“That’s right. He had been waiting in my office to see me. Arrived about half-past two, as far as I could make out, and left about ten to three. I said something to Miss Jenkins about it being too bad — I don’t believe in letting the staff know if there is any slight — em — friction in the upper echelons. It makes for bad discipline. Anyhow, I came in here, and saw — what you have just seen. I was appalled. That is not too strong a word, Chief Inspector. Appalled. I didn’t know what to do.” Mr. Mumford sounded amazed as he made this admission. Henry supposed that it was probably the first time in his life that he had found himself in such a predicament.
Mumford went on. “Loth as I was to divulge anything to the staff, I felt compelled — I called in Miss Jenkins, who is the senior typist, and asked her whether Mr. Frank had taken any documents with him when he left the office. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, quite unconcerned. ‘He had quite an armful. Files and boxes and things. He said to tell you he was taking some things of his father’s.’ So you see, Chief Inspector…”
“I notice,” said Henry, “that he took the money as well as the files, not to mention the whiskey. And the…”
“Where did he get the key?” demanded Mumford in a sort of wail. “Where? You had the key, which you said was on Mr. Mason’s own key ring…”
“That’s right,” said Henry, “and it still is.”
“Then how did Mr. Frank…?”
Henry sighed. “He has been living in his father’s house, Cregwell Lodge, for the past week,” he said. “It’s perfectly possible that Raymond Mason kept a duplicate key somewhere and that Frank Mason found it.”
“Those files were confidential, Chief Inspector. Supposing that he…? I don’t like to think about it. You know the names involved. People of the very highest standing.”
“You mean,” said Henry, “that those files would be extremely useful to a blackmailer.”
“To a…? What a terrible word, Chief Inspector!”
“By the way,” Henry added, “do you have a copy of that newspaper handy, the one you were telling me about?”
“I certainly do!” Momentarily, Mumford’s indignation got the better of his fright. “Of all the disgraceful… Oh, if I knew who was to blame!”
“The journalist concerned, I suppose,” said Henry.
“No, no. Who was to blame for setting the press on to us in the first place. Somebody must have drawn their attention to…”
“Yes. It’s interesting, isn’t it?” said Henry. “Let’s have a look at that paper.”
Mumford opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out the current copy of a best-selling daily newspaper. It was open at an inside page article entitled, “The Life and Death of a Gambler,” which featured a large photograph of the late Raymond Mason. There were also photographs of some of Mason’s more aristocratic clients, but none of them, Henry noted, was a “private” client. Each time that the name of a titled or celebrated person was mentioned in the text it appeared in heavy type, even though the connection might be as tenuous as the mention of a John Smith who was “a kinsman of the Earl of Fenshire.” In this way the writer had managed to pepper his story with illustrious names. He had also spiced it, very cleverly, with the most gossamer of innuendoes. Phrases like “walking a financial tightrope, like all of the bookmaking fraternity,” “steering an unimpeachable course between the pitfalls of near-legality and downright roguery which have besmirched the good name of this profession,” and “profitable sidelines, generously helped along by influential acquaintances,” all added up to create a certain effect.
The story was, in fact, a rags-to-riches epic. The poor boy from the East End of London who wound up as “a friend to Dukes and Earls.” And yet this success story had ended in tragedy and mystery. The writer pointed out that Scotland Yard had been called in to investigate Mason’s death, that although no statement had been made, the police were actively pursuing their inquiries, and that the inquest on Friday should be an interesting affair. It occurred to Henry that the writer of the article would have a great deal more juicy material had he had access to Mason’s private files, and he wondered whether in a subsequent piece he might have the benefit of their aid.
Mumford was saying, “You will know the legal position better than I…”
Henry said, “I thought that you had consulted your solicitor and that he told you that this article gave you no grounds for taking legal action.”
“No, no, no. I am talking about Mr. Frank. The will, you see.”
“What about the will?”
“The solicitor told me today. Mr. Mason’s will is horribly simple. Everything is left to Mr. Frank. Everything. So, you see, Mr. Frank obviously felt that he was entitled to walk in here and take anything he wanted. But is that so, Chief Inspector?”
“No,” said Henry, “it isn’t. The will hasn’t been proved yet. Frank Mason has no right to anything, for the moment. Of course, executors often advance money to heirs, if they need it to tide them over until the will is admitted to probate, but the heirs have no legal right. None at all.”
“So I could sue Mr. Frank for theft?”
“You could,” said Henry, “but I wouldn’t, if I were you. The will will be proved long before you could get the case into court, and — well — I can’t imagine that you’d welcome the sort of publicity that it would bring.”
“That’s just the point, Chief Inspector. I’m not a fool, I realize the position I am in, that the firm is in. That’s why I telephoned you rather than the police.”
Henry hardly knew whether or not to be flattered at this distinction. Mumford went on. “I knew you would understand and be able to advise me. What am I to do now?”
“The best advice I can give you,” said Henry, “is to do absolutely nothing.”
“Nothing? But those files…”
“There’s nothing useful you can do, except go home and try to have a good night’s sleep, and carry on as usual in the office tomorrow. If you are seriously troubled by the press, call the police. If anything else interesting happens, call me.” Henry scribbled the numbers of The Viking and the Cregwell police station on a piece of paper, and handed it to Mumford.
“But, Chief Inspector…”
“Meanwhile,” said Henry, “I will do something.” He looked at his watch. “It’s five to eight. The roads will be clear now, so I should be back in Cregwell by nine, with any luck. I shall visit Mr. Frank Mason.”
Mr. Mumford’s face lit up as though some unseen hand had pressed a switch. “You will? And you’ll get the files…”
“I don’t know what I shall get,” said Henry, “but I’ll do my best.”
***
Henry was relieved to see that lights were burning in Cregwell Lodge, when he parked his car outside the house soon after nine o’clock. He was also intrigued to see that the heavy red velvet curtains of the study were tightly drawn, for Frank Mason had given him the impression of a man who had no use for such bourgeois devices.
Henry rang the front doorbell loudly. This had an interesting effect. First, the curtain was drawn aside fractionally, as though someone were looking out to see who was ringing. Then there was a slight scuffling sound inside the house, and all the lights went out. A palpitating silence followed.
Henry rang again. When this had no effect, he walked to the study window, unable to resist the thought of the occasion when the Bishop of Bugolaland had done the same thing. The curtains were tightly closed and the light was out, but a smaller, more erratic light flickered behind them. Henry, moving quietly, tried the handle of the French window which opened into the garden. As he had hoped, it was not locked. It opened easily, and Henry slipped between the curtains and into the study.