“Yes,” said Henry, “I can draw a deduction from that.”
“Well, there we are. That’s all I wanted to tell you. I thought you’d be interested. What’s that? Yes, dear, tell your mother I’ll be along in a minute. Good-bye for now, Tibbett.”
Henry walked back to his room with mixed feelings. On the face of it, it was a good thing that the gun had been returned to its rightful owner; at least it was not being concealed for some sinister purpose. On the other hand, it had been placed in the most convenient position for speedy use, and Henry had some misgivings about leaving five loaded guns freely available in a house where he was reasonably sure that one murder had been committed. The thought of the shooting range and its equipment being open to all on Saturday was also an uneasy one. He returned to his report and worked on it steadily, pausing only for a quick lunch.
It was at half-past four, when Henry had put the finishing touches to his report and was contemplating another assault on Cregwell Grange, that he was again summoned to the telephone. This time it was Scotland Yard. According to the sergeant in London, a Mr. Mumford had been persistently trying to get in touch with Henry. Other than his name he had refused to disclose any particulars of himself or his business, simply insisting that he must speak to Chief Inspector Tibbett, and that the matter was confidential. He had first telephoned at about three o’clock. Every effort had been made to persuade him to talk to somebody else or to explain what he wanted, but to no avail. All that took time, as Henry would appreciate. Finally, Mr. Mumford had admitted that he had important information concerning the Raymond Mason case. At which the sergeant had decided that Henry should be contacted. He passed on Mr. Mumford’s telephone number — a Mayfair one, which Henry recognized as being that of Raymond Mason Ltd. — and suggested that Henry might like to ring Mr. Mumford directly. Henry said that he would.
“Oh, Inspector Tibbett, thank heavens I’ve been able to get in touch with you at last!” Mr. Mumford was more than agitated; he was terrified, and his terror shivered down the telephone line like cracking ice. “I really am at my wits’ end. Nothing like this has ever happened before. Never. And of course I can’t call in the police. That would be quite impossible.”
“What has happened?” Henry asked.
“I hardly like to tell you over the telephone.”
“Just give me some idea.”
“Well,” Mr. Mumford gulped. “First of all you may remember that when you were here the other day, we had some — er — unwelcome visitors.”
“I remember,” said Henry.
“I have been waiting with some apprehension, as you can imagine, for the — em — the results of their visitation.”
“I haven’t seen anything in the papers myself,” Henry remarked.
Mr. Mumford drew in his breath sharply at such plain speaking on a public telephone line. He said, “There has been nothing to see — until today. You have not noticed — anything — today?”
“No,” said Henry, “but I’ve been busy.”
“There is a most scurrilous, a most — well — you’ll just have to read it, Chief Inspector. In the — em — one of our most popular dailies. I won’t mention its name. It concerns itself with — em — with my late employer. It hints, definitely implies that there was an irregularity between Mr. — my late employer — and some of his clients. It has been cleverly written, for I immediately contacted the firm’s solicitor, but he gives it as his opinion that we cannot sue. The insinuations are all too oblique, if you see what I mean. That makes it none the more pleasant.”
“I’m very sorry to hear about this, Mr. Mumford,” said Henry, “but I really don’t see what I can do to help you.”
“Nobody can help me,” said Mr. Mumford with epic resignation. “Not over that matter, at any rate. It was not primarily about that that I telephoned you. It was bad enough to read all that in the paper this morning, but I had no idea then what was in store for me later in the day. This has been a day I shall not lightly forget, Chief Inspector.”
“What happened later in the day?”
“I arrived back at the office later than usual after lunch,” said Mr. Mumford. “The reason being that I had spent a long time with the solicitor, as I told you, and did not get to Fuller’s for my customary modest meal until two o’clock. At three I was back at the office. At first I noticed nothing wrong. But then…”
“Then what?”
“I really don’t know if I should tell you over the telephone.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to,” said Henry.
There was a little pause. Then Mr. Mumford brought out a single word like a bullet. “Robbery!”
“You mean your office has been burgled?”
“Precisely. Straightforward burglary!”
“What has been taken?”
“That’s the point, Chief Inspector. That is the terrible thing. The — the very private files belonging to my late employer. I hope I need not say more. You will understand.”
“If you have been robbed,” said Henry, “you should have called in the police at once. Why didn’t you?”
“I fear I have not made myself clear, Chief Inspector. You see, I know who is responsible for this robbery.”
“You do?”
“Of course. My — my late employer’s son. I can say no more. No more at all. Chief Inspector, you must come to London and see for yourself.”
“Yes,” said Henry, “yes, I think I should do that.” He looked at his watch. “It’s a quarter to five now. I can be with you in about an hour, or better say an hour and a half to allow for the rush-hour traffic. What time does your office close?”
“Six o’clock, thank God,” said Mr. Mumford, showing a gleam of humanity. “I’ll wait here for you. That way we shall be quite alone here. I can’t thank you enough, Chief Inspector.”
Henry went back to the bedroom and broke the news to Emmy that he had to leave for London at once, and did not know when he would be back.
“Is it bad?” Emmy asked.
“It’s most peculiar,” said Henry.
“What does that mean?”
“Just what it says. I don’t understand what is happening, but I have a nasty feeling that I may have been a bloody fool. And that’s a feeling I don’t like.” He put on his coat. “Will you be an angel and call Sergeant Duckett for me? Tell him I’ve had to go to London, but that I’ll see him tomorrow. And don’t wait up for me. I may be late.”
The drive to London took longer than Henry had anticipated, for he hit the suburban rush-hour traffic fair and square. After a frustrating series of crawls and jams he eventually found himself at the offices of Raymond Mason Ltd. just before seven o’clock. The street door was firmly locked, but Henry’s ring brought a harassed Mr. Mumford at a run to open it. Together, they walked through the inner office, past the shrouded typewriters and calculating machines, and into the manager’s sanctum.
The first thing that Henry noticed — he could hardly miss it — was the fact that Raymond Mason’s private filing cabinet was open, and that it was empty. Mumford, following Henry’s glance, sat down heavily in the big swivel chair behind the desk and said, “You see? You see? Empty. All gone. Everything.”
“Tell me about it,” said Henry.
“There’s very little to tell. As I told you, I didn’t get back until about three. As I came through the big office, Miss Jenkins said, ‘You’ve just missed Mr. Frank, Mr. Mumford. He was waiting for you, but he left a few.’ Frankly, Chief Inspector, I was pleased rather than sorry. As you know, my relationship with Mr. Frank has never been — well — let us just say that he is not the man his father was. Let us just say that.”
“By all means,” said Henry. “So, Mr. Frank had just left.”