford, “that’s something I fear I cannot enlighten you about.”
“But you just said…”
“Business is excellent,” said Mr. Mumford, “and the bank balance should be healthy. Indeed, I have no reason to suspect that it is not. But,” he hesitated, “as I’ve told you, Mr. Mason was unconventional. The bank was positively forbidden to divulge the exact position of the firm’s account to anyone but Mr. Mason himself. I had authority to draw checks for the day-to-day running of the office—wages and so on—and to pay out winning bets, and I need hardly say that no check was ever dishonored by the bank, but…”
“But Mr. Mason didn’t want even you to know what he was taking out of the business privately,” said Henry.
“I wouldn’t have put it like that,” said Mumford stiffly.
“No, I’m sure you wouldn’t,” said Henry. “Well now, perhaps you’d show me the files.”
“I’ve told you, Chief Inspector…”
“I mean, of course,” Henry pursued, “the personal files of your clients. I want to know who was betting with you, and whether any of them were in serious debt to you, or…”
“Our clients!” Mr. Mumford spoke as though Henry had uttered some gross obscenity. “Chief Inspector, I would never under any circumstances reveal the name of a client, let alone his financial position on our books. It would be altogether…”
It took a good half-hour and a lot of throwing about of official weight before Mr. Mumford was convinced; and even then, it was with the utmost reluctance that he eventually unlocked the large green filing cabinet and allowed Henry to inspect the written record of the flutters of Raymond Mason’s clients. As it turned out, they were of no interest at all. As Mr. Mumford had hinted, there were quite a few illustrious names on the register, and Henry was privately amused at the parsimony with which some of the wealthiest of them placed their bets. There was a black list of defaulters from whom bets were not to be accepted, but none of these names appeared to be in any way relevant. A few unfortunate characters appeared to be fairly deeply in debt to Raymond Mason, but again the names signified nothing, and, in any case, Henry reflected, it would do a debtor no good to remove Raymond Mason from the scene. The firm, and Mr. Mumford, went marching on.
At last he clos
ed the final dossier and said, “Thank you, Mr. Mumford. That’s the lot, is it?”
“It is, Chief Inspector. Except for Mr. Mason’s personal files. of course.”
“His what?”
“His personal files. Mr. Mason had a very limited number of special clients whose affairs he dealt with on a strictly personal basis.”
“And where are these personal files?” Henry asked.
“In Mr. Mason’s own filing box.” Mr. Mumford indicated a smaller green cabinet in the corner. “And it’s no use asking me to open it, Chief Inspector, because I have no key to it. Mr. Mason kept that himself.” Mumford spoke with considerable satisfaction.
“In that case,” said Henry, “the key is probably here. I have Mr. Mason’s key ring, which was in his pocket when he died.”
Mr. Mumford’s jaw dropped in dismay, as Henry walked over to the holy of holies and began trying various keys from the ring which he produced from his pocket. When one of them finally fitted, and the filing cabinet opened, Henry had the impression that Mr. Mumford was piously averting his eyes from the sacrilegious act.
In fact, the contents of the cabinet were not very sensational—a couple of largish cardboard boxes and a handful of files. Henry took one of the boxes out of the cabinet.
“What’s in here? he asked.
“I think,” said Mumford uneasily. “that Mr. Mason liked to have a little ready cash…”
Henry lifted the lid of the box. It was full of one-pound notes tied in bundles.
The second box was heavier. Henry looked inquiringly at Mumford, who went a becoming shade of blush-rose.
“Mr. Mason was—he was compelled to entertain important clients from time to time…”
The box, unsurprisingly, contained a bottle of whiskey, about half full, and another of gin. The bottles were resting on a book, which had a luridly suggestive jacket. Henry recognized it as one which was banned from public sale in England but which “everybody” had read—or claimed to have read.
He closed the two boxes, put them back in the cabinet, and turned his attention to the files. All of them related to people of high rank and social importance, many from the Cregwell area. In fact, they corresponded pretty closely to the names which had been entered so carefully in Mason’s diary. Each betting transaction was carefully entered in Mason’s own handwriting, and the state of the client’s account was also meticulously noted.
Murder Fantastical Page 12
